by Stacey Filak
Tollan could only nod. His emotions were too close to the skin to say anything.
Elam fidgeted with the laces of his breeches, tightening them slowly. “When … when this is all over,” he said, without looking at Tollan. He paused, picking at a piece of lint on the coverlet. “I’ve never been to sea.” He stood, turning his back to Tollan as he pulled on a shirt, then sat and pulled on his stockings. There was tension in the muscles of Elam’s shoulders that made Tollan want to wrap him up and never let go. There was vulnerability here that Tollan hadn’t known Elam capable of.
“Would you like to, someday?” Tollan croaked.
Elam’s amber gaze met Tollan’s as a soft smile kissed his lips. He nodded, eyes wide. “I think I might,” he said. It was too bad, really, that he’d already wasted so much effort getting dressed.
PART THREE
PERCHANCE TO DREAM
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE GOLDEN DOOR
A sense of having come full circle overwhelmed Gemma as she stared intently at the Golden Door. Her companions waited restlessly at the mouth of the Black Corridor, and she pushed them out of her mind. It was just her and the door now. Only Gemma’s skill could get them through, so she would take her time.
Drawing a deep breath, she approached and laid her hands upon the door, just as she’d done the day Melnora died. It felt like years had passed since that moment, but it had only been little more than a week. She counted the shivers that ran through her, the little telltale pulses of mage work. She held her breath as the number rose higher, each tingle representing a trap that she alone could disarm. Twenty. Breathe your blessings upon me, Aegos. I’m going to need all the help I can get.
She started with the gem and mirror she had dealt with on her last trip. Sweat trickled down her back, and she longed for the custom-tailored, tight-fitting clothes that lay trapped inside Guildhouse as the hem of her ill-fitted shirt came untucked and hung loose. That’s one, she thought as she shoved the shirt back into her breeches.
She closed her eyes and listened. She ignored the shuffling of boot soles behind her and the brief rumble Wince made as he cleared his throat. There, the slightest rushing of air. Another deep breath and she followed the sound to the wall. It appeared to be a blank stretch of black stone, but as she ran her fingers along it, following the sound, she discovered a place where the wall was an illusion. Grinning, she guided her fingers into the hidden space and with infinitesimally careful movements, she felt along its insides.
It wasn’t deep—set only about six inches into the wall—but it was wide. Within, she discovered three tubes, each half an inch across. Set inside each of the tubes was a cylindrical shape with a sharp-edged tip. A spear of some sort. Air rushed past the spears from within the tubes, and if she disarmed them improperly, Gemma was sure she would quickly turn into a pincushion. Two pressure switches hung off the bottom of each of the tubes.
She held her breath once more and carefully ran a fingertip along the first switch without exerting any pressure. There was a mark on the switch, some sort of character, though the shape that her fingertip drew in her mind was not any mark she was familiar with. She touched the second switch and found another mark. As she touched it, she saw in her mind’s eye the Yigrisian character for the word disarm.
These spears were not among the traps she had deactivated when Melnora had brought her to the door. So far as she knew, these had never been armed. These were made for a special occasion—the sort of occasion when mage women only want Vagans to come calling.
Gemma resisted the urge to look over her shoulder at Devery. He couldn’t help her with this. This was the realm of the Queen of Under.
She stepped as far to the side as she could, drew a shuddering breath and pushed the lever that bore the character she did not recognize. There was a loud click, and then the air ceased to blow around that spear. She gripped the spear’s shaft in two trembling fingers and slid it from its tube.
As if from nowhere, she pulled two feet of hard steel from within the wall. The spear was tipped in a sharp point that was covered in mage marks.
“Aegos,” she heard Tollan mutter behind her, just as Wince said, “Balls! What the …” He grunted as someone hushed him.
She easily disarmed the other two, now that she knew what she was feeling for, and laid the spears down next to their brethren on the floor. That’s four.
She stepped to the center of the hallway once more and listened. There was still more air rushing. This time it seemed to be coming from the other side of the hallway.
With little effort she discovered another panel in the wall hiding another three spears. She disarmed them in the same manner. That’s seven. More than a third of the way done.
She stepped back to the center of the corridor and listened. No air. The stillness was eerie, as if she had fallen into the Void. Gemma rolled her neck and approached the door. If there was nothing to hear, then she’d have to use her other senses.
She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. The oil that lit the lamps was heavily scented, just as it had been every time she’d been here, but there was something odd about it this time—a sharp undercurrent to the fragrant smoke. It was faint, but something in the back of her mind cried out. It was a smell she knew.
“Oh, goddess,” she snapped, her eyes flying open. “Light a torch, now!” She moved to the first lamp and saw, to her horror, that she was correct. There, floating in the pot of oil, was a small purple stone. Farcastian spark stone. She began to unscrew the glass reservoir that held the oil as she tried to blow out the lamp. “Shit,” she grunted, as the stubborn flame simply danced before her breath.
Behind her, she could hear movement, but she had no time. The oil would be gone soon, and if the flame hit the spark stone, every one of them would die. She tried desperately to brush aside that image as she fumbled with the reservoir.
“Prick this,” she growled, releasing the glass bowl. She yanked off the leather vest she wore and quickly wrapped her hand and arm in it. She pressed the palm of her hand to the top of the lamp and felt the heat of the flame batter against the leather. The stink of the scorching vest was vile, but she smothered the flame almost immediately.
She moved down the row of lamps, horrified to see that each of them held a spark stone. She rushed, nearly choking on the rancid smoke of her vest as she extinguished the first seven lamps. At the eighth and final one, she watched as the spark stone trembled and rattled within the now dry glass bowl. She swallowed her terror and jammed the tattered remains of her vest atop the flame, throwing out a desperate plea to Aegos.
The rattling ceased half an instant after the corridor went nearly dark. Gemma collapsed as the rush of terror leaked out of her. She drew a trembling breath, then another slower one, commanding her watery limbs to steel themselves. She whispered a silent prayer of gratitude to the goddess and stared up at the dark ceiling of the corridor, which was now only illuminated by the trembling light of the torch someone had lit at the end of the hall.
Staring back at her was a pattern of circular dots that exuded a pale-yellow light. When the room was lit, they would have been impossible to see, but now in the darkness she could see four shapes made of light. They were shapes that made no sense to her though they bore the same curving lines that she associated with mage marks. “Bloody, prickling mage women and their goddess-damned marks!” she snapped.
Sighing, she reached into her pouch and pulled out a notebook and charcoal pencil. Quickly, she copied the shapes, then made her way with utmost care back to the mouth of the corridor. Devery was pacing. Elam sat against the wall, his head in his hands, and Tollan stood over him, watching helplessly. Isbit and Wince seemed to vacillate between being bored and annoyed.
Devery grabbed her and threw his arms around her. “I … oh, goddess, I can’t do this,” he groaned into her hair. “I can’t just stand here while you put yourself in danger and …”
“I do it all the time, love. You
go off to kill someone, and I don’t have the slightest inkling what is happening until you get back. Sometimes it’s months. You can do this. I’m almost done.” She leaned in, kissing him long and soft on the mouth. “But I need your help.”
He looked into her eyes and chuckled. “Thank the goddess.”
She showed him the shapes, and he squinted at them, turning the notebook this way and that before his gaze met hers once more. There was a look of honest terror in his eyes as he said, “Elsha did this.” He pointed to the shape that was scrawled closest to the mouth of the corridor, “This one is the mage mark for blindness.”
Gemma nodded, her mind already whirling ahead.
“This one is the mage mark for fear, and this one is the mark for pain.” His gaze was hard and angry.
“What’s the last one? What does it mean?” She asked.
The lines around his eyes relaxed, and he swallowed as if he were gathering his courage. “My sister has always been gifted, and … and my mother made sure that she used her gifts to become sadistic. When she was younger, Mother encouraged Elsha to create elaborate ways to tease other children. Somehow, my sister invented a mark that linked other magic together, and she would use it to torment the children of our servants. She would link ticklishness with immobility, then add in incontinence, or some such cruelty. She was made to be heartless, but this … this is something else entirely.”
“I don’t understand,” Gemma said, turning back to look at the corridor. She could see the four shapes along the ceiling, mocking her. Then her gaze fell upon a fifth shape—tiny and well hidden—at the bottom of the door frame, nearly invisible even from here. She couldn’t have seen it had she not been standing so far away from the door.
She pointed at it, but Devery shook his head. “I can’t see them. They must’ve been made especially for you.” He handed her the notebook, and she copied down the new tiny mark.
“That’s the deactivation mark,” he groaned. “If you touch it, the trap will be disarmed.” There was a steely edge to his voice that she didn’t like.
“So I just have to walk up and touch it?” she asked, disbelieving.
He drew in a deep breath through his nose and said, “No. If it isn’t as bright, that means that the last mark will not activate unless you set off the first three. I … goddess-damn her, Gem. I’d do it for you in a heartbeat, but the link mark must be coded for you. I don’t think I can.”
Gemma’s heart pounded in her chest, but she nodded. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “These five, and then we’re in.” She leaned in and kissed the side of his nose, which was wet with tears. “I’m going to need a lift, though.”
Somehow Tollan found himself standing in the center of the Black Corridor with Gemma’s right foot on his shoulder. Wince stood next to him, supporting her other foot. Devery stood in front of them, facing her, his arms outstretched to catch her, while Elam and Isbit took up the spaces behind them in case she fell backward.
“This is the worst prickling idea anyone has ever had,” Wince growled quietly.
“Goddess, Wince. Thank you for pointing that out. Whatever would I do without you to tell me things I couldn’t possibly figure out on my own?” Gemma snipped. Her foot shifted carefully on Tollan’s shoulder.
Wince grunted something unintelligible in the shadows as their lone torch guttered precariously on the stone floor.
“All right,” she said sharply. “I’m going to touch it now.” A wave of tingling mage work rushed over them as Gemma began to curse.
“Mother-prickling mages,” she grumbled as she groped around, her hand planting itself firmly on Tollan’s head. “Dev, I’m going to hop down.”
Devery reached up, touching her hand and giving her something to hold on to as she jumped catlike to the ground.
“Aegos,” she hissed, a rising note of fear in her voice. “Keep talking. It’s blacker than the Void.”
Devery kept up a running commentary of what they were doing as they moved forward to the second mark. When Tollan and Wince were in position, Devery said, “Gem, I’m going to take your blades. All right?”
She hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yes, I … think you should.”
Tollan watched as the assassin removed the two blades from their sheaths at her waist, then slipped his hands into her sleeves and removed another two blades from her wrists.
“Do you have on your ankle sheaths?” Devery asked her, and she nodded, coloring slightly.
“Yes. And also the other ones.”
A wide grin spread across Devery’s face as he removed two small daggers from beneath the cuffs at her ankles. Then he unlaced her breeches and reached down the front of them as he kissed her deeply before removing two more slender blades.
“Sacred goddess,” Wince murmured.
“It’s a pair of sheaths on my thigh, you prickling pervert,” Gemma chuckled.
Tollan took a deep breath as they lifted Gemma into position. This was the fear mark. Tollan had a difficult time imagining Gemma Antos being truly afraid of anything, ever. He just didn’t think she had it in her.
But the scream that ripped its way out of her spoke otherwise. She scrambled backward, slipping and clawing her way down his back until she was on all fours like an animal. “Get away from me!” She shrieked, crabbing backward. “I know he’s here! I know what he did! Stay away from me, Devery, you murdering shit, or I’ll gut you!” Her voice kept rising, both in pitch and volume, as she tried to dash away from them.
Elam grabbed her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s all right. I’m here. Nothing bad is going to happen.” Tollan could hear the lie in his words, and so, it seemed, could Gemma.
“You’re going to leave me, Elam!” she sobbed, fighting against him. “You’re going to run off with King Tollan the Innocent and never, ever come back! You’re going to leave me with Devery and he’s going to murder me and I’m going to be all alone when he does.”
Tollan watched as Devery moved toward her. His blue eyes were wide with guilt. He motioned to Tollan and Wince, who stepped forward hesitantly. Isbit, Tollan noticed, had backed away, her mouth open but silent.
They manhandled Gemma. There was no other word for it, as the four of them wrestled her forward and thrust her, screaming and sobbing, upward toward the third mark. She flailed, trying to fight against her terror blindly, the sounds of her fear raggedly echoing through the corridor. Then her hand brushed the ceiling and the tenor of her screams changed.
Never had Tollan heard such agony. Even the sounds that Riquin Hawkbeard had made as Isbit had tortured him were dwarfed by the immensity of Gemma’s pain. She writhed, falling forward into Devery’s arms.
No man should have been able to catch a woman her size falling from that height, but the assassin did. Tears streamed down his face as he strode forward, cradling his lover as she screamed, clawing, writhing and tearing at him.
A moan of misery escaped Elam’s lips, though Tollan could barely hear it over the sound of Gemma’s pain. As a group, they moved forward. Isbit carried the torch, her green eyes gone cold.
Devery laid Gemma on the ground and kissed her head. “I love you, Gem,” he said, as he pressed her hand against the spot that Gemma had shown him.
An enormous wave of magic rolled over them, stealing the breath from Tollan’s lungs. Silence fell as Gemma’s head lolled to one side.
This time when Gemma awoke, there was no fog of confusion. She knew exactly where she was and why she was there. She remembered the absolute crushing blackness that had descended as she touched the first mark. She remembered the terror that sunk its claws into her, dragging out every fear that she had. She remembered the things she’d said to Devery and Elam. And she remembered the pain, as if every bone in her body had been pulverized into powder and set aflame. She remembered, and she was furious.
She leaped to her feet. Elam, Tollan, Wince and Isbit shrank back from her, but Devery stepped c
loser, his hands raised in surrender. “You’re all right. The mark is gone.”
“I know it’s prickling gone,” she growled. “I’m ready to go in. Why are we sitting around here with our thumbs up our asses?”
Devery’s mouth turned up on one side. He passed her knives to her one at a time. “Aegos, Gem. How much of that brew did Lian give you?”
She winked at him, brushing off the question. He was right. Her blood was singing, but it wasn’t the brew. She could taste her revenge. It would all be over very soon. She slid the last of her knives back into its sheath. Then she smiled broadly. “Come here.”
He flowed into her arms.
“I’m sorry,” she said, burying her face in his shirt.
He reached up, lifting her face until she met his gaze. “No,” he said, an edge to his words. “I’m sorry. I gave you a reason to fear me, and I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I swear it by the goddess.”
She brushed away the tears that threatened, then said, “I like the sound of that.”
Moments later, she pressed her hands to the door. She waited, double-checking to be sure there were no more traps. She exhaled loudly, then turned to her friends. “Here goes everything.”
She twisted the diamond handle and the door swung open. As the edge of the door passed before her face, she saw a flare of light, an instant before she felt the nerve-tingling wave of mage work. She gasped and tried to shove the door closed, but it opened of its own volition.
Gemma waited for the pain, for fire and poison and death, but none came. Only the almost nauseating shiver of magic rushing against her skin. She turned to look at the group, but her gaze fell on Devery, whose blue eyes had gone wide with fear.
He took a step toward her, and the sound of his footfall echoed in the corridor.
