Realm of Light (4 page)

“Mahiran,” she
answered.

Scowling, Kostimon
opened his mouth as though to argue further, but a dreadful screech from the
first, and largest,
shyriea
filled the cavern. Lifting itself into the
air with strong flaps of its wings, it flew at them.

Elandra screamed.

Shouting a war
cry, Kostimon drew his sword and brandished it aloft. “Choven steel!” he shouted
defiantly. “Come and eat it, you harpy of the devil!”

Beside Elandra’s
shying horse, Caelan gripped her stirrup and raised the warding key in his
hand. He shouted something in a language she did not understand—Trau, perhaps.
The sound of the words made her feel dizzy and strange.

The disk in his
upraised palm glowed and came to life. Light flashed in a ray from it to the
disk pinned to Kostimon’s cloak to his sword. As though in response, Elandra’s
gloves and cloak also glowed with light until the combined radiance was
blinding.

The
shyriea
swooped at them from overhead, only to wheel back, screaming. She realized it
could not harm her or these two men under their protection spell.

As for the light
around her, it grew ever brighter. She felt as though she were being burned up,
and yet the fire that blazed through her was both strangely cool and
exhilarating.

The horses,
lathered and terrified, galloped across the cavern to the others, where the
priest was hastily administering a goblet of something—sacramental wine,
perhaps—to the guardsmen. Caelan kept pace at Elandra’s horse’s side, running
effortlessly, his golden hair on fire, his eyes cold white flames. His skin was
like tempered bronze, shining in the unearthly light. He was singing as he ran,
the words still in some mysterious tongue that awakened strange sensations in
her.

Elandra felt as
one with this man, as though she had joined his heart and mind. She saw his
goodness, his loyal heart, his honesty, and his pain.

As for Kostimon,
on her other side, she felt as one with him also, joined with him for the first
time. His aged looks had fallen away. He looked as young as Caelan, lean and
glorious, his face radiant as he tipped back his head and laughed aloud. White
flames shot from his mouth, driving back the
shyriea
again. She had
never seen a man more handsome or magnificent than Kostimon, with his black
curly hair and strong shoulders.

Laughing again, he
spoke something even older and more powerful than Caelan’s incantations. The
word appeared in the air, blazing with fire, and the largest
shyriea
swallowed it, only to scream and explode into ashes. The other demons vanished
also, their screams echoing long after they faded.

There was an awful
stink of sulfur and death in the cavern, choking the air.

The fire blazing
in Elandra died, as suddenly as it had come to life. She dropped down in her
saddle, not realizing until then that she had been standing in her stirrups.
She felt dazed and winded.

On her left,
Caelan lowered his hand with the warding key and stumbled. He released her
stirrup and let her horse shoot past him. The fiery radiance encircling him
like a halo faded and disappeared.

On her right,
Kostimon looked around and laughed. Strong, vigorous, and handsome, he was
glorious, more splendidly male than she could have ever imagined. This was the
man who had vanquished countless foes, who had gathered an army and forged an
empire. This was a man who had ruled the world for a thousand years, Kostimon
the Great, a man above all men.

Then his sword
stopped flaming and the fire in him vanished.

Before her eyes,
his youthful looks aged swiftly until he was once again an old man slumping in
his saddle. He looked haggard and exhausted. His yellow eyes held torment and
regret of a degree she could not bear to witness.

She wanted to weep
for him, this man who had once held everything in the palm of his hand. How old
he was now, how diminished. And yet, she could see in his eyes that he still
had the spirit and the soul of a man in his prime. Only his body was failing
him, and perhaps, at last, his mind also. She could see his rage, his
frustration, and his fear as his own mortality loomed over him. Now, at last,
having glimpsed what he had once been, she could grieve for him.

“Majesty,” the
priest said urgently. “Come. You must go through the portal
now.”

“Sien,” Kostimon
said, his voice quivering and feeble. He reached out blindly. “I want Lord
Sien.”

The priest came
running to his side. “Lord Sien is not here,” he said. “Please, Majesty. I
cannot command the portal as you wish. Drink this and grow strong.”

Kostimon slumped
lower and moaned. “Help me.”

“Here is the cup,
Majesty,” the priest said, lifting the goblet to the emperor’s lips. “Drink
deeply.”

Elandra drew rein
beside the guardsmen, who were gaping wide-eyed and open-mouthed. She was not
sure just yet exactly what had happened. But the
shyrieas
were gone.
That she did understand.

Kostimon pressed
one hand against his face. His shoulders were shaking, and he leaned over his
horse’s neck as though he would fall out of the saddle. His sword slid to the
ground with a clang of steel upon stone.

“Help him!”
Elandra called.

Baiter and another
man hurried to him, but the priest was already pushing the emperor back into
the saddle. The sergeant bent and picked up the emperor’s sword. Slowly he slid
it into its scabbard.

“Get back,” the
priest said fiercely. He held up a goblet, and Elandra could see ruby-colored
wine swirling inside it. “Drink this. Majesty.”

“Help me,”
Kostimon begged piteously. “I am fainting. I cannot go on—”

“You will be well
again,” the priest assured him, holding the goblet to his lips. “Drink deeply.
This will restore you.”

Kostimon’s fingers
groped and clasped the rim of the goblet. He drank noisily, choking on the
liquid.

Glancing at the
guardsmen who had already drunk the potion, Elandra did not like their glazed
looks and semivacant faces. “They look drunk!” she cried. “What have you given
them?”

“Forgetfulness,”
Lord Sien replied smoothly.

She gasped at the
sound of his voice and glanced around swiftly. He was nowhere to be seen, yet
his voice was unmistakable.

The priest, thin
and serious of expression, walked over to her and lifted the goblet.

From the air,
Sien’s voice said, “To walk through the mouth of Beloth is not easy. It is not
for the faint of heart, not for the unbelievers.”

“We do not worship
the shadow god here!” she said. “Do not utter his dire name in my presence.”

Lord Sien laughed,
his voice thin and ghostly. The shadows within the cavern seemed to grow darker
as though the torchlight was burning out. The Vindicant priest stood motionless
and vacant-eyed, holding the cup.

“Drink, my lady,
what this man offers you. Do not refuse what you do not understand.”

“Oh, I
understand,” she said grimly, goose bumps rising across her skin.

“It is through
Beloth’s mercy that you will escape the trap surrounding you. Drink from the
goblet. It will ease you.”

“No, I thank you,”
she refused him curtly. “I need no potion of yours.”

“Fool!” Sien’s
voice blared loud enough to make the walls of the cavern shake. Elandra’s horse
shied, and she struggled to control the animal. Finally the animal quieted.

Elandra drew in a
deep breath and glanced over her shoulder at Caelan, who stood apart from her
and the others. She could see repudiation and disgust in his face.

“Do you hear
Sien’s voice?” she asked.

He glanced at her,
his eyes blazing an intense blue, and nodded without speaking.

Elandra heard the
sound of splintering wood. Looking back across the cavern, she saw an axe blade
cleave through the wooden panels of the door. Suddenly she could hear shouts
and war cries.

Her heart lurched
anew. “Madruns! They have found us. The spell is not holding.”

“He has released
it,” Caelan corrected her angrily.

Kostimon
straightened in the saddle and picked up the reins lying slack on his horse’s
neck. Turning, the priest hurried back to him and pointed the head of
Kostimon’s horse toward the open portal within the open jaws of the stone
beast.

“Go,” he
commanded, and the horse walked forward.

To Elandra,
whatever lay on the other side looked pitch black. A cold air blew forth, and
it stank of something she could not identify. She averted her eyes, shivering.

“The emperor knows
the way through,” Lord Sien said from his invisible position.

The priest handed
a burning torch to Kostimon, who took it without expression. The emperor’s face
was slack and strangely empty.

“He has gone this
way many times,” Sien’s voice said. “Follow him, and you will be safe.”

“Majesty, no—”
Elandra called after her husband, but Kostimon did not look back. Afraid for
him, she started to call again, but Caelan touched her foot to silence her.

“He does not hear
you,” Caelan said quietly. “Or if he does, it makes no difference to him now.”

Kostimon rode
through the portal, lazily ducking his head just in time to go under the low
entrance. The darkness engulfed him instantly, and Captain Vysal rode in after
him. The other mounted guardsmen followed, then the men on foot. Sergeant
Baiter brought up the rear.

The sergeant
glanced back at Elandra, who still hesitated.

The door at the
other end of the cavern gave way with a splintering crash, and Madruns poured
through. She stared at them, caught between two very different kinds of danger,
and felt her own resistance give way.

“Caelan,” she
said, hearing urgency and fear shaking in her voice, “will your warding key not
work again?”

“Not against
barbarians of our world,” he replied. “Go.”

It was as though
he gave her permission.

“And what of you?”
she asked worriedly. “Will you also take this journey?”

He shook his head.
“I will hold them as long as I can—”

“Don’t be a fool!”
she interrupted angrily. “Your death will not serve me.”

“He fears to walk
the hidden ways, Majesty,” Lord Sien said, mocking them even as he remained too
much a coward to face them physically again. “Yes, even a warrior like him
comes eventually to his own limit. Call it cowardice if you wish, but he will
not take the path to safety. He will not pay. its price.”

“What price?” she
asked in alarm. “What do you mean?”

Caelan’s gaze
shifted to watch the Madruns, who were entering the large cavern cautiously,
almost fearfully. A crease appeared between his brows, but he remained aloof,
as though nothing could touch him, as though he were encased in ice, without
feelings. Yet she knew he was capable of feeling deeply, beneath his icy
surface.

“What price?” she
asked again. “What lies waiting in there?”

“Only the
mysteries,” Lord Sien replied. “Will you take the cup? I can guarantee your
safety no other way.”

The unnamed priest
held up the goblet to her again.

“I do not trust
you,” she said. “I will stay here, and take my chances with the kind of danger
I understand.”

Sien’s voice made
no reply, but it was Caelan who turned on her.

“Don’t be
foolish!” he said angrily, surprising her. “You are needed elsewhere.”

“I will stay.”
With you,
she wanted to say but did not quite dare.

He glared up at
her. “Then you make worthless everything that was done tonight! Every man’s
death was for nothing—”

“I will go if you
go!” she shouted back, equally angry. “Otherwise I will not.”

“You—”

“Did you not
rebuke the emperor’s men for refusing to serve me?” she said over his words.
“Did you not take the same oaths as they?”

Caelan’s face
darkened. He met her eyes furiously. He said nothing.

She met him look
for look, afraid and stubborn. “Unless you hold the bridle of my horse and
enter that darkness with me, I will not go.”

“You put all of us
in danger!” the priest suddenly said. “Beloth’s curses on both of you. I will
not wait here to be torn to bits.”

As he spoke, a war
cry rose from the Madruns.

It chilled
Elandra’s blood. She looked and saw them coming now, as though they had finally
seen their quarry. Pointing and brandishing their war clubs, they came at a
run.

Elandra’s heart
filled her mouth, and her hands tightened involuntarily on the reins, making
her horse back up. All her courage drained away. She did not think she could
carry out her bluff with Caelan, and she was ashamed of herself, bitterly
ashamed.

But just before
she whirled her horse to bolt through the portal, Caelan gave her a curt nod.

“As you wish,” he
said ungraciously.

“The cup,” the
priest said quickly. He held up the goblet. “They will be on us in a moment.
Drink it now.”

Frowning, feeling
as though she were surrendering her soul, Elandra took the goblet. The gleam of
triumph in the priest’s eyes frightened her anew. She took a tiny sip, and
instantly her mouth was on fire. Choking, she thrust the cup away, almost
dropping it so that part of its contents splashed over the side.

Her mouth was on
fire, but in its wake came a strange numbness that crept through her face, then
down her throat and into her limbs. She found that everything looked strangely
crooked and out of perspective. The portal seemed very far away, yet she was
already riding through it. Her hair brushed the top of the opening, and she
ducked just in time. She entered a darkness as cold and as encompassing as the
grave.

Caelan shook his
head when the priest offered him the cup. With a curse, the priest fled through
the portal ahead of them.