Shards of Time (36 page)

“Ysanti bëk kir,”
Alec called softly. “Greetings, my friend.”

The weeping abruptly stopped. The sound of dripping water was all Alec could hear.

“Ysanti?” Alec called again.

A voice whispered right next to his ear,
“Nölienai, talía.”

He reached out, but there was no one there and no sound of anyone moving or breathing. Aurënfaie spirit it might be, but that didn’t change the fact that Alec was alone underground in the dark with a ghost.

Panicking, he blundered slipping and splashing through the darkness until he ran into a wall. It was rough under his hand and he groped along it to the left, hoping he was oriented the way he thought he was. A sob echoed behind him.

“Aura Elustri málrei!”
Alec whispered, calling down protection for himself.

A stir of air against his face spooked him until he realized that it must be coming from the tunnel. Flailing about, he finally found it and went up it like a scalded cat, expecting any moment to feel ghostly hands grasping at his ankles.

At last he saw light ahead of him and crawled the last few yards to the second chamber of the oracle’s cave, where the lightstone glowed in its ancient brazier. Scrambling to his feet, he whirled around, expecting to see a ghostly face leering at him from the darkness of the tunnel, but it was empty and this chamber was silent as the grave. It was then that he noticed the state of his borrowed clothing; the tunic and breeches were little more than tattered rags, faded and worn through with time.

He hurried out through the opposite tunnel to the outer chamber. Ducking out into the cold night air, he was grateful beyond words to see a fire burning on the altar of Illior and the familiar stars in the sky. His elation lasted only an instant, however, when he thought of Mika, still trapped in that dreary plane.

What was he going to tell Thero? That he’d been led astray by the very woman who’d taken Mika? That right now there was no way in all the hells there might be that he could force himself back down to that innermost cave alone to see if he could get back into that other plane the way he’d apparently gotten out of it? Turning to face the dark mouth of the outer
cave, he stood frozen, hating himself for the fear that held him fast. Another faint, anguished cry echoed up from the bowels of the earth.

Cursing himself for his cowardice, he ran for the camp, sodden boots squelching with every step and shame burning his cheeks. All he could do now was get back to the palace and find another portal. Apparently they moved about.

He stumbled through the grove in darkness, then followed the distant light of campfires across country. Hunger and thirst reasserted themselves and suddenly he was dreadfully tired. Reaching camp at last, he headed straight for Thero’s tent, but as he crossed the cooking circle one of Klia’s riders caught him by the arm.

“Thank Sakor you’re back!” the man exclaimed, taking in the sight of him. “By the Flame, my lord, what happened to you and your clothes?”

“I don’t have time.”

“Lord Thero is half out of his mind, what with you and Mika gone and Baron Seregil as he is.”

“What do you mean, ‘as he is’?”

“Some kind of demon attack, Lord Micum said. They’re with him now in Lord Thero’s tent. You’d best get to them.”

Feeling punched in the gut by this whole awful day, Alec dashed to the tent.

Micum sat by Seregil’s cot with his head in his hands. Thero stood on the other side, arms crossed, and bandages on his face and neck. Both men looked up as Alec burst in and their eyes widened in surprise. Alec went to the bedside and looked down speechlessly at his lover. Seregil’s neck, arms, and chest were swathed in linen bandages. Patches of his long, blood-stiff hair had been shaved away from two long cuts in his scalp, which had been expertly sewn up by the neat-handed healer with black thread. As Alec fell to his knees beside Micum, Seregil opened his eyes, glassy from some soporific draught, and managed a smile. “Good to see you again, talí, but what happened to you?”

“Me? What happened to you?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks. Just tangled with a demon.”

Alec looked to Micum.

“It came out of the portal you went in,” he explained. “Thero drove it off before Seregil was too badly hurt, though it made a mess of him. But seriously, what happened to you?”

Micum found a hand mirror and held it up before Alec: his eyes were sunken and his face was gaunt and grey.

“You need something to eat.” Micum went and spoke to someone outside, then came back and sat on the foot of Seregil’s bed.

“Where is Mika?” asked Thero.

Alec swallowed hard, fighting back tears of shame and rage and frustration. “I tried, Thero, but he had a head start on me somehow. By the time I spotted him, he was too far away to get to before a woman rode out from the town and took him inside, into the tower there. She must be the necromancer. She lifted Mika by magic.”

“And you just left him there?” Thero gasped.

“Let him speak.” Seregil reached for Alec’s hand. “What happened?”

Clutching Seregil’s hand like a lifeline, Alec told them what had happened—the tower, the strange woman who’d shown him the vision of the cave on the other plane, the ghost in the oracle’s cave on this side, what the rags he had on had looked like on the other plane, all of it.

“I tried to get to Mika, Thero, I swear. But the necromancer spirited me off to that cave before I knew what was happening. I was out of food and I couldn’t find a way in—I’ve got to go back to the palace and find a way through to him again.”

“Wait,” said Seregil. “This woman—this necromancer, let’s assume—knew that you were ya’shel, and that you came back from the dead. Even more reason for her to capture or kill you.”

“And why show Alec ‘that which must not be seen’?” said Micum. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Tell me more about the thing you saw on the cave wall,” Thero ordered, still very angry.

Alec described the golden rosette and the inscribed stone it held.

“Can you draw it for me?”

Alec reluctantly left Seregil’s bedside and went to the field desk. Parchment and ink lay ready. He dipped the quill pen in the inkwell and drew the rosette and black opal as best he could. His fingers were trembling, making it hard to be as exact as he wanted to be. Underneath that he drew the symbols on the stone as well as he could remember them. When he was done he blew on the ink to dry it and handed the parchment to Thero.

The wizard studied it for a moment, his mouth set in a grim line. “Are you sure these symbols are correct?”

“I only saw it for a moment,” he told Thero. “So, no, I’m not sure. You can’t tell what it is?”

“Actually, I can. I just can’t believe it.”

A servant came in with a tray and a jug. Thero gestured for her to leave them on the floor by the bed and go.

The aromas of soup, mince pie, and bread were too much to resist in his current state and Alec started in on the soup. The jug contained water and he drank directly from it, trying to assuage his terrible thirst.

“What do you think it is?” Micum demanded.

“It’s a Great Seal,” Thero replied.

“That’s all?”

Thero shook his head. “No, Micum, not the kind on a document. These symbols are used to seal away horrors. They come from the most ancient of Aurënfaie wizards’ practice, and the knowledge of them was passed down to some who became part of the Second Orëska, and through them to the Third.”

“Why would a necromancer want me to know about something like that?” Alec wondered, sopping up the last of the soup with a piece of bread.

“A very good question.”

“And what about whoever put it there, on that other plane?” asked Micum.

“They would have been trapped there,” Thero replied.

“An Aurënfaie gave his life to set the seal,” murmured Seregil.

“Not necessarily a ’faie. There were human wizards on
Kouros once the Aurënfaie mingled with the Hierophantic people.”

“Let me see,” said Seregil. Thero held the parchment down. “I don’t recognize the symbols, but the rosette—I’ve seen that style back home, on very old furniture and jewelry. If it wasn’t made by a ’faie, it was made by someone who knew our art.”

“If the seal is so powerful, then how did Alec and Mika get in, and demons and dra’gorgos get out?” asked Micum.

“Maybe that’s not what the seal was designed to protect against,” said Alec, starting in on a wedge of pie.

“Clearly,” said Seregil. “But as far as we know, the necromancer can’t get out.”

“With a seal that potent, I’m surprised anything could,” said Thero.

“And yet Alec is able to get in and out at will.”

“Could something be wrong with the magic?” Alec asked, finishing off the pie and licking his fingers. “I mean, couldn’t a really old magic get weak over time?”

“Not this kind,” said Thero.

“Obviously something is awry,” Seregil rasped.

Thero plucked at his beard a moment in thought. “In a case like this, the Great Seal inside the plane could have been paired with another on this side.”

“To keep things on this side from getting in?” asked Alec. “I mean, you wouldn’t want anyone accidentally going in there with a necromancer. And what kind of necromancer gets sealed away by magic that powerful?”

“A very powerful one,” said Thero. “But you may be on to something.”

“I still don’t understand why a nasty, powerful necromancer would show Alec that seal, and help him get out,” said Micum.

“A nasty, powerful necromancer probably wouldn’t,” said Seregil. “Which begs the question, is the woman who Alec interacted with a necromancer at all?”

“She’s the one who I saw pick up Mika, and I saw her in the tower before she got to me.”

“You saw a woman with some powers in a red dress,” Seregil
replied. “That doesn’t make her a necromancer. Perhaps she’s the one who put the seal there.”

“Wouldn’t she be dead after all these years?” said Micum. “For that matter, wouldn’t the necromancer?”

“Not if she’s a dyrmagnos,” said Thero, sending a chill through all of them. “Which would explain the lengths taken to contain her.”

“By the Flame, I hope not.” Micum rubbed absently at the scars left on his leg by Irtuk Beshar, the dyrmagnos they’d destroyed on that lonely stretch of Plenimaran shoreline. The most powerful necromancers sometimes lived on for centuries as gruesome animated husks, growing more powerful with time.

“She didn’t look like one,” said Alec, emptying the last of the water into his cup. “Irtuk Beshar was a dried-up, leathery corpse. This woman is young and beautiful.”

“And how would she live there, if she was human?” asked Seregil. “The place saps the strength out of you every time you go in, and I’m reasonably sure that you would have died of hunger and thirst if you’d stayed any longer than you did.”

“Could a dyrmagnos survive there?” asked Micum. “Do they eat?”

“I’m not sure,” Thero replied. “They’re so rare that not a lot is known about them, apart from their powers and how difficult it is to kill them.”

“But
we
know how to kill one,” Micum pointed out. “You know the magic Nysander used on Alec’s arrows, don’t you?”

“Yes, in theory at least.” He thought a moment. “Whether she’s a dyrmagnos or necromancer or whatever else she might be, apparently something is sustaining her.”

“Do you remember anything else about her, Alec?” asked Seregil.

He thought a moment, picturing her in his mind. “She was the only one wearing fine clothing. I don’t remember seeing any other bright colors but that of her gown. When we were in the cave, she gave off light. That’s when I got a good look at her. Like I said, she was beautiful, and not frightening, either. She made me go where she wanted me to go, but she
didn’t hurt me. Whatever the case, I have to get back there and find Mika.”

He rose to look for new clothes, but it was Thero who put a hand on his arm to stop him. His pale green-grey eyes were bleak as he said, “Either Mika is already dead, or she’s keeping him alive somehow. You rushing in there on your own and getting killed isn’t going to do anybody any good, since you’re the only one of us who can, as far as we know. And we’ve got to be ready to confront her. That will take some time.”

“Fine, did anyone bring my Radly out of the palace, and my quiver?”

“Yes. They’re in your tent,” said Micum.

“I’ll get them and Thero can put the magic on them or whatever it is you need to do.”

“You can’t go in alone,” said Seregil.

“
You
can’t go in at all!”

“Shut up, both of you!” Thero snapped. “Alec, the magic we’re going to need may not work there, like the dog charm and the lightstone. We need more information and an actual plan. We don’t even know how Mika got over to the other side—whether he was pulled or somehow got in by accident as you did.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Seregil. “Mika’s soul was stolen out of his body for nearly a week back in Rhíminee. If you hadn’t called it back into his body, he’d have died then. Maybe he was dead in a way, before you saved him, even though his body was still alive. That would explain his ability to ‘walk with the dead.’ ”

“Fine,” said Alec, more frustrated by the minute. “So he and I died and can get past whatever the seal does to the other plane, but where does that get us?”

“Seregil is right about not going in alone,” said Thero. “If you get yourself killed then we may not be able to do anything for Mika. Please, be patient so we can figure things out. The first order of business is to ascertain whether or not Micum or I can cross the barrier.”

“Or me,” said Seregil, grimacing as he pushed back the blankets and tried to sit up.

“Not you,” said Thero. “That demon almost broke your spine and the drysian only just sewed you up.”

“What do you mean ‘broke his spine’?” asked Alec, going ashen.

“Almost, talí, only almost.” But Seregil grunted painfully as he sank back against the bloodstained pillow. “I’ll be fine—It’s just a few sore muscles. After I rest, and by that I mean a good night’s sleep, then tomorrow—”

“Sore muscles, eh? Don’t be a stubborn fool for once,” said Micum, tucking the blankets around him again. “We’ll have the drysian look at you again tomorrow, but I suspect you won’t be up and dancing anytime soon.”