Gaelin laughed, consumed with the euphoria of understanding, his growing awareness of who he was. He flared like a newborn sun, kindling flames within himself and thrusting them out. Soon he would burn through the mountain’s shell, his name pounding the granite like a drum: O-THEL-ion! O-THEL-ion!
“Terrek!” yelled Felrina from far away. “The warders! We can’t let them fight! We must stop—”
Thwack!
Dimly Gaelin knew when Terrek’s dagger cut through his flame, burying itself to its crossguard in Allastor Mens’s flesh.
Thwack! Thwack!
Felrina let fly Vyergin’s little knife, with Roth flicking his dirk expertly behind.
Mens stumbled with his mouth agape. Three hilts protruded from his body—one from under his ribs, the others below and above his groin. The Blazenstone clattered from his hand and spun across the floor. Screaming in pain, Mens collapsed in a heap of midnight cloth.
“No!” roared a voice like boulders breaking.
As the dragon faded to mist, it reached with its claws to seize the red gem. Hugging the orb close to the vagueness that had been its chest, the shadow beast snapped its wings—a great rush of air swirling over the frozen pool.
The cracked ceiling split, the gloom that was Erebos fleeing into the rift. Gaelin hurried to reach the giant. All around him, the black-robes fled, their garments billowing as they hastened into the gap between the ledges, to slip out through an exit he had not seen before.
A green flicker under the tarn’s ice highlighted the giant’s face as Gaelin knelt beside her. “Avalar?” He undid the straps of her mail, grunting as he tried to pull the melted steel away from her charred tunic. “Giant? I can heal you if you’ll let me.”
Her eyes turned toward him, and she smiled. “I will mend!” Her whisper was fierce. She pointed to the splotches of crimson hardening on the floor. “Those were bloodstones! How did you destroy them?”
Terrek straddled Mens. With a brutal jerk, he tore his knife from the man’s ribs. Then he seized the black-robe by his hair, forcing back his head to slit his throat.
“Hold!” Gaelin shouted with his warder’s voice. He, too, wanted Mens dead, but Holram, possessing him, had other plans for the wizard. In growing frustration, Gaelin felt his mouth speaking the last words he wanted to hear.
“I need him to live, Terrek Florne,” Holram said. “Restrain him for me.”
Terrek stood scowling over Mens. The mage wheezed for breath, pawing at the knives still embedded near his groin.
In morbid fascination, Vyergin and Felrina drifted close to stare down. Gravely Terrek nodded. “See that, Vyergin? That was Felrina’s. Would you call that ‘something vital’?” Mens shrieked as Terrek jostled the hilt in question with his toe.
Vyergin whistled. Then, smirking, he bent, tugging one knife free while leaving the other. “Definitely not bad for a blind throw,” he said.
With a resounding crack, the pool’s icy sheath fractured at the center, the jagged pieces separating, tipping in the water. Argus’s emerald aura flared deep within, his grinning face gliding along the tarn’s granite floor.
“Where’s the oil and blood?” Felrina murmured to Wren Neche beside her. “I can see straight to the bottom!”
Arawn’s gone, too, Gaelin thought as Argus floated out of the pond in streamers of green and gold. The ghost clasped his ancient sword to his breast, his gaze fixed on Terrek’s face.
“I am free!” he exulted. “Terrek Florne, I hereby give you my weapon to replace the one you lost. It is strong and whole again, and it should serve you well. Cherish it. For though it was not wrought by elves, the blade is unique. It was forged on Earth.”
Terrek stepped to the water’s edge, and Argus lowered the ancient sword into his hands. “I didn’t know that,” he said. He smiled at the ghost. “You’ve been a great help to us, Argus.”
“Yes, I know. Godspeed and farewell.” Argus snorted. “I’m not sure those are possible for me, though. It seems I have a following.” He motioned toward the faint glints of silver below the tarn’s surface. “Fear not, my dear!” he said at Felrina’s worried frown. “Their hatred has been washed away; their haunting days are done.” He flitted past Terrek to look Gaelin in the eyes. “I have a message for you, old friend. No, not you. Holram!”
Argus bent closer, his black gaze steady. “You need to know,” the ghost said, and Gaelin felt Holram listening attentively inside him. “The old magic retains its memory; it doesn’t need giants to keep it.
“I have some idea of what you’re planning. You won’t require Arawn’s skill the way Felrina Vlyn did. You have the water. You have everything you need right here.”
“Where will you go?” Holram asked him.
“I’m not sure yet,” Argus replied. “Here and there, I suppose. I could become a magical creature if I can stand sparkling in a lantern for the length of an elvish year. Or maybe I’ll just stay a ghost. It’s not so bad, once you get used to it.” He swept them a bow. Then slowly, dramatically, he straightened his shoulders and threw back his head.
Gaelin squinted at the blinding flash of green Argus left behind, leaving only Mornius’s glow to illuminate the chamber.
Chapter 62
GAELIN, HIS NOSE wrinkling at the stench from Avalar’s burnt hair, knelt beside her as she struggled to sit up. She grimaced in disgust at the charred pattern of rings her damaged mail had left on her jerkin. “I am wondering—” she began, gesturing to the mage lying supine nearby. Then she froze, her eyes flaring wide.
“Look what I found!” Caven Roth stopped before them, his arms cradling an object. “What is this? Do you know?” He squatted, grunting as he placed his discovery on the floor—a long, flat shard of crimson glass. “Be careful. It’s sharp!”
Avalar gasped, scrambling backward on her haunches. “Where was it?” she demanded. “Keep it away!”
Roth pointed to the gap between the ledges, the obsidian barrier concealing the rear exit. “There’s a crack you can't see from here, a split in the volcanic rock.”
“ ‘Volcanic rock’?” Gaelin raised his brows.
“Terrek calls it that,” said Roth. “I found more stones your staff melted behind the wall. A few had leaked into the crevice to make this. I had to chip around it to get it out.”
“Is there anything you can’t find?” Gaelin asked, impressed.
Grinning, Roth shook his head.
Avalar rolled to her knees and crept closer to inspect the crystal. “Gaelin, could you turn it for me? It is bloodstone. It would harm me to touch it.”
Gaelin stood, and with Roth’s help, lifted the fragment. He set the heavy end on the floor beside his foot, then rested the tip against his shoulder. The shard was slender and flat, with parallel edges tapered to a point.
As he tilted it, Avalar bent near. “It is not unlike Redeemer,” she said. “If I did not know better, I would say this is the blade of Govorian’s sword. It has the same pockmarks at the base.”
“There were some pebbles stuck to it I picked out,” Roth told them. “If you want, I can wrap the glass in leather so it can’t hurt you. I still have scraps from the tents in my pack.” He sat in front of them, his dark eyes sparkling as he reached to feel the edge. Hissing, he yanked back his hand.
“You may do as you say,” Avalar said to Roth, “but only if you promise not to do that again. I believe my leader on Hothra, Trentor, would wish to examine this object.” She glanced at Terrek, her gaze lowering to the black-robe at his feet. “How is that slaver still breathing?”
“I’d like to know that myself,” said Terrek. “Why the hesitation, Holram?” Deliberately he emphasized the name as he turned toward Gaelin. “Kindly enlighten us!”
“I gather the necessary elements,” Gaelin heard his mouth say. “It is much the same as creating stars . . .”
As Holram manipulated his vocal cords, Gaelin’s attention strayed to Roth. The young man raised the unwieldy shard, staggering under its
weight, and carried it wrapped in his coat to the top of the ledges—to slip out of sight down the stairs.
Gaelin took in the contours of the sunken room. He spied the hollows in the ceiling where other stalactites had been and the three troughs leading from the pool. In the background of his thoughts, Holram’s voice droned on: “Living flesh is matter to me, clay waiting to be formed.”
“Did you get all that?” muttered Vyergin.
Gaelin opened his mouth, nodding in relief when he found that he could. Terrek, his expression grim, met his stare briefly before leaning over his prisoner.
“. . . Florne,” Mens rasped.
Terrek gripped Felrina’s knife; as he jerked it free, Mens screamed.
Shuddering, Gaelin felt Holram take control from him once more, compelling him to crouch beside Mens. Blood streamed from the black-robe’s wounded chest, collecting in the hollow of his stomach. “Perhaps you hope I might save you?” Holram asked the wizard. “I will not, for I have beheld your handiwork. You are as much a poison to this world as I am.”
He straightened, pointing to the chamber’s rear exit. “Felrina Vlyn. There is a staff on the steps beyond the wall. Its bloodstone remains intact. You will apply it to this man’s forehead.”
Holram waited, demonstrating a patience Gaelin did not share while Felrina went to find the abandoned staff. After a long pause, she returned, her expression bewildered as she halted by his side. Trembling, she glared down at Mens.
“Be at ease,” Holram reassured her. “He cannot harm you.”
“What will this do?” she asked.
“Absorb him,” said Holram. “His life force will be drawn into the stone, imprisoned as I was in Mornius. Life is precious, Felrina Vlyn. I do not intend to waste the shell he leaves behind.”
Felrina knelt, baring her teeth while she placed the crystal between Mens’s black brows. Abruptly he convulsed, his bloodshot eyes staring as he spasmed on the stone.
Gaelin sprang clear when Mens vomited, a pinkish foam pouring from the wizard’s mouth.
“How long?” Felrina whispered.
“Until it stops,” Holram said.
Turning, Gaelin squatted above his pack, the warder within him fumbling with its straps. Mens continued to thrash, fists and heels pummeling the floor. Gaelin’s gaze shied away—Holram allowing him that much—from the mage’s contorted face.
“His ears and nose are bleeding,” said Felrina. “His eyes, too. I had no idea bloodstones could—”
“Kill?” Holram queried. “They are lethal. Just ask the giant. These crystals are the living blood of this world. Life is power, and all magic needs energy. To survive, this very old planet will absorb all it can get through these stones. These gems drain anything; they have even slain giants.
“Flesh starts to fail once the spirit is gone. We must act quickly. Erebos is wounded by this loss; his retribution will be swift,” Holram said as he searched inside the bag. “And here it is!” Gaelin, watching himself withdraw a folded piece of cloth, mentally recoiled as he recalled its contents, his consciousness slipping behind Holram’s thoughts.
“Now,” the warder went on, “if the flesh has quieted, Terrek Florne, I request that you remove its clothing.”
“It hasn’t,” Terrek gritted.
Holram glanced over. “It has enough. Place it in the water.
“Is this distasteful to you?” Holram inquired, focusing on Caven Roth as Terrek and Vyergin disrobed the rigid body. “Have you learned at last that everyone has a story, including this man? He, too, was a victim of my foe, though unlike Felrina Vlyn, he is warped beyond my aid. Erebos’s darkness and the opportunity to practice cruelty called to this man, not the cult with its false promises of a new world. His crimes are so dire I am unable to dismiss them.”
He nodded to Terrek. “Place it in the water, Terrek Florne. Let us wring some goodness from this death.”
“What do you mean to do?” Terrek asked with a scowl. “As you say, Erebos will pay us a visit. Staying here is the last thing we should do.”
“The inevitable happens whether you want it or not,” said Holram. “I am a maker. That is my purpose. The carbon in suns is also found in flesh, which is what you are. Until you open your mouth, Terrek Florne—until I hear otherwise—you are nothing to me but salt, air, and water. Chemicals.”
Vyergin snorted.
“This is what I am,” Holram explained. “You think of me as a spirit like Argus, possessing this human. I am not. I am energy and thought; I have never been solid. That . . .” He motioned toward the body. “Is matter. From it, much as Felrina Vlyn created her monsters, I shall fashion a gift for you.”
“What gift?” Terrek demanded. He nudged the limp form with his boot. “From this? No, thank you!”
Avalar was eyeing the pool, the tears on her jaw glittering in Mornius’s light. Following her stare, Holram saw a shimmer above the tarn’s clear surface.
Holram nodded. “Already you sense him, Giant. Good. Your heart perceives what your sight cannot. You, Avalar Mistavere, shall be my guide. Terrek Florne?”
Sighing, Terrek slid his arms beneath the body. Bereft of his robes, Mens was pathetically thin, his shoulders and back an intricate map of self-abuse, with bruises and scars marring his skin.
Terrek waded into the water carrying the still-breathing husk of what had been a living man. At Holram’s gesture, he released the twitching form.
“Avalar must remain,” Holram said, as Terrek climbed from the pool. “Also you, Felrina Vlyn. I ask you to stay close as well. Terrek Florne, if you and your men would . . .”
“We’ll guard your back,” said Terrek. “But be quick, whatever you’re planning to do. Delaying like this endangers us all.” He turned to his men, murmuring softly. Then, with a faint clinking of mail and the wet slap of Terrek’s boots, the warriors left as Holram had commanded them.
Chapter 63
THE WIZARD’S BODY floated spread-eagled in the midst of the pool. Cleansed by the fury of Arawn’s victims, the tarn’s depths shimmered to the very bottom. With no healthy rock to absorb it, Holram sensed the water’s magic seeking an outlet. In time, it might work to restore the crippled mountain, but he needed its power now.
“What should I do?” Felrina asked.
Holram smiled. His home above the sky felt closer now. He wondered briefly if he would ever see it. “Light from darkness,” he murmured. “This is what warders do.” He nodded to the females beside him. “Avalar, you need to recall the one from your memories, the spirit who eased your heart when you were so afraid. Remember his voice and visualize his appearance for me. Can you do this?”
“I could never not do it,” Avalar replied. “The one you speak of lives in my dreams.”
Holram lifted the little cloth. “This flowed through his veins once. Now behold.” He tossed the fabric into the water, watching it unfold in a fluttering dance. Slowly it circled in the pool’s gentle current, sinking down. “Felrina Vlyn,” he said. “Repeat your parting words to Camron Florne, if you can. They will draw him near.”
Holram sat with his legs in the tranquil water. After a moment, he looked up at the light bathing his face, the colorful radiance of Mornius’s gem.
Reaching into the pool, he swirled the cool liquid with his fingers. “Grasp the staff beneath where I am holding it, Felrina Vlyn, and speak the words you said to your friend as accurately as you can.”
Felrina came up next to him to grip the staff. For a long, quiet moment, Holram gazed pensively into the water. He shut his eyes, letting his awareness slip under the waves, diving deep through the tarn’s warming depths. On the surface, the body rotated on its back as it drifted, its blind stare fixed on the ceiling.
“Oh, Camron,” Felrina said in a husky voice. “I know it hurts, but I have to believe it’s for the good of us all. You’ll come back; you’ll see. We’ll be together, you and me. We’ll build our houses beside another river and . . . Why did it have to be you?”
The water rose to engulf Holram’s wrist, churning hot around his elbow and rising up his arm, its steam soaking the skin of his neck. He heard the rhythmic slosh of waves upon the stone.
When a scalding spray burned his cheeks, his body scrambled to its feet against his will, his reaction dragging Felrina up as well as she fought to retain her grip on the staff. Holram stepped away from the heat, his thoughts bent on reducing the pool’s temperature until it matched that of his host.
Concentrating, he extended his awareness outside the cave, far away from Mount Chesna’s gutted rock, and even past the sky—to harness the icy cold of the starry realm beyond.
“Why did you let them catch you?” Felrina whispered. “Why? Oh, Camron, forgive me!”
The pool’s surface surged with the force of its currents. The mage’s flesh was losing its human shape, its skin becoming transparent. Through the thinning membrane, the heart was visible now, still beating and intact, while the skeleton slid from its sheath and dropped, rolling along the tarn’s floor.
“Sails!” Avalar breathed.
As Holram continued his work, remnants of sinew unfurled from the sunken bones, dissolving as veins and arteries detached from the fraying muscles, the red tendrils expanding through the froth.
“Giant,” he said. “Put your hands in the water.”
Avalar thrust her arms into what had become a pinkish soup, a steaming vat of pulsating matter.
Eyes closed, Holram clenched his staff. With a flex of his will, power screamed from the Skystone, striking the pond’s living core. As if from far away, Felrina cried out: “No, no! You’re doing it wrong!”
Holram ignored her.
In one great spout, the foaming torrent lashed the granite encircling the pool—to strike the ceiling and splatter, the warm liquid raining down. The veins retracted in the water, clustering again around the still-throbbing heart. Far below, the skeleton diffused into streamers of gray, the minerals funneling up.
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