The Lair of Bones

by David Farland

  She watched him throughout the day, and noted that most of the time he wore a beneficent smile. Often he would chuckle for little reason—when the sun came out from behind a cloud, or when a squirrel leapt from the Nut Woman's horse onto his own. But he did not giggle maniacally as the wind-driven wizard from Inkarra had.

  What had the owl told her—that the Asgaroth was the subtlest of all the loci?

  Certainly a subtle creature would not declare itself. It would stay hidden, wreak its damage from a concealed position.

  Yet something that King Anders had said bothered Erin. A locus could be anywhere, inside anyone. It could be hiding in Gantrell, or even in Celinor for all that Erin knew.

  Erin wanted to know more. She wanted to question the owl of the netherworld.

  She'd been fighting sleep for two days, and so in the afternoon, as the sun dropped toward nightfall, during one of the group's many stops to let the horses rest, Erin went alone to an old hickory tree by the road and leaned with her back against it.

  Despite the noise and commotion around her, she soon fell asleep. She woke in the netherworld.

  It was night, and Erin found herself inside the hollow of the vast tree. Lightning was flashing outside, thunder snarled through the heavens and a storm howled through the branches of the tree, shaking the limbs so that they creaked beneath the blow, and the leaves hissed and rattled.

  She could hear cries in the wind, too. Wolflike howls and the bloodcurdling screams of Darkling Glories. This was no natural storm blowing outside, she felt sure.

  Erin peered about in the darkness, seeking for sign of the owl. By flashes of lightning, she made out the now familiar knots and roots that could be seen in the hollow of the tree. The bones of deer and small animals lay in a pile beneath the owl's roost, and in a far corner were steps leading down between some forked roots into a deeper chamber. Above the entry, a woman's face had been carved into the roots, and her hair seemed to cascade down around the tunnel's opening.

  She climbed up some steps and peered outside. The limbs of the vast tree swayed, and their shadow blotted out the sky overhead. But lit by flashes of lightning, Erin could see the batlike shapes of Darkling Glories sweeping across the sky in a vast flock.

  Her heart began pounding. She slipped back from the opening. She stumbled down the stairs and raced deeper into the burrow, past the face of the carved woman that was sometimes lit by lightning, deeper into the hole where no light could find her at all. The journey took her down stairs that wound deep underground. At last she reached a landing where the echo of her breathing told her that she had entered a vast stone chamber. She could see nothing.

  In total darkness, she halted.

  Where is the owl? she wondered.

  Owl, are you here? Erin shouted wordlessly. I need your help!

  She called thus for long minutes, but there was no answer.

  She thought back to the last time that she'd seen him. She'd told him then that she didn't want to talk to him anymore. Perhaps he'd left.

  Maybe he's outside, Erin thought, fighting the Darkling Glories, or fleeing from them.

  Or maybe he's here, and he doesn't risk answering for fear that his enemies will hear.

  Very softly, like a whisper of thought, she heard his voice. “Yes,” the owl said. “Your enemies flock all around you. Can you not smell the evil? Even now, they bend near to hear your thoughts.”

  Erin's eyes came open. She found herself awake, heart pounding, beneath the great hickory tree. Its leaves had begun to hiss in a rising wind.

  Down the hill, the knights of Crowthen watered their horses beside a small stream where clumps of lush green grass still hung above the waters.

  King Anders and Celinor huddled together in conversation, and as she looked down at them, Anders gazed up at her. There was something suspicious in his stance, the way he watched her. Was he talking about her?

  Celinor glanced up at her, too. Erin kept her eyes closed to slits, feigning sleep. Both men looked away.

  They were talking about her, she felt certain.

  Erin got up swiftly, hurried downhill. The knights had let their mounts forage, and the horses milled about, seeking lush grass. One of them passed between Erin and Celinor, and stood munching for a bit.

  Erin came up behind it, heard King Anders ask, “Are you sure that she didn't take a blow to the head in the battle at Carris? All of this talk of hers—it speaks of madness.”

  “It was quite a row,” Celinor said. “The reavers were everywhere. But I'd have noticed if she got hit in the head. More likely, this madness was with her all along.”

  King Anders sighed deeply. Erin hunched low and grabbed the horse by the bit, so that it would shelter her from their view. Then she stood, listening.

  “You're not upset that I married her?” Celinor asked.

  “Upset?” Anders asked. “Dear me, no! You could not have chosen a better match. If she is Duke Paldane's daughter, it puts you well in line for the throne of Mystarria, and perhaps even Heredon.”

  Celinor had not spoken of Erin's lineage earlier this morning. As a horse-sister of Fleeds, Erin's mother had chosen the best man she could to act as stud, but she'd never bandied Paldane's name about, and Erin had only told her husband that name in strictest confidence, realizing the potential that the revelation had for causing political turmoil in Mystarria.

  Now Celinor had spilled his guts to his father.

  What kind of man did I marry? Erin wondered. He'd gone to Heredon to spy on the Earth King and learn all that he could about Erin Connal and her suspicious lineage. He'd seemingly taken her into his confidence, telling her that he suspected that his own father was mad.

  Now it seemed that nothing she told him remained secret. Could he be playing her and his father against each other?

  After a long pause, King Anders spoke. “I worry about your new wife. If she keeps imagining that she has sendings, you know what we will have to do.”

  “Cage her?” Celinor asked.

  “For her own good,” Anders said, “and for the good of your daughter.” Erin's stomach did a little flip.

  “My daughter?” Celinor asked.

  “Yes,” Anders said. “When I Chose Erin this morning, I sensed not one life but two within her. The child that she carries has a noble spirit. It will be one of the great ones. We must do everything that we can to protect them both, to make certain that the child comes to full term.”

  There was a long moment of silence, and suddenly Erin saw a shadow beneath the horse as her husband approached.

  “Erin,” he said. “You're awake?”

  Celinor took the horse's reins. He stood looking at her over the beast's broad back. His eyes were cool and hard. He knew that she had been listening. She knew that if she weren't careful, they'd put her in chains right now.

  “Aye, that I am,” she said. “Did I just hear your father say that I've a child in me? A daughter?”

  “Yes,” King Anders said, approaching with a broad smile. “By midsummer you'll be a mother.”

  Erin thought for a moment, wondering what she should do, how she could escape. To run, to fight, would be folly. The crows surrounded her. So she chose to be discreet. She reached over the horse and stroked Celinor's chin, then kissed his cold lips.

  “Looks as if I found me a grand stud,” she said. “It only took one night in the barn for us.” She smiled broadly, and Celinor studied her for a moment, before he smiled in return.

  King Anders laughed, as if in relief. “Let's saddle up. With this rising wind, I think a storm is coming. We should try to make the castle at Raven's Gate before it gets too dark.”

  Raven's Gate was a vast and ancient fortress that marked South Crowthen's border. Right now, it was bristling with tens of thousands of Anders's soldiers, nearly the whole of his armies. And Erin recalled some-thing her mother had once said about the fortress. “Deep have they delved the dungeons at Raven's Gate, and none who enter ever escape.”


  BOOK 12

  DAY 5 IN THE MONTH OF LEAVES

  THE DARKNESS DEEPENS

  13

  THE MASTER

  No man can hope to lead others until he first masters himself.

  —Mendellas Draken Orden

  Gaborn studied the tangler as whipcords of vine lashed out and giant pods snapped vainly at the air. Even with all of his endowments, he dared not try to pass it yet. He saw where the tangler had caught Averan's foot, the vines clutching her leather boot. Closer to hand, Averan had dropped her staff. Her cries still seemed to ring in the air, yet he saw no other sign of her.

  “Up there,” Iome said at his back, “is where the reaver must have hidden, waiting for her. Are you sure that she's still alive?”

  “She's alive,” Gaborn said, sensing deep inside himself. “But the reaver is getting away fast.”

  “Even with all her endowments,” Iome said, as if in resignation, “she couldn't get escape. She has endowments of scent from more than a dozen dogs. She's learned the ways of reavers, learned their tongue. And one still got her. What hope do we have?”

  “Reavers hide their scent,” Gaborn said in Averan's defense. “I can't smell that a reaver has been here at all. There's nothing we could have done to avoid it.”

  “Where do you think its taking her?” Iome asked.

  Gaborn shook his head. “I… couldn't guess.” He didn't sense imminent death in store for her. So her captor didn't intend to eat her now. The tangler was going quiet.

  Using his reaver dart, Gaborn ran forward a couple of paces and vaulted over the beast. He stalked forward a few paces, stood on the land bridge, gazing down into the chasm. His opal pin would not let him see the bottom, though he could hear a river swirling beneath him. Farther above, he could still hear the sounds of reavers rushing through their tunnel, a constant thunder.

  Averan was alive for the moment, but he sensed death advancing toward her. The reaver is taking her home for some reason, Gaborn decided.

  He felt lost. He'd brought Binnesman and Averan down into this damned hole to guide him, and now he was stripped of both their counsels.

  “Is it possible,” Iome asked hopefully, “that the reaver isn't taking her anywhere? Averan is a wizardess. She summoned the Waymaker yesterday, and held it for hours. Maybe she's controlling it.”

  “No, I don't think she's in control,” Gaborn said. “The Waymaker was almost dead from fatigue, and she had her staff to help her. If she were controlling this monster, I think she'd bring it back to us. I only know that she's alive for now, and she is the only one who can lead us. We have to find her.”

  Gaborn held up his light, revealing the path ahead. The land bridge spanned perhaps forty yards, and there he could see the beginnings of a reaver tunnel. The walls were sealed with mucilage, and bonelike pillars supported the roof. Gaborn ventured, “I can track Averan. Her scent is everywhere.”

  He stood for a moment, uncertain.

  “What's wrong?” Iome asked.

  “I think we are in for a long chase, with a fight at the end of it,” Gaborn said. He turned back to Iome. She stood on the far side of the tangler vine. “Use Averan's staff to vault over,” he said.

  Iome took half a minute to build up her courage, then ran a step, using a rock as a stair, and leapt. With all of her endowments, her jump carried her fifteen feet in the air, and eighty feet in distance.

  And then they were off. They did not walk or even jog. Gaborn sprinted, and Iome hurried after him.

  He found that his recent meal refreshed him like a feast, invigorating both mind and spirit. Worry over Averan weighed on him, but with the nourishment, it seemed as if the fog had lifted a bit.

  So they ran. Scrambling through the reaver tunnel wasn't easy. Gaborn found that as he sped, odd things happened to his body. His own sense of movement told him that he was going no faster than normal, but he could not round a sharp corner with ease, since his forward motion tended to throw him off course. Thus, he had to lean into his turns at what seemed an unnatural angle. In some ways it was much like riding a force horse.

  He also had to pay attention to his footing on the rocky, uneven trail. There was the constant hazard of tripping or twisting an ankle on stone, though plants grew over the path. Wormgrass and molds vied for control of the rocky walls. Rootlike bushes hung from the roof, yellow and white tendrils often cascading down like frozen waterfalls. Sometimes they formed curtains, barring the way, and only the fact that a huge reaver had passed through, ripping the foliage down, had cleared the path at all. In many places, seepage dampened the cave. Black hairlike moss grew beside the water, with golden drops of sap in it, while rubbery plants sprouted tiny brown pods the size of cherries. Gaborn found both to be particularly hazardous. The moss was slippery, while the pods could roll beneath his feet.

  Added to these difficulties was the lack of light. The coruscating glow from their opals seemed bright when one stood still. But when he ranfiftymiles per hour, Gaborn needed time to choose where to put his feet, to decide whether to speed up or slow down or to leap over a bit of tangle root or pick his way through it. Most important, he had to remain alert for new dangers.

  More than once he found himself running headlong into a lumbering crevasse crawler or giant blind-crab, and would have to dodge around it.

  Thus, even with endowments of sight, he squinted into the gloom, watching at the limit of vision.

  Once, he sensed that he was winning the race, that Averan was only a mile or so ahead. But he and Iome rounded a corner and found their path blocked by a huge stone.

  The reavers had constructed a door. The door seemed to have been carved from the rock itself, for it rested on a stone hinge that hung from the ceiling. The panel appeared to be three feet through the center. By pushing at the bottom, Gaborn discovered that the door wouldn't budge.

  It had been locked.

  He beat against it in frustration, and then he and Iome went to work. Using shards of rock from nearby, they hammered and chiseled through the bottom of the door, a process that took what seemed like hours.

  Gaborn felt weary by the time they started on the trail again, and Averan had been carried far, far away.

  There was no sun or moon to track the turning of the earth. There was only darkness fleeing from the light of their opals, returning to reclaim all they left behind as they raced along.

  The trail wound, tunneling through veins of soft rock, twisting through boulders, sometimes taking odd turns for reasons that only reavers would understand.

  But always the trail sloped down.

  Gaborn measured time by the pounding of his feet, by the gasping of his breath, by the waves of sweat that trickled down his cheeks. The heat and humidity began to soar as the miles receded.

  Sometimes they reached side tunnels or shafts that rose like chimneys. Each time they did, Gaborn would stop and sniff at every passage, checking for Averan's scent.

  They spoke little. Gaborn found himself alone with his thoughts, and he found himself wondering at the book that Iome carried in her pack: Erden Geboren's tome.

  Had he really been searching for the One True Master? And if so, what was it?

  Two days ago when Averan first mentioned the creature, Binnesman had seemed confused. He'd asked, “Are you sure that it is a reaver?”

  Averan had been sure. But now Gaborn wondered. What exactly was a locus? He felt that his Earth Sight was failing him. Binnesman had said that it was because he was still asking the wrong questions. Perhaps once Gaborn understood his enemy better, he'd know how to fight it.

  He felt sure that the book would tell more, but Iome couldn't read and run at the same time.

  Indeed, they reached a tunnel that slanted steeply down, and found that the tickle fern was gone, trampled. The ground lay in waste. Reavers frequented this trail.

  A second door confronted them.

  Gaborn called a halt. “I'll hammer away at the door. You should get some food. If you can spare a
moment, I'd like you to read to me.”

  He reached into his pack, pulled out some apples and aflaskof water. He took a bite of apple, picked up the nearest stone, and began hammering at the door.

  Iome munched her own apple as she sat down to read. Alnycian was not an easy language, Gaborn knew. It had been dead for hundreds of years, and most scholars spoke the most recent variety, but Erden Geboren had written back when the tongue was still vibrant. Thus, his spellings, word choice, and grammar would all lie outside the norm.

  Iome opened the book, skimmed through.

  “Tell me as soon as you find anything interesting,” Gaborn said.

  Still huffing from the long run, Iome said, “Erden Geboren begins by summing up his early life in a few sentences. He was a swineherd in the Hills of Tomb, until the Earth Spirit called him. Then he tells how he met the Wizard Sendavian, who guided him and Day Ian Slaughter—that must have been Daylan's name before he won the Black Hammer—upon ‘paths of air and green flame’ to the netherworld.”

  This was all the stuff of legend. Iome didn't bother to go into detail. Then she said, “But once he gets to the netherworld, he suddenly changes the style of his book. He begins inserting subtitles, breaking it into chapters.”

  “See if you can find anything about the locus,” Gaborn suggested.

  Iome skimmed down the headings silently for a minute, flipping a dozen pages of text, until she said, “Here's something: ‘Upon Meeting a Locus.’ I'll try to translate it into a more modern style.”

  “The locus was an most hideous creature. The Bright Ones kept it locked within a cage, hidden in a green glade in a narrow box canyon. It was a difficult journey to reach it, and the monster beat its wings against its prison bars wildly as we approached. The wings had black feathers and a span of perhaps thirty feet. The creature itself had a form somewhat like a man's, with stubby legs and long arms that ended in cruel talons. But there was a blackness about the beast that defied the eye. Squint as I might, I could not pierce the depths of its cage. It was as if the monster absorbed the light around it, or perhaps bent it, wearing it like a black robe. Air circled the beast, swirling about, carrying with it the scent of rot. Rather than seeing the creature clearly, I got only a vague impression of sharp fangs, cruel talons, and glaring eyes.'”