Chapter Three

Stepping through the portal took every ounce of Caelan’s courage. The darkness was a living force, something that pressed against him from all sides, seeking his soul. Sevaisin, his special gift for joining, brought him unwelcome awareness. He could sense the putrid evil that permeated the walls of the passageway and filled the darkness itself, an evil so strong and pervasive it comprised the very air he breathed.

Spell residues crisscrossed the chilly air. They were long expired and too ancient to cause harm, yet he could sense how powerful and dangerous they had been.

He drew in deep breaths, sensing unnameable things lurking unseen beyond the darkness, beyond the walls of the passageway. The things were aware of him. He sensed the shift and focus of their attention, the stirring and awakening of the evil force itself.

He found himself afraid, with a fear that bathed him in sudden cold sweat. His mouth went dry. He could not breathe. The hair on his arms rose in swift prickles, and his heart pounded in sudden, uncontrollable panic.

Get out of here, urged a voice inside him. Get out. Get out!

Yet it was too late. His sweating fingers gripped Elandra’s horse’s bridle, and he quickened his pace toward the emperor’s torch—very dim—blazing ahead of them. Elandra had hesitated too long, letting the distance between her and the others stretch uncomfortably far.

Behind them, the approaching Madruns yelled and cursed in their barbaric tongue, pounding their weapons on their shields in an unholy din that echoed off the cavern walls. The priest jumped through the portal with a gasp of fear.

Caelan danced back in time to see a bright flash of light. The air smelled suddenly of something burning, yet there was no fire. Without being touched, the heavy stone portal swung shut as though of its own volition, and the bolts shot home. Sparks burst from the hinges, setting off orange flames that burned impossibly in midair for a moment before gradually disappearing. The door, however, continued to glow faintly.

Caelan recognized the dark magic. Stark, primal fear twisted his entrails. He had seen much in the years he had lived in Impe-ria, yet never before had he willingly entered the shadow realm. Better to traverse this passageway quickly in the emperor’s wake, and pray that whatever lived within the darkness would let them pass unharmed.

Instinctively he reached for the warding key in his pocket. It should have been glowing and hot in response to the magic that had just been released, but the metal disk lay cold and lifeless against his palm.

Fresh sweat broke out across Caelan’s forehead. The warding spell that had been linked across himself, Elandra, and Kostimon must have exhausted all the power within the key. Once again he pushed down incipient panic and reminded himself to keep his head. Using sevaisin, he attempted to bring the warding key to life, but it remained unresponsive.

Abandoning it in his pocket, Caelan wiped his forehead and told himself the warding key would not be necessary. All he had to do now was catch up with the emperor.

Accordingly, he clucked at Elandra’s nervous horse, leading it forward.

The lady herself uttered not a word. He was not certain she could. As for himself, he had the uncomfortable feeling that this was no place for casual utterances. Words might draw the attention of whatever lived here.

He did not even dare call out to the emperor’s party ahead of them. Although he believed he and Elandra would be safer with numbers, he believed even more strongly that making too much noise was unwise.

A cobweb brushed its filmy strands across his face, making him flinch. He lengthened his stride, holding his breath without realizing it. Elsewhere in the gloom he could hear whispers of sounds, indistinguishable and somehow menacing. Sometimes, an unexpected breeze—cold, dank, and smelling of the grave—would blow into his face, then die away.

Nothing came near him. Still, this was the realm of shadow, and it was populated. His nostrils picked up a faint, musky, cloying scent like that of decayed flowers, and he drew in a sharp breath. A Haggai witch was nearby. When his feet crossed a patch of slickness, he knew he’d just walked over the slime trail of her passage.

He slowed down, every sense alert, his free hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He must be careful, every moment.

Yet the Haggai was gone.

After a time, her scent faded and he slowly relaxed. However, there were other scents, other indications that denizens of this place had recently been present. It was as though they had cleared the passageway for the emperor and his party.

If that were true, Caelan refused to think about the implications. The emperor’s involvement with the shadow gods had been made all too clear. He had passed this way before, and he commanded elements that no mortal man should even know about.

Caelan felt more beads of sweat trickling from his forehead. He longed for a drink of cool water, longed to rest. Instead, he quickened his pace again, breaking into a jog and urging the horse to trot beside him. Never mind his fatigue. Never mind that he had been fighting through half the night, or that his nerves were tight to the breaking point, or that his emotions were drained and weary. It was time to catch up with the others.

Yet no matter how fast he went, he could not close on them. Only an occasional flicker of torchlight in the far distance told him they were still ahead. But he never saw the men, never heard them or their horses. It was as though the darkness had swallowed them whole, and they were gone.

In his head, he marked off the distance, counting his strides, grimly determined not to be left behind.

When he had gone a league, he finally stumbled to a halt, breathing hard and trembling from exhaustion. His legs were burning; his wind was gone. The torchlight ahead vanished completely.

He heard no sounds from the emperor’s party. He and Elandra had been left behind.

“No,” he said aloud, his voice hoarse with panting. He leaned against the wall and wiped sweat from his face. Its pungent scent reminded him that he was alive, that he was of the world of life and light aboveground, that he did not belong down here in this hole, in this grave.

Yet, how long was the way to safety? Was there hope of getting out, or had Sien trapped them down here forever? ‘

Caelan no longer believed he could catch up with the others. He suspected that there was a reason why he and Elandra had been cut off from the others, and he did not like where that thought led.

Groaning a little, he pushed himself upright and strode forward again.

Time ceased to have meaning. As he walked, he grew numb and spent. Every inch of him ached, yet it was more than mere physical exhaustion. The fire of the warding keys that had united him with Kostimon and Elandra had used up his inner resources as well. Three forms of magic—Choven, Mahiran, and an indescribable mixture of forces from within the emperor—had blended momentarily. It was as though Caelan, Kostimon, and Elandra each carried some special power inside, kindred power that had linked from one warding key to another with exhilarating effect.

The demonic shryieas had been no match for it.

Even now, just remembering awakened in Caelan a faint, resonant hum of the soul. He craved another taste of that fiery power, longed to feel it course again through him. In those moments he had felt as though he belonged to all the world, was one with nature, yet master of it. He had seemed to be larger than creation itself.

Words could not describe what he had felt, what he had become for those few breathtaking moments.

Caelan had shared with Elandra, becoming one with her. Before tonight he had admired her from afar. His loins had ached with simple infatuation. But she had been forbidden and unattainable. Now, he glanced up at her, unable to see her, yet aware of her like the steady pulse of his own heartbeat. She had given him the beauty of her soul and received his. On some level he felt as though they had walked the road of life together in some other time and place. He felt as though he had known her forever—their memories, laughter, and passion bound together through the endless threads of time. The very concept of it sent tremors through him, for he now understood what it meant to love another more than himself, what it meant to put another first.

Again he glanced at her, and his heart swelled with the words he could not utter. No matter what they had shared in a moment of magic, that had been another world. Reality was this world, the here and now. Elandra still belonged to the emperor.

Frustration sawed through him. Hadn’t he fought in her behalf? Hadn’t he saved her when her husband abandoned her? At this very moment, where was Kostimon? Was he here, by his wife’s side? No, there was only Caelan, faithful Caelan, to watch over her and protect her. Did that not make his claim on her more valid than Kostimon’s?

Caelan gritted his teeth to hold back the temptations that suddenly swept over him. Perspiration popped out across his forehead. He was flooded with heat, with the conviction that he was going mad. His warrior’s blood pumped with a fury that urged him toward the madness. For years his only passions had been hatred and the joy of combat—savage, destructive forces that burned his heart. He had never imagined that he could also burn with love for a woman.

Had she not pleaded with him to come with her? Had she not shown her preference?

She was his. She had always been his.

A stumble tilted Caelan off balance, and his shoulder crashed into the wall. The jolt snapped him back from the edge.

Blinking, he rubbed his face and drew in several quick breaths, amazed at himself.

Was he losing his mind? To be feeling like this, to be thinking like this ... it was treason. It was forbidden. She was not his woman. She was the empress, not some village maiden he could throw over his shoulder and carry off like booty.

She trusted him, and he could not violate that by abducting her. She depended on him, and he could not respond to that with dishonor. Never mind what he wanted. Never mind if he burned as though he had been torched. Never mind that all the forces of a storm whirled and raged inside him, threatening to shatter honor, rules, and what was right.

To love her meant he could not harm her. He could not tempt her into dishonor. He could not even ask her to choose.

Besides, he had shared also with the emperor, becoming one with him. Even now he could still taste the darkness within Kostimon, as well as the incredible force of will that drove the man. Kostimon’s thirst for power, the vigor of his ambition, his lust for life and all that it offered still hummed in Caelan with a resonance that could not be entirely silenced. Caelan realized that he too possessed his own dark side: the failures in his past, his joy of combat and killing, the hatred for old enemies, and an unrequited desire for revenge. Even before his life had changed, before the Thyzarene raiders had destroyed his home and killed his father, before he abandoned Lea to die ... back when life was still good and still full of all possibility, he had craved weapons, had longed to be a soldier simply because he wanted to fight. It had always been a thread of darkness in his blood, calling him. And had the Thyzarenes not come and enslaved him, he would have still used a sword to carve his path of life.

The empire itself had been built by swordpoint and strife. Now the empire was falling. Although tonight the emperor and empress had escaped the traps laid for them, the palace had been sacked and burned by the enemy. Prince Tirhin had seized the throne for himself. Whether he could keep it, with his power base built on treachery and betrayal, remained to be seen.

Only a fool would discount Kostimon. Even old and failing, the emperor was not yet defeated. He could still call on other parts of his empire to rally. He had men who would hold to their oaths of allegiance. He had resources beyond those of his enemies.

But if he had been broken?

Caelan thought of the confused old man arguing over scroll cases instead of plotting strategy. He thought of the coward who had believed a general’s lies to abandon helpless women and servants in the palace. He thought of the fool who had refused to pay heed to warnings.

Now, driven from his own palace, with the very seat of his power wrested from him, a refugee forced to run for his life, where would Kostimon go? Who would support him? Could he rejoin the main forces of his army? Could he drive the Madruns from his borders? Could he recover from this coup? Could he summon the wits and the strength to lead the men still loyal to him?

The man was ancient, at the end of his time. Even if he drove his enemies back, he could not beat his own fate. Age was finally conquering him, a man who had not surrendered to mortality for nearly a millennium.

How long did the old man have?

His threads of life were thin and weak. He might have days. He might have hours.

And when he died, what then?

Caelan’s eyes narrowed. What would it be like to seize power in Kostimon’s stead?

What would it be like to ride at the head of the imperial army, to hear the roaring shouts of acclaim? What would it be like to have absolute command over the lives of everyone? To have wealth, glory, and possessions?

What would it be like to travel from one end of the vast empire to the other, ruler of every scrap of earth beneath one’s boot soles? What would it be like to change laws, to effect reforms, to free slaves, to abolish slavery altogether? He could drive out the evil Vindicants, close temples, put an end to forbidden rites and practices.

A surge of confidence and ambition swept through him before he tried to thrust his thoughts aside. He was a fool to think such things. Yet he felt ambition burning bright inside him. Prince Tirhin had no more right to rule than any other man. There had been no prophecy cast to indicate a successor. The future of the empire lay open like an arena, with no rules, ready to be taken by the best and strongest.

I am that man.

But was he? Caelan frowned at himself in self-ridicule. He was a former slave, an ex-gladiator, a provincial nobody from nowhere.

But Kostimon had been a nobody from nowhere, Caelan reminded himself. No one could remember where Kostimon had come from originally. What clan? What tribe? What region of the empire? The scrolls of history had been rewritten many times, whenever Kostimon wanted to reinvent his past. A strong man could take the reins of power, if he dared.

A sharp pain flared in Caelan’s chest without warning, making him gasp and double over. His fingers slackened on the bridle, and Elandra’s horse pulled free and trotted on without him.

Alarmed by the thought of becoming separated from her in the darkness, he called, “Elandra, wait—”

The pain hit him again, and he could not finish his sentence. Gritting his teeth, he staggered forward a step, then sank to his knees. He had to call out to her, had to stop her, had to stay with her. But the pain was too great. It consumed him, and he had not even the breath to cry out.

For a moment he thought he had been wounded by some mysterious force coming at him from the darkness. But his groping fingers found no cuts, no blood. Nothing tangible had attacked him.

Gasping through another burst of pain, Caelan fought to hold himself upright. He would not fall, he told himself grimly, struggling to hang on. He would not die here in this evil place, alone and forgotten.

The pain grew more intense, stabbing and hot, until his face dripped with sweat and he thought he must scream from it. Then it ebbed enough for him to catch his breath. He opened his eyes. As his senses came back to him, he realized the pain was focusing itself now into one central spot just below his throat.

The emerald . . .

He loosened the thong holding his amulet bag and pulled it over his head in a swift yank. Then, with fumbling, unsteady fingers, he opened the bag and poured out his talisman. Originally there had been two emeralds, one thumb-sized, the other smaller. They had been given to him by his younger sister Lea shortly before he had been captured by Thyzarene raiders, never to see her again. Later, on the hillside of Sidraigh-hal, the two emeralds had fused together into a single, irregular-shaped stone, somehow becoming larger in the process.

Now, the lumpy gem was glowing here in the darkness, as though possessing a life of its own. And as soon as he dumped it on the ground, it grew again, swelling into a fist-sized gem that flared angrily with radiant, pale green light.

The pain in his chest faded swiftly. Limp with relief, Caelan pressed his palm against the spot and drew in deeper and deeper breaths. He felt clammy now in the cold air blowing through the passageway. His sweat was drying on his skin; his clothing stuck unpleasantly to him beneath his armor. Wiping his face with a corner of his tattered cloak, he thought he heard a footstep in the distance.

His head snapped up. “Elandra?”

She did not reply, and he knew even as he uttered her name that the sound had come from behind him. Elandra was ahead of him, lost already in the darkness beyond the dim light cast by his emerald. It v/as as though the shadow forces were separating them, one by one, from each other. Divide and conquer. Isolate and kill.

The soft scraping sound came again, furtive and quick. Hair prickled on the back of Caelan’s neck. He pushed himself to his feet, drawing his sword, and gazed behind him.

In the eerie light of the emerald, he saw nothing, but he believed the force that had come to life in the stone was drawing the attention of something he did not want to meet.

Caelan did not understand the magic contained within this emerald. He only knew it somehow responded to the shadow forces, fed on their power to mysteriously augment its own. Sometimes it served as a protector; sometimes not. He did not know how to direct it, how to use it. And now it was too large to be concealed in his amulet pouch. He would have to find another way to carry it.

Using a corner of his cloak as a pad against the heat thrown off by the stone, Caelan scooped it up and hurried on. With every stride he listened for sounds of pursuit, but whatever lurked behind him did not follow.

The pain in his chest was gone now, but it had drained him. He knew he was not fast enough, not as alert as he should be.

Sighing, he rubbed his chest and felt old, tired, and mortal. His ambitions had been driven out of him, and now he could only look back at them with wonder and amazement. Why had he even fantasized that he could accomplish such things?

It was time for him to leave Kostimon and Elandra to their fates and go home to Trau. He had unfinished business there, old scores to settle, old ghosts to make peace with. Even if E’nonhold had been destroyed, the land remained. He should claim it before the provincial governor awarded the deed to a purchaser.

And as this determination settled within him, the ambitions faded from his heart. The heat inside his emerald gradually cooled until once again it felt cold and lifeless like any stone. The light it cast went out, and Caelan was once again plunged into the darkness.

He stumbled to a halt, frustrated and discouraged. With all his will, he tried to reach into the stone and reawaken its magic. It remained unresponsive in his fist.

Ahead, however, he heard the plodding hoofbeats of Elandra’s horse. Straightening his shoulders, he reminded himself of his duty to protect this woman and pushed onward.

Jogging on legs that felt leaden with fatigue, Caelan mentally gave thanks for the years of tough conditioning and training for the arena that enabled him to keep going. The walls of the passage began to glow softly, very dimly at first, then strong enough to see by. The illumination came from streaks of a pale, slimy substance on the walls. He dared not touch it, but he was glad to finally be able to see where he was going.

Ahead, Elandra’s horse had stopped and stood with its head down. Elandra’s hands rested on her horse’s neck. The reins dangled free from the bridle.

He staggered up to the animal, taking care not to startle it, and gripped the dangling reins with a sigh of relief. The horse snorted and rubbed its head against him as though seeking comfort. Caelan stroked its muzzle and scratched its ears, too tired to murmur to it.

Sitting a little slumped in her saddle, the empress looked wan and unearthly in the peculiar light. Her long auburn hair had blown across her face and hung there, half concealing her features. Her mouth was slack, and her eyes held nothing at all. It worried him, to see her like that. He did not know how long the spell would last, or whether it would ever wear off.

“Elandra?” he said very softly to her. “Majesty, are you all right?”

She stared into the emptiness ahead of her. She did not blink. She did not move. Her lips remained slightly parted. Only the slight rise and fall of her chest told him she was even alive.

“Majesty,” Caelan said again, knowing he should not try to break the spell that protected her here, but unable to silence himself, “can you speak?”

She remained silent.

Frowning at himself, he shoved his worries away. He urged the horse forward, and together they trudged on.

He could feel the aches of battle: sore muscles grown stiff, the stinging discomfort of scrapes and cuts, the flaring tenderness of bruises. He was hungry. He longed to rest, yet dared not stop.

Gault of infinite mercy, he prayed wearily, guide our way and keep us from harm.

It was a fool’s prayer, he knew. He was a long way from the realm of light, but he repeated his prayer anyway.

A splashing sound and the cold wetness of water filling his boots startled him.

Halting, he peered ahead. At first he could not see the water he stood in, so black was it.

It ran swift over his feet, as icy cold as a glacial stream. Bending over, Caelan splashed it onto his face.

It burned his skin, making him nearly cry out.

Gasping, he staggered back a step and rubbed the water from his eyes. His face still stung, but he was awake now, fully alert again.

With burning eyes, he squinted at the stream. The streaks of glowing illumination were few and far between here, casting only the palest of shadowy light over the black water. He could not judge its width in the gloom.

The water ran swift yet silent, with none of the usual rush and roar of a river. He could smell the water now, and despite the rapid current that should have kept it fresh, it stank like stagnant pond water.

Wrinkling his nose, Caelan severed his nearly overwhelming thirst, putting it aside. This was not drinkable water.

The horse dropped its muzzle to the dark surface of the water as though to drink, but flinched back, snorting and rolling its eyes. It put down its muzzle again, only to refuse to drink. Nervously, the animal backed up.

Caelan jumped at it and succeeded in catching the dangling reins before it could turn around and bolt back the way they’d come.

“No, you don’t,” he said softly through his teeth.

They would have to cross. Better to do it now and get it over with. He hesitated a moment, still trying to calm the unsettled horse, then touched Elandra’s foot briefly.

“Majesty,” he said with respect, “if you can hear me, then see that you hang on tight. I don’t know how deep the water is. We may have to swim, and the current is swift. Take care you don’t let it sweep you from the saddle.”

He looked at her, but she gave no sign of having heard him. Sighing, he took her hand and entwined some of the horse’s mane among her fingers. Her flesh was cold and stiff, almost inanimate. He felt chilled simply from touching her. It was like handling the dead before they are stiffened.

Swiftly he turned away, unwilling to think of her that way.

He unbuckled his sword belt and breastplate, knowing he could not swim weighted down by so much metal. Pulling off his quilted tunic and the linen undertunic beneath it, he rolled the garments, along with his boots and leggings, into his cloak and strapped them across the front of the saddle in hopes they would stay dry. Clad only in his nethers, he secured his sword and armor to the saddle, then wrapped the reins securely around his hand and urged the horse forward. It flinched and resisted, the whites of its eyes glimmering, but he shouted at it and tugged. Finally it plunged forward, nearly knocking him off balance.

Caelan kept shouting, to encourage himself as much as the horse. He pushed his way forward, and the water deepened quickly until it came up to his chest. He felt as though he’d been plunged into ice. The water was so cold it stole his breath. After another step the bottom dropped out from beneath him. He swam awkwardly, keeping his chin and mouth as high above the surface as he could. The stench was bad enough to turn his stomach. He didn’t want to think about what the water contained to make it smell thus.

Snorting, the horse swam beside him. The current grew stronger, and Caelan stayed close against the horse, clinging to a strap of the saddle and trying to steer the animal straight instead of letting the current carry them downstream.

A ghost-pale mist formed on the surface of the water ahead of them, swirling and circling as though alive. Caelan’s sense of danger grew stronger. He did not want to swim into the mist. Yet he could not turn back.

When the clammy fog wrapped its tendrils around his face, Caelan felt himself in sudden, unexpected contact with a torrent of emotions, none of which were his own. They swept over him in a deluge, and the faint sound of weeping and piteous cries filled his ears. He had entered some kind of miasma of human misery. He wanted to weep with the voices. Their agony and torment were unbearable, drowning him. He lost all sense of himself, feeling instead this terrible sorrow and grief that encompassed his soul.

“No,” he said aloud, struggling with the last remnants of his will. “No!”

He severed, isolating himself, and at once there was only roaring silence in his ears instead of anguished wailing. The tendrils of fog melted away, and a light of sorts—very white and pure—shone down on him as though moonlight had somehow reached to the bowels of the earth.

The horse surged ahead of him, lunging up and out of the water onto the bank. Snorting and stamping, it switched its dripping tail and shook itself violently.

Caelan followed, gaining ground only to find his knees buckling beneath him. Despite severance, he had little strength left. But at least he had sweet peace—no tormented emotions, no cries of misery, no pervading coldness, no stench of foul water. Gasping for breath, he collapsed on the ground and passed out.