One spell in the grimoire sent Lan’s heart racing. He composed himself, allowed the immense tides of magic flowing between worlds to suffuse his body, then cast himself outward. Like the therra on his home world, his spirit left his body and he roamed. Hours passed as he searched, disembodied, for Inyx. The world altered around his roving spirit, changed to a featureless plain, finally became the impenetrable white fog he’d experienced before.
“Inyx!” he called. No answer. “Inyx, I need to reach you. I need you.”
“Lan?” A voice, hesitant, distant.
“Inyx! Are you all right?”
“I … feel … so … light. No … body. I … remain in … this place … too long.”
The voice faded. Lan never caught sight of the woman but heard the fear in her words. He’d been told that to remain too long in the white fogginess robbed a mortal of body and left behind only tortured spirit. It was true, and Inyx knew it.
He had to rescue her and didn’t know how.
His spirit returned to his body. The weakness hitting him made him gasp and collapse. For two days Morto and Krek tended him. The excursion had been costly for him, both in energy and morale.
*
“I don’t see how we can do it. Not on the top of this thrice-damned mountain.”
“Friend Lan Martak, there must be a way. Abasi-Abi hinted as much.”
“Hints, Krek, don’t mean a thing. The man was dying. He was as much a fanatic as Ehznoll. Ehznoll worshipped the earth, Abasi-Abi fought his personal devil: Claybore.”
“Inyx remains in limbo.”
“Dammit, I know.” Spots of red flushed Lan’s cheeks. He paced constantly, Abasi-Abi’s spell book open in one hand. “I’ve gone over the contact spells again and again. They don’t work for me. I don’t have the experience, the control, the knowledge."
“While I am no mage, reading through this one indicates a path to follow.” Krek’s claw tapped the book, opened on the stone altar in the hut.
“That’s a spell for creating a cenotaph. Yes, maybe the creation would bring Inyx out of the fog, but I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“I lack the most essential ingredient: a dead hero.”
“There is one.”
“Abasi-Abi won’t work. We’ve buried him already. The grave must be freshly consecrated with those spells — and the hero’s body must be irretrievably lost.”
“Such as lost, meaning not recoverable?”
Sometimes the spider could be so dense Lan wanted to scream.
“Yes, lost. Like … oh, no. Of course.”
“Like Ehznoll,” they chorused.
“How could I have overlooked it, Krek? He died saving us — the world — from Claybore. When he hit the ground below, nothing but pink splotches would have been left, and those would be smeared halfway down the mountain. We can consecrate a cenotaph to Ehznoll!”
“Obvious.”
Lan spent another half-hour chiding himself for not seeing the obvious, then took another hour worrying about the qualities of Ehznoll’s heroism. He finally decided heroism, no matter how motivated, provided the psychic energy required for establishing the Cenotaph Road. The gateway between worlds could be opened, no matter what he’d thought of Ehznoll while he lived.
Lan Martak pored over the spells while Krek and Morto hollowed out the altar inside the hut. A special crypt had to be formed, one large enough to hold a human — or spider. But for all his bulk, Krek managed to compact himself down into large human size.
As the spider and human finished their chore, Lan said, “The preliminary spells are ready. I … I’ve improvised.” He looked from Krek to Morto, to see if they approved.
“Improvised in what way?” asked Morto.
“I’ve sent a seeking spell into the whiteness and tried to couple it with the opening of the cenotaph. In this way, as the Cenotaph Road opens, Inyx will be pulled along and deposited on the proper world — the world onto which the cenotaph joins this one. We follow and join her.”
“Which world?” the man asked.
“Which? Well, I can’t say. Is there a way of telling beforehand?”
“There is. My father often cast scrying spells for days, hunting for the exact world he desired most.”
“I can’t do that. It … it wasn’t in his book.” Lan again felt his inadequacy as a mage. All through his preparations he’d sensed his control teetering, almost being lost. The energies he molded were immense and immensely beyond his comprehension. Still, necessity forced him into the role of sorcerer.
“Are we going to the world Claybore shifted to?” asked Krek.
“I don’t know. There’s so much about this I just don’t know.”
“Fear naught, friend Lan Martak. You have done well, I am sure. Though, I do remember the time when you …” The spider’s voice trailed off in memory of some gaffe on Lan’s part.
“The spells. Now.” Lan Martak closed his eyes and felt the rush of power surround him. As if he stood on a beach and the ocean waves lapped around his ankles, the power mounted. Up to his knees. Control. He fought to prevent a runaway of the energies he commanded. To his waist. A flicker. The gateway almost opened. He sculpted the almost palpable waves around him. The Cenotaph Road beckoned. The warm, engulfing waves rose higher, ever higher. To his neck. Over his head. A moment of panic. Control. He regained control. Another flicker, followed by an intensely brilliant flash.
The Cenotaph Road opened.
The waves receded from around him. Lan didn’t simply let loose. He maintained control as long as possible, nurturing the energy, stroking it as if it were a thing alive, coaxing the most possible from it. The cenotaph had been opened to another world, but an important element still remained.
Inyx.
“Come closer. Come to me. Follow the light from the Cenotaph Road,” he called into the whiteness.
“Lan, so near. I’m coming. Wait for me. Wait!”
“Inyx!”
He blinked and stared into the yawning crypt carved into the stone altar. A misty form appeared, shimmered, started to vanish. He reached out and manipulated the energies and prevented Inyx’s departure. The form coalesced into a woman. She lay in the crypt, confusion on her face. She turned, tried to sit up. The narrow confines prevented her from doing more than straightening her long legs.
“Inyx, you’re back. Thank all … Inyx!”
“Lan!”
She reached out, touched his hand, then disappeared with a loud snapping noise.
“What happened? Krek, she was here and I lost her. She’s back in the mist.”
“No, friend Lan Martak. She didn’t go back. I watched carefully. She retained her material body, and, by human standards, a nice one it is, too. I prefer more fur on the legs, naturally. All arachnids enjoy the sight of several well-turned legs, those being our most prominent feature.”
“Krek!”
“Oh, yes. She formed most nicely, then winked out. I do believe the cenotaph took her. She walked the Road.”
“It opened already? Of course it did. I opened it!”
“And it has already closed. Remember, the cenotaphs do not remain open constantly. Only once daily do they open, then for an appallingly short period. You should look into changing that, the next cenotaph you make.”
“It’s closed?” Lan hardly believed his ears. The first crypt he’d entered had been open to another world for only seconds. This one consecrated to Ehznoll had been open for long minutes — but he’d taken those minutes to summon Inyx, to coax her from the whiteness. By the time she’d reposed in the crypt, the time had expired.
Inyx went ahead of them to a new world. They had to wait for another day to follow.
“We’re still not together!” he complained.
“There is only time between the two of you now,” said Morto. “Wait a day, then follow. She saw you and must know that you follow. She will wait at the other side.”
“Wait,” said Lan glumly
. “So we wait.”
*
“The time is almost upon us,” said Krek. “Prepare to follow Inyx.”
“I’m ready,” said Lan. “Are you, Morto?”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m not going.” The mage’s son stood to one side of the hut, his chin held high and a glow about him that Lan had seen before. He appeared more confident now, his shoulders straighter and his face more composed. For too long he had lived in his father’s long shadow. Morto obviously had come to a decision on his own now, possibly for the first time. Free of familial obligation, he grew as a man.
“Why not?”
“I will stay on this world. Others offer me nothing I can’t find here.”
“And?”
“I would carry on Ehznoll’s religion. The strength of this cenotaph is a tribute to his courage. There must have been parts of his belief more potent than any magic. Perhaps faith is always stronger. It is something I must explore for my own peace of mind. Also, my father lies on this mountain; I think my destiny does, also.”
“Come with us, Morto. Don’t spend your life in this way. Help us continue your father’s fight against Claybore.”
“My fight lies elsewhere. I haven’t the talent or will to do battle with Claybore. Let me stay and tend to this holy shrine. It is something I can do, something I want to do. Go, go find your friend.”
“The cenotaph opens, friend Lan Martak.”
“Morto?”
“Go.”
Lan’s blossoming magical sense “saw” the cenotaph begin to open. It glowed like a brightly lit doorway. Krek momentarily blocked off the light, then vanished. Through the illuminated rectangle Lan saw another world, a startlingly different world. He glanced back at Morto to see a different kind of light, a religious fervor such as had sent Ehznoll to his death.
But it wasn’t death Lan Martak sought. It was life. Life and Inyx and freedom. He dropped into the crypt, felt the magics work on him and send him into another world, a world to be warned of Claybore and his grey-clad soldiers, a world of boundless promise — and boundless evil.
He faded from Mount Tartanius and awoke to the next step along the Cenotaph Road.
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The Sorcerer's Skull (Cenotaph Road Series Book 2) Page 20
