“Residence,” he croaked.
“Yes, FirstSon?”
“Can you dispose of these rods?”
Hushed silence answered him. While he waited, Ruis noted the overall proportions of the room, the delicacy of the windows and the wooden molding. Beautiful. T’Elder Residence was one of the most beautiful on Celta, yet Ruis would always think it hideous because of the evil it harbored.
“There are certain spells that will destroy the rods without harming the room.” The Residence’s voice sounded very faint.
“Standard maintenance spells that can be programmed for—say—every day?” Ruis asked.
“Yes.”
“Will you do so?”
“You must order it.”
“I can order you? Why? I’m not T’Elder.”
The Residence kept silent. All Ruis’s suspicions about his early life, that he might once have been confirmed as T’Elder, with Family oaths sworn to uphold all of his rights, grew. Had Bucus added betrayal, treason, and the most serious of oath-breaking to his crimes?
“I am forbidden to tell of your status. Or discuss any events of your past with anyone,” the Residence finally said.
Ailim steadied her breathing, whispered a mantra to calm the pounding of her heart.
After a few minutes she wriggled, trying to enlarge her prison. It worked; she could reach her belt pouch. She fumbled with the tabs, then opened it with her thumbnail. Sliding her fingers in, she touched a matchstick and sighed. She pulled it out and pushed it firmly into the earth above her head, then tilted her head to squint at it. With a tiny spellword, one that even someone with the least amount of Flair could say, the little light could last a septhour.
Ailim rolled her tongue in her dry mouth, summoning dampness to ensure her voice would work. “Light!” she croaked.
The matchstick ignited, burning red.
Ailim sighed and closed her eyes, tired from the effort.
The pressure filling the fault went up a notch, threatening to blow. The earth slid around. Ailim screamed as her foot wrenched. Cracks spiderwebbed. The stress of the earth eased. Then began growing.
When she’d gathered her strength she encased her emotions in an impenetrable tube so they wouldn’t affect logic, wouldn’t deter her from what she had to do.
Her hand found the rough hilt of the knife in her belt pouch and withdrew it. She cut a strip from her cloak, put the knife between her teeth, and tied the fabric as tight as she could around her lower calf, a few centimeters above where her ankle disappeared into rock.
Taking the knife from her teeth, she breathed shallowly, but filled her lungs. There was enough light to see the knife gleam as she raised it near her face. She studied it dispassionately. Glanced down at her ankle that disappeared into craggy, pulverizing rock. Brought her gaze back to the knife.
It looked sharp enough.
Fourteen
Ailim bent and set the knife against her boot, near a line of worn leather, and began to saw. A little while later she felt the prick of the blade against her skin.
She ripped the slit in the boot wide.
She panted and thought the surrounding earth moaned with her. A fall of dirt cascaded down the right-hand wall and a pink snout poked through. Who is there? Who is there?
Ailim clenched the knife. It bit her ankle. She pulled it away. D’SilverFir, she projected.
The chink widened and the snout elongated as it appeared, wiggling with sensitive whiskers. Light hurts. Hurts.
“Dark!” Ailim said. Her matchstick died. She hoped she’d done the right thing.
The earth moves. Moves. Right here. I came to know, know. This is not good. Not good at all, the being said.
The slow soft mind-speech was on a wavelength she easily understood. Tears backed behind her eyes. Who are you?
I am a mole, the mole. Called Tal, Tal.
The tension in Ailim’s neck released. Her head fell forward as blissful relief washed through her. Like dogs, cats, and horses, moles had become sentient and telepathic on Celta.
Tal’s damp nose touched her, grazed up her cheek. Tal snuffled. D’SilverFir-Fir, in-deed. In-deed.
Can you help? She held her breath.
You are friend of pup-py Prim-rose. Friend of Sam-ba Fam, pup-py Prim-rose, Sam-ba Fam friend is D’Sil-ver-Fir, D’Silver-Fir.
Samba! Ruis Elder. Her joyful thought escaped with her breath.
They are out tonight. Not far a-way. Not far at all.
Can you get them? Renewed hope dazzled her.
Yes. Yes. Yes. I can speak to Sam-ba, Sam-ba Fam.
Go, please go! Please hurry, hurry! Ailim fell into the cadence of mole-speech.
More dirt fell as Tal withdrew. Ailim sensed her hurriedly digging away, shooting toward Samba and Ruis, and rescue.
Ruis repeated T’Elder Residence’s words again, trying to make sense of them. “You’re forbidden to tell of my status. Or discuss any events of my past with anyone.” He wondered what Residence’s punishment would be if it disobeyed Bucus’s orders—if it could disobey. No doubt something vicious and inventive.
“Correct,” confirmed the Residence.
“But you can destroy the rods if I order.”
“Yes.”
“I so order,” Ruis said.
“It will be done,” the deep bass of the Residence intoned.
No fun playing here. Let’s go play elsewhere. House is gloomy.
“I have many windows to let in starlight and twinmoonslight. My architecture is light and airy. I am not gloomy,” Residence said stiffly. “An observation,” it hesitated.
“Yes?” Ruis asked.
“The current GreatLord’s temper is—unreliable.”
A ripe stench filled the air. Samba jumped from Bucus’s comfortchair behind the desk. Ruis coughed and headed for the door, Samba following.
“What is that?” Ruis asked.
Samba gurgled beside him. I left present for T’Elder.
The clock bonged the septhour. Samba, who’d taken the lead, looked back, her whiskers gleaming silver. We go to D’SilverFir’s. You need her and Me. I will tease puppy.
“Lady and Lord keep you, FirstSon Ruis,” said the Residence.
“And you,” Ruis said. He, too, wanted happier surroundings.
When Ruis reached the outside, he shifted his shoulders. Samba was right, T’Elder Residence was gloomy. He inhaled the fresh, crisp air of an autumn night and lifted his face to the sky. The splash of stars against the black depths of space made his heart sing and ache at the same time. Samba gamboled in fallen leaves. “Let’s go play,” Ruis said.
She ran ahead, toward the D’SilverFir Residence. After several moments, she angled from the path. Ruis lengthened his stride to catch up with her. “Samba!”
She yowled. Something comes.
A couple of meters ahead of them something popped out of a hole. Whiskers quivered, forepaws gestured. It looked at Ruis and popped back into the ground.
Skidding, Samba stopped. Ruis halted. She put her paw on his boot. You wait here. Her nose wrinkled in emphasis.
Curious and amused, Ruis watched Samba lope to the hole. Her front disappeared down, leaving fat rump and tail elevated.
He chuckled.
The ground trembled under his feet and he sucked in a shocked breath. “Samba!” he yelled.
She wriggled out and headed back. The ground beyond the hole curved upward and sped away as the creature tunneled just beneath the surface.
Is mole Tal. D’SilverFir hurt, trapped, needs help.
Ruis’s gut twisted. Fear galvanized him.
Tal leaves Us a path to show the way. Evil thing makes big bad bubble in earth. It will pop and make earthquake.
“Lord and Lady!” The “evil thing” must be Menzie’s amulet. “Is Menzie trapped, too?”
Samba made a disgusted sound. Ruis took it to mean no.
They followed the burrow until they came to a ravine; at the bottom was a large crack in
the earth and an ominous hole.
“Ailim?” called Ruis, sliding into the gulch.
“Don’t come close! The ground is very fragile!” Ailim’s shout sounded thin and thready.
That she could answer soothed his fears—a bit. “Samba, can you go?”
She lifted her nose. I will be careful. Testing every paw-step, she padded toward the dark maw of the fault. Twenty centimeters from the lip, the ground crumbled under her forepaws and she saved herself, hissing.
Ruis checked each step until he stopped three-quarters of a meter from the hole. Then he circled the crevice until he found sound footing. He lay down on his belly and inched forward. A few moments later he looked into inky blackness. Brittle clods fell into the pit. Ailim coughed.
“I’m sorry, dear one. But I’m here.” He switched on the multitool lightbeam and shot it down the cavity. A couple meters below he saw her pale face and blond hair.
Ailim said, “We need to get help, fast. Can Samba go?”
“Tell me the situation.” He’d gotten used to hearing problems from the Ship and solving them. “Samba said something about an evil thing causing a quake.”
“The amulet,” Ailim choked. “Its bane-spell triggered this. It continues to decay the earth around it and build pressure along the fault.”
“Where is the amulet?”
“I think I’m on top of it,” she said matter-of-factly.
Ruis’s blood chilled. A rumble came and the earth shuddered under him. He froze at the strange, horrible feeling of quavering ground beneath him. “Ailim? Ailim!”
He thought he heard harsh breathing. He rose, shed his cloak and tossed it to the lip of the fissure above him, pulled off his shirt, and began tearing it into strips. “I’m making a rope”—a fine word for a flimsy tool—“where’s the mole?”
Tal went to warn her family, Samba mewed.
Ruis cursed. “Ailim!”
“I’m here.” She sounded weak. “A rope won’t do any good. My foot’s trapped beneath a lot of rubble. I was—was about to cut it off when Tal came. I—I hurt my head and can’t use my Flair. Maybe, maybe in a little while . . . Send for help, Ruis.”
All the blood drained from Ruis’s face. The wind was cold on his naked torso, but he sweated. He thought of the Ship and the gardening machines, the other earth equipment that had built the earliest Celtan castles. “Just a minute,” he said.
“Please, Ruis, send for help.” He thought he heard her sob.
His danger didn’t matter; he’d go for help in an instant if he thought he’d be believed. Samba could run to D’Ash or T’Ash. If they were available, they could help. The ground shivered again, and he knew he could only, as always, rely upon himself.
He donned the rags of his shirt and scrambled up the slope, leaving Samba murmuring cat assurances to Ailim. He touched his throat communicator. “Ship!”
“Yes, Captain.”
“We have a dangerous circumstance here—”
“We mark you at the epicenter of the D’SilverFir Fault, sir. We respectfully insist you vacate the area at once. An unknown stimulus triggered volatility in the fault. Our seismic readings show the pressure continues to escalate—”
“How much time do we have? D’SilverFir is trapped in the fault and I won’t leave without her.”
The Ship hummed against his throat. “We calculate approx a septhour—”
“And if the source of the pressure is destroyed?”
“With proper venting the immediate problem can be resolved; with proper equipment the fault can be completely stabilized.”
“I need a machine able to dig D’SilverFir from a hole approx four meters in depth. Activate sick bay. Is that possible?”
“You repaired a small airferry a few days ago that can carry machinery. The largest garden robot you repaired is sufficient to the task and programmable by voice and touch.”
Ruis remembered the airferry. It looked like a large, flat raft and traveled over a cushion of air like gliders. It was dull black.
“Camouflage it the best you can. Load the machines and send it out the west portal over the ocean. Set a course avoiding D’SilverFir or Elder Residences. Get me the equipment fast.”
“Proceeding. Approx arrival is eleven Celtan minutes.”
“Add medical diagnosis apparatus for—ah—feet, bones.”
“Understood. Approx time of arrival is now sixteen minutes.”
“Good. What is the area currently affected by the tremors?”
“Estimated at twelve—”
“Put it in terms of the Elder and D’SilverFir estates.”
“The tremors do not reach the Elder Residence.”
Ruis thought of the gloomy Residence and found himself unexpectedly relieved.
Ship continued, “Nor would the Elder river or Residence experience any harm if a quake occurs. D’SilverFir Residence is in the line of the quake. We do not know the state of the corridor under the lake, but since it was built as a temporary—”
“What corridor?”
“D’SilverFir was one of the first Residences built. We provided equipment to construct a corridor from the Residence on the island in the lake to another chamber. We—”
“What of the tremors?”
“We do not know how they are affecting the hall. Presently they are not reaching the lake or the island. If the quake occurs, it is likely the hallway will collapse. This will undermine the Residence foundation.”
“Enough. I need to get back to D’SilverFir.”
“Captain, we protest. We believe—”
“Follow my orders, out.” Ruis disconnected the call and slid back to Ailim. He didn’t like the tingling in his spine.
Samba paused her cat-talk, only half of which Ailim understood, and she knew Ruis had returned. Now she wished he hadn’t come. She would die here and she didn’t want to take him with her. She put a fist against her mouth to stifle her sobs of pain and fear.
The dark closed in on her with the suffocating scent of ancient earth. Pebbles and chunks and rocks pelted her. With the last ripple, her prison had shrunk. The worst was the growing pressure in the ground entombing her and the atmosphere. When Ruis had come and stayed, the psychic pressure of the amulet had lessened as had her own shields. When he’d gone away, she’d measured her strength and her Flair, and thought she might have enough power for an alarmspell broadcast. If she could gather her energy. If she had time.
Her fingers left her mouth to find the travelfood bar in her pouch and break off another piece. She barely had room to lift it to her mouth. Nuts and oats and a bit of dry fruit lay on her dusty tongue. With effort she chewed and swallowed.
“Ailim?”
“I’m here.”
The hole above her darkened, and Ruis looked at her. Thank the Lady and Lord he couldn’t see her condition.
“Tell me about the corridor under the lake,” he said.
She stiffened and coughed and dirt rained. “There’s a hall from the Residence through the lake to the HouseHeart.”
“And where’s the HouseHeart?”
Something only D’SilverFir and the Heir should ever know. “On this side of the lake,” she admitted.
“What’s the corridor’s state of repair?” he asked. He sounded so sure and confident, she couldn’t quite grasp it. Totally in command and in charge.
She inhaled slowly to keep her voice from trembling. “Not good. Much of our gilt goes to maintaining it. I noticed cracks near the ends a few hours ago.”
“If the hallway collapses the D’SilverFir Residence foundation will be compromised.”
“I know.” Her voice shook.
“On the other hand,” he said softly, “if we rescue you and destroy the amulet, I can refurbish the corridor and stabilize the fault.”
His words made no sense. How? “What?” she choked out.
“The colonists made the corridor?”
“Yes.”
“What the colonists made, I can
fix,” he said with patent confidence. She remembered the Earth toy zooming around the pavilion. The idea wrenched awful hope within her.
“Ruis, I want you to leave. I’m getting my strength back. In a septhour or two—”
“We have about fifty-five minutes before the pressure in the ground generates an earthquake.”
Her gasp echoed up and down the tube of her prison until it repeated again and again in her ears. She wiped her nose with a fold of her cloak, licked dry lips with her dry tongue. “I want you to go. I can use my Flair for an emergency Broadcast. It may ruin the Family, but it will save the Residence.”
“I want you to trust me,” he said. “I have a machine on the way that can free you. You know I can negate the amulet.”
She shuddered and dirt pattered from above her head to her shoulders.
“I can’t,” she said. Trust an ancient Earth thing that didn’t work with Flair? Trust something so incomprehensible? That she had never experienced and never known? “I can’t. Please go. Save yourself and Samba and let me—”
More dirt fell on her as opening widened. He flicked on his strange light and she winced.
“Look at me, dear one.” He angled the light up in his own face. Lit that way, and with the odd shadows from the cave-in, he should have looked like a demon. Instead he looked like her lover.
But his eyes were more intense than she’d ever seen them, his face sterner.
He looked like a nobleman, a GreatLord secure in his power—but not arrogant. Assured but not imperious.
His voice continued, soft and persuasive. “I can do this. Let me. I can get you out of there, destroy the amulet, repair your tunnel, and stabilize this fault.”
Why didn’t she laugh at his unbelievable claims? Why did she even imagine he could do as he promised?
Ruis’s gaze turned shrewd. “You don’t look like you have much Flair. What would an emergency broadcast alarm cost you? Do you know who’d hear, who’d come? How long would they take to get here and organize a rescue? You can’t teleport with your foot caught in the ground.”
“Bucus.” The name escaped on a gasp. Bucus T’Elder was her nearest neighbor. What would happen if he found her first?
Heart Thief Page 25
