The wind shifted, and Blaine pulled his cloak around him. “Too bad we can’t risk more of a fire,” he said. “It’s damn cold out here.”
Geir nodded. “We’ve been fortunate that there hasn’t been snow. The trails can be treacherous when they drift closed.”
“I’m just glad there haven’t been more of those magic storms,” Piran said over a mouthful of rabbit.
Dawe made a gesture of warding. “Don’t even mention the storms,” he said.
Piran rolled his eyes. “Warding won’t do any good—magic doesn’t work, remember?”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Dawe rejoined. “And the gesture is meant to ask the gods for safety, not the magic.”
“Not sure that the gods are real, either,” Piran replied, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth and washing it down with a drink from his wineskin.
“Personally, I’ll take all the help we can get,” Blaine said, anxious to avoid another foray into the long-running argument between Dawe and Piran. He turned back to Geir. “How long until we get to Mirdalur?”
Geir consulted the sky, reckoning their position by the stars. The night was clear and cold. “We’ll be to the ruins by daybreak,” he said. “I’d hoped for better, but the roads haven’t been in any shape for us to make better time.”
“I don’t imagine it matters,” Dawe said. “The magic will be just as broken when we get there.”
“Do you think Pollard will have scouts at Mirdalur?” Blaine asked.
Geir frowned. “He’d have to suspect that we had some reason to go there. Since we don’t know what Pollard knows, there’s no way to tell. I figured I’d check out the road ahead when the sun goes down tomorrow. There were no intruders when I did my initial reconnaissance, but it would be wise to be certain.”
Blaine slept restlessly, finally rising a candlemark before his shift at watch. He found Piran moving from window to window, watching the approach to the mill, his crossbow at the ready.
“See anything?” Blaine asked, still groggy.
Piran shook his head. “No. That’s a good thing.” He gestured toward a pot of fet that still sat on the warm embers of last night’s fire. “There’s still some in the pot. You look like you could use a cup.” He grinned. “It’s black as night and thick as tar; just the thing to wake you up.”
Blaine mumbled a curse and poured himself a cup. Without sugar and milk to cut the bitter taste, it was barely palatable, and Blaine grimaced as he swallowed it. Within minutes, however, the fet had begun to wake him up, and he felt clearheaded. “Horrid stuff,” he said, spitting to get the taste out of his mouth.
Piran chuckled. “We’ve had worse in Velant.”
“I try not to think about that.” Blaine leaned against the mill wall. “You don’t like this whole Mirdalur thing, do you?”
Piran shrugged. “Hey, I’m a soldier. Soldiers take orders. We don’t plan the campaigns.” He gave Blaine a skeptical look. “And we trust that the generals have a good idea of what they’re doing.”
Blaine grimaced. “I’m hardly a general. And I’ve got my doubts about the whole idea, too. But if it’s really possible to bring back the magic, if it does somehow depend on me, how can I not try?”
Piran cursed. “You can’t. And maybe Grimur—and Penhallow—knew that. Geir’s all right, for a biter, but the talishte think different than we do. They’re older, and they’ve had to live by their wits, lie to survive. How do we know that what happens at Mirdalur is what we think is happening? You might trigger something, but it might not be what they’ve led us to believe.”
“Now, there’s a comforting thought,” Blaine replied. Much as he hated to admit it, the same thing had occurred to him, more than once, since they had set out from Edgeland. “I’ll grant you that, but where does it leave us? I don’t entirely trust Penhallow’s word, but I don’t have a better option, except to do nothing.” He sighed. “And if we do nothing, I don’t know how we’ll protect Glenreith from Pollard and Reese if they really decide to make an effort to take it.”
Piran made a face. “I don’t have any better ideas, that’s why I’m happy to just take orders, most of the time. I hope Penhallow’s really on our side, and I hope the magic comes back. I’m just saying, be careful and watch your back.”
“That’s your job, remember?” Blaine said with a weak attempt at humor. He sobered. “Don’t worry. I’ll be as careful as possible. I’m just not sure what that means in this situation.”
Piran grinned. “Hey, any battlefield you leave alive is a good battle. I’d start with that.”
“Let’s hope we get that lucky,” Blaine replied. He stared out the window toward the horizon where the sun was setting. “Geir should be up soon. We’ll know what Mirdalur holds for us soon enough.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
FOR A PLACE THAT’S SUPPOSED TO BE SO DAMNED important, it looks like a dump,” Piran said as they rode into sight of Mirdalur.
The ruins looked as Geir had described them. In places, remains of the shattered walls lay in an overgrown heap, and the keep itself was a mound of rubble. Fresh scorch marks were silent testimony that the Great Fire had not left Mirdalur unscathed. Parts of the wall still stood above the brambles and tall brown grass, and as Geir had said, five stone outbuildings marked the edges of the compound. Over the centuries, trees and scrub had filled in most of the open spaces, while the remaining buildings were vine covered and weed shrouded.
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Blaine replied absently, scanning the area for hidden attackers. He spotted no one, but that did not enable him to relax. The night’s work ahead of them offered plenty of danger.
A shattered fountain was the centerpiece of what had been a large bailey. The fountain was filled with leaves and foul-smelling water. A few ornamental statues, broken and overgrown, remained along the edge of its basin. Blaine startled as Geir came up beside him, moving silently.
“There’s a faint tingle about the fountain, enough to tell me that it was probably once enchanted,” Geir said. “Not uncommon at the time it was built, if a family had a good mage on retainer.”
“Do you think it’s part of whatever Grimur was talking about?”
Geir shook his head. “No. There’s no real power in the fountain, just a shadow of what was once there. Anything that still exists here is down below. And the only way to get to it is through the cistern.”
“Do you think it leads under the manor?” Blaine asked.
“Hard to tell until we get there,” Geir replied. “After the first war, long ago, the descendants rebuilt the keep,” Geir said. “It fell into disuse and stood abandoned for a long time. I’ve heard it said the keep is haunted; the locals appear to have believed that. They left it alone, didn’t even steal stones for their fences. The Meroven strike knocked down whatever was still standing, and you can see that the Great Fire left its mark.” He paused, and then nodded toward a ruined building toward the lower end of the compound. “What we need is down there.”
They picked their way over the tumbled stone that had once been the cistern house’s walls. That the building’s roof had survived until the Great Fire was evidence that magic had protected the keep and its buildings until very recently. Geir had thrown aside many of the burned timbers of its roof, a task that would have taken the strength of many mortal men. Beneath the wreckage was a large cistern.
Blaine could tell at a glance that the cistern was old; when he moved closer, it was obvious from the age of the stone that the cistern had been in use for many lifetimes. He peered down, but could see nothing.
“Down about twenty feet, there’s a ledge about a foot wide around the inside,” Geir said. “I imagine when this was in use, the ledge didn’t keep anyone from using the cistern.”
“Why would anyone build a secret room off the side of a cistern?” Piran asked, holding tight to the edge and leaning down so far that Kestel grabbed him by the belt to keep him from falling.
“The
cistern is old and very deep. I suspect it taps into an underground river. Such places are a potent focus for magic,” Geir said. “I also would guess that the cistern entrance wasn’t intended as the front door. There was probably a connection through caves or tunnels into the lowest floor of the manor, but it’s likely those were sealed off when the house collapsed.”
“Are you sure about this?” Kestel asked. The torchlight heightened the red-gold color of her hair. She looked uncertain, but determined.
“We’re not totally ‘sure’ about any of this,” Geir replied. “But from the clues we have, it looks like our best option—unless we dig out the manor.”
“I guess we’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” Blaine said when they looked at him, awaiting his signal. “Let’s go.”
Blaine quietly gave orders to four of the guards to fan out along the perimeter, while the remaining two stood near the cistern. Piran unfolded a long rope ladder he had carried in his saddlebags and Dawe helped him fasten it to the cistern’s side. Kestel readied a torch and lanterns for the descent.
Geir descended first, levitating down without need of the ladder. Verran came second to work the formidable lock on the door. Piran and Dawe remained above, waiting to see if Verran could get the lock open. Kestel was next, dropping lightly down to the ledge.
Blaine made a point of not looking at the water below him as he climbed down the rope ladder. The cistern was made from blocks of hand-hewn stone that fit tightly together even after centuries of use. Moss clung to the stone in places, and the farther down the cistern Blaine descended, the colder it became.
He carefully stepped onto the narrow ledge. Blaine could hear the distant sound of flowing water, and cast an uneasy glance toward the depths below. He looked toward where the others stood in the passageway leading to the door. It was recessed several feet into the rock, with a doorframe of intricately carved stone. From where Blaine stood, he could not make out the carvings in the torchlight, but saw Verran run a hand tentatively just above the stone and heard him let out a low whistle.
“I don’t think this is a door to the root cellar,” Verran said quietly, his voice echoing in the confined space. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to carve runes of protection on the lintel and doorposts.”
“Do you pick up any magic?” Kestel asked, holding the torch closer so that Verran could see better.
Verran shook his head. “Not anything active. But there’s still a residue of power, so whatever warded the door must have been quite strong, or there’d be no trace left at all. I’m glad we’re tackling it now, instead of when it was at full strength.”
“What’s the lock like?” Blaine asked.
Verran crouched close to the handle and its large, ornately wrought iron lock. “Offhand, I’d say it’s a lot like the box in your father’s room, a Tollerby mechanism. Watch yourselves: It’ll be nasty in a small space like this when it sends out its spike.”
“Can you work the lock without getting hit?” Kestel asked.
Verran gave a nervous smile. “We’ll see, won’t we?” He hesitated. “Perhaps the rest of you should move out of the passageway and over to the side, just in case this lock has a surprise.”
Blaine looked down as the others spread out along the ledge. Geir had levitated silently down below the ledge, his blond hair barely visible in the torchlight. After a few moments, as Verran was deep in concentration working the lock, Geir rejoined them.
“Well?” Blaine asked in a hushed voice, with a glance toward Verran to make sure he had not disturbed anything.
Geir shrugged. “Just being careful. The cistern is even deeper than I thought, but there are no other ledges or doors that I can see. The deeper I went, the louder the sound of running water, so I think the guess about an underground river was correct. Such ‘deep places’ are believed to have substantial natural magic, and they would be an ideal source of power for a ritual chamber, especially if someone intended to access natural magic and mold it to their will.”
Geir hesitated and closed his eyes. He swayed, and Blaine reached out a hand to steady him. When Geir opened his eyes, he looked at Blaine with concern. “A sending from Penhallow, through the kruvgaldur. It’s a warning. We’re in danger. No other details, except a strong sense that we should leave.” He met Blaine’s gaze. “I don’t think he wants us to enter the chamber.”
Blaine swore under his breath. “With Pollard and his men around, there’s no telling when we’ll get another chance. I’m as leery about this as anyone else, but we need to know if there’s anything to the maps and the disks. If I go in there and nothing happens, then we go looking for Quintrel. But at least we’ll know where we stand.” He shook his head. “I’m going in.”
Verran gave a muted cry of triumph. “I’ve almost got it. Watch out; the dart’s coming.” With that, the lock mechanism gave a resounding click and a thin iron spike flashed across the well at deadly speed, sinking into the stone wall. The heavy wooden door swung open. “We’re in.”
Geir signaled for Piran and Dawe to descend, and two of the Glenreith guards took their place at the cistern’s mouth. Verran was happy to hand off the torch to Piran. Geir, who needed no extra light, led the way down the corridor that opened from the doorway. Blaine followed, with the rest filing in behind him. They walked for a long while in silence. The passageway sloped slightly up from the opening in the cistern and turned several sharp corners.
“Where do you think this takes us?” Kestel whispered.
Blaine shrugged. “I’m guessing that we’ll end up somewhere underneath the keep. I don’t think the cistern door was ever meant to be the main way in and out; whoever built this corridor probably meant it as an escape tunnel.”
A new door stopped their progress. Verran moved forward, with Piran holding the torch so he could see.
“Same type of runes and lock as the first door,” Verran mused aloud. “Better get against the wall, in case there’s another dart.”
They waited in silence as Verran worked the lock. The Tollerby mechanism gave with a click, propelling a dart with enough force to send it down the corridor beyond the glow of the torch. A rush of stale air reached them as Verran cautiously opened the door and stood aside.
Kestel and Dawe found torches in sconces near the door and lit them, illuminating the large underground room. Part of its ceiling was hewn from solid rock, and Blaine wondered if it was a natural cave. The rest had been reinforced with stone in high barrel vaults.
From the antechamber, they passed into an even larger ceremonial hall. On the far side of this room, the walls were damaged, and rubble was piled in front of what might have been another doorway. The walls of the ceremonial hall and its floor had been chiseled smooth, and the walls bore detailed paintings of thirteen constellations at intervals around the room. Set into the floor were pavers in an elaborate labyrinth pattern.
“Thirteen constellations, thirteen Lords of the Blood,” Kestel said in a hushed voice.
Blaine felt beneath his tunic for the obsidian disk from his father’s room. It seemed to tingle at the touch of his fingers, and he wondered if he was imagining the sensation. “Either something big is going to happen, or we’ve all wasted our time,” Blaine said, stepping forward. “I’m going to walk the path. The rest of you, stay by the wall.”
Blaine gingerly placed one foot on the labyrinth pathway, alert for danger. When nothing happened, he took a tentative step, and then another. He had reread the cryptic notes in Grimur’s book and examined the disk in great detail, but he still felt completely unprepared. I have no magic of any significance, he thought. I’m qualified to be here only because I’m still alive. And I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do except show up with the damned disk.
The closer he got to the center of the labyrinth, the more the room’s layout became clear. The thirteen constellations corresponded with thirteen circles on the floor, circles that reminded Blaine of the obsidian disks and their odd patterns of markings
and slits. He knew from the paper in his father’s trunk that each of the original thirteen Lords of the Blood had their place in the ritual circle, and that the carvings in the stone might well match those in the missing disks. He’d memorized the drawing on the paper, and now he headed toward the place in the labyrinth that had been marked with his family’s symbol. Stones carved with runes were set alongside the labyrinth pathway.
As he neared the center of the labyrinth, he felt as if he were moving against an invisible force. Yet just beyond the maze’s center, he could see the circle on the floor that looked to be the best match to the disk he wore. The last few steps to the heart of the labyrinth seemed to require all of his strength, but with effort, he stepped onto the red stone nexus.
Light flashed, and a white-hot bolt of wild energy caught Blaine full in the chest, furious as the magic storms they had survived aboveground. Uncontrolled, rogue power crackled in the air. A scream tore from Blaine’s throat as the light seemed to boil through his veins.
I’ve triggered something, Blaine thought as he fell to his knees. Was it meant to be a trap? Maybe this is what Penhallow was trying to warn us about. Or did the death of magic make the ritual power go wild, like the storms?
Kestel’s scream echoed from the rock walls, followed by a cry of pain. She fell to her knees clutching her head. Verran and Dawe also fell, anguish clear in their faces. Piran stood longer and then cried out and toppled backward. Geir was the last to go down, and Blaine could see determination warring with pain in the talishte’s face.
“Blaine—get out of there!” Geir shouted, his voice hoarse. He crumpled against the stone wall and lay still.
The light flared, making it impossible for Blaine to see. Excruciating pain radiated from where the bolt pinned him, and Blaine could hear his blood thundering in his ears. His body convulsed, shuddering uncontrollably, and Blaine could not draw breath. His vision blurred, reduced to dancing pinpoints of light as he gasped for air, and consciousness slipped away, leaving nothing but darkness and pain.
Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) Page 51
