The Dark Remains (74 page)

We have to get out of here
, Grace started to say.

Another voice spoke first.

“I am so weary, my sister. So terribly weary. I can dance no more.”

“Melia!” Falken cried out. “No!”

Grace jerked her head up in time to see Melia let go of the column to which she had been clinging. Eyes shut, the lady rose into the air. Her small body rolled, until she lay upon her back. Then she drifted away from the balcony, circling with the other debris toward the center of the Etherion.

“Falken!” Beltan shouted. “Hold on to Aryn!”

It was too late. Like Melia, Aryn rose into the air, her eyes shut.

Aryn!
Grace tried to shout across the Weirding.
Aryn, can you hear me?

But the only answer was from the shadow attached to Grace’s life thread. It pressed around her, close, smothering. Grace was too tired to resist anymore. Her eyes drooped shut.

No, that’s what it wants you to do. It wants you to give in to the shadow of the past so it can consume you
.

Grace forced her eyes open. Before her, Beltan’s head lolled on his shoulders.

“Beltan! You’ve got to stay awake.”

She started to shake him, but his arm was ripped from her grasp as he rose into the air to float in the wake of Melia and Aryn. Vani rose up after him. The assassin’s limbs were still, her eyes shut.

The shadow pulsed all around Grace. Everything seemed to grow dim. The call of owls sounded in her mind.

Falken
, she tried to shout, but she couldn’t form words. Nor was there any use. Through the fog she could just make out the shape of the bard drifting up to meet the others. She clutched the stone column.

Don’t close your eyes, Grace. Don’t give in to it. The past can’t harm you. It can’t
—

But even words were too much effort. The column seemed to melt under her fingers. She felt her body grow unbearably heavy, and she could not resist the gravity of the shadow. Grace shut her eyes, and the past swallowed her whole.

“It is no use,” Sareth said, turning from the edge of the precipice and holding a hand to his eyes.

The Mournish man’s words echoed throughout the vastness of the cavern. Lirith gazed at him with worried eyes.

“So there is no sign of the passage,” Durge said.

Sareth shook his head. “Nothing here is as it was. If the passage to the city yet remains, then I can see no trace of it. In truth, I fear the passage is no more.”

“So we’re trapped here,” Travis said.

It wasn’t accusation, merely realization. All the same, Sareth flinched.

“I am sorry.”

Lirith moved to the Mournish man. “This is not your fault.”

“No, you are wrong. It is entirely my fault.” He turned away from her.

The four of them were still gathered on the finger of stone that thrust into the void, near the altar where Xemeth had found the scarab. For minutes that seemed like hours, Sareth had searched the darkness for signs of the passage he had once used to escape the demon. The green glow of Lirith’s witchlight was comforting, but it pushed back the shadows only for a dozen paces all around them, so Travis had sent his silver ball of rune-light darting through the emptiness, moving it into cracks and crevices to illuminate them.

As Sareth had said, it was no use. One hole in the stone looked like another, and there was no telling where any of them might lead—if anywhere at all.

Lirith gazed at Sareth, her eyes filled with sorrow. Then the witch folded her arms across her chest and moved away, toward the altar.

Travis sighed. Sareth shouldn’t blame himself. It had been Travis’s idea to stop the demon; he should have come down here alone. But it didn’t matter now—blame was not going to help them find a way out. And it wasn’t going to help Grace and the others.

If it’s not already too late
.

He peered into the darkness above, and a clammy sweat broke out on his skin. Was the demon still up there? Or the Etherion for that matter? And what of Melia, Falken, and Aryn?

But it was not on the lady, the bard, or the young baroness that Travis’s thoughts dwelled. Instead he found himself thinking of Beltan … and Vani.

And if you could save only one of them, Travis, which one would it be?

He didn’t know where the question came from, only that it was as cold and cruel as a needle in his heart. Nor was there any point in answering it. Right now he couldn’t help either of them.

“Can we not use the gate artifact to reach the Etherion?” Durge said.

Sareth hefted the black stone pyramid. “We cannot, good cloud. The magic of the artifact requires blood of power, and all of the fairy’s blood was consumed when we opened the gate to this place. Xemeth had drunk from the scarab, and the blood of Orú had mingled with his own blood—that was how he was able to open a gate.”

“But were not the Scirathi also able to open gates within the city using the second artifact?”

“They are workers of blood magic,” Sareth said. “The blood of a sorcerer is enough to open a gate within the city, although not across worlds.”

Durge seemed to think a long moment, then suddenly he looked up. “Goodman Travis is a wizard. Are not wizards similar to sorcerers?”

Travis swallowed mad laughter. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve donated blood.”

“No, Travis,” Sareth said. “Your rune magic is strong, but it is of the north. It has nothing to do with the sorceries of Morindu the Dark.”

A frown crossed Durge’s craggy face. “Is there not something else you can do, Travis?”

“I wish there was, Durge. But I don’t know any runes that can get us out of here.”

“And what of the Great Stone?”

Travis drew out the Stone of Twilight. It glittered in the green glow of the witchlight: quiescent, a mystery. Travis barely understood its powers. It could make things whole, that was all he knew. He had used it to heal wraithlings in Calavere, and to bind the Rune Gate. And the fairy seemed to believe he could use it to bind the
demon. But as for how the Stone could get them out of this cavern …

He held Sinfathisar out toward the knight. “Have you got any ideas how to use it?”

Durge took a step back. So much for Embarran logic. Travis slipped the Stone into his pocket. “We’re not going to be able to help them, are we?”

Sareth’s visage was grim. “There is no way out of this place.”

“Actually,” Lirith said in a rising voice, “I believe that there is.”

The three men turned to look at the witch. She stood beside the altar, leaning over it.

“What is it, Lirith?” Travis said.

“I think you had better come see.”

“What is it, my lady?” Durge said as they drew near.

“Look here.” Lirith touched the shallow depression on one side of the top of the altar.

“That’s where the scarab was resting before Xemeth took it,” Travis said. “But I don’t see how that helps us.”

“It doesn’t,” Lirith murmured. “But I think perhaps this does.” With her fingers she brushed dust from the section of the altar top that had rippled and warped.

If it hadn’t been for the witchlight hovering above them, Travis would never have seen it. As it was, it was no more than a tiny spark of gold embedded in the half-melted surface of the pedestal.

Sareth looked up. “We have to break away the stone!”

“Why?” Durge said, glowering.

“Because,” Lirith said, “it might be—”

Travis was already working. He laid a hand on the altar and spoke a word.

“
Reth!
”

There was a bright sound as rock cracked, then the surface of the altar shattered into small fragments. Travis drew his hand back.

“Look,” Lirith murmured.

The four of them held their breath as a few of the fragments shifted. Filaments like slender wires reached up, searching for a hold. Then they pushed a flake of stone aside, and it crawled up onto the scattering of shards: gold, shining, and utterly perfect.

A scarab.

“How—?” Travis said, but he could get no further.

Soft gold light played across Sareth’s face as he knelt beside the altar. He swore softly. “We are fools. Here it was right before us.”

Travis and the others bent down beside him. Sareth passed his finger over one of the pictographs, brushing away millennia of grime. In one of the sorcerer’s hands was a circle with eight lines. And in the other hand was … the same.

Sareth rose. “There must have been two scarabs set into the altar as part of the binding, not one. But as the demon grew stronger from consuming the gods, it began to reshape the stone in this place. The altar began to melt, and one of the jewels was all but covered.”

“So Xemeth missed it,” Durge said.

“As we would have,” Sareth said, “were it not for your sharp eyes,
beshala.
”

He was grinning now; she smiled back at him.

Travis held out a hand. With slow, delicate motions, the scarab crawled onto his fingers, then curled up in his palm. It was warm to the touch.

“So how do we use it?”

“According to the tales,” Sareth said, “each of the scarabs was made to contain three drops of the blood of Orú.”

Lirith touched the jewel with a gentle finger. “Blood of power.…”

In a minute they were ready. Sareth had set the gate artifact on the altar and had removed the prism, exposing the empty reservoir within.

“What of the purification spell?” Lirith said.

“There is no time,” Sareth said. “And its purpose is only to calm the mind of the traveler, that he might better concentrate upon the destination.”

Durge cleared his throat. “Then let us all work to envision the Etherion and be sure we are not distracted with idle thoughts of our childhood homes or some such fancy. I would rather our bodies not be divided between multiple locations.”

“How do I make it work?” Travis said. The spider-shaped scarab moved gently back and forth on his palm.

“Hold it over the artifact and squeeze it,” Sareth said. “But gently. Let only a single drop flow forth.”

“Will one be enough?” Lirith said.

Sareth met her eyes. “A sea of Scirathi blood would not equal one drop from the veins of the god-king Orú. Even the blood of the fairy would be like water compared to it.”

Travis drew in a breath. “You know, this is something I really never imagined having to do in my life.”

“Now, Travis.”

He squeezed the scarab, firmly but not roughly. Dark red fluid welled forth, forming a single glistening drop. For a moment the drop hung there, suspended, then Travis tapped the scarab, and the drop fell into the stone vessel below. Gently, he slipped the scarab into his pocket.

“You stay there,” he said to the living jewel.

Sareth gazed at each of them in turn. “Ready?”

They nodded. The Mournish man lifted the triangular prism and set it atop the artifact. Instantly the gate sprang into being, blue fire mingling with gold around its edges.

“Remember,” Durge rumbled, “the Etherion.”

“The Etherion,” the others repeated.

Together they stepped through the gate.

Grace stood in her nightgown at the foot of the stairs, thirteen again.

All around her the orphanage was quiet. Too quiet. There was no trace of Mrs. Broud, the donkey-faced warder of the second floor, and Lisbeth Carter must have been stifling her sobs with a pillow because Grace could no longer hear them behind her. Even the owls had fallen silent.

But a few minutes ago Grace
had
heard something. She had listened to Mrs. Fulch’s grunts and groans drifting down into the girls’ dormitory as the red-faced cook made her way back from the bathroom. Then had come a crash, followed by a dragging sound. Something had happened up there. But what?

You’ve got to find out, Grace. That’s why you’re here again. It has to be
.

Grace gazed up the dark shaft of the staircase to the third floor and shivered; she had long ago outgrown the thin nightgown, and her bony legs stuck out from it like white sticks. The night pressed against her. Only it wasn’t just darkness that filled the hallway.

It’s the shadow, Grace. Your shadow—the blot attached to your life thread. This is it, this is its very heart. It’s inside you. And you’re inside it
.

She wanted to turn, to dash down that stairs, to run outside beneath the cold mountain stars. Instead, gripping the banister, she placed her foot on the first step.

Silver light burst into being, pouring down the staircase like livid mist. Now she could hear it, vibrating on the air and in the wood beneath her feet. A heat rose within her.

No, it’s too soon for the flames. That was after you came down, after you saw something upstairs. You’ve got to go up there, you’ve got to remember
.…

The heat receded. Her hand slid up the smooth wood of the banister, and her feet ascended another step, and another. The silver light coiled around her bare ankles, its touch cool.

Her eyes drew level with the floor above, and the light grew brighter. She hesitated, but there was no alarm, no sound of Mrs. Broud’s braying at catching her in the act of violating the Rules. Grace drew in a breath, then in five quick steps vaulted the rest of the way up the stairs.

She stood at one end of a long corridor that ran the length of the orphanage’s third floor. Pale light flowed without a whisper over the worn floorboards. It poured from beneath a door at the far end of the hallway.

That was where she had to go.

The humming was louder; her jaw ached with it. Her bare feet making no noise, she moved past shut doors, toward the one with the white-hot line beneath. When she was halfway down the corridor she heard it: a low sound, rising and falling in alternation. It made her think of voices singing. Only it wasn’t singing. There was no music in that sound.

Grace halted before the door. The humming filled her now, trying to shatter her body like glass. She almost thought she could make out words in the chanting—words that danced just on the edge of understanding, as if she had heard them long ago. In a story, perhaps. Or a song.

Grace cocked her head, listening. Then the sound of the voices ceased, and a new sound came from behind the door: a wet moan of pain, swiftly muffled. A moment
later came a cracking sound, as of something hard being broken.