Chapter 23

The Temple of Hith, Thenol

Iknow this place," Shedara said, looking up and down the dark tunnel in Forlo's dream, with its carvings of demons and skeletons leering redly in the soldiers' torchlight.

Forlo looked at her, eyebrows raised. He was dressed as a warrior, in his plate armor and the red and blue surcoat of the Sixth, emblazoned with golden horns to mark him as a marshal. He was spattered with mud and bits of gristle—leavings of the walking corpses he and his men had fought on the marshy ground outside. A cut above his left eye leaked blood that dripped down to his bearded jaw in a shocking crimson line. His sword flashed fire-glow orange.

Shedara wore the same simple leathers she'd had on when she cast the spell, back in the lightless shadows of Forlo's bedchamber. She was still in that room—some part of her remembered she sat in a chair at this man's bedside, her right hand laid upon his forehead as he slept, his wife and the minotaur, Grath, close by, observing. The other two were not inside the dream and would see nothing of what passed, although they might hear some of the words she spoke, mumbled through white-clenched lips as the moons' power coursed through her.

She was not a part of the dream—his dream. But she could walk beside him, talk to him, and watch. This was not real, she reminded herself again and again—it was only memory, clouded by time and whatever magic had been cast on Forlo, the mystery she was determined to solve. She walked not the halls of Hawkbluff, but of Barreth Forlo's mind.

"I have been here before," she said. "I was sent to steal something from the Thenolites at the start of the Godless Night. I came this very way, 1 think."

"What did you steal?" he whispered, though his voice sounded strangely loud in the stillness.

She thought a moment, then shook her head. "I don't remember. Some Hithian relic, I'm sure. It was forty years ago—I've had a lot of jobs, since then. Even elven memories fade."

Forlo considered this and seemed to decide she wasn't tying. "This is where the worst part begins," he said. "I've just sent Grath down a passage back there, with half my men."

He nodded behind them, into the shadows. There were soldiers with him, men and minotaurs alike, about a dozen strong. The humans were all afraid. With the bull-men it was harder to tell. Shedara stared back down the tunnel, her brow furrowing, then turned to peer ahead again.

"This is the right way," she said. "I recall that much. It leads to the Great Fane."

"And Ondelos," Forlo said.

"Do you remember that?"

He thought about it and shook his head. "Nothing. There's something—it's like a wall of fog, covering my memories."

"I know," she said. She could feel the obscuring magic, just ahead. Certainly it lay before the Fane, where the bishop was probably praying to his dark god. Where he hid, awaiting his doom. "We should keep moving. The dream pulls us."

And it did—a subtle tug, like a breeze blowing them from behind. This way. Forlo seemed to feel the pull too, for he nodded and held out his free hand, motioning them both forward. They walked, the soldiers following behind. The others didn't seem to think it was strange she was there—but then, they weren't real people. It was all in Forlo's mind.

She saw the little shape even before he did, and stiffened, the hairs on the back of her neck standing straight. The torches made her elvensight hazy, but the shape was so cold. That was what made Forlo shout in his sleep, what woke him every night and sent him out onto the Northwatch, gasping for air. It was his unborn son, a child of maybe four or five summers, as humans reckoned it. A boy who would never see six.

"Hold," Shedara breathed, stretching her arm out to block Forlo's path. "If you get too close, the dream will break."

He obeyed, suddenly pale, his eyes wide, like black pools. He was shaking a little and the tip of his sword quivered before him.

"What now?" he asked, his voice almost inaudible.

She studied the dead boy, standing still in the dim before them and watching them with eyes rolled back in their sockets. His mouth hung slack and a rubbery rope of drool hung from his lower lip. The boy wasn't real… he was a dream, not a memory. Probably brought on and given his form by the dark crevices of Forlo's own deepest thoughts, when he learned Essana was with child. The human mind possessed a strangeness Shedara would never fully fathom.

Staring at the little corpse, she saw the threads of magic, winding and tangling around the boy, binding it to something—whatever spell was blocking Forlo's memory. The magic threads drifted like strands of spidersilk, black, writhing, and leading back down the tunnel. She knew then what she had to do.

"Leave it to me," she said. "Whatever happens, don't move from where you stand."

Forlo said nothing, only grimaced as the dead child in the tunnel lolled its head, making rasping sounds in the back of its throat. Shedara stepped forward and the dream-boy snapped back to itself, tensing with a snarl. It sniffed the air, its long-nailed Fingers twisting into hooks. She ignored it and did not fear it. It was not real. It could only harm her if she believed in it.

She reached out, focusing her mind on its binding-spell, calling on the magic that coursed through her veins. The air seemed to ripple and quiver, making a shimmering wake behind her hand as it darted toward the child—then deliberately missed him, grabbing hold of the black threads instead.

They were cold to the touch, as cold as anything she'd ever felt. Cold enough to burn, and she caught her breath and nearly let them go. But she didn't. She fought through the jolt of dark power that surged out of them, tightened her grip… and, with a violent wrench, ripped them away from Forlo's dead son. The apparition screamed, its face bunching into wrinkles around a huge, blackened mouth… then dissolved like sand, vanishing in the time it took for her to draw her next breath.

The spell was almost broken. But she still held the threads. They had to be destroyed. Shedara focused her mind on them, and sent a single thought into each and every fiber. Break.

And they broke. One by one, like a harp with a blade drawn across it. She even imagined they made sounds—a faint, glasslike ringing as they gave way. Behind her Forlo shuddered, and the walls of the tunnel shifted, swelling and contracting like a living thing. Shedara held her breath, worried he might wake and end the dream before her work was finished. Instead he groaned, and the walls grew still again. She exhaled, slowly.

"Is it gone?" he asked, his voice shaking.

She glanced back at him. His face was as white as marble and there were deep shadows under his eyes. Breaking the spell had hurt him, but he would recover. He would be better for having gone through this, for knowing what had happened in the Thenolites' high church. She hoped so, anyway.

"Gone," she repeated. "We need to go on."

He nodded, trembling. Not wanting to move, he took a step anyway, then another. She fell in beside him, resting a comforting hand on his shield arm, and they walked on down the tunnel together.

They walked in silence and darkness for a long time. Nothing came to thwart them and nothing appeared out of the gloom, until finally, a door faded into view at the edge of the torchlight. The door was tall, fifteen feet high, and made of black stone. Chunks of red crystal—garnets, by Shedara's guess, worth a small fortune on their own—were set into it, forming the shape of a skeletal hand. Yes, she had been here before. Had gone through these very doors, to steal… a holy text, that was it. A book printed on pages of human skin, sacred to Hith. She'd taken it from the Thenolites' altar and brought it back to Armach-nesti. Thalaniya had ordered the book burned.

On the other side of the door lay the fane, and the bishop. And… what?

"Only one way to find out," murmured Forlo. The tip of his sword came up. Around him, the other soldiers tensed as well.

Shedara nodded. "Let's go."

The doors opened easily, soundless, offering no resistance. Ghostly blue light spilled out, turning everything gray and killing the last vestiges of Shedara's elvensight. Within, the fane was a vast cavern, lit by braziers where flames the color of glaciers danced in silence. Bones were piled everywhere, arranged to form benches, columns, and tall pyramids of skulls that stared at them from a thousand dark eye sockets. Flayed bodies hung from hooked chains, many still clad in the regalia of the Imperial League, all too badly mutilated to tell whether they had been man or minotaur in life. All were sacrifices, lives taken in the name of the Thenolites' horrible god.

There, on the far side, stood the altar. It, too, was made of bones: pelvises, femurs, and spines, arranged to form a great block ringed round with the curving arcs of ribs. The whole thing was stained dark with blood, shining wet and black in the ghost-light. Fresh kills, made just moments ago.

Ondelos was stooped over the altar, his robes soaked through, working at something with a knife. He glanced up as Forlo and his men entered—he wouldn't be able to see Shedara, for she hadn't been there when this happened—the madness in his eyes glaring like a beacon. Something fell from his grasp, to lie in a bundle on the floor. Scores of other bundles lay there too.

Only they weren't bundles at all. They had arms and legs. Little arms and legs. They were children.

"Oh, gods," Shedara groaned. Behind her, one of the soldiers retched. Forlo stayed silent, standing perfectly still.

Ondelos grinned, raised his bloody, sickle-bladed dagger, and spoke a single word with such force the brazier-flames billowed away from him. A wave of power—not magic, but divine, and as foul as anything Shedara had ever felt—swept over them. It brought with it a charnel stink, strong enough to make their eyes water. Then, one by one, the children's bodies began to move.

First their limbs twitched, then they started to fumble at the floor, trying to find purchase. A few breaths later they sat up. Some fell over again as they tried to push themselves up further. But bit by bit, they managed to make their flailing, mindless way to their feet. When they were all up—there had to be seventy of them, dressed in robes all covered in blood—they turned, as one, to face Forlo and his men.

Shedara knew exactly what had happened. This was Ondelos's last defense. He had expended all the adults under his command, had sent them all to their deaths against the League. Now he had spent the children as well. He had murdered them, Hith's name on his lips, all so he could raise them and send them into battle against his enemies. Each and every child had an identical red slash across his or her throat. Each had felt the kiss of the bishop's knife.

Shedara looked back at Forlo. Tears sheeted down his cheeks. His sword wavered in his hand. His resolve was faltering and so was his men's: Shedara didn't blame them.

"They aren't children any more, Barreth," she said. "Look at me. These are monsters. They must be destroyed… and so must he."

She drew a dagger and pointed it across the cave at Ondelos. The bishop was still grinning like a maniac. There was blood on his lips. Seeing him, Forlo scowled and shook himself, throwing off his doubts. Then he looked to his left and right, at his men, nodding. He raised his sword high.

And they charged at the lurching abominations that had been the youngfolk of Hawkbluff.

It was some time after Forlo woke before he would say anything. The others didn't try to make him speak, only sat and waited in the dark, their faces troubled, while he shivered and beat his fists against his temples. Finally, after nearly half an hour, he slumped and looked up at them. The hurt in his eyes made Shedara have to look away for a moment. He'd been the only one of his men to survive the fight, had fought his way to Ondelos and cut the mad bishop's head off with one vicious stroke. But even that moment of righteousness didn't make up for what came before. Could anything?

Essana put her arms around him and drew him close. He clung to her like a man afraid of drowning. He buried his face in her hair and breathed in. Then he looked up at Grath.

"You knew," he growled. The words were like stones dropped from a great height.

The minotaur nodded, sighing heavily. "You were out of your mind when I found you. I had to do something. So I had one of the mages cast a spell on you. I thought that if you were able to forget the horror… you would be better."

Forlo stared at him with venom, then he looked away. "Get out, Grath. Go back to Rekhaz. I don't want you here."

"My friend—"

"Go!"

The shout's echoes snapped around the room. Grath flinched as though he'd just been whipped. Then, head bowed, he turned and left the room.

"Forlo, I'm sorry," Shedara said.

He turned to look at her, his eyes empty and his mouth a crooked hole. She'd seen that look once, on the face of a man who'd just taken a spear through his stomach. He didn't seem to recognize her at first—and then he did, and composed himself. He became very calm. Somehow, that was worse.

"The statue is yours," he told her. "Now leave me alone with my wife."

She thought for an instant of protesting, of telling him what she'd said in the dream—that he hadn't slain dozens of children, there in the fane. That the things that perished on his sword were unholy abominations. But he himself knew that… she could see it in his eyes. Knew it, and still couldn't forgive himself. There was nothing she could do.

So she left him. The door, when it shut behind her, made a sound like a stone rolling to seal a tomb.