Using a corner of his cloak as a pad against the heat thrown off by the stone, Caelan scooped it up and hurried on. With every stride he listened for sounds of pursuit, but whatever lurked behind him did not follow.
The pain in his chest was gone now, but it had drained him. He knew he was not fast enough, not as alert as he should be.
Sighing, he rubbed his chest and felt old, tired, and mortal. His ambitions had been driven out of him, and now he could only look back at them with wonder and amazement. Why had he even fantasized that he could accomplish such things?
It was time for him to leave Kostimon and Elandra to their fates and go home to Trau. He had unfinished business there, old scores to settle, old ghosts to make peace with. Even if E’nonhold had been destroyed, the land remained. He should claim it before the provincial governor awarded the deed to a purchaser.
And as this determination settled within him, the ambitions faded from his heart. The heat inside his emerald gradually cooled until once again it felt cold and lifeless like any stone. The light it cast went out, and Caelan was once again plunged into the darkness.
He stumbled to a halt, frustrated and discouraged. With all his will, he tried to reach into the stone and reawaken its magic. It remained unresponsive in his fist.
Ahead, however, he heard the plodding hoofbeats of Elandra’s horse. Straightening his shoulders, he reminded himself of his duty to protect this woman and pushed onward.
Jogging on legs that felt leaden with fatigue, Caelan mentally gave thanks for the years of tough conditioning and training for the arena that enabled him to keep going. The walls of the passage began to glow softly, very dimly at first, then strong enough to see by. The illumination came from streaks of a pale, slimy substance on the walls. He dared not touch it, but he was glad to finally be able to see where he was going.
Ahead, Elandra’s horse had stopped and stood with its head down. Elandra’s hands rested on her horse’s neck. The reins dangled free from the bridle.
He staggered up to the animal, taking care not to startle it, and gripped the dangling reins with a sigh of relief. The horse snorted and rubbed its head against him as though seeking comfort. Caelan stroked its muzzle and scratched its ears, too tired to murmur to it.
Sitting a little slumped in her saddle, the empress looked wan and unearthly in the peculiar light. Her long auburn hair had blown across her face and hung there, half concealing her features. Her mouth was slack, and her eyes held nothing at all. It worried him, to see her like that. He did not know how long the spell would last, or whether it would ever wear off.
“Elandra?” he said very softly to her. “Majesty, are you all right?”
She stared into the emptiness ahead of her. She did not blink. She did not move. Her lips remained slightly parted. Only the slight rise and fall of her chest told him she was even alive.
“Majesty,” Caelan said again, knowing he should not try to break the spell that protected her here, but unable to silence himself, “can you speak?”
She remained silent.
Frowning at himself, he shoved his worries away. He urged the horse forward, and together they trudged on.
He could feel the aches of battle: sore muscles grown stiff, the stinging discomfort of scrapes and cuts, the flaring tenderness of bruises. He was hungry. He longed to rest, yet dared not stop.
Gault of infinite mercy, he prayed wearily, guide our way and keep us from harm.
It was a fool’s prayer, he knew. He was a long way from the realm of light, but he repeated his prayer anyway.
A splashing sound and the cold wetness of water filling his boots startled him.
Halting, he peered ahead. At first he could not see the water he stood in, so black was it.
It ran swift over his feet, as icy cold as a glacial stream. Bending over, Caelan splashed it onto his face.
It burned his skin, making him nearly cry out.
Gasping, he staggered back a step and rubbed the water from his eyes. His face still stung, but he was awake now, fully alert again.
With burning eyes, he squinted at the stream. The streaks of glowing illumination were few and far between here, casting only the palest of shadowy light over the black water. He could not judge its width in the gloom.
The water ran swift yet silent, with none of the usual rush and roar of a river. He could smell the water now, and despite the rapid current that should have kept it fresh, it stank like stagnant pond water.
Wrinkling his nose, Caelan severed his nearly overwhelming thirst, putting it aside. This was not drinkable water.
The horse dropped its muzzle to the dark surface of the water as though to drink, but flinched back, snorting and rolling its eyes. It put down its muzzle again, only to refuse to drink. Nervously, the animal backed up.
Caelan jumped at it and succeeded in catching the dangling reins before it could turn around and bolt back the way they’d come.
“No, you don’t,” he said softly through his teeth.
They would have to cross. Better to do it now and get it over with. He hesitated a moment, still trying to calm the unsettled horse, then touched Elandra’s foot briefly.
“Majesty,” he said with respect, “if you can hear me, then see that you hang on tight. I don’t know how deep the water is. We may have to swim, and the current is swift. Take care you don’t let it sweep you from the saddle.”
He looked at her, but she gave no sign of having heard him. Sighing, he took her hand and entwined some of the horse’s mane among her fingers. Her flesh was cold and stiff, almost inanimate. He felt chilled simply from touching her. It was like handling the dead before they are stiffened.
Swiftly he turned away, unwilling to think of her that way.
He unbuckled his sword belt and breastplate, knowing he could not swim weighted down by so much metal. Pulling off his quilted tunic and the linen undertunic beneath it, he rolled the garments, along with his boots and leggings, into his cloak and strapped them across the front of the saddle in hopes they would stay dry. Clad only in his nethers, he secured his sword and armor to the saddle, then wrapped the reins securely around his hand and urged the horse forward. It flinched and resisted, the whites of its eyes glimmering, but he shouted at it and tugged. Finally it plunged forward, nearly knocking him off balance.
Caelan kept shouting, to encourage himself as much as the horse. He pushed his way forward, and the water deepened quickly until it came up to his chest. He felt as though he’d been plunged into ice. The water was so cold it stole his breath. After another step the bottom dropped out from beneath him. He swam awkwardly, keeping his chin and mouth as high above the surface as he could. The stench was bad enough to turn his stomach. He didn’t want to think about what the water contained to make it smell thus.
Snorting, the horse swam beside him. The current grew stronger, and Caelan stayed close against the horse, clinging to a strap of the saddle and trying to steer the animal straight instead of letting the current carry them downstream.
A ghost-pale mist formed on the surface of the water ahead of them, swirling and circling as though alive. Caelan’s sense of danger grew stronger. He did not want to swim into the mist. Yet he could not turn back.
When the clammy fog wrapped its tendrils around his face, Caelan felt himself in sudden, unexpected contact with a torrent of emotions, none of which were his own. They swept over him in a deluge, and the faint sound of weeping and piteous cries filled his ears. He had entered some kind of miasma of human misery. He wanted to weep with the voices. Their agony and torment were unbearable, drowning him. He lost all sense of himself, feeling instead this terrible sorrow and grief that encompassed his soul.
“No,” he said aloud, struggling with the last remnants of his will. “No!”
He severed, isolating himself, and at once there was only roaring silence in his ears instead of anguished wailing. The tendrils of fog melted away, and a light of sorts—very white and pure—shone down on hi
m as though moonlight had somehow reached to the bowels of the earth.
The horse surged ahead of him, lunging up and out of the water onto the bank. Snorting and stamping, it switched its dripping tail and shook itself violently.
Caelan followed, gaining ground only to find his knees buckling beneath him. Despite severance, he had little strength left. But at least he had sweet peace—no tormented emotions, no cries of misery, no pervading coldness, no stench of foul water. Gasping for breath, he collapsed on the ground and passed out.
Chapter Four
A low, chattering sound stirred through his mind, half rousing him. He listened, uncaring, then sank away from the noise.
Something nudged him, blowing hard and nervously on the bare skin of his back. It tickled, this warm breath. Caelan came awake reluctantly. He was nudged again, and something twitched through his hair, brushing over the back of his skull.
Swearing in alarm, he rolled over and sat up.
The horse snorted and whirled away from him, then stopped at the edge of the water, pawing and tossing its head.
Elandra, like a ghost figure, remained on its back.
Breathing hard, Caelan blinked himself fully awake and sat up. The strange, pale light continued to fill the cavern area next to the river. It was white and silvery, almost like moonlight, yet unnatural. The shapes of the horse, the walls, the scattered stones all seemed flattened, without dimension, and without color. It made everything feel like a dream, yet would he smell the pungent river in his dream? Would he feel this cold and stiff in his dream? Caelan rubbed his face and shoved back his hair, then climbed to his feet.
He untied his sword and breastplate from the saddle, letting them crash onto the ground, then took down his bundle of clothing eagerly. He was freezing, as cold as when he’d first climbed out of the icy water. Rubbing his bare arms briskly in hopes of warming up, he found his clothing slightly damp around the edges but mostly dry. He dressed quickly, leaving off his armor for the moment, and wrapped himself tightly in his cloak.
His teeth started to chatter, and he felt no warmer than before. He needed a fire to thaw himself out.
But first he checked Elandra. She must be cold and wet too.
He was sure she was very uncomfortable up there in the saddle, trapped with no one to take care of her needs while he slept.
When he touched the empress’s cloak, however, he found it dry. The hem of her gown was dry. It was as though she had never crossed the river.
He frowned. Had he slept that long?
Yet his own clothing was still damp in places where the water had splashed it. Why had it failed to dry when her clothing had?
Or had she gotten wet at all?
No matter where he touched Elandra, her clothing was dry. She seemed warm and comfortable. Amazed, Caelan withdrew his hand. Even from this, the spell had protected her.
Ruefully, he told himself it was too late to regret not drinking from the cup while he had the chance. He could be standing here warm and dry ... and with his wits frozen in limbo. Caelan shook his head. He would rather have the physical misery than surrender to whatever had been in that cup.
A sound caught his attention. Glancing around, he saw a row of eyes, glowing red, feral, and unearthly. They watched him from the boulders piled along one side of the cavern.
Caelan froze. For an endless moment he could do nothing but stare back. He barely dared to breathe. His sword was an eternity away, at least four strides. If the watchers chose to attack, he might not reach it in time.
He swore harshly and silently in his mind.
Slowly, taking care to make no sudden moves that might precipitate attack, he drew his dagger and very cautiously slipped into sevaisin, reaching out with the lightest of all possible senses to find out more about what was lurking just out of sight.
He felt the creatures shift and stir uneasily, sensed something coming to life, sipped of the foul force that sustained them, and felt it reach out to him in response.
Shuddering, Caelan pulled back. He was all too aware of the temptation to strengthen the link, to join and share himself with the demons.
They moved closer, edging away from the rocks and moving between him and the mouth of the passageway.
He resisted the urge to step back. The river of black water ran behind him, cutting him off. There was no escape, no retreat. He would have to fight, and suddenly his heart beat too fast and his throat burned.
But he refused to panic. He gripped his dagger more tightly, then took a cautious step toward his sword. It stood propped up against his breastplate. His best protection, useless. He took another step.
The demons moved closer. He could almost see them now, crouched there in the shadows, waiting, watching. When would they attack?
His heart pounded like a drum. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples and throat. Subconsciously he assumed a fighter’s stance, feet well braced, standing lightly on his toes, shifting his weight slightly from side to side, ready to explode into action.
I have fought demon-spawn before and lived, he tried to reassure himself.
Caelan’s knuckles ached from gripping his dagger so hard. After a moment he realized he was throttling the weapon as he might an enemy’s throat. Easing out a breath, he forced his fingers to loosen.
Caelan took one more step toward his sword. Still too far, although now he thought he could fling himself bodily at it and perhaps reach the tip of the scabbard. Not good, but better than before.
He was supremely aware of the water at his back, aware that anything could rise up from its depths and come at his exposed back. His eyes flickered back and forth, measuring, gauging, watching. He listened to his own breathing. It sounded harsh and unsteady.
The demons came at him.
Caelan flung himself at his sword. His outstretched hand clamped onto the scabbard. He could hear them coming, claws skittering and scraping over stone. He whirled to face them, drawing the sword as he did so and flinging the scabbard aside.
Panting, he stopped only because they had. Now out in the open where he could see them clearly in the pale, ghostly light, they crouched in a semicircle and stared at him.
The demons were short, no taller than Caelan’s hipbone, and entirely hairless. Their leathery skin was black and crisscrossed with wrinkles. They had arms and legs like a man, with long, prehensile fingers and toes, all ending in long, sharp talons. Their tails were long and ratlike, and flicked back and forth nervously.
Caelan brought up his sword in smooth readiness. He thought about attacking, but some instinct bade him wait.
Just when his taut nerves could be stretched no farther, one of the creatures crept toward him. Caelan swallowed hard and let it come.
Fanged and snouted, the creature stared up at him with red eyes that were entirely too intelligent. Its long tail flicked restlessly back and forth.
When its tongue flickered out between its fangs, Caelan nearly jumped out of his skin. It was a serpent’s tongue, long and forked, quivering in the air as though measuring Caelan in some way. Then it flicked back out of sight. The creature opened its mouth in a toothy grin.
“Welcome, creature of shadow,” it said in a hoarse, gravelly whisper. “Art thou Beloth, our master?”
Astonished and horrified at being so grossly misidentified, Caelan stared back at it. “No, I am not!” he said with force.
The demon rocked back on its haunches, while the others scuttled away into the shadows, hissing with palpable disappointment.
“Servant of Beloth, our master?” the demon asked hopefully.
This time Caelan was wise enough to curb his denial. Tipping his head to one side, he asked, “Why do you ask me this?”
“Thou art aware, not asleep in the spell of protection,” the demon said.
“And that makes me a servant of—of your master?” Caelan stumbled over the words, finding himself unable to utter Beloth’s dire name aloud.
“Thou looks like man-spa
wn, yet cannot be,” the demon said. “Thou has no fear of the shadows, walking without spell of protection.”
If it only knew, Caelan thought wryly to himself.
“Thou has bathed in the waters of Aithe and come unto us.
We will serve thee, servant of Beloth, until our dire lord and master walks free once again.”
Caelan opened his mouth to repudiate everything, but the other demons came scuttling forward in an uneven, almost ratlike gait. They surrounded him. He tensed, wanting to back away, but their clawed fingers were already clutching at his clothing, stroking and petting him in reverence.
“Don’t worship me!” he cried in disgust. “Get back, all of you!”
They moved a short distance from him, but not far enough, and sat on their haunches with their tails coiled about their ankles. Their fangs gleamed in the strange light; their red eyes shifted to his face and down again. They smelled of death and something worse. The very sight of them turned his stomach, yet he knew he must keep his wits now, must take the advantage they had mistakenly given him and utilize it wisely.
But, Gault’s mercy, what did they mean he had bathed in the waters of Aithe? That was the mythological river of death, the black waters formed from dead men’s souls. During the most ancient and turbulent days following creation itself, when Beloth had strode the earth and destroyed all that he touched, the shadow god had killed so many men that their destroyed souls had flowed and comingled into a river that encircled the world. Later, when the top of Sidraigh-hal had been smote with the combined powers of the gods of light, allowing lava and smoke to spill forth, when on the mountain’s scarred slopes the black city of Beloth and Mael had been broken asunder and all the stones scattered and the ground itself salted and burned, then had Aithe sunk into the earth, flowing below ground.
Caelan realized he had swum through the souls of damned men. Dear Gault, small wonder the water had burned his flesh and rendered him so cold now. He felt tainted to the core. Shivering, Caelan looked down at himself, wondering if he could see any stains left by the touch of those icy waters.
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