“Help me,” he snapped at Caballa, Dechend and Lowen.
They aided the massive horse creature to the marble slab that was the conference table.
“Can you shift to your guise, Belun?” Quilla asked.
A groan, and the Centuar transformed untidily into his humanoid form. His injuries were more apparent in the smaller guise. He collapsed a moment later and they hoisted him onto the slab.
Quilla started muttering and green vapour gradually coalesced into the spaces around the fallen man. This was Q’lin’la healing vapour and Quilla silently thanked all gods this magic remained effective in this space beyond all spaces.
Dechend, meanwhile, stared at the ogive, praying for his Emperor to come wandering in.
“Belun, stay down!” Quilla snapped.
The Centuar moved and sat up holding his head. “Must move the Dome.”
“Not bloody likely. Stay down.”
Lowen’s eyes narrowed. Move the Dome? Her jaw clenched. She glanced at Caballa, to see the woman frowning her displeasure. Torrullin had made a deal. What it was, she could not know, but it included Belun moving the Dome to safety. Well, bugger, it would not include her.
She sidled away as the birdman pressed Belun down.
“You cannot stand at the moment; never mind focus on the console,” Quilla said.
“I gave my word. They died out there and I will save those in our care. Out of my way.”
“Who died?” Caballa asked, a hand at her throat.
“Yiddin, Vanar, and Kylis. Sirlasin isn’t looking good either.” Belun swung his legs over and stumbled to the console. The green vapour followed him. “Get this shit away!”
“Stupid Centuar, it keeps you functioning right now!” Quilla shouted.
Lowen grinned despite the seriousness of the situation, and stood in the shadows beside the ogive. When she heard Belun slap at the light for Knowledge - the first action he took when preparing to shift the Dome - she slipped out.
Dechend, who marked her actions, sighed as the ogive chimed. Grinwallin needed him, he thought. His attitude spoke only of fate. He inhaled deeply soon after, and moved to the console. Kylis was gone. He had liked the man, and had come to trust not only his loyalty, but also his advice and insights. So much promise there, now snuffed. But his Emperor lived and he would ensure Grinwallin was ready to welcome him home.
The Senlu swallowed convulsively. Soon he would have to tell Alik that her father remained in Nowhere and that Kylis, someone she trusted also, was dead.
Quilla, staring at the empty ogive, hung his head.
Caballa chewed at her cheek. Vanar and Yiddin. After Kismet passed on, those two became the Elders she revered most.
All gods.
Circle of Confrontation
LOWEN HEARD THE TELL-TALE whoosh that meant something large had lifted from the ground into atmosphere at an accelerated pace. While ground and atmosphere was relative here, it meant the Dome had moved into safer spaces.
She was now alone.
The soldiers who earlier besieged the Dome had retreated a fair distance after the explosions, into the precincts of the path itself, thereby creating the kind of unattended emptiness she could use to attain the trees. Use it she did. Through the low foliage she saw them rank upon rank, all looking up.
Then they glanced at each other.
She hunkered. Soon they would be recalled or someone here would give the command to return to the citadel. All she had to do was wait. As nerve-wrecking as that was.
Soon was swift. Barely moments after the Dome vacated did they wheel and in orderly rows march away.
Lowen sat on leafy earth and passed a hand noticeably shaking over her face.
The tiniest sound behind her, a twig snapping, told her she was not as alone as she believed. She tensed and crouched in the shadows. And prayed.
“Lowen?”
A whisper. A woman’s voice.
Relief flooded into vein and marrow. “Caballa, here.”
The woman came into view, walking in a careful crouch, and was not alone. Creeping behind her was Sabian.
They hunkered before her, grinning.
“We are not done here either,” Caballa murmured.
“I have never been as happy to see you two,” Lowen said, a hand on her heart.
Sabian laughed and stood to peer through the trees. “They are gone. No doubt crowding Tymall’s place. Man, Quilla is going to flip when he realises we vanished on him also.”
Another sound, this one not so tiny, and all three froze.
Someone bumbled about amid the trees further along the path. Someone who breathed heavily and did not look where feet were placed.
Sabian put a finger to his lips and moved silently away.
HE RETURNED ALONG THE path, walking openly. Sabian was not alone. He came to a halt opposite where the two women hid.
“You can come out. The path is clear and so is the common.”
Lowen and Caballa emerged brushing twigs and leaves off.
Overhead the heavens thundered.
“Meet Cranckshaw.”
“Who is he?” Lowen asked.
“Bannerman’s architect,” Sabian grinned. “Seems he is sick of Bannerman and Horatio and their crazy plans. See that? Those are the citadel’s blueprints.”
The man was around middle age, with wispy blond hair and brown eyes. He was of average height and was clearly a city boy - he wore a dark three-piece suit. His city shoes were caked with mud. His arms strained under the weight of rolled plans.
“Why?” Caballa demanded, staring into his eyes.
Cranckshaw cleared his throat. “They are insane, this is why. Bannerman wants to be king of Beacon and Horatio wants to murder civilisations. He hopes Bannerman will make him Prime Minister. It was not achievable from Ymir; it certainly has no hope of success now.”
“How did you get involved?”
The man sighed, blinking at Caballa. “Ego. Money. I did not quite realise what it would lead to. I shall kneel before Elixir and beg of him understanding. I hope he may grant me a second chance.” He shuffled the blueprints.
Caballa nodded after a beat. “If that helps, he might extend it to you, yes.”
Cranckshaw managed to smile.
“But you prove unworthy, you are bloody dead,” Lowen snapped.
Sabian grinned her way, and glanced over his shoulder. “I wish we had a blueprint to tell us how to get into that fort unseen.”
Cranckshaw cleared his throat again.
All three snapped attention back to him.
“You do?” Lowen asked.
“I have the plans for the castle Tymall used in reality, the one he annexed after finding darklings without a leader …”
“We know the tale,” Caballa said.
“Yes, well, according to Bannerman, Tymall copied it exactly for his fort of manipulation.” Cranckshaw, squeezing the blueprints against his chest with one hand, freed the other to find the plan in question. “Bannerman wanted to know the layout … in the event.”
“As Tymall no doubt has the layout of the citadel,” Sabian murmured. “Give me those so you can search better, and then choose only the necessary to lug with us.”
The architect dumped the load upon Sabian’s outstretched arms, searched some more, and finally pulled the fort’s plan free. Handing it to Caballa, he swiftly worked through the rest, ending with three further rolls of paper.
“The rest are electrics and sewerage and so forth. We can dump those, right?”
“Yes.” Sabian headed to the trees and placed them behind a tree out of sight. “But we shall hedge our bets.”
Caballa, meanwhile, unrolled the plan and she and Lowen kneeled before it on the path. They looked at each other, laughed and moved away, leaving the space open for Sabian and Cranckshaw.
Long minutes passed as the two men studied the plan.
“There,” Sabian said, and stabbed a finger at the paper.
Cranckshaw le
aned in. “A delivery arch to the lower storerooms. Hidden in a fold in the wall.”
Sabian nodded. “An entrance not visible inside, and thus forgotten, and generally invisible on the outside. If Tymall knows of it, chances are he regards it as unworthy of attention.”
“He has no guards anyway, according to Bannerman.”
“There are other ways of guarding a building of that size and nature.” Sabian gave a swift shrug.
“Ah.” Cranckshaw pulled a face and rose. “What now?”
“Now we use the trees to get as near as possible.” Sabian stood and stretched. “Bring that with.”
“I guess I have already earned my keep, right?”
Lowen snorted at the man. “Torrullin will not thank you for showing us the way in, idiot.”
“So much for poison ivy,” Sabian muttered.
Shadow Wing Fort
TIANOMAN REACHED THE GROUND first, a run from the battlements that had Tristan holding his breath wondering if his cousin would break bones in his headlong dash.
He stopped heaving before them. “I told him to let you in. I hope you can forgive me.”
Torrullin inclined his head. “You saved lives, son; there is nothing to forgive.”
Tianoman drew breath, released. “Do not promise him anything more, Torrullin, if you can help it. I have realised every promise he exacts gifts him added strength.”
“I am aware of that.” Then, a smile. “You are doing well; I am proud of you.”
A quick glance over his shoulder - his father was a distance away - and Tianoman murmured, “I feel as if the Throne is nearby and thus I tailor my words.”
A nod. “The Throne is always near the Vallorin.”
Tianoman glanced at Tristan supporting Teighlar, and Elianas doing so for Sirlasin, and added, “I must tell you there is a place below that speaks of my scrying - Samuel’s images.” In a rush then, for Tymall closed in, “Four pillars, black floor, silver cathron …” He ceased speaking and stepped aside, his expression shuttering.
Tristan heard Neolone’s words again. Find the place where a silver cathron lurks in the black floor . Carefully he schooled his face; the Warlock would not read his apprehension.
Tymall was there, grinning like the cat that had caught the plumpest field mouse.
The gates swung shut.
Torrullin drew his sword.
Chapter 55
The mind’s eye, now that is a cause for concern. What is it, pray tell? Does the blind man see with it? Does the stupid one become clever? Is it biological firing of grey matter? Is it the source of vision, prompt, imagination? Pray tell, sir, what is it?
~ Otan of Krepp at a magician’s conference ~
Nowhere
Path
A BUNDLE OF RAGS was their first impression of the obstacle in their path. As they had to step over it to continue on their way, they came to a halt before doing so, a moment’s curiosity that sought appeasement.
Lowen, a hand covering her nose to mitigate the stench emanating from the bundle, squatted and poked experimentally at it, using a stick near to hand. Her gasp caused Torrullin to lean down, grip her and drag her aside. She struggled free.
“Stop it, I am not a child.”
“We swore to keep you safe,” Torrullin said.
Meanwhile Elianas had knelt. “A woman,” he murmured. “A few days dead.”
Sending Lowen a warning look, Torrullin crouched. Together he and Elianas rolled the bundle of rags over, both men gagging.
They stared down at a thin face. Any trace of beauty was lost in the ugliness of death.
“Hunger,” Elianas said. “Probably collapsed here never to rise.” He surged up, swearing. “We are days from the city; how bad will it get? How long before we are numb?”
“The real question is, how do we make it right?” Lowen said.
“Lowen, this cannot be reversed.”
LOWEN HAD FROZEN, standing motionless in the shadows of trees.
“Come on, Lowen,” Sabian urged.
They were in a forest band on the far side of the path to the fort and nearby a host of soldiers fidgeted.
Caballa touched his arm. “It is a vision. We wait.”
Sabian swore under his breath and moved into a defensive stance. A snap of his hand had Cranckshaw huddling down.
“WHERE ARE WE? Why is this happening?” Lowen glared down at the bundle as if it was responsible for the situation. “And who did you swear to and make that stupid promise? I can take care of myself.”
Elianas covered the woman and straightened. “Until you are immortal once more, we hold to it.”
“To who, Elianas?”
“Ourselves,” Torrullin said, staring over Elianas’ shoulder down the path. It curved in the distance and there was forward view lost. “Not important right now. What is, is safety. This smacks of disease as well as hunger. We have to avoid contact with others until we know more.”
“Others?” Lowen said. “Where? There is nothing and no one here. We have walked days.” She poked at Torrullin. “Three days ago you said the city was days away and now Elianas says we are still days away.”
“We are guessing, that is why.”
She snorted derision and faced Elianas instead. “Why is this happening?”
“I do not have the answers.”
“Who does?”
“We do.”
“Who said that?” Lowen demanded, and swung around to find others on the path.
The power of speech deserted her.
“HOW LONG?” SABIAN whispered.
Eyes darted everywhere.
Fortunately the soldiers made sufficient inadvertent noise - a boot scrape, a sigh, a groan, a harness jingle - to cover them, but how long before someone looked their way?
Caballa shrugged and did not bother to reply. As a seer herself, she knew it could be a minute; it could be an hour.
She also knew to distract Lowen was dangerous.
TORRULLIN AND ELIANAS were no longer with her.
In turning she had moved onto a different timeline or into a different space. She knew this happened and she knew why, and yet their presence would have given her the confidence needed to delve.
Now, she felt, she would merely be a spectator.
The bundle of rags lay at her feet, the connection between her then and her now. She drew a ragged breath.
This was a vision. And before her stood the embodiment of answers. Or perhaps they were the embodiment of confusion and contradiction and she would exit with more questions.
As she had frequently in the past, she wished for the power of manipulation in visions, but that was not how it worked.
“Who are you?”
One was a man, average - generic almost. Forgettable, until you heard his name. “I am Ixion.”
Another was an older man leaning on a wooden staff. “I am Adagin.”
The other she already knew before he spoke his name. A Dragon, after all, was unmistakable. “I am Neolone.”
The fourth was also average, but moved with the grace one immediately marked in a Valleur. “I am Tarlinn.”
The Timekeepers past and … well, past. Except Tarlinn, of past and every future.
She drew another breath. “Why me?”
“You see,” Tarlinn said. “You hear. You listen.”
“The city you attempt to reach in another place with Elixir and Alhazen is the city of death and destruction common to all realms and timelines. It is the place where all hope dies and all future is destroyed. It has no name, for it is the result of inaction. It is the result of indecision,” Ixion said.
Lowen snorted. “Riddles. Speak plain.”
A pause in time, and then Ixion said, “This then; the city of despair is what will come to pass if action lacks at the point of decision. Tell Elixir and Alhazen to stand firm and make the choice as it happens, or there is no hope left.”
Neolone swirled his head. “These slivers try my patience! No hope, despair
, death, but you can avoid it if you make a decision. Ha! Riddles, as you say, Xenian seer. What they are trying to tell you in their confusing way is this; when the new timedancer steps forth, kill him. If you do not, the future is bleak.”
“He has two names,” Adagin spoke up. He paused and lifted his staff to whack Neolone. “A little decorum, please.”
Then, ignoring the Dragon’s snort, Adagin faced Lowen.
“He has two faces also. One name and one face is known to most of you engaged in battle with the Warlock. It is the reason inaction may follow when he steps forth. How do you kill someone known to you, after all? We can stand here and urge you and them to follow this path, but in the end you may fail. Thus, make the decision, at the very least, and believe in it. A delayed action will keep hope alive for a time, but do not delay too long.”
“Find his true name and the Timekeeper will be unmasked. Know this, his true name sets him free and thus gifts him strength,” Ixion said.
“It also frees Elixir and Alhazen from the chains of blood. Inaction may then, with clear conscience, become action,” Tarlinn added.
Adagin sighed. “If all fails, there is one last resort.”
Lowen’s heart thudded. “Yes?”
“Find the master clock and destroy it.”
“Where is it?”
Neolone wheezed a laugh. “We do not know!”
Adagin frowned up at him. “Decorum, Dragon.”
“We do not know where it is, but we shall search for the clues that point the way,” Ixion said. “We do not know the appearance of this mechanism, but know it is of stone. A Timekeeper should know of the clock, and yet it is a truth its very obscurity is what allows a Timekeeper to function. We pray the new dancer will be as ignorant as we are.”
Lowen stepped forward …
… AND STUMBLED OVER leaf mould, falling hands first to the ground.
Sabian hissed.
Lore of Sanctum Omnibus Page 178
