Stardeep (32 page)

The central golem took a pace forward and spoke. “Telarian, I know what you seek. Rethink your choice and your life can be spared. Let us resolve this as the friends we’ve been for so long. Continue on the path you’ve set, and you’ll find death your only reward.”

Telarian glanced at Kitil and said, “Delphe is truly mad if she believes that such simple threats of bodily harm will persuade me to throw in with her and the Traitor!”

Kiril nodded. It seemed a sad ploy. Did some hidden ambush wait in the wings? Best not wait for it. She stood in her stirrups, but before she could draw Angul, she was distracted by Telarian.

His eyes were closed. One hand was out, the other resting on the hilt of his undrawn blade. From his mouth, words issued. He swayed in time to the words, now sounding like a chant. His pronunciation was deep and breathy, like the mournful cries of the wind through distant forest eaves. Tiny prickles needled across her scalp. The diviner was tapping strong magic.

She looked at the defenders. They seemed oblivious to Telarian’s antics. Delphe had not overruled the constructs’ inborn sympathies for Keepers. Thus, they held their power until the first blow was struck. Kiril refrained from drawing Angul. Perhaps the diviner could unleash a spell strong enough to impair the free-runners.

Still muttering arcane syllables, Telarian’s enigmatic eyes

finally opened and a smile ghosted across his still-chanting lips.

Several heartbeats passed, then several more. All the while, the sound of distant wind grew louder, as if approaching, merging more and more fully with the diviner’s cadence and pitch. The defenders repeated their offer, too dim-witted to understand that great forces gathered against them. Kiril wondered what Telarian was brewing.

“What—” began Kiril. A scream of tornadic wind drowned out the rest of her question, but also served as an answer.

All the fury of a summer storm was squeezed into a space that was orders of magnitude too small for it, pouring from the side tunnel to the golems’ left. Sight and sound were instantly shrouded in electtic streamers of white and gray. The roar was a physical thing, pushing back Kiril and Telarian. Their hair and the steeds’ manes blew straight back, attempting to flee the lightning-laced vortex. Kiril backed her mount a few paces, though Telarian held his ground, his arms out, his words lost in the howl.

Finally, the storm issued out of the chamber through a tunnel on the opposite side.

The clearing air revealed eroded stone, blackened marks where lightning scoured the walls, and of the free-running defenders, no sign. The righthand passage echoed with the sound of fleeing winds, growing fainter and fainter in the distance.

Kiril worked her mouth, as if to relieve pressure felt when descending a mountain, and said, “A nice trick.” She sat back in the saddle.

Telarian relinquished his grip on Nis’s hilt, took a shaky breath, and nodded. “Lucky for the golems they are soulless artifacts.”

“Why so?”

“Else it would have blown their spirits clear of the flesh.”

Kiril’s brow furrowed. “That smacks of necromancy.” “Kiril, as you know more than most, evildoers should not be spared their owed punishment.” “Where do souls taken go?”

“The wind bears the souls for eternity across all the planes of existence. When you hear the ‘cries of the wind,’ you may be heating the voices of those who already enjoy such redemption.”

The swordswoman’s mouth hardened into a thin line. She’d killed innocents, to be sure, but those wrongly slain by Angul’s too-swift judgment were free of further consequence. What Telarian described sounded too cruel for any but aberrations, whose souls were unclean. She hoped he would never use such a thing on a live creature. But as he said, the golems didn’t suffer so.

Kiril asked, “Where did you learn such a bastardly curse? Such spells do not lie within the constraints of the Cerulean Sign.”

“Are you then a spellcaster?” Telarian snapped back, his gaiety suddenly evaporated in cold venom.

She bit back the attack that teetered on her lips. Instead of calling him a vomit-stained cholera carrier who didn’t know his arse from his face, she said, “We’ll discuss this later, after I spit Delphe on Angul’s unforgiving tip.”

Stardeep, Throat

The mirror revealed three of Cynosure’s defenders in the spacious Parade Hall outside the Knights’ Barracks. Each defender faced east, looking through the high archway that opened on the downward-plunging paths of the underdungeon. Delphe wondered what had become of the five ftee-runners she’d sent into the tunnels.

She glanced to the neighboring mirror, which showed an empty section of underdungeon tunnel immediately beyond the Parade Hall. If Telarian bested the five golems she’d earlier dispatched, he would return up this ramp. The moment she was able to scry him in the Throat was the moment she could begin to bring more substantial firepower to bear on the insane Keeper.

Delphe sat in her crystalline control chair facing the mirrored walls, few of which reflected the actual contents of the Throat. Waiting. Watching. The fires in the Well were muted, as if also waiting. That which the fires contained would know soon enough whether its external agent, Telarian, would fail or succeed in his lunatic plan.

“Something comes,” noted Cynosure’s voice from above.

Light grew in the tunnel, and into that light rode the vanguard of the Empyrean Knights. The free-running defenders had failed to hold Telatian from returning. She sighed.

The passage sloping up toward the Parade Hall grew wide, and the Knights took advantage of this feature to form up into a wedge.

Telarian next rode into view. Seeing him, now that she fully realized his twisted actions and ambitions, was difficult. To see that blade riding so nonchalantly upon his hip and understand its ttue origin… Delphe couldn’t help breathing out a harsh, rasping breath. He looked so normal—how was it that his spirit had given in to datkness?

Next to Telarian rode a star elf woman not liveried as a Knight, though she tode a Knight’s hotse, and was herself armed and armored as a warrior.

“Cynosure, who is that woman?”

“Delphe, I know her, for I once served with her. She is Kiril Duskmourn,” replied the sentient idol. “She was Keeper of the Outer Bastion before Telarian. I aided her as I aid you and Telarian now.”

Delphe’s eyes went round. “Kiril!” She had assumed the former Keeper long dead. What strange route had brought her to Telarian’s conniving side?

The pitch of Cynosure’s voice rose slightly as he added, “And the blade sheathed at het side is none other than Angul, the Blade Cerulean.”

“By the Sign!” she gasped. “If she yet carries that relic, why hasn’t she already sundered Telarian’s head from his shoulders? Surely Angul can scent an agent of the Traitor!”

“They seem to have reached an accord.”

“That makes no sense,” Delphe snapped.

She saw Kiril speak, and Telarian nod in agreement. No

sound came through, but it seemed Cynosure was correct; the two were on friendly terms. Delphe blinked, groping unsuccessfully for some explanation of the relationship the mirrors displayed.

“Could it be,” wondered Cynosure, “that the proximity of Nis confuses Angul’s senses? The dark blade encompasses what was once a portion of itself. The dark, twisted portion, granted, but possibly enough to act as a mirror—Angul sees only itself in its amoral twin.”

Delphe rubbed her chin, considering. Cynosure’s conjecture was a real possibility. And if true… then Kiril wasn’t truly in collusion with Telarian. Indeed, perhaps she rode with the diviner due to misinformation. Unless Kiril and Angul were now the Traitor’s pawns—an unlikely event—they believed whatever lies Telarian fed them.

“Cynosure, I need to talk with Kiril. Immediately. Preferably without the Keeper of the Outer Bastion hearing our conversation. Is that possible?”

“I can try, Delphe.”

“Telarian, ask the Knights to pause. An idea occured to me,” said the former Keeper who rode at his side.

Telarian called a halt and warned the vanguard, “Do not advance until I give the word!” The Knights prepared themselves for a charge up the slope and into Stardeep proper via the Parade Hall.

“What idea?”

For answer, Kiril turned in her saddle and called back along the narrowing tunnel, “Raidon Kane, can we speak?”

The odd-looking half-elf who’d displayed amazing martial skill walked forward, his face the picture of calm acceptance, as always. Telarian frowned.

“Raidon, we’re close enough to Stardeep’s heart that you

might be able to use your mother’s forget-me-not to bypass its defenses.”

Raidon nodded, gave Telarian an appraising glance, and withdrew an amulet from beneath the collar of his silk jacket.

“A Cerulean Sign!” gasped Telarian. Alarm skittered through his mind. How had he missed that?

“Yes,” agreed Kiril, “Raidon keeps a Sign, for him a family heirloom. In any case”—she waved away the questions forming on Telarian’s lips—”with a Sign, we can wrench Stardeep’s point-to-point ttansfer system from Cynosure long enough to deliver ourselves directly to Delphe.”

“An excellent idea,” exclaimed Telarian. “Let me see, and I shall attempt to do as you suggest.” He held his hand out to the half-elf. Raidon looked askance at him, making no move to comply.

Kitil shook het head, said, “Raidon has held the Sign for years—it is firmly attuned to him, and him alone. You’d have no chance of using it without a lengthy bonding period, and we don’t have time for that.”

Ttue, of course. He just wanted the Sign out of the hands of someone over whom he had no leverage. And the appearance of such a potent bane against the Traitor was, again, not something he had foreseen. Anxiety, his old friend, took his cold palm in its own unsettling grip.

Kiril continued. “Even without training, Raidon should be able to use it now that we’re so close. Try it,” she bid the half-elf. “Try to visualize the seams of arcane energy that infuse Stardeep. Try to… mentally pluck one and bring it to you.”

Raidon’s eyes unfocused slightly, and he said, “I sense something of what you say. And”—he looked up, pointing with his free hand—”a questing shaft of light even now reaches out to us. It… is here!”

Telarian choked.

A voice rang out—Delphe’s voice. It said, “Kiril Duskmourn, gone from Stardeep these long years. Why have you thrown in with this deserter of the Cerulean Sign’s ideals, he who even now plots to overthrow centuries of captivity and release the Traitor?”

Kiril started on hearing the voice. Delphe’s voice, she supposed. So this was the woman who had defiled the oath and sought to aid the Traitor? She didn’t sound insane. Of course, the truly mad rarely did, until you drew them out and exposed the foundations of their reasoning.

“Muddle-minded witch,” declared Kiril, a sneer coming to her face, “don’t insult me with your lunatic imprecations. What promise did the Traitor make that you’d join him in his defilement?” As she spoke, the swordswoman looked Raidon in the eyes and gestured sidewise with her head. She asked a question with her movement; could the monk figure out how to trigger a transfer? Perhaps she could keep Delphe distracted with meaningless babble. The demented enjoyed describing their aims, perhaps to justify a guilty conscience, or so stories suggested.

Raidon’s brows furrowed in concentration as he gazed into the symbol on his amulet.

A disbelieving gasp came from thin air. Then Delphe said, “You believe I’ve thrown in with the Traitor while you stand with Telarian, whose mind is poison and whose hands are stained with the blood of Empyrean Knights?”

“Yes, I stand with him, but don’t waste your breath with falsehoods and ravings. I know your mind has cracked. Your lies stain my ears, and the weak, craven cowardice I hear in your voice is near to making me vomit!”

Despite actual rancor, Kiril was more concerned with the

monk’s progress. She watched as Raidon continued to stare into the Sign. A faint, bluish glow woke within the potent trinket. Raidon was accomplishing something!

Delphe’s voice came back, heated but under control. “Has it occurred to you that perhaps—just perhaps—Telarian is the one who has become the agent of the Traitot? Perhaps he ‘stains your ears.’ What do you say to that?”

“Unlikely.” Kiril snorted as she glanced at Telarian. The diviner rolled his eyes. Kiril continued. “Because he carries half of Nangulis’s soul in a blade all his own. It was Nangulis, if you remember, whose sacrifice is the reason the Traitor doesn’t already walk free.” Kiril wanted to urge Raidon to huiry, but she didn’t want to make Delphe suspicious. If Delphe knew what Raidon attempted, she could ask Cynosure to deactivate point-to-point transfers.

“Kiril,” came the response, incredulity clear in the tone, “recall to mind the reason not all of Nangulis’s soul was incorporated into Angul. Only those parts aligned with duty, purity, and self-sacrifice for a higher ideal were capable of empowering the Blade Cerulean—as you must remember. Think! It is not simply the ‘unused’ patts of Nangulis’s soul that embodies Nis. Nis is composed of all the hidden, repressed, nihilistic portions of Nangulis, urges and neuroses all mortals share. When Telarian forged Nis, he drew from all those negative aspects and created a blade fit for a sociopath.”

Kiril frowned and looked again at Telarian. The man shrugged at the ridiculousness of Delphe’s claim. He whispered, “She merely seeks to sow uncertainty. We should advance.” Despite his words, Kiril saw a tightening about the man’s eyes.

“Think, Kiril—what would such a blade actually want?” exhorted the disembodied Keeper’s voice. “Nis is Angul’s opposite. Just as the Blade Cerulean seeks to destroy all

abominations, the Blade Umbral seeks to release them!”

Kiril, ignoring Raidon to focus solely on Telarian, said, “The woman makes a point. When Nangulis and 1 discussed his—”

As the skin falls from a shedding snake, so did all expression slough from Telarian’s face as he grasped Nis’s hilt. He dragged forth its length and swept the blade around to decapitate Kiril. As he attacked, he said in an emotionless voice, “Delphe knows nothing.”