The Barrow (27 page)

They ran to the door, and Stjepan tried to open it in vain. They could smell smoke. “Who has the spare key?” he cried angrily.

“Clodarius!” said the librarian. “I will see what's taking them!” he said without prompting, and he ran off back in the direction they'd come.

“No time to wait,” Stjepan said quietly as he ran his hand over the lock, and then he started whispering to himself. His gaze fixed on the ward enchanted into the lock. He brought the Labiran rune of
making
into his mind's eye.
And no time for finesse
, he thought. “
Desundro grammata resistrata. Desundro il laboro de Daedeki. Desundro grammata propitio. Sunder this ward!
” he whispered. There was a sharp crack and a flash of flame from the lock.

Stjepan reared back and kicked the door right by the lock with full force. The door shuddered and there was a splintering sound, but it didn't give. He reared back and kicked again, and this time Erim kicked with him, and the door burst open, wood and metal fragments spinning through the air from the shattered lock. They leapt through the open doorway, followed by the gate guard, and froze.

The Library room flickered with light as papers and books and parchment burned in a makeshift brazier on a table, embers and ash dancing in the air in front of them. Harvald stood with his back to the door in a large magic circle drawn on the floor in blood, making gestures with his arms in the air of a ritual. He held a rolled parchment in one hand and a brightly burning torch in the other.

“King of Heaven, a fire in the Library!” gasped the guard.

“Harvald!” Stjepan cried out. Harvald turned and looked at Stjepan; his skin had turned bluish-white and was blackening rapidly. Pieces of his flesh were missing, his face and neck a patchwork of gaping holes and rot. Even his clothes seemed to be decaying before their eyes, flaking off into ash. His eyes were sad and desperate. “Harvald?” Stjepan asked, almost unable to recognize him.

“
Nathrak arass tedema urus. Nathrak arass urus!
” Harvald cried out, and he brought his hands together, igniting the parchment with the flame of the torch.

He was confused at first when he saw the small lights dropping toward her. At first he thought they were fireflies, though it was too early in the year for them to appear in number, or perhaps embers from a fireplace, though no fire was lit in her room. Then as he squinted he thought he could make them out as letters, but he knew that couldn't be.

He watched as one, then another came to rest first on her shoulder and then on her back. She didn't notice the first one; it glowed briefly, then seemed to dissolve into her nightgown, leaving a burn pattern. Then the second landed, and he grew worried.

Annwyn sat alone in her bed, reading and whispering by candlelight. Engrossed in her book, she did not notice the strange runes and symbols that were floating in the air above her, glowing softly, floating down from the ceiling like ash. She scratched as one landed on her, then another. They floated, circled aimlessly, and then with sudden purpose alit on Annwyn in her bed like a swarm of insects.

She gasped suddenly and rose, dropping her book. She swayed, clawing at the air, as the glowing fire-lit runes and symbols swirled about her. It sounded as though she were drowning.

Harvald spit blood and collapsed, trying to repeat the enchantment as the map and torch fell from his blackening fingers.

The gate guard rushed from the room. They could hear him crying “Alarm! Alarm! Fire! Fire!” as he rushed down the corridors in search of help. Erim leapt forward, horror on her face, but Stjepan held her back from crossing into the magic circle.

“Don't break the circle!” he hissed.

“What's happening to him?” she cried out, looking at the burning parchment by his writhing body. “The map. Is that the map?” Erim lunged forward again but Stjepan retained his hold on her.

Finally she tore away, but not toward the circle, instead running to the table and searching it frantically, tossing burning papers out of the brazier, finally spilling its contents across the tabletop.

Leigh waited, and waited, his hand hovering over the deck, his heart in his throat; and then finally he quickly took and flipped another card on the table.

And it was Death, numbered XIII, depicting a naked woman bearing a great scythe, and standing over a field of black earth sown with heads and body parts as the sun descended behind a mountain in the distance.

He leapt up and back from the table in alarm, a look of horror on his face as the table rocked and shook. He made a warding sign and then reached his hands up to the ceiling. He cried out hoarsely in anguish, “What does this mean? What have you done?
What have you done?
”

Gilgwyr watched, his cock near to bursting in his codpiece, as the crowd roared in shock and lust and disbelief, wide-eyed at the debauchery being performed before them.
This is a triumph
, Gilgwyr thought.
And it will only get better from here on out. A great change is coming.
He surveyed the looks in the eyes of the crowd and gloated. But he did not notice that the Gilded Lady held up her black lace fan in front of her face to hide her expression, her eyes narrowed in disapproval and knowing calculation.

Ariadesma's heaving flanks and legs were crisscrossed with razor-thin cuts, her breasts shaking and her skin shining with a mix of sweat and oil and blood. The priestess was thrusting wildly now between her spread legs, laughing madly as she pistoned the unicorn horn deeper and deeper into the suspended dancer's gaping cunt, its spiraled ivory length flashing in and out her flesh, shining slick and bright in the firelight. Slowly the glistening ivory was becoming streaked with red, and droplets of blood splattered against the priestess' thrusting hips. But the moans and gasps being wrenched from Ariadesma's throat were nothing but pure passion and pleasure, her face wracked with ecstasy.

Careful, careful, don't break the merchandise, nothing permanent that Sequintus can't fix
, Gilgwyr thought, laughing silently to himself. The enchanter stood nearby, his eyes clinically observing the proceedings, his box of salves and ointments and precious White Elixir at the ready.
If you like this, my dear sweet Palatian, then just wait until the Feast of Herrata.
Gilgwyr looked up at the ceiling, toward the Heavens, the rapture in his face mirroring that of the pinioned acrobat.
Today is a great day, a blessed day
,
and soon, very soon, will come the best day of all
.
A great change is coming!

Annwyn fell onto the floor, gurgling and flailing as if in a seizure, her nightgown burning in dozens, perhaps hundreds of small spots, the cloth fraying as it burned. She tossed and turned trying to get free of the tormenting magic, her movements so sharp and sudden that she was in danger of hurting herself. The runes and symbols swirled in the air, landing on her disintegrating gown and her writhing body, crawling onto and into her skin.

He didn't know what to do, could not comprehend what was happening to her. Fear ran deep into his core. Finally with a great cry he tore himself from the peephole and slammed it shut. Grabbing up the lantern, he did the only thing he could do, and ran softly off into the dark.