The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2) (28 page)

"Here," said Ord, pausing at the end of the small room. "Looks like a way out." He pulled an old stool into place, hopped up onto it, and then pressed his palm against a second trap door, smaller than the first, made of old boards that looked furry with age. He pressed, and the door rose a fraction, then immediately stopped with a small, metallic click. "Locked," he said. He turned with a feral smile to Tiron. "With your permission, ser?"

Tiron nodded.

Ord inserted the tip of his sword between the boards and began to work it back and forth. Thick splinters and wedges of wood began to fall. "No use putting a good lock on something if the door itself is as soft as mud," he muttered. Reaching up, he grabbed hold of the side of a board and gave a savage yank, breaking it free. Immediately, cool daylight poured into the basement, along with the distant sounds of a street. Ord reached out and grabbed at something - the lock, no doubt - tore it free, then pushed the trap door open altogether.

Blade in hand, he climbed out and disappeared. Hannus was up and out right after him. Iskra waited, heart in her throat, until Hannus' face appeared in the hole.

"Looks like a dead end alley. All clear," he said.

Tiron helped Iskra up onto the stool, and Ord and Hannus hauled her up and out of the dusty air into the pale light of late afternoon.

Around her was a common alley like any other, narrow enough that she could reach out and touch both rough walls, ending at a high wall behind her and leading out a crooked ten yards ahead to a brightly lit avenue of some sort. She stepped forward to make room for Tiron, her eyes on the people passing by the alley mouth, oblivious to her presence.

She saw them in brief flashes. Their skin was burnished like golden sand, their features sharp, the men's beards close-shaved and coming to a point. She caught glimpses of flowing clothing: pale yellows, whites, and beige with accents of crimson, gold, and green. The air was dry, scented with cloves and dung and spices she couldn't identify. She heard shouts in a language she didn't understand, and from somewhere close but out of sight a peal of laughter rang out like gold coins tossed into the sun. A cart rumbled by, laden with strange, leathery-skinned green fruit with deep ribs. The cart was drawn by a mule whose mane was braided with bronze ornaments, its owner walking alongside. Almost immediately, it was gone, out of sight.

"We're here," she whispered to herself. "We've arrived. We're in Agerastos."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Audsley watched Lady Kyferin disappear through the Portal, which a moment later faded back to stone. He shivered. What power, what awesome ability the ancients had wielded to fashion such relics that could send people across the face of the world. It was hard to believe that at this very moment, Lady Kyferin and the others had appeared somewhere on the island of Agerastos, and were even now exploring their new location and fashioning plans, laying down the tactics and stratagems that would, with a little luck, result in a formidable new alliance.

"Well, then," said Temyl. "That's that. Now what?"

"Nothing, is what," grunted Bogusch. "We've got no duties other than to open this here Portal at each allocated hour. Isn't that right, Magister?"

"Indeed," said Audsley, rubbing his chin. "In one hour's time I shall open it anew, and then, if they do not return, we shall have twenty-four hours to kill before we must open it again. Come – we might as well make the most of our time and search out new Portals in case this one proves unsatisfactory."

The two men glanced at each other, then shrugged and followed Audsley, who for an hour wandered the length and breadth of the great room, peering up at Portal lintels and mouthing the atrocious runes as he sought to find another entrance to Agerastos. There were a dozen pillars in all, each with approximately six Portals around its base, but none of the other ground-level ones seemed to go to their desired city. Raising his torch, Audsley tried to read the second level, but the runes were too distant and the flickering shadows rendered them impossible to make out. He considered mounting the platform and performing a more exacting search, but weariness made him delay that more grueling task.

An hour later he was once again standing before the Portal and mouthing the words. Once more the runes flickered with fire and the inky wash spread across the surface.

Nobody came through.

Audsley thought of poking his head through the Gate himself, but decided not to. A minute passed, the Portal faded away, and he turned to the two guards.

They weren't the most pleasant men with which to pass the time, he thought: Temyl with his bovine simplicity and superstitious fears, Bogusch with his dour and dolorous outlook on life. Ah, well. "Twenty-four hours, gentlemen. We have an expanse of time before us with which to do what we like, though I suggest we remain together for, well, safety's sake."

"Well, Bogs and I've been thinking," said Temyl. "We think it best if we just retire to the quarters, stay safe and out of harm's way and pass the time in that manner."

"Aye," said Bogusch. "What say you, Magister?"

"Sit and pass the time? Well, perhaps. But there are a number of books I'd like to have with me if that's what we wish to do. Perhaps a visit to the library first. I saw a particularly exquisite collection of Aletheian poetry that I'd love to peruse, the complete collection as formed by Imperial Edict during the rule of the Seventh Ascendant." Audsley rubbed his hands in anticipation. "Did you know that to the Aletheians poetry can be a matter of life and death? And that..."

He trailed off as he caught Temyl and Bogusch sharing a look of impatience, and Audsley felt a whisper of suspicion flicker though his mind.

"Sure," said Temyl at last. "We can stop by the library if you like. A quick visit."

"A visit," said Audsley, drawing himself up, "which will last precisely as long as I need it to. Understood?"

He felt a tremble of fear as he waited for their response. What would he do if they defied him? If they told him they'd rather skip the library, and forced him to return to their quarters?

"As you like," said Bogusch at last. "Magister."

"Very good. This way, then." He turned and strode away before the tone of their voices could become any more sour, and stepped up onto the platform. He moved to the front and knelt slowly by the blade. "Are we ready?"

He didn't wait for their assent. Instead, he grasped the hilt and immediately formed a cage made of bars of light within his mind. The dark presence didn't try to test his bindings; it simply acquiesced to Audsley's command with an air of resignation. A trap in the making, Audsley knew. It was seeking to lull him into a false sense of dominance so it could attack again when it deemed the moment right.

The platform lifted, Temyl and Bogusch clambering on board just in time, and then they soared up and into the tunnel, down its hexagonal length and out into the moaning airshaft. There were dozens of other tunnels up its length that Audsley wished to explore, but he knew that now was not the time; he needed as much goodwill from his two guards as he could foster.

Instead, he guided the platform up to the library level, and there landed and disembarked. He led the way confidently through the maze to the secret passage that they had left open to the library's heart. As soon as he had stepped inside, he almost felt like letting out a sigh of relief. For purely foolish reasons he felt safe here, as if he had stepped into some kind of sanctuary. As if the darkness that threatened Starkadr could not follow him into this space – though one look at the corpses below, sitting around the central table, told him the depths of that lie.

Not wanting to ask the two guards for help, Audsley took the knotted rope himself and used it to climb laboriously down the telescoping levels, muttering silent apologies as he used the bookshelves as steps. Down he went to the lowest level, puffing and heaving for breath, and by the time he reached the dust-laden, rug-covered floor he was feeling quite exhausted. Still, this was where the most precious books were placed. It was here that he would make his selection.

He turned from the books, though, and examined the six figures that were seated around the hexagonal central table. They had a strange dignity to them, solemn and still as they were, their faces desiccated and drawn, their hair as fine as gossamer thread. Clad in the dark robes of the Sin Casters, they sat in state, heavy necklaces around their necks, holding hands in a ring.

Only one of the bodies lay slumped over, Audsley noted. Moving around the table to its still form, he felt a wave of sadness pass through him. What knowledge had these people lost when they passed on to their next cycle in life? In spite of all their studies, all their power, here they had died, alone and surrounded by enemies.

About to turn away, Audsley paused. The figure that had slumped over was lying on a book. Not a large one, and almost entirely hidden by the corpse, but there it was. Curious, wondering what one might choose to read in his final hours of life, he grimaced and slid the book out from under the body. Parts of the body settled and collapsed as he did so, and Audsley winced and muttered more apologies as the book came free.

It was a journal, he realized. The right-hand page was blank, the left-hand one covered in a minute and careful black script. Leaning down, he frowned at the page. Ancient Noussian, he noted with relief, and took the book up to read it more carefully, starting at the top of the uppermost paragraph.

I know not why I turn at this very last hour to the act of writing, to the transcription of events and information which gave me so many gentle hours of joy over the course of my life. Senathros leads the others in song, weaving words that once held power but which are now but echoes of the might we once wielded. Perhaps he and I are guided by the same futile impulses, clinging to vestiges of that which had meaning in another age, another time, but which now serve only to mock us and remind us of all we have lost, are in the process of losing, and will forever lose.

Audsley lowered the book and blinked at the slumped-over form. Oh, how his - or her - voice echoed across the centuries! He took up the book once more.

We can sense the carnage that is taking place even as we wait for it to be visited upon us. I fear that there is no hope for us, but that has been evident since the closing of the Black Gate. Oh Oleanna, your betrayal was equaled only by your sacrifice. Would it give you pleasure to know how terribly effective your new Order of Purity is proving? Or would you weep, former Alabaster that you were, regretting the monster that you have unleashed upon your former brothers and sisters?

Perhaps Erenthil and his Artificers were correct.

Audsley paused. Erenthil? That was the name of the slender stream that flowed out of Mythgræfen Lake toward Hrething. Could it have been named after this ancient Sin Caster?

He labors even now in his complex, seeking to turn the tide of inevitability. Perhaps we should have listened to him and loosed the demons in sufficient numbers to sweep away this Order of Purity and its bestial kragh in a conflagration of blood and fire, or bound more of the demons into his objects of war. But even releasing the few that we have pains me beyond any ability to describe. Would our survival, bereft of power as we now are, be worth the unleashing of such a plague upon humanity? I think not.

Audsley stared into the middle distance, frowning as he played the words through his mind. The unleashing of demons? What demons? From where?

All coherence is lost at this last. The hierarchies are broken. The Alabasters retain their power, of course, and fight on by our side, but without our ability to weave the currents of the world and walk the path of flame, they cannot hold. Oh, Oleanna, how your betrayal pains me! How could you turn against us in this manner? Kionan was right. It was not the Ascendant, but our own -

That was the last that was written.

Audsley tapped his chin, deep in thought, then returned the book to the table.

"Gentlemen?" He looked up to Temyl and Bogusch. "A detour, I believe, is in order. It will be brief, but I believe profitable. Come!"

Thirty minutes later they were once again mounted on the platform, Audsley at the helm, gripping the blade, his mind a wire mesh in which he strangled the entity contained within the blade. Aedelbert was a comforting presence, pressed against the side of his face. They floated out of the passage and into the main shaft, into the moaning maelstrom of wind, and descended smoothly till they faced a new tunnel, two floors lower, a black, yawning, hexagonal wound in the otherwise smooth shaft wall.