by Lisa Shearin
Mychael held out his hand and stared at his palm. A pinpoint of white light flickered to life from the center of his hand, beneath the skin. It was no larger than a firefly. It spun, weaving a trail of light until a globe, the size of his fist, hung suspended above his open hand. It glowed steadily and seemed to solidify, the interior crackling with something akin to lightning. It floated down the stairs, then stopped, hovering, waiting for us.
Mychael indicated that the goblin prince should precede us. “After you, Your Highness.”
Chigaru raised one elegant brow.
“You have been in these catacombs before,” Mychael explained. “We have not. Rest assured, we’ll be right behind you.” He looked to Garadin. “Garadin, if you could remain here with Primari Nuru? Piaras, stay with Vegard. We won’t be long. Riston,” he said to the other Guardian with us, “you’re with me.”
“Sir?” Vegard asked uncertainly. He didn’t glance at the prince. He didn’t need to. Mychael understood.
“From the looks of things, there’s not much room to maneuver down there,” the paladin said. “Riston and his knives are a better fit. Just make sure there’s a hole for us to come out of.”
The blond Guardian grinned. “Count on it, sir.”
“I am.” He again gestured to the prince. “Shall we?”
Prince Chigaru descended the stairs. Mychael and I followed, with Riston at our backs.
The walls glistened in the globe’s pale light, moisture trickling down the sides to collect on the uneven floor, making footing uncertain at best. The air was cool and damp. Somewhere ahead in the darkness, water dripped methodically into a pool. I gathered my gown up as best as I could. Mychael was directly in front of me. I aimed a dirty look at the center of his back. What I wouldn’t have given for my old leathers and boots. Aside from our breathing, there was no other sound. The damp wasn’t nearly as bad as the cloying smell of decay—or the unexpected silence. Not from the residents—I didn’t expect any trouble from them. I did expect to hear or sense something from the Saghred. I suddenly felt faintly nauseous. Though that could be from being in such close quarters with centuries of Ramsden dead and a Mal’Salin prince.
The globe’s light illuminated a white crust that shone in lines at differing heights along the rock walls. Salt. My subconscious knew what the lines meant, but my conscious mind didn’t want to dwell on it. There were many ways we could die tonight, and I didn’t want to add drowning to the list. The tide wouldn’t turn for hours, and we certainly weren’t going to be here that long. Knowing that didn’t help. Fear was irrational that way. If I survived all this, I wasn’t going to have to look far for fresh nightmare inspiration.
The catacombs couldn’t be very extensive, at least I hoped not. There was only one tunnel with no branches that I could see in the dim light. Ledges had been hollowed out of the walls on both sides of us. These were packed with the yellowed bones of obviously more than one dearly departed, some to overflowing. A name and date was engraved on each ledge. Some were worn smooth with age and water.
“Thick as thieves down here, aren’t they?” Riston remarked.
I grinned. I couldn’t help it. It probably just meant I was on the verge of getting hysterical. “Makes you hope they all got along,” I quipped.
The Guardian called my grin and raised me a wink.
“Riston, take the point,” Mychael said softly.
“Sir.” The Guardian slid his brace of throwing daggers around to his chest for quicker access. He flexed his fingers to warm them.
We hadn’t gone far before my nausea turned into a wave of dizziness. I felt the Saghred’s presence before I heard it. My breath came shallow and quick, my skin was clammy, my mouth dry. I tried to swallow, but couldn’t.
“Stop. It’s here.”
A soft humming echoed through the tunnels.
Mychael looked sharply at me. He heard it, too.
“Raine?”
I dimly realized his voice sounded farther away than it should. It didn’t bother me, and I think it should have.
“Fine.” I felt myself try to breathe. I stayed on my feet, so I think I succeeded. “I’m fine.”
I felt his arm slip around my waist. I don’t think he believed me. I steadied myself, then stepped away.
“Down there,” I said, forcing more air into my words than I had to spare. “Let’s go.”
The tunnel ended abruptly in a room only ten feet or so square. A white stone panel shone starkly in one wall on the edge of the globe’s light. It was a burial vault in miniature. It was only about a foot square and oddly translucent, like alabaster. It also bore a striking resemblance to the containment box Quentin had found the beacon in—and the small box Mychael now held in his hands. The frosted surface was smooth and unmarked except for a small, circular section that had been carved out of the stone.
You didn’t have to be too smart to know what was meant to go there.
Prince Chigaru stepped around Riston for a closer look. “That was not here before,” he insisted.
“When was that?” Mychael asked.
“Three years,” the goblin said.
Mychael and I exchanged glances. Plenty of time for a certain Saghred Guardian to do a little redecorating.
It took a lot of squirming on my part, but I managed to remove the beacon from my bodice. Prince Chigaru’s eyes were instantly on me, his lean body tense with restraint.
I had one word for him. “Stay.”
“Wait,” Mychael told me. “Are you shielded?”
My shoulders slumped. “Do you really think that’s going to do any good?” I sounded the way I felt. Tired.
His jaw tightened. “Probably not.”
I knelt and put the beacon into the hollow. It grated against the accumulated salt, and some of it fell on the floor. That was all. Nothing happened. That didn’t mean something wasn’t different. It was, and it wasn’t at all what I expected. I looked more closely at the white stone panel.
“What is it?” Mychael asked.
“Does it look more transparent to you?”
“No.”
I looked again—then stared in wonder at what lay beyond.
“It does to me,” I breathed. Then I became a part of it.
I was surrounded in pulsating light and movement. Flowing forms emerged from shifting colors, each separate and distinct. I realized with amazement turning to horror that the forms were alive. Most were faceless wraiths, their bodies pale and indistinct as they fled, terrified of me. Others didn’t flee, but passed just out of arms reach, with faint cries and whispered pleas, held at bay as if by some unseen hand. The remaining ones were more solid, though their bodies were wasted as if from the ravages of disease. They didn’t whisper or beg. They screamed in rage and frustration at not being able to reach me. Something stopped them from touching me, but nothing blocked their raw need. I tried to run, but the same force that held them at bay held me still.
I was inside the Saghred. The wraiths around me were all that remained of those sacrificed or absorbed over the ages. Not just goblins, but elves, humans and dwarfs—though some were too far gone to be recognized as any race.
A lone figure came toward me and stopped just beyond arm’s reach, silently staring. His elegantly pointed ears marked him as an elf, a beautiful pure-blooded high elf. His hair was silver, and his eyes were the gray of gathering storm clouds. Eyes identical to my own. A slow smile curled the corners of his lips. I could see why my mother hadn’t cared that he was nearly nine hundred years old.
Eamaliel Anguis knew me and had been expecting me—all this time, all of my life.
“Daughter.”
Like most fatherless little girls, I’d always imagined what my father would look like. What stood before me wasn’t it. For one, I could see through him.
I couldn’t move. I didn’t even know if I was breathing.
“How?” I whispered the word, but it echoed in my head, not my ears.
He smiled.
It was a kind smile, encouraging, patient. “How are you here or how am I here?”
My throat was too tight to speak. I just nodded.
“Because I needed to speak with you. Don’t be afraid. You can see me and the others, but your body remains outside the Saghred, in the arms of your Guardian. You are safe.”
“Are you alive?” I wasn’t sure if it was in poor taste to ask, but I had to.
“The Saghred does not take life,” he explained. “It absorbs it. I am alive, but on a different level than you are probably familiar with. Time is different on the inside.”
I felt myself try to grin. “A couple of my formerly incarcerated Benares relatives say the same thing.”
My father looked at me as if trying to fit a lifetime of seeing me into a few seconds. His gaze was so intense that I wanted to look away, but looking away meant seeing floating wraiths. So I kept my eyes exactly where they were.
“You’re so beautiful,” he managed. “Just like your mother.”
Uncomfortable under his scrutiny—and even more uncomfortable at the mention of my mother—I brushed at one of the gown’s jewel-strewn velvet panels. “This isn’t how I normally dress. The goblin king’s masked ball. We had to get on the grounds somehow. You might say I’m undercover. The gown and going to the ball wasn’t exactly my idea.” I stopped and tried to breathe. “I’m babbling, aren’t I?”
He smiled. “Not at all. You found me, so it must be going well.”
“As well as can be expected—at least for one of us.” I could look right through my father and see the wraiths floating behind him. I winced. “You’re the Saghred’s Guardian. Isn’t it supposed to like you, or at least not eat you?”
The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Being here wasn’t exactly my idea, either.”
“I can understand that.” I risked a quick glance at the wraiths, then lowered my voice. “Not your ideal roommates either, I’d imagine.”
“All of those here were victims, some were more innocent than others. Few are actually evil; their greed and lust for power blinded them to the danger.”
I thought of Ocnus. “Greed makes you stupid,” I muttered.
My father nodded, a twinkle in his gray eyes. “Without exception. The more powerful you are, the more blind you are to your own greed—and its consequences.”
Sounded just like Sarad Nukpana.
“Could you have found a less creepy place than a crypt to hide it?”
“Under the very noses of those looking the hardest for it. In a place they would disdain. It was perfect.”
Apparently Sarad Nukpana liked it well enough to meditate upstairs. I decided not to mention that. The less creepiness I had to deal with, the better.
I held the beacon by its diamond chain. “I believe this belongs to you. Any way I can give it back?”
“Unfortunately, I’m in no condition to accept it.”
Unfortunate was right.
I closed my hand around the disk. It was warm and oddly comforting. “Isn’t it supposed to be attached to you forever or something?”
“I was ambushed by mercenaries, probably hired by the Khrynsani. I escaped with my life, but not with the beacon. The Khrynsani were close to finding the Saghred. Too close to risk leaving it where it was. To move the stone is to risk discovery. But to come in contact with the stone is to risk being taken.”
“And you had to touch it to put it in the vault.”
My father nodded.
“The stone wanted a snack before being put to bed.”
He laughed, a rich silvery sound. “I never thought of it that way, but you’re exactly right. When it hungers, it will feed.”
“I know. Prince Chigaru told me.”
My father’s expression darkened. “A Mal’Salin.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I take anything he tells me with a grain of salt—and one hand on my nearest dagger.”
“As well you should, but in this case he didn’t lead you astray.”
“I know that, too. I get the feeling the Saghred’s bad to know and worse to be around.”
His eyes grew sorrowful. “As am I.”
I drew a trembling breath. “Did my mother know that you were the Saghred’s Guardian?”
“I tried to keep that from her as well. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you take and guard any semblance of a normal life that you can have. The Khrynsani had picked up my trail again—and they would soon find Maranda. I protected her in the only way I knew. I left her, drawing my pursuers with me.”
I had a feeling where this was going. “Except they didn’t follow.”
His expression reflected equal parts anger and sadness. “Not all of them. I only discovered later what had happened to her—and about you.”
My mother, alone against the Khrynsani’s best shamans. She had only been a marginal sorceress—like me. She hadn’t stood a chance. Thanks to the Saghred, I wasn’t so marginal anymore—and I was determined not to share her fate.
I blinked back tears. “Why didn’t you—?”
“Try to contact you? So you could be hunted down like your mother?”
“I see your point.”
“I kept watch over you, through trusted friends. Even they didn’t know the connection. It was safer that way. But eventually, my secret was betrayed.”
“Sarad Nukpana found out.”
“And tracked you down. I did not want what has happened to you to happen. I am sorry, Raine. I have tried to protect you, but there was no other way.”
I tried to shrug. I wanted to cry. “I’m none the worse for wear.”
“None of this should have happened. I ask for your forgiveness.”
“No one’s been wronged,” I managed past the lump in my throat. “No need to forgive.”
A look of surprise passed over his flawless face, surprise and pride. “But your life, your family, friends…”
“I have a responsibility to my family—all of my family. Guarding the Saghred is your job; I’m thinking now that it’s my job to help.”
“You’re very brave.” Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but he appeared to be getting more insubstantial, if that was possible.
“I guess that makes me my father’s daughter,” I whispered.
He smiled. “And your mother’s.” He looked up and the smile vanished.
I looked where he was looking. I saw a gray void. He must have seen more.
“What is it?” I asked.
“He’s here.”
“What? Who?”
“Sarad Nukpana. He’s here.”
Damn.
My father was fading. “Go now.”
I reached out toward him. “But I don’t…”
I was on the cold dirt floor, in Mychael’s arms, the small white stone box he had brought with us clutched in my white-knuckled hands. The lid was closed and the box glowed softly as if from within. The Saghred—and my father—were locked inside. So much for how the Thief of Souls earned its nickname.
“Who put—?” I asked him.
His face was impassive, but pale. “You did.”
The door to the miniature vault was still in place. I didn’t ask how. I didn’t remember, and at this point I didn’t care.
“They’re alive,” I told Mychael. “All of them.” I didn’t mention my father. I didn’t know how to say it, and Prince Chigaru didn’t need to hear it.
A light sprinkling of dirt and salt fell from the tunnel roof.
The goblin looked up. We all did.
“We must leave,” the prince said, his voice low and urgent.
We didn’t need to ask why; we all knew the dirt didn’t fall by itself.
“Is there another way out?” Mychael asked.
“None that I know.”
Mychael looked at Riston, and the Guardian ran silently down the corridor.
I wrestled my way free of Mychael’s arms.
“Let me up.”
“Can you…?”
Stand
ing by myself stopped his question. I wasn’t dizzy or in the least bit weak. I was angry, more angry than I’d ever been in my life. And that anger steadied me more effectively than a sharp slap in the face. My mother was dead and my father was trapped for eternity inside a rock. No hope of help. No hope of escape. All because of the Khrynsani—and especially because of Sarad Nukpana.
Some magic users lost their concentration when they got angry. I wasn’t one of them.
The goblin grand shaman was in the mausoleum above us. That Riston didn’t return to report only confirmed it, but I didn’t need to wait for confirmation. I could feel him. I could feel the fear he brought, the pain. He would wait, and then he would come after me. I would not die in a hole in the ground.
The only sound was the single word Chigaru had just hissed. Its simple eloquence summed up his opinion of our situation. I couldn’t have agreed more.
With the Saghred clutched to my side, I started off down the corridor.
Mychael caught my arm. I wrenched it away.
“He’s up there,” I told him.
“Let me go first.”
“Not this time,” I said.
I ran to the foot of the stairs.
Sarad Nukpana stood at the top. He was smiling.
“There you are, Mistress Benares. I believe you have something for me?”
The goblin grand shaman almost sounded happy. I imagine he was. He thought this was going to be his lucky night.
I wasn’t entirely certain he was wrong.
Chapter 23
The mausoleum was more crowded than it had been when we had left.
We had used one light globe so as not to attract attention. The Khrynsani had torches, a lot of them. They didn’t need to sneak. They belonged there.
They also outnumbered us at least five to one.
Vegard lay unmoving on the ground, his scalp bloody, his ax still in his hand. More than a few motionless goblins shared the ground with him. The bloodied ones were probably Vegard’s work, those with no visible marks of violence were probably the result of Garadin and Primari Nuru’s attentions.
