Summerblood (36 page)

As for Rrath—he'd help him if he could, but if he had to be abandoned, this was as good a place as any, Esshill's probable protests notwithstanding.

And time was wasting.

Moving as quietly as he could, Avall eased Rrath far enough aside to reach the lock that sealed the strongbox. Fortunately, he had the key with him, and inserted it quickly. A panel in front clicked free, and Avall wasted no time reaching inside to retrieve the armor. Fortunately, too, he'd already been clad in a fair bit of war gear, including gambeson and light mail under a surcoat, so that he didn't feel unprotected or out of balance when he'd quickly donned the rest. For though the sword, helm, and shield were not the actual, magical ones, they were nevertheless fully functional in their purposes, and made of quality materials. Only the visible surfaces—cast from the originals, and to a very trained eye not so finely worked—were different, and that only when one had both sets to compare. Avall doubted even the smiths among the Ninth Face could tell this set from the originals. There were even gems fixed where they should be: clever fakes Avall had found among the Citadel's hoard of gems. He wished he'd been in a position to wheedle better ones from Gem or Glass, but that would've
meant revealing his duplicity to other parties, and there were too many involved already.

Besides, he still had the real one—the master gem—which he restored to its case before returning it to its accustomed place around his neck. It occurred to him then that he could use it now, to attempt to jump himself back outside. But that might mean leaving Rrath, and—more to the point—he'd come this far; it would be a shame not to learn what he could while he had the opportunity.

A final check showed that Rrath was as safe as circumstances allowed, and Avall uttered a silent “sorry,” followed by a brief prayer to that aspect of Fate known as the Lord of Fools, then set out in the direction that wasn't blocked by Rrath and the heavy iron strongbox.

The corridor was still deserted, which he found both encouraging and disconcerting, given that he was all but certain that the inhabitants of this fastness knew that Eron's army was camped on their doorsteps pretending their foe was nowhere about. On the other hand, any guard stationed here would have to endure long hours in near darkness or else betray his existence with light—which might also betray the entrance along with it.

Which didn't mean there wouldn't be guards farther on.

No
, a memory that was not his own supplied.
This way is sacred. The locks are beyond the caverns.

Caverns?

The Caverns of the Well
, came that unheard reply. But when he sought more information, it was gone.

In any case, he had to hurry. As quietly as he could manage in war boots on hard stone, he trotted along the corridor, noting absently that it was too narrow to swing a sword in—which would hamper friend and foe alike. It also ran dead level, and the floor and walls were neatly squared, while the ceiling—half a span above his head—was a simple barrel vault.

It was hot, too, and clammy, like the air around a hot-bath. Unfortunately, it made him sweat, and perspiration was soon
stinging his eyes in spite of the coif beneath his helm. Still, he moved on, increasingly aware of a subtle roar from somewhere ahead. The sound had a liquid quality, he noted, and he felt a jolt of genuine fear when he recalled how rife the area around the monolith had been with geysers and fumeroles. Being boiled alive by a sudden outrush of scalding water was not his idea of a glorious demise.

He continued for maybe two shots, alert at every moment for other passages or traps. He found none, or else he didn't trip them. And then the corridor turned a corner and the feeble light of the glow-globes revealed an open archway ahead, leading to a place lit by a marginally stronger light. He slowed abruptly, feeling his heart start to pound and his blood to race, letting his steps fall as lightly as possible while still maintaining a reasonable pace. The helm made hearing difficult, but he did catch the sounds of water far more clearly—water running, water rising and falling like fountains, water condensing and dripping from a roof. There was water underfoot, too— a little—courtesy of a trickle that issued from beyond the arch.

“Eight go with me,” he murmured and stepped from the tunnel into what lay beyond.

A cavern, so it proved—or an immense low-ceilinged chamber that had been hewn from the stone so long ago it was indistinguishable from a natural hollowing. Steam filled the farther reaches so thickly it was like the densest winter fog, but in spite of that, it was possible to see pillars rising from the floor where drippings from the ceiling teased them into stubby stumps. The ceiling was prickly with stone spikes, some thinner than his smallest finger, some thicker than his body. Here and there spikes met pillars and made columns. Sheets of water glistened in low places, some puddles smaller than a footprint, some sheets the limits of which he couldn't see.

How
was
he seeing, anyway? But then he noticed that more glow-globes nested like clutches of eggs among those pillars: added proof he was near habitation.

But how did he go up? Anything worth the risk he was taking would be learned in the hold proper, not here.

Yet he lingered. He was getting sleepy, he realized, which surprised him, given that he'd drunk most of a pot of cauf during that last council session, never mind that fear—or anticipation—alone should sustain alertness.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to rest a moment, and with that in mind he slumped down on a convenient shelf thrust out from a particularly thick pillar. A yawn ambushed him, then another. He fought them off and stood again. Blinking, he saw something he'd missed before: a particularly large cluster of globes beside a pool three spans ahead and to the right. Curiosity got the better of him, and he remembered what Rrath had “said” about this being the Cavern of the Well. And since he
was
King, and part of his duty as King was to drink from the Wells on the Isle of The Eight, was it not therefore his duty to investigate other Wells when he came upon them?

Five breaths later, he stood beside it, looking down. Though no efforts had been made to change its shape, the area around this gleaming span of water had been smoothed flat, then strewn with soft white sand into which symbols had been incised, probably with a finger. Footprints showed there as well, most bare, but one set booted, and there was also a single handprint. Finally, there was a kind of chair, carved from one of the drip-stone pillars. A chalice sat beside it. Good work, by a smith who'd flourished two centuries back, if Avall wasn't mistaken. Impulsively, he sat down there. Perhaps that would give him some insight into the motivations of the masters of this place. Who were they, anyway, this Ninth Face? When had they splintered away from their master clan? How large were they? They seemed an elite brotherhood, rather like the Night Guard, save that there were more of them. And what were their motivations? Altruism or selfishness? Priest-Clan, though increasingly political, still did far more good than evil. Maybe he was wrong to confront them. Maybe he really should try to parley.

He just didn't know. He had no idea how they thought, these men—and women, he presumed. But if there was a Ninth Face, then that Face had to have a Well, and this was the logical place for that Well to be. And if there was a Well here, it stood to reason the Chief of this place drank from it for the same reason other Priests drank from theirs. As did Avall, when he was Avatar of The Eight. The presence of the goblet beside this Well all but confirmed that supposition. And the best way Avall could imagine to understand the Ninth Face was to drink what the Chief of the Ninth Face drank.

Steeling himself, and aware at some level that what he was about to undertake was foolish in the extreme, he filled the goblet and—after studying it a moment—raised it to where his lips were framed by openings in the helm.

The water—if that's what it was—tasted like cold metal, and it froze his throat, so that he had to fight to swallow— even to breathe, almost. It was unlike any previous sampling he'd experienced, yet exactly like them. It also invoked a euphoria not unlike that produced by working with the gems, as though time simultaneously slowed and expanded.

He
was
expanding, too; he could see everything in the cavern at once, from all angles—and
that
was more than his mind could encompass. Desperate, he clamped his eyelids shut, slapping a hand across them while the other dropped the goblet. He heard it hit the sand after an eternity of falling, and the sound was like a thousand tiny gongs being struck as one. Their ringing was at once immense enough to be deafening and too minute to be heard.

But he could still see, dammit!
The only difference was that he now saw the landscape
behind
his eyes. And it
was
a landscape, too, for the thready lines of vessels had twisted into rivers, and the places where they met had become lakes, the tiny folds of his irises hills and mountain ranges. He was falling toward one of those lakes, he realized, falling faster and faster …

Then floating, as though he were a bird locked in a steady glide over some place his waking body had never seen.

He saw water—a lake, almost perfectly round, with an island in the center raising an equally perfect cone to heavens less blue than that water. And he saw cliffs around it—of a height so even that they resembled the top of a tower. Those walls were pocked and fissured with caves, and ringed with concentric terraces, but little vegetation grew there. Beyond, if he banked higher, he could just make out what he assumed was the sea.

Yet what truly impressed him—what made him want to stop where he was and circle there forever—was the feeling of warmth and peace that emanated from that place. A warmth that was a balm to one born to rule a frigid land, a peace such as he had never known.

Maybe he'd found it. Maybe he could stay there forever, circling, looking down on another series of circles: land around water around land.

Like an eye in the earth. The World's Eye, he would call it, if he ever found that place. For he had no doubt whatever that somewhere in Eron it existed.

And then that eye blinked—and reality exploded.

The rattle of a lock somewhere behind him was like the endless rattle of summer storms in the highest mountains: a threat that demanded man and beast alike take shelter. The scraping of the door against the jamb was like an earthquake. He could feel the seat tremble beneath him, even where he sat.

The air that found him when it opened was like the gales of winter, and the voices that rode with it were like bells and lightning blasts amid a windstorm's thunder.

Yet somehow those words made sense.

“There … he … is …”

“I … told … you … there … was … an … invader.”

Invader …

That word rang loudest in Avall's ears. And that part of him that was not still seeking vainly after his vision of peace reminded him that the invader in question was probably him, which meant he'd been discovered, and that what one normally did in such situations was run.

Slowly, as it seemed. As it seemed to take years to snare his shield and sword from beside the chair, where he didn't recall discarding them.

Somehow, he found his feet, and with every thunderous footfall he seemed to run more slowly, while every clap of thunder his boots produced made his head hurt worse, though with each pulse of pain, his vision—and mind—clarified.

Whether he had, in fact, been sought out and located, or had simply been chanced upon, he had no idea. All he knew was that he was in the enemy's citadel, being pursued by that same enemy.

They seemed to be holding back, however.

Probably because, among the many words he could hear his pursuers shouting, was the phrase “wearing the magic armor”— and, more troubling in its implications—“summon the others” and “can't let him escape.”

So they thought he was wearing the magic armor?
Good, that was his intent; perhaps he could turn it to his advantage. He had a head start already, had indeed reached the entrance to the tunnel by which he'd first come there. Which was the last place he could easily wield his sword. And so he stopped in front of the arch, drew his blade, whirled around in place, and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Stay where you are or face the lightning!”

And in that pause he got his first glimpse of his pursuers. Though their shapes were obscured by the pervasive steam, he could still make out that there were more of them than he'd thought, all in blue surcoats, but also with mail glittering here and there, some in helms, some without, as though they'd donned them quickly.

They were also slowing down, faces tense with uncertainty.

Which was all the excuse he needed. “You are wise!” he shouted, then turned and fled into the tunnel. Only when he'd gone twenty strides did he realize that his eyes weren't adjusting well to the relative lack of light, and that darkness was, in
fact, closing in. Yet still he ran, though he slipped and slid far too often and banged his shoulders painfully against the wall.

At first he heard no pursuit, but then ears still keen from the remnants of the Well's enhancement caught the sound of booted feet on stone, and another voice in the forefront yelling, “If he calls the lightning here, he will doom himself with us. Catch him before he reaches the shaft.”

That was enough for Avall. Clutching his sword to his side, he ran as fast as he ever had in his life.

On and on and on, and finally he saw the clutter of objects that marked the place of his arrival. Which probably meant that the actual exit lay beyond. So did he stop here, defend Rrath, and risk everything he'd learned and planned? Or did he cut his losses and abandon Rrath to those who might be able to help him more than Avall could, and who would learn nothing more from him than they knew already?

Reflex decided, as much as intellect. He half scrambled, half leapt across Rrath, and continued on, even as his conscience nagged at him for twice abandoning Rrath to possible doom.