Chapter 16

The Temple of Hith, Thenol

Barreth Forlo was not a fearless man. No sane warrior was. There was always that spark of dread, going into battle, because that battle could always be your last. Even minotaurs felt that fear—Grath had confessed it to him once, after one too many cups of wine. The key wasn't in snuffing the spark, but in keeping it from growing into a flame. Feeling fear was one thing. Showing it was something else.

He knew he was showing it now, but couldn't help himself. He had never been anywhere that frightened him like the church at Hawkbluff. Bishop Ondelos's fane was built to cause fear. Its tunnels were barely lit and filled with niches and alcoves drenched in shadow, where anything might lurk. The walls were carved with images of death and torment, with reliefs of rotting corpses and flayed men. Human skulls—some with scraps of flesh and hair clinging to them—rested in dark nooks, baring their teeth in rictus grins. A few of these were not totally dead, for they shouted or shrieked as he and his men passed, making all of them jump. Alarms against intruders, empowered by Thenol's dark god. Grath and Forlo put an end to each of them, smashing the skulls with sword and axe to silence them forever.

"No need to be quiet, at least," the minotaur said after shattering yet another yowling skull. He grinned to hide his own gathering fear. "It's not like they don't know we're coming."

There were thirty in their party, besides Forlo and Grath. It had been a hundred when they first passed through the gates at the foot of Hawkbluff, with their portcullis of bone. The tunnels branched, however, and they had been obliged to split up. Elsewhere, Forlo's men were combing other parts of the church, hunting for the high priest and hoping to collect the bounty on Ondelos's head. Ahead, Forlo could already see that the passage divided yet again, splitting into two identical forks. He and Grath exchanged glances.

"You want left or right?" Forlo asked.

Grath shrugged. "You're the commander. But left's always been lucky for me."

"Take half, then," Forlo said. "I'll see you when this is done."

"Aye," the minotaur replied, clapping his arm. "When it's done. Watch yourself, my friend."

With that, the party split up again, Grath and Forlo each taking fifteen soldiers. The light of their torches grew dimmer as Forlo moved on along the path, always sloping up and curving deeper into the rock of Hawkbluff. To Forlo's right, another leathery skull screeched. He put his blade through its face, caving it in.

They hadn't fought anyone yet, and hadn't seen a single fanatic or walking corpse. Ordinarily, Forlo was sure, this place thrived with priests and their undead servants, but right then it was… well, like a tomb. He guessed why. The war and the last battle before the Bluff had left the church of Hith weak. They had expended most of the temple guardians out there, in the mud. The rest probably waited in some inner sanctum, guarding the Bishop and poised for the final battle.

No sooner had he thought that than something appeared in the passageway before him: a shape, human enough, but small—no more than three and a half feet tall. A kender, was his first thought, but that made no sense. Then what? The small form was moving toward him with the lurching, unsteady gait of the dead. A lone guardian, still wandering the temple halls… but what was it?

This is where it always ends, some part of him thought. He'd dreamed this many times over the past several weeks. It was the last part of the dream that had been tormenting him since the battle. But he never got any further, never made it to Ondelos's lair. He couldn't even remember what had happened there, anymore. It always ended with this lone shadow, staggering toward him down the tunnel passage. The next night, the cycle began again. Always the same, and never coming to the end.

He swallowed, gripping his sword tighter. This time, the dream would continue. This time, he would see what happened next.

"Show yourself," he muttered, trying to keep his voice low. It sounded foolishly loud, making him wince. He raised his torch with his other hand, shining its light ahead.

I will not wake up, he thought. I will see what this thing is. He gritted his teeth, stepped forward…

… and saw.

It was a boy, a child of maybe five summers. He was dark-haired, dark eyed… and beautiful—or had been. Death lent a bloodless pallor to his cheeks, and his flesh was shriveled just a little. A ragged wound gaped over his heart, crusted with dried blood. He'd been killed with an expert thrust of a knife or sword. Not long ago, either—no signs of rot yet, not like the festering things his men had been fighting through the entire war. The boy didn't stink like the dead, either.

Freshly killed.

His sword drooped in his hand. There was something about the boy, something familiar…

The child stopped and looked up at him, the memory of pain still glimmering behind his glassy eyes. Then it hit him. The child was familiar because it looked just like him—or rather, just as he had looked when he was a boy. He was staring at himself, only with nearly forty years stripped away—and dead. Something cold slithered in his belly. This is not right, he thought. It isn't possible… .

The boy spoke. His voice was strange, raspy and distant, as if it came from the bottom of a well.

"Why did you do this?" he groaned. "Why did you do this to me, Papa?"

Forlo screamed and jerked awake. His heart thundered so hard it sent spikes of pain down his left arm. For a moment, he was sure it would burst and he would die right there, camped in the woods by the road, still two days' ride from Coldhope. For a long time—it felt like hours—all he could do was sit there, his skin as cold as death, shivering as the last image of the dream hung before his eyes. His son, his yet-unborn son… dead. A knife-wound in his heart. He knew the apparition hadn't been at Hawkbluff. It was something new.

A premonition? Was something terrible going to happen?

Had it already happened?

By the time he got his senses back, he was a mess. Tears covered his face. His throat burned and his eyes stung. He couldn't keep his hands from shaking. But finally, he had the strength to move again, to stand, his legs pinging and prickling as the blood flowed back. Moving almost like one of the Thenolite corpse-warriors, he doused the embers of his campfire and gathered his things. His horse stood nearby, eyeing him with puzzlement. Dawn was several hours away, yet he was breaking camp. But he knew he wouldn't sleep again that night. Wouldn't sleep again at all, probably, until he saw Coldhope again, and Essana. Essana, with her belly swollen and filled with life. Not death.

Stifling a sob, he went to saddle his horse.

Forlo rode through the night. Solis was high and full, lighting his way and gleaming on the occasional glimpses of water visible through the trees. Worry gnawed at him, unfounded and foolish. But this time, it felt more like certainty.

Something had happened at Coldhope.

His throat was tight as he rode up the last fold of land before reaching the keep. He reached across and loosened his sword in its scabbard. He nearly drew it, and held himself back only through will. Something told him it would be a bad idea. He spurred his horse, already tired from hours of riding, to go faster. Forlo's heart kept time with his horse's speeding hooves.

Coldhope wasn't in ruins and was not ablaze. There was no blood on its flagstones. But light blazed from its windows, and torches danced on its battlements. The whole keep looked to be awake, and the guards on the walls were alert enough to have their crossbows ready. It was three hours past midnight. There should have been few signs of life save the watch-fires. Indeed, something was afoot in the keep.

He nearly didn't make it to the gates. The guards saw him and sighted down their weapons. He was a lone rider moving fast in the dark at an hour when only villains were on the roads. If he'd had his sword out, they would have shot him. As it was, he had to slow his pace and shout up to them before they stayed their hands. Someone inside barked orders, and with a thud and creak the gates swung open. He galloped through, reined in—an armored guard took hold of his horse's bridle—and leaped down from the saddle.

Voss was there, the chamberlain looking old and sallow. Maybe it was the hour of the morning, or maybe something worse. "My lord," he began, "we had not looked for your return—"

"Essana," Forlo interrupted, waving him off. "Where is she?"

"The mistress is unharmed," Voss said, and the tightness in Forlo's chest relaxed a little. "She is in the keep, watching over the catacombs. We aren't sure what to do about the elf."

Forlo blinked. "Elf? Catacombs? What are you talking about? What's happened here, man!"

"Barreth!"

Essana. She stood in the doorway of the keep at the top of the steps. Her hair was uncombed and her eyes were frightened. One of her hands lay over her belly, as if protecting the child growing there. He took the stairs three at a time.

"Starlight," he began, taking her hand. He touched her, felt the life inside. His throat filled with tears.

"I didn't know when to expect you," she said. "I roused the household and posted extra guards. She's still in there, Barreth. Down below."

"Who?" he asked. "What in the blue Abyss is going on?"

She was barely in control of herself. He tried to remember seeing her afraid like that before, but couldn't. It hurt to meet her gaze. "A thief," she said. "An elf, by what the men say. She came to the keep earlier tonight. Broke in, and went to the catacombs. It was the damned statue, Barreth. She came for the statue."

Forlo's brow furrowed. An elf, here? There hadn't been an elf seen in the Holding since… had there ever been an elf seen in the Holding? It made no sense. What did the woods-folk have to do with the statue?

Another thought came to him then, filling him with cold fury. Whoever this elf was, she had violated his home. With his wife here, defenseless. She could have killed Essana as she slept, had she been an assassin rather than a simple burglar. Killed her and the child.

Making an animal noise, he stormed into the keep's great hall. Lamps glowed up and down its length and there was a larger pool of torchlight by the way down to the cellar. He heard men's voices and saw shadows stretching long across the floor. He hurried to them, Essana hastening behind.

"Stay back," he snapped, holding out a hand. There were guards at the top of the stairs. One was tall and had an ugly, purple bruise on his jaw. One of his more trusted sentries, he'd set the man to watch the catacombs. "Iver, what's going on here? Where is this elf?"

"My lord!" The guardsman looked up, surprised, and clasped his wrist in salute. "We hadn't looked for your return—"

"Yes, yes. The elf, Iver."

The man flushed and looked down, unable to meet Forlo's eyes. He'd been drinking on duty, from the guilt on his face… or gambling… or both. Forlo put that aside for the moment.

"Speak, man."

"I—I don't know where she came from," Iver said. "Poor Davin didn't even see her. He got the worst of it—he's still out cold. I got a look, but there wasn't much to see. She was wearing a mask, but I saw the ears. One o' them Silvan elves, I'd bet my balls on it. Pardon, milady."

Essana had come up, but was unfazed by the guard's language. She'd heard worse—she'd married a soldier, hadn't she?

"Where is she now?" Forlo asked.

"In the vault," Essana said. "I was going to tell you, but you ran off. She's down there still, with the statue. Sealed in."

He raised his eyebrows. "The lotus got her?"

"So it seems."

He nearly laughed. The gray lotus had been there when Coldhope was built. Generations of lords had tried to get rid of it, but to no avail. No blade could cut its stems and no fire could burn it. Whoever had built the catacombs had wanted that particular room well watched, and so it remained. It made for a good guardian over the keep's riches, anyway.

And after all that time, the lotus had finally proven useful. He couldn't help but be amused.

"How long ago?" he asked.

"Three hours, or about," Iver replied. "Davin and I were halfway done our watch."

And drinking, definitely. Forlo could smell the beer on the man's breath. Discipline later there were things to do.

"She'll be coming out of it soon," he said. "Maybe already is. Essana, listen to me this time—stay here. Iver, you watch her. The rest of you, with me. We're going to find out just who we've caught down there."

She dreamed of him. Faceless, wicked, and blue-robed in a city of gold. He held her captive, shackled to the roof of the highest tower in his palace. The tower didn't belong in Aurim, and it had not been in the vision Thalaniya had shared with her. It was a creation of her mind, of the dream-world. Wind whipped around her, cold because they were so high. Maladar looked down upon her, amused. Shedara had seen terrible things and had faced evil men. Some had died on the blades of her knives. But this man, this wicked creature, was entirely different. There was no humanity there, no trace of compassion or care in the way he looked at her. No passion at all, not even hate. Just cold, staring.

"You thought you could thwart me," he said, his voice grating, toneless. She thought of his tongueless mouth and shuddered. "You came close to doing it, too. That impresses me. But you failed, in the end—as all who work against me will fail. My triumph is foreseen and my victory is as sure as the coming of dusk. No mere thief can stop it."

"I will," she snarled through clenched teeth. "I will see it done."

The hood shifted as the head cocked sideways. She saw beneath for an instant, just the faintest hint of the ruin hidden there, and shuddered again.

"Oh?" asked the Hooded One. "And how will you do that, with no legs to pursue me… no arms to wield your blades?"

The pain was instantaneous, rising from a dull ache to searing agony in an eyeblink. The shackles moved, impossibly, for they were bolted to the stone floor beneath her. Still, there was no doubting it, for they pulled apart in all four directions at once. Her joints burned, straining as the shackles began to rip her to pieces. Ligaments stretched and bones ground. Men had been making torture devices like that for thousands of years—but it was no ordinary rack. Just the shackles, following the bidding of the sorcerer above her.

Oh, gods, the pain. A shoulder dislocated. A hip popped out. She tried to scream, swallowed her tongue, and began to choke… the world slipped away, and all that remained in her sight was him, staring down, pleased to watch her die…

She woke to the sound of voices nearby, muffled by stone. It took her a moment to remember where she was. The floor was hard beneath her and the air was cold—underground—the smell of decay was in the air. The catacombs. She opened her eyes: it was dark, the shape of the Hooded One was looming over her, just as Maladar had in her mind, moments ago. She shivered, tried to rise…

Her arms and legs wouldn't move.

Then the scent, heady and floral, hit her. She glanced to her left and saw the lotus, bowed low over her, its petals bunched like lips preparing for a kiss. It still had her, and it wouldn't release her from its grip, no matter how hard she struggled.

Come on, she thought. Move. There were people outside, talking. They would come in soon. She couldn't escape now, but maybe, if she could use her hands, at least, she might be able to cast a spell… to make herself invisible again… something. The thought of being captured without a fight sickened her. There was too much at stake… and to be caught by some petty humans… .

Try as she might, though, she couldn't break the paralysis. She fought for nearly a minute to force some part of her to move—even a finger!—but the fight was useless. Tears squeezed from her eyes and slid down her cheeks.

The voices outside stopped. Somewhere, ancient gears turned. The floor trembled as the door slid open. Torchlight spilled in, stinging her eyes and blinding her elvensight. She groaned and fought to see through the dark. There were shapes, moving. Several men. All but one had swords. They gathered around her, looking down. The lotus craned, as if glancing at them, then turned back to Shedara again. It knew them, somehow. Knew they belonged.

Slowly, her vision became clear. She saw guardsmen, fully armed, with an unarmored man in their midst. He wore rich traveling clothes and a blue cloak spattered with dried mud. His eyes were dark and grim, and his mouth was a lipless gash. He was handsome, as humans went, with a short, dark beard and a slightly crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken several times in the past. His hair was graying at the temples and thinning on the top, as happened to many of his race. He was the lord of the keep, newly returned from abroad. Bad timing, there.

He bent down beside her. "I am Barreth Forlo, once marshal of the Sixth Imperial Legion. My wife is the Countess Essana. You are a thief, who meant to rob us of our riches. I would have your name."

A bee had stung her on the lip once, when she was a child. The way her mouth felt reminded her of that. Still, she forced her sluggish tongue to move and formed words that were thick in her mouth. "Shedara of… Armach-nesti."

"Welcome to Coldhope, Shedara," said Forlo, with the hint of a smile on his lips. "The lotus is making things difficult for you, I see. Ramal, you drink wine. Give me your flask."

Grudgingly, one of the guards stepped forward and offered a clay bottle. Forlo removed the cork, smelled it, winced, then bent down and set the neck to her lips. Burning fire poured into her mouth, sour and awful. It could barely be called wine. Shedara took a swallow and nearly choked, then lay back, tired.

A tingling filled her body as the wine went down her throat—the thorns-and-brambles feeling coming back. The numbness was going away, as was the paralysis. She could move her fingers first, then her hands. As the strength coursed through her arms and legs, Forlo nodded to two of his men, who carefully searched her and removed her blades. They found them all, even the little stiletto sewn into the hem of her tunic, which she rarely used, and the pearl medallion, her contact with the Voice. She winced as they pulled the amulet off her and took it away.

They also found her pouch of spell components. Forlo opened it, peered inside, then returned his gaze to the elf, more intent than before. "You're a mage? Then know this: if you speak one word of sorcery, it will be your last."

" I… am not stupid," she said.

"That remains to be seen. Why are you here, Shedara? Why did you seek to take the statue?"

She blinked and tried to look confused. "St-statue?"

"Don't be coy," Forlo said. "I've ridden hard the night through to find my keep in an uproar, my wife frightened, and a thief in my treasury. I haven't the patience. Do you think I would believe a random burglar by chance sought to rob me, right after I came by our hooded friend, there? I'm not stupid either."

Shedara closed her eyes. It was over, then. She had failed. "You're right," she said. "I came for the… Hooded One, at the behest… of Thalaniya, Voice of the Silvanaes. As to why… I am sworn not to say."

"Shall I cut off her fingers, my lord?" asked the guard named Ramal, lifting his sword. "That'll make her think about oaths."

Forlo looked tempted, then shook his head. "Elves think we're all savages. I won't give this one the satisfaction of proving her right. As to you, lady… you should count yourself lucky that I was the one who caught you, and not the statue's previous owner."

"You mean Harlad the Gray? He is dead."

That caught his attention. She saw him pale, just slightly, in the torchlight. "Dead?"

"And the dwarves, who had it before him. And Ruskal Eight-Fingers, who sold it to them."

Several of the guardsmen looked up at the statue, their eyes wide. Ramal even sidled away. Forlo kept his eyes on her, biting his lower lip. Trying to figure out if she was lying. Trying to hold back his fear. He opened his mouth to speak.

"My lord!" called a voice from behind him. The sound of boots on stone echoed up the hall. "Lord Forlo, you must come at once!"

He straightened and looked back. It was the tall guard, the one she had taken down when she broke in. He glared venom at her as he stepped into the vault.

"What is it, Iver?" Forlo asked. "I told you to stay with your mistress."

"I am sorry, milord," panted Iver, out of breath. "She sent me. Told me to fetch you at once."

Forlo put a hand on his sword. "What is it? More trouble?" He glanced at Shedara. "Did you have help?"

She shook her head. "I am alone."

He held her gaze to see if she was lying.

"It's not another thief. Lord," Iver said. "It's a visitor. Bearing ill news." He leaned in close to whisper in his master's ear.

Forlo's swarthy skin went white. He looked at the guardsman, who nodded. Both men looked as though they were about to be ill. Shedara had to bite her tongue to keep from asking what Iver had just said. She glanced from one to the other, trying to glean some clue.

But Barreth Forlo's attention was no longer on her. "Go. Tell the mistress I'll be there at once," he said. When Iver ran out of the room, he turned back to his other men and nodded down at Shedara. "Take this one to the tower. I'll question her more later. Gag her, so she can cast no spells. If she does anything suspicious, kill her."

The guards nodded and Forlo left her to them, hurrying after Iver. Shedara neither struggled nor spoke when they closed in, swords bared, and hauled her to her feet. As they dragged her away through the catacombs, though, she dared a glance back at the Hooded One, standing in the shadows, forbidding and cold. In her mind, she heard the distant laughter of Maladar the Faceless.

There were nights, Forlo reflected, when a man's life turned. Moments that divided time into before and after. A warrior came to accept this. He'd had many such moments in his life: joining the legions, meeting Essana, winning his first battle as a marshal, and quitting the army. That night, he sensed, would be another pivotal moment.

He looked across the table at Sammek Thale. The fat merchant looked alarmingly gaunt as he picked at a bowl of chicken-and-longroot stew. He was smudged with soot, and a cut on his cheek was rimmed with dried blood. Sweat stood out on his forehead. But the worst thing was the look in his eyes. Forlo had seen that look before, on the faces of women after he told them their husbands' bones were buried on some faraway battlefield. He'd hoped never to see it again.

Essana slipped her hand into Forlo's and squeezed it. She was strong and wouldn't show weakness before Thale, but Forlo knew her. He could feel the clamminess of her palm and see the shadows behind her eyes. He knew she could see the fear in him, too. Dread hung thick in the air at Coldhope.

"Sacked?" he asked. "Are you sure?"

Sammek nodded, dropped his spoon with a clatter, and jumped at the noise. He hadn't eaten a bite. "I saw it burn. They say the chief of the barbarians summoned the storm to fight for him and brought down the wall with a word. They razed it to the ground. Only a few of us got out."

"Malton," murmured Essana. "I can't believe it."

"This Uigan horde… how large?" Forlo pressed.

"Many thousands. It was hard to tell." Sammek put a hand to his brow and rubbed the cut there. Fresh blood appeared. "They had goblins, too. Wolf-riders." He buried his face in his hands.

They sat in silence for nearly a minute, the merchant weeping helplessly. Forlo didn't blame him. The man was spent. He had just lost his home. Forlo turned to Voss, who hovered nearby, his own face deeply troubled. "Have the servants make guest quarters for Master Thale. See that he has rest."

Voss nodded and led Sammek out. Forlo sat quietly for a time with his wife. The trouble with the elf and the statue was gone from his mind. What Sammek had told them was far worse. Essana met his gaze, and together they rose and walked out of the great hall and onto the spur overlooking the Tiderun. The water was still high, but receding. They stared out across it and into the darkness where the far shore lay. Men and minotaurs had died there. A town had fallen and barbarians were prowling its ruins.

"I thought I saw something last night," Essana said. "A red glow… I thought it was beautiful." She bowed her head and her shoulders began to shake.

Forlo put an arm around her shoulders, drew her close, and kissed her forehead. Thale's tidings bored deep, like a worm in his gut. The world had changed. Rudil will be next to fall, he thought. We can't save it Can't get the men there in time. He would have to send a messenger in the morning, warning the colony of what was coming. Maybe a few would get out.

At least they're on the other side of the water, he thought. At least the Run divides us—

Then it struck him, like a hammer blow to the middle of his chest. He moaned and stepped away from Essana to lean hard against the balustrade." Khot," he swore.

"What?" she asked. "Forlo—"

"The Run," he said. "The Run… they mean to cross it."

"Cross it? How could—oh, gods." She looked up at the night sky.

The moons. There were concordances, sometimes, when the Run ran dry. When all three were in phase, it stayed that way long enough for a man to traverse it on horseback, if he knew where to cross, if he knew where the bottom was rocky and the silt shallow. The closest such crossing was to the west of Coldhope, three days' ride away. And the next concordance was at Reaping, only two months away.

"If they do," Essana whispered. "If they come here…"

"Yes," he said.

There was something he had to do. They both knew it, though neither said a word of it.

"What about the elf?" she asked. "And the statue?"

He shook his head. "That'll have to wait. Make sure the guards don't slack. I'll deal with them when I'm back again."

She nodded, then stepped in and kissed him on the lips. He pulled her to him and held her, their mouths together. Then he released her, and she turned away to look out across the water. He touched her belly, felt the warmth beneath, and swallowed what felt like shards of glass. Then he turned and walked away.

A few minutes later, the front gates of Coldhope swung open, and Forlo rode out again, a fresh horse beneath him. He hoped the Sixth Legion hadn't traveled too far south yet.