Chapter Seven

The face of the Guardian was that of Beva E’non. Northern pale, drawn thin beneath the prominent cheekbones, the mouth a thin, uncompromising line. Bleak gray eyes that bored into Caelan’s soul.

He stared, unable to believe it. “Father?” he whispered.

Almost as he spoke, Elandra tugged at his hand as though she wanted to break free. Her gaze remained centered on the Guardian as though she were mesmerized.

“Bixia?” she said. “How come you to this place?”

The Guardian swung its eyes toward Elandra and spoke something, but Caelan could not hear the words it said.

He frowned, his puzzlement and sense of alarm intensifying. This could not be his father. Beva was dead, killed by Thyzarene raiders years before. His soul had been released into the world of spirits, was now part of the spruce forests, part of the glacier, part of the rain and the falling snow.

Yet no matter how hard Caelan stared at the Guardian, it continued to be his father’s stern, unyielding face that he saw.

But what name had Elandra said? Whom did she see while she gazed up at the Guardian’s visage? Why did she smile so tremulously, so apologetically, so regretfully? Why did tears shimmer in her eyes?

“Who is Bixia?” he asked, but Elandra did not seem to hear him.

She was still gazing at the Guardian, listening to it utter words that Caelan could not hear. Various expressions chased across her face, and he worried that she was falling under some spell. He must not lose her now.

Pulling her to her feet, Caelan pushed her behind him.

Glaring up at the face of his father, he saw Beva’s gray eyes shift and focus upon him.

A shudder passed through Caelan. In an instant he was ten years old and standing on the wall surrounding their hold. Spring sunshine warmed his shoulders, and the air lay fragrant from the blossoming apple trees. He stood next to his father, who rested a hand casually on his shoulder as they watched a pair of birds building a nest in a larch tree beyond the wall. For once there was no argument between them, no scolding, no lectures ... only peace and mutual enjoyment. The nest completed, one bird flew away, but the other one—the female, judging by her drab colors— perched on the edge of her creation and sang.

Caelan and his father glanced at each other and smiled.

Thinking of that long-forgotten moment opened a boiling cauldron of emotions in Caelan. Tears stung his eyes, and he wanted to cry out to the man he had loved so very, very much, the man he had never been able to please, the man he had never been able to reach. What had gone wrong for them? Why had he failed so utterly to be what his father demanded he become?

He met his father’s eyes now and opened his mouth. Now was his opportunity to say he was sorry. Now was his chance to set things right.

“Yes, Caelan?” Beva’s voice spoke his name with warmth, urging him to say the words.

Caelan’s chest hurt. His eyes were burning. Tears slipped down his cheeks, and he realized he was crying. Everything in him wanted to rush to his father, to find a way to bridge the chasm between them.

“Father—” He choked up and glanced away, trying to gain control over his voice. “Father, I—I want to—”

“Yes, my son?” Beva’s voice prompted. How gentle it was, how kind, how loving. It drew Caelan as nothing else could.

He took a step toward his father, then stopped with a frown. That was not his father’s way of speaking, never his father’s tone.

This was not really Beva. And Caelan was not really back in Trau at E’nonhold. Struggling against the beauty surrounding him, the dark green forest, the arching sky, the familiar shapes of the buildings inside the hold, Caelan reminded himself that he was in the realm of shadow, and everything before him was a trick.

With effort, he severed the vision, letting it fade and the strange gloom return. His eyes were still wet, but now he ached for what had never been and never would be. It was past. Old hurts became grooves in the soul. They no longer made fresh wounds.

Tipping back his head, he faced the Guardian again. But this time he did not meet those stern eyes. This time he focused his gaze slightly to one side, and let the memories slide away.

“You are the Guardian of the gate that leads back to the world of light,” he said, making his voice harsh and brisk. “We do not belong here. Let us pass.”

“Caelan,” said his father’s voice, sounding bewildered and a little hurt, “don’t you remember me, my son? I am your—”

“No!” Caelan said sharply. “You are not my father. He is dead. You are the Guardian. Let us pass through the gate.”

The Guardian tilted its head. “Do you not think the dead can come here?”

“Perhaps they can,” Caelan admitted, finding a lump in his throat. “If they deserve it. But you are not my father, no matter how much like him you look.”

Beva’s face frowned, and his eyes grew stony. “Then look at this!”

As the words were spoken, Beva’s face melted as though it had become hot wax, his features sliding down the skull bones to fall, hissing, on the ground. For a second a bleached skull with terrible glowing eyes stared at Caelan, and now it was no longer Beva’s calm, flat voice that issued from the gaping jaw of this apparition but instead a voice like thunder, raw and savage.

“Is this better?” it demanded.

Caelan’s heart pounded so fast he felt dizzy. His wits felt like charred bits of paper, blown and scattered. Hanging onto his last shreds of courage, he forced himself to nod in answer. “It is more truthful.”

“Truth?” the Guardian roared, making the ground shake under Caelan’s feet. “Is this truth?”

Again its visage changed, the skull suddenly on fire, flames bursting forth through eye holes and nostril slits, charring the bones until they were black and crumbling. The flames grew brighter, hotter, until instead of a head there was only a blazing ball of fire and light, too bright to look at.

Elandra cried out in fear, and Caelan turned away, shielding his eyes.

“Don’t look at it!” he told her. “Whatever you do, don’t look directly at it.”

He couldn’t keep from staggering back. He believed it was going to engulf them in flame and destroy them on the spot. He drew his sword, but suddenly the blade was on fire, blazing up like a torch. The hilt grew too hot to hold, and with a cry he was forced to drop it. Beneath his feet, the ground itself began to burn. Little tongues of flame popped forth from the soil, reaching hungrily for the hem of Elandra’s gown.

But where they touched her cloak, they fell back as though extinguished, and burned no more.

A moment later, the air cooled to a bearable degree. The ground also cooled. The flames disappeared. Caelan’s sword lay misshapen and partially melted on the ground. The light emanating from the Guardian’s head dimmed, and once again only a bare skull with glowing eyes gazed at Caelan.

“Who is this woman?” it asked him.

Its voice no longer reverberated with deafening volume, but it sounded blurred and scratchy and deep. Danger lay real within its tone.

Caelan wiped the sweat from his face and straightened up. He felt breathless, as though he had run a long distance. His heart still went too fast. They had come very close to death.

“Who is this woman?” the Guardian demanded again. “She did not burn. She wears protection, spell-woven garments.”

Caelan pulled himself together. “She is my heart,” he answered.

“Say her name.”

Caelan said nothing. Elandra shrank close against him; he could hear the quick rasp of her breathing and remembered how earlier she had begged him not to speak her name aloud. Now he sensed the danger closing around them. To speak a name as commanded here transmitted great power. He dared not obey.

“You know everything else!” Caelan said to the Guardian, putting a jeer into his voice. “You know my life, my memories, my secrets. You know who she is—”

“She is known. But she is protected. Say her name and release her into my power.”

“If I resisted your master, I can resist you,” Caelan said. “Let us leave.”

“The gate is forbidden to all of the realm of shadow.”

“We are not shadow!” Caelan said sharply. “We are light.”

The Guardian pointed a bony digit at him. “Take great care, donare. Your tongue can be burned from your mouth.”

“Let us leave.”

“Speak the name of the woman.”

It was not a choice. He refused to consider it. Caelan told himself he would find another way of escape.

Elandra tugged against him, and fresh fear filled him.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, feeling his strength fading again. If she panicked and fled, he would lose her. “For the love of light, stay with me.”

“Guardian,” Elandra said.

“No!” Caelan cried, turning on her. “Don’t.”

“If you are told my name, will you let us leave?”

“No one leaves the realm of shadow.”

She gazed up at the monster and never hesitated. “Kostimon, emperor of the world of light, passed through the realm of shadow and left it. He has done so many times.”

A dry, rasping noise filled the air. After a moment, Caelan realized it was laughter. The sound chilled him.

“The emperor of light may do many things denied to men ... or donares,” the Guardian replied.

Caelan drew a quick breath and tightened his grip on her hand. “Don’t—”

But she ignored him. Her gaze remained on the Guardian. She held her head high. Proudly, she said, “I am the empress of light. I may pass through the realm of shadow and leave it, as may my escort.”

The Guardian’s shoulders drew up, and it lowered its head toward her like a predator. It hissed in satisfaction. “You are the woman called Ela in Kostimon’s dreams. You are the one we have searched for. The Master wants you.”

Caelan saw her face go white. His own felt cold and drained of blood. “No,” he whispered.

“Stay calm, donare,” the Guardian said without glancing his way. “You have not the strength to fight me.”

Elandra’s face held no color. Her eyes looked huge, but she did not quail. To the Guardian, she said, “Kostimon dreams of many women. Kostimon owns many women. I am the empress sovereign. Grant me passage.”

“You are the woman called Ela—”

“That is not my name!” she shouted. “In the name of the force that rules you, stand aside and let me pass!”

The Guardian stood silent and unmoving, its implacable gaze locked on Elandra.

Her eyes dropped shut. “Sweet mother goddess, bless the weavers of Mahira and their protection.”

“Amen,” Caelan responded, although he wasn’t sure if the goddess would be insulted by the prayer of a man.

“You will speak your name.”

“I am the empress sovereign,” she replied. “That is name enough. I am one with Kostimon.”

The Guardian uttered a low, grumbling sound of displeasure. “Kostimon has not spoken your name to the Master, but he will. Kostimon has not told the Master he gave sovereignty to a wife, but he will explain. Kostimon has not mentioned that his wife keeps a donare as a pet, no, not after Kostimon promised the Master he would have no such creatures—no donares, no jinjas, no Penestricans, no seers—in his palace to interfere with the plans of the Master. Kostimon has kept many secrets, but soon he will tell them.”

“Let Kostimon give the answers,” she said boldly, her face ashen. “That is his place, not mine. Let me pass, as he has passed.”

“Kostimon went not through my gate,” the Guardian said. “Kostimon does not come to the temple of Beloth except to drink from the Cup of Immortality.”

As it spoke, the Guardian turned to one side and gestured below at the bottom of the amphitheater, where stood an altar stained with blood and ringed with flames that burned in midair.

“Do you ask for this cup?” the Guardian asked.

“We do not,” Caelan said firmly before Elandra could answer. “We ask only for passage through the gate.”

Again there came the rasping sound that was the Guardian’s laughter. “Do you know where the gate leads, donare?”

Another trick question. Caelan’s spirits dropped, but he allowed himself to show no hesitation. “It leads to the world of light.”

“I guard the Gate of Sorrows. Will you pay the toll?”

“What toll?” Caelan asked warily.

The Guardian’s glowing eyes blazed into his and held them before he could look away. “If you go through it, you must return.”

“No!” Elandra said before Caelan could speak. “He is here only because of me. I will pay the toll for both of us.”

Aghast, Caelan looked at her in horror. “You don’t know what you’re doing. Make no bargain, Majesty.” He turned to the Guardian. “She is the empress. Her passage is free.”

“Not in the world of shadow, mortal,” the Guardian said angrily. “Take care. She rules in light, but here in darkness our lady is Mael and her name stands supreme beside the Master’s.”

Caelan found his mouth so dry it took two swallows for him to speak again. “I am corrected,” he said at last, cautiously.

The Guardian stared at him, then at Elandra. “Very well,” it said. “Passage is granted for both, in exchange for the price you will pay.”

“No,” Caelan said in horror. “Please, don’t—”

“What is your price?” Elandra asked.

“You will know, when the time comes to pay.”

Caelan frowned, unable to believe Elandra was considering this. “Don’t agree,” he said sharply to her. “He’s influencing your mind. Don’t listen.”

“I agree,” Elandra said. Her voice did not falter.

The Guardian extended its gloved hand to Elandra. “Touch me to seal your word.”

“No!” Caelan cried hoarsely, but Elandra put her hand in the clasp of the Guardian. She flinched and for a moment her eyes went blank. Then she was frowning and pulling free.

Caelan felt hollow with despair at what she’d done. But it was too late now to stop her. He couldn’t believe that now, at this final moment, he had failed to protect her.

Taking Elandra’s hand, Caelan faced the Guardian. “Let us go,” he said angrily.

The Guardian turned its back on them and glided away. Caelan followed, leading Elandra, who was weeping. She covered her face with her free hand and would not look at him.

Ahead of them, yellowish green light glowed between the two tall pillars. As before, when Caelan gazed at it, his eyes began to itch and burn. What would happen when they stepped into that light? What would it do to them? He did not want to know, yet it was the only way out.

The Guardian drew its cowl over its head, concealing its terrible visage at last, and stopped by the gate so that the eerie light shone over its black robes. It raised both hands, and the soldiers jumped to their feet, roaring a deafening torrent of sound.

It was louder than anything Caelan had ever heard in the arena, savage and lustful and triumphant. He did not know why they were cheering. He did not think he wanted to know.

The roar went on and on until the ground shook with it. The Guardian spoke, but its words could not be heard in the din. Words appeared in the air, hanging there, burning there for a moment, before fading with little wisps of black smoke.

The Guardian pointed at the gateway, and Caelan drew in a deep breath. He held tightly to Elandra’s hand, determined not to lose her now, yet knowing he already had.

“The Gate of Sorrows,” the Guardian said, still pointing. “Go.”

Caelan glanced at Elandra, who stood with her face averted from his. “Be brave,” he said, as much to encourage himself as her. “We’re nearly there.”

She did not respond.

Without further hesitation, he stepped between the pillars and led her into the light.