“Run!” Tyrius bellowed, jerking Emelda toward the last rise of steps.
The flickering flame rose silently out of the palm of the woman’s hand, hovering for a moment in the air. Then it began spinning. It spun faster, swelling to a brilliant white sphere. It shot toward them.
Tyrius hauled Emelda off her feet as he pulled himself up and over the edge of the cliff, lifting her bodily after him. Emelda got her legs over just in time as the spinning globe slammed into the side of the mountain. The ground heaved, and the air around them became like molten fire. Emelda covered her head, shoving her face into the dirt and holding her breath.
Beside her, through the fiery din, she could hear Tyrius screaming.
The scream ended abruptly, as if cut off short. Emelda was too afraid to open her eyes, too scared to even move. She was still holding the Sentinel’s hand, but the grip that had once felt like iron was now completely limp.
Slowly, the world stopped trembling. Emelda drew a ragged breath, choking on dirt and ashes and the very heat of the air that filled her lungs. She opened her eyes but saw nothing. Her vision swam, the world a disturbing haze.
A slight tingling sensation stirred within her hand, the hand yet clasped around Tyrius’s limp fingers. The tingling grew, became a warm throbbing pressure that ascended her arm and crossed into her chest, spreading out to every fiber of her body. Emelda gasped as recognition flooded into her, closing her eyes as she wheezed a moaning sigh. The warmth that flooded into her body was like ecstasy, but the sorrow that filled her heart made it seem more like anguish. She felt the conduit close, the last of Tyrius’s sweet gift absorbed into her shuddering body.
She rolled over and screamed. The power that raged within her was terrifying. Before it had been like a flickering candle flame, glowing gently in the back of her mind. Now it blazed like a thundering firestorm. Emelda caught hold of it, finding herself almost swept away by the torrent of energy that raged inside. Terrified, she jerked her mind back, shuddering and faint.
Reluctantly, she turned her head to the side and let her eyes fall upon the prone form of her dear friend. Tyrius was lying on his back in a patch of dirt that had been blackened to ash. Emelda covered her mouth with a clenched fist, choking back a strangled sob that still managed to escape anyway. Tyrius was very much dead, although his flesh was still mostly intact. But his open mouth was charred, the staring sockets in his face empty. The boiling juice of his eyes ran down his blistered cheeks. By the look of it, Tyrius had been seared from the inside-out, probably when he had drawn in a mouthful of molten air to make that last, shuddering scream.
Emelda turned her head and vomited noisily into the dirt. When she thought she was done, her stomach spasmed again, and again, until there was only bile left to bring up. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she rose trembling to her feet. She turned and stumbled away from the grotesque corpse, not wanting to ever, ever see it again.
Like Gerald and their son, now Tyrius was dead because of the Oath. The Oath she had told them all to keep.
Emelda cried silently as she picked her way through the empty streets. It seemed there was no one left in the ruined city but herself; no one alive, at any rate. Aerysius was now a city of the dead. Where had they all gone—the residents, the servants of the Hall, the families of the mages? She crept around the still forms of fallen bodies, and once she stepped on a hand she hadn’t even seen, half buried in a pile of debris. There were fires up above on the Heights. Thick, choking smoke billowed upward into the air. Aerysius was silent, the whole city bathed in a dim and haunting light. And above, the green pillar yet spired, its wraithlike glow consuming even the dawn.
The Temple of Death was not far; Tyrius had been right. And it was intact, which was more than she had been expecting. But Emelda gravely feared that it would be as silent and empty as the rest of the city. She could think of no reason for the priests to have remained behind when they could have easily evacuated by way of the Catacombs. If they were already gone, then there was no hope. She was now Sixth Tier, but all of her dreadful strength would not help her open the doors to the Catacombs. For that, she would need the help of a priest. Or, at the very least, an unusually brave and clever priestess.
The temple doors were shut and bolted from the inside. Emelda pounded on the heavy wood with both fists, then stepped back to stare upward at the walls. The temple was far from the largest building in the city; the followers of Death were not many, and most people usually honored the goddess only when they had to. Emelda had been here many times in the past, though not recently. After Meridan, she had frequented the shrine almost daily to offer prayers for the soul of her dead husband.
No one was answering the temple door, so Emelda picked up a brick lying on the steps and used it to bang even harder. She shouted up at the windows, calling for anyone who might hear her pleas.
At last, the door cracked open. A face glimpsed out, but in the shadow of the doorway, Emelda couldn’t see well enough to make out features. But when the door opened a little wider, she realized that she was looking into a face hidden behind a sheer veil of white, the trademark of a priestess of Death. The eyes staring at her from behind that translucent fabric were wide and dark, gently complacent.
“Sanctuary!” Emelda cried, almost throwing herself into the arms of the priestess. The woman received her, ushering her across the threshold and bolting the door behind them. Emelda could hardly see through the tears of gratitude that clouded her vision.
The interior of the temple was dim, lit only by a few tapers on tall iron sconces. There were only two windows above the door that admitted very little light. But the shrine at the far end of the room was brilliantly lit by the combined flames of hundreds of glowing votives. Emelda blinked, not quite understanding how there could possibly be so many. Then she realized: each votive represented a soul lost in the catastrophe that had destroyed Aerysius. Those candles had probably saved her life; the priestess had lingered behind instead of fleeing to safety, probably to offer those hundreds of tiny prayers. It was a valiant effort. Emelda turned back to the priestess with a new appreciation for the woman.
“I claim the right of Sanctuary,” she announced, fighting to keep her voice steady. “I request passage through the Catacombs of Death, by right of the Temple’s agreement with the Stewardship of the Hall. I am Prime Warden Emelda Lauchlin. I demand my right of passage.”
The woman blinked at her through the diaphanous white veil. She was a striking girl with dark auburn hair that flowed down her back past even the length of her long veil. Her wide eyes gleamed in the light of the candles, the glint of intelligence sparkling behind them.
“That would explain why your votive refused to light,” the priestess uttered, the sound of her voice low and resonate. Emelda immediately recognized the lilting accent of Chamsbrey on her tongue.
“I am Naia Seleni, First Daughter of the Goddess Isap,” the young woman informed her. “You may call me simply by my name, or First Daughter; whichever you are most comfortable with. But perhaps you should sit a moment and reflect before we attempt the shadows of Death’s Passage. Only those strong in heart should enter within, and you look as though you’ve seen much ill. I recommend we wait a bit.”
Emelda doubted they had time to wait. But, too exhausted to argue, she allowed the priestess to guide her to a small seat in front of the shrine. Emelda waited there as the woman went off somewhere to fetch water for her. As she sat, she allowed her gaze to drift toward the rows of flickering flames. Staring at them, she wondered about the death each votive represented. How many of them symbolized mages she had known and worked with all her life? Emelda stared harder, looking at each candle individually, allowing her gaze to drift gradually down one of the lines. She must not think of them collectively, she realized. Each candle added its own, distinctive light to the dance of flame, and each deserved singular consideration.
The priestess returned, carrying a chalice in her hands, the white gown
she wore flowing behind her as she moved. Instantly, Emelda was reminded of the woman who had assaulted them and killed Tyrius. But the dress was all that was similar; like the candles, the priestess wore her own distinct individuality.
The woman handed her the chalice and waited while Emelda drank deeply. When she was finished she offered it back. The priestess accepted the empty chalice, gazing at her consideringly from behind the glossy sheen of her veil.
“Would you care to offer a votive?” the woman asked in that low and quiet voice. “I lit as many as I could, but I fear that there are thousands more my prayers have neglected.”
Emelda nodded, feeling the grief rise up again inside. She would light two votives: one for Darien and one for Tyrius. There were many more she would have liked to have included in her prayers, but she knew the list would probably take weeks and fill many such shrines. She did not have that kind of time. So she accepted a candle from the priestess and took a striker into her other hand. Kneeling down before the shrine, Emelda decided that the first prayer should be for Tyrius, who had died trying to save her life.
She depressed the striker, and the wick of the candle flared instantly to life: a bright yellow flame that wavered gently. Closing her eyes, Emelda whispered a soft, heartfelt prayer for the soul of her dear friend. Then she placed the votive on a shelf with the others, its single flame adding its light to the collective brilliance of the candles that surrounded it. A tear ran down Emelda’s cheek as she withdrew her hand.
“Another?” the priestess offered.
Again, Emelda could only nod. She accepted Darien’s candle into her hand, her fingers closing around the soft smoothness of the tallow. Her hand was trembling as she depressed the striker, and the first glowing spark missed the wick and floated to the floor, burning out long before it hit the stone. Emelda pursed her lips in concentration, desperately willing her hand to stop shaking. She pressed the striker again.
This time the spark went right to the wick. A soft flame flared into being, glowing strongly. Then it immediately smoldered out.
Emelda sobbed in frustration. She tried again, but the candle refused to light. She started pumping the striker, producing spark after spark that rained down in a glowing shower to the cold stone floor. She stopped only when she felt the woman’s firm hand close around her own. Emelda looked up at the face behind the veil, her own eyes filled with glistening tears.
“I don’t understand,” she cried, shaking her head. “Will the goddess not accept my prayers for my fallen son?”
The priestess looked down to regard the votive in her hand. “Try again,” she directed.
Emelda depressed the striker one last time. The spark wafted straight toward the wick of the small candle. The wick caught, the flame flickering only once before dying out again. The priestess nodded slightly, raising her dark brown gaze to look Emelda in the eye.
Softly, she said, “The goddess accepts only prayers for the souls of the dead.”
That meant nothing to Emelda. She shook her head again, weeping in frustration. In a voice quavering with suppressed grief, she whispered, “I don’t understand.”
The priestess’ mouth turned slowly upward into the faintest hint of a smile.
In that comforting, resonate voice, she promised, “Your son’s spirit yet lives.”
Chapter Five
Sweet Lady Luck
KYEL ARCHER MISSED the comfortable chair on the porch of his home. That chair had been carved by his own two hands. It fit him perfectly, its dimensions lovingly shaped. He was not a craftsman by trade, though perhaps he should have been. He had a certain feel for wood. He had even considered apprenticing himself to a woodworker once, a long time ago. But he had quickly given up on the idea. Kyel figured he would rather keep to the craft as a pastime, afraid of losing his love of the wood if he took to it for a living.
So he had apprenticed himself to a merchant, instead. He was really quite good with coin. He could tally numbers in his head quickly and accurately, a necessary skill for the trade. And, thanks to his father, he knew his letters. Kyel’s father had lived in Aerysius in his youth, and had passed on much of what he had learned to his son.
Kyel’s clothing was drenched, soaked through with rain as he opened the back door to the Dancing Boar Inn in Coventry. It had been storming for days, with no sign of letting up. He had a wagonload of goods to get all the way to Rothscard and back in a fortnight. In this weather, Kyel was skeptical if he would be able to make that deadline. A lot would depend on the wagon driver. Kyel still had no idea who his employer had selected to fill that position. He was more than a little bit concerned.
It surprised him to find the inn nearly deserted. The Boar’s greatroom was generally filled with patrons at any given time of day, but strangely there were only two people sitting at the counter, and just one other man squatting by the hearth, warming his hands by the heat of the flames. Kyel knew everyone in Coventry, and recognized the men engaged in conversation at the counter as Aber Feldman and Dale Hodgen, the Boar’s joint owners. The man by the fire was Traver Larsen, who ran a dyeworks on the other side of town. Kyel had grown up with Traver, but knew both Dale and Aber only socially. None of the men had noticed him yet, standing there behind them with his drenched clothes making a small pool of water on the immaculate hardwood floor.
Kyel took another step forward, and as he did the board under his foot groaned beneath his weight. The sound made all three men startle. Traver jumped to his feet as he swung toward the noise. A slow grin formed on his narrow, wolfish face when he recognized Kyel, and he started toward him with his hand out, gesturing broadly.
“Well, look what the wind blew in!" Traver laughed. "What are you doing, Archer, sneaking up like that? Either you’ve become damn good at skulking, or I’m getting deaf in my old age.”
Kyel found himself chuckling. Every since Traver had become a father for the third time last spring, he’d gone around bemoaning the fact that his family was going to drive him to his deathbed at the ripe old age of twenty-three. How that was going to happen, Kyel could not imagine, especially since Traver was scarcely ever home. If anyone should be complaining, it was Traver’s wife, who was usually stuck with the job of raising the children and running the dyeworks while her husband was out carousing. Traver’s mother had married him off early, hoping that a wife and children would settle him down and set his feet in the right direction. Unfortunately, married life had had almost exactly the opposite effect on the man. Traver had spent the last five years becoming a regular at every taproom and gambling den in the township, and had racked up more debt than the business his father had left him was worth. There were very few establishments left in town that would even allow Traver through the door. Kyel was frankly surprised to see him at the Dancing Boar. Dale and Aber must have lowered their standards, that or found an uncommon sentiment of charity to let Traver in from the cold.
“I came in the back way,” Kyel explained, directing his words to the two men sitting at the counter. Both Dale and Aber were staring at him with eyebrows raised, no doubt wondering if Traver’s accusation of skulking had any grain of truth behind it. They obviously were not used to customers appearing silently behind them, dripping rainwater all over their freshly-polished floors.
“Did I leave that damned door open again?” Aber growled, kicking his leg out to clamber down from his stool. As he did, he clunked the tankard he was holding down on the counter.
“Next time use the front door,” Dale admonished. “And don’t just stand there, drippin’ wet. Grab a towel and dry off by the fire next to that drunk of a friend of yours.”
“You’re drunk, Traver?” Kyel called over his shoulder as he rounded the end of the counter and made for a neat stack of towels.
“Not drunk,” the man by the hearth corrected him. “Cold sober. These good gentlemen here won’t even grant me a drop.”
“And why should we, Larsen?” Dale bellowed. “You still haven’t paid us for last
month’s binge. Plus all the crockery and chairs that were broken that night you picked a fight with that fellow up from Southwark.”
“Harlen Wood,” Traver snarled, tossing his head against a lock of auburn hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. “He started the fight. I was only defending myself.”
“Whatever you say,” Dale grumbled, hefting his tankard to his lips. “Just mind your manners, or you can find your way back out again. You know where the door is.”
“Sure do,” Traver’s wry smile was almost a sneer. “You’ve thrown me out it enough times.”
“How are the boys?” Kyel asked, though he doubted Traver had any idea. The oldest was just like his father, already earmarked to be the next town scoundrel, and the second one in line was already showing the same kind of promise. But what could one expect, with boys growing up hardly knowing their father, except maybe when he drug himself in at dawn to nurse a hangover?
“Oh, they’re just fine. Getting to be real pains in the arse.” Traver took a chug of water, then threw his head back and drained the rest. He grimaced as he set the empty cup down on the floor by his side, as if the taste of mere water repulsed his delicate palate. “How’s your own get?”
“Just fine,” Kyel told him with a scowl. An image of baby Gil with his hand outstretched toward him filled his mind. An intense pang of loneliness gripped his stomach, and he said under his breath, “I’m going to miss him.”
“Aye, I’ll miss mine, too.”
Kyel frowned, glancing sideways at Traver. “Where are you going?” There was suddenly much more than just loneliness in the pit of his stomach. Another sensation filled him, one akin to panic. Little bits and pieces he’d missed began tallying together in his head, like a column of numbers on the inventory sheets he worked with. What they added up to was certain trouble.
A broad grin broke out on Traver’s face as he reached over and clapped Kyel on the back. “Why, I’m going with you!” he announced splendidly, as if he expected the news to come as a wonderful surprise. “I’m your driver! How’s that for luck? It’ll be just like old times, won’t it, Archer?”
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