A Flame in Hali (13 page)

Breathe—you must remember to breathe!
she sent. She counted,
Inhale—two, three—exhale—two, three—inhale . . .
knowing that her friends below mirrored her discipline.

A time or two, momentarily blind, she lost touch with them. Each time, she strengthened the link with greater difficulty. It seemed that something more than distance separated them. The cloud-water, which once seemed to transmit psychic impressions, now acted as an increasingly resistant barrier.

We’ve reached the bottom.
Alderic’s usually clear mental voice sounded blurred.
At least, we aren’t going down any farther. I can’t see far, but there doesn’t seem to be much down here except rock and sand.

Dyannis frowned. The jagged rent in the Overworld could look like anything—or nothing—to ordinary senses.
Keep searching,
she told them.
And remember to breathe.

If we forget, we can trust you to remind us,
said Rorie.

Pest,
he retorted good-naturedly.

There’s something ahead,
Alderic broke in.

Dyannis glimpsed a pale shape emerging from the swirls of mist. The two men moved toward it with a slow, almost floating gait, half-suspended in the cloud-water. The outline remained infuriatingly indistinct, despite her attempts to concentrate. She became convinced the effect was not merely the distance or insulating cloud-water. It stemmed from some quality of the site itself.

What can you see?
she asked.

Stones,
Rorie responded.
Worked by tools, not natural. They’re enormous, sort of pillars toppled and broken, but still more or less in line.

Dyannis sensed Alderic running his hands over the curved surface. On one level, she felt the pitted hardness of the stone, the slipperiness of untold years of slime, the roughness where some creature had attached its shell and then perished with the passage of time. Another part of her mind shrieked in warning.

Strange discordant energies moved around them,
through
the stones. The cloud-water quickened, stirring the men’s hair. Yet this was no ordinary current. She sensed a drawing, like a magnetic attraction.

Dyannis cast her thoughts wide as a fisherman’s net, searching for the direction of the pull—

Somehow the stones on the lakebed were linked to that gray realm of thought, and from there to some other destination. Clearly, immense power was moving from one place to another.

The only way to find out what was going on was to follow the energy flow. She stopped resisting the pull, allowing it to carry her along.

Moments passed, and Dyannis found her awareness moving deeper into the lake, toward the row of fallen stones. The two men faded, leaving only the pale rock.

Nearer and nearer, the stream brought her, until she wondered if she would be drawn into the very substance of the stone. With the discipline of her years of Tower training, she suppressed panic.

Relax,
she told herself. She was not solid in this place and could not be harmed. She must let it carry her along. . . .

In her mind, she felt the fine-grained hardness of the columns, the almost-obliterated traces of the tools that had shaped them beneath the layers of algae. In another moment, she would penetrate that hardness, even as she had done as part of a
laran
circle mining precious minerals deep within the earth.

With a jolt, she passed right through the fallen column and into the Overworld. For a moment, she did not recognize her surroundings. She did not stand upon the familiar, featureless gray plain, but floated in a pool of gently surging mists. The current lessened for an instant, and she saw something that astonished her. The cloud-water, or some astral equivalent, was draining from the bottom of the lake and into its Overworld counterpart. She was sure the Overworld lake, on the doorstep of Hali Tower, must have come into existence only recently. It had the feel of newness, none of the texture of shared envisioning.

Now Dyannis was moving again, caught once more in a steady pull. The Overworld lake waters were being si-phoned off. She forced herself to relax and float along. For a moment, she felt nothing but the current. It reminded her of a tiny stream, where water ran swiftly between narrow banks. Here there were no eddies, no sandbars, no branches or tributaries, only a single relentless direction. Energies surged around her. She drew back a little at their raw power.

What could a Tower do with this energy source? Nearly anything! Every circle she had worked in had been limited by the amount of
laran
energy that could be generated. Here was a seemingly limitless supply. All that would be necessary would be a means to control it.

And for that, a Tower.

She stretched out her
laran
senses, casting ahead through the void. To receive the stream of energy, to shape and tap into it, a circle needed a presence here, an anchor point. Sometimes, a circle would recreate their own, familiar Tower, although the images changed with time and purpose. When hostilities between kingdoms extended to their respective Towers, warlike edifices took the place of homey, open buildings.

At first, Dyannis did not recognize the structure ahead. It resembled a water mill more than the Tower she expected. Energy poured through it, turning the enormous paddled wheel.

She let the current bring her as close as she dared. With a burst of concentration, she broke away from the cloud-water and took on the form she used in the Overworld. She knew that she looked very much as she did in the physical world, and she was most comfortable in a split riding skirt, laced boots, and open-necked shirt.

Now that she had an astral bodily form, sound rushed over her. The wheel creaked on its axle, the cloud-water surged and splashed. Within the gray walls, hidden machineries rumbled. She approached, searching for an entrance or any sign of human presence. There was nothing, which puzzled her for a moment. It was as if the mill and its apparatus had been constructed and then left to fulfill its purpose.

She stood beside the stream and considered. The mill, like any other structure in the Overworld, had been shaped from thought-stuff, yet the cloud-water appeared just as it did in the physical realm. Appeared . . . She knelt and dipped her fingertips into the curling mist. An electrical jolt stung her. Her arm jerked back reflexively, nerves tingling painfully.

Wiping her hands on her skirt, she turned back to the mill. She focused on the stone wall in front of her, shifting its solid appearance to transparency. At first it resisted her, then gave way like the rippling of a heat mirage. She stepped inside.

Shifting her mental focus, Dyannis was able to discern her surroundings more clearly. The machinery, like the cloud-water and the mill itself, was only a representation, a metaphor. It marked a gateway, an abbreviation of distance, a shortcut from the Overworld to the real one. To a Tower.

She felt rather than envisioned the circle at the other end of the energy stream. No flash of recognition rose to her mind; it was not a group she knew well. She waited, as each moment brought a new bit of information—a tinge of personality, the structure of a high-power matrix lattice, the texture of the Keeper’s thoughts, the intricate braiding of power as it passed through the circle.

Dyannis sensed a faint acrid taste to the psychic atmosphere. Instinct recoiled from it, but she forced herself to remain passive, receptive. She might have only a short time before the Keeper sensed her presence.

It was not a true taste, for she had no true body, nor smell either. Her mind, she knew, suggested these senses for some primitive, elemental experience. The sensation shifted from repugnant to poisonous. Something coalesced, contained and shaped by the combined will of the circle.

They were making something. It must be a
laran
weapon. What? Nausea clawed at the back of her throat, but she held on. She must be sure.

Walls of energy shimmered, surrounding a heart of weakly glowing green.

It was the most terrible of all known
laran
weapons, for it not only brought death to any who touched or breathed it, but it lingered for a generation or more, poisoning every living thing. There were still lands which no man dared pass through or eat any plant or animal grown there, left over from the Ages of Chaos. As far as Dyannis knew, no modern Tower possessed bonewater dust, or was willing to make it.

With an effort, Dyannis returned her focus to the weapon. Yes, it was very like bonewater dust in its vibrational pattern. But not exactly. This
felt
less virulent, but it also seemed to have a different physical configuration, more like granules or crystals than fine powdery particles. It would be more difficult to disperse, would fall to the earth instead of being carried by the wind.

A weapon, indeed. One that could be delivered more precisely, with less risk that an errant breeze might carry it back upon the attacking forces. That was said to have happened a generation ago at Drycreek, where the outlaw
laranzu
Rumail Deslucido had loosed bonewater dust upon the army of King Rafael Hastur, only to have it blown astray, condemning his own men as well. It was said that Rumail had perished in this way by his own hand, but his body had never been identified. Even now, no man who valued his own life dared venture into the wasteland that had been Drycreek.

She must tell Varzil. The
Comyn
Council must be alerted—

Dyannis mastered the impulse to withdraw immediately. It would do them little good to know about the bonewater crystals if they did not also know who was making them. She forced herself to concentrate harder, to pierce the shifting, unearthly layers of the Overworld. She was a strong telepath, but the effort took every particle of her talent and training.

For an instant only, she glimpsed the room in which the circle met. The circle sat around a large oval table. Blue-white light from the artificial matrix at one end played across faces blank with absorption. The greater part of the table, however, was dominated by apparati—glass receptacles, distillators, separators, others so specialized she did not recognize them. Some were partly filled, their contents giving off a faint green luminescence. The room and its contours were unfamiliar, but a sudden surge in light brought the Keeper’s features into stark relief.

She knew him, for he had begun his training at Hali and had still been there when she first came.

Francisco Gervais. Keeper of Cedestri Tower.

Dyannis . . .
Rorie’s mental voice sounded hollow now, oddly distorted.

Zandru’s curse!
While she’d been off following her own impulses, she’d forgotten to monitor her friends. Without the normal air gases to trigger breathing, they had not noticed the fading of their own alertness. She reached out with her mind and instantly touched theirs. She could see them with her inner sight. Alderic had lowered himself to his knees, captured by the patterns of silt in the swirling waters. Lethargy weighted his arms and legs. A long, slender silvery shape undulated through the murky water, a tiny mote of luminescence hovering above its nose. He followed its motion dreamily.

Got to . . . get moving . . .
Rorie said, but without conviction.

Warm? The depths of the lake were
cold
—

Up, both of you! Breathe! Move!
Dyannis shrieked silently.

Dyannis bolted up from the rock to the water’s edge. The cloud-water splashed over her boots, wetting the hem of her wide skirts. Damp mist curled around her legs, even through the layers of her garments. She gasped at the sudden chill.

Dyannis halted where she was, waves knee-high, and reached for the ties of her overskirt. She offered silent blessings to Cassilda or whoever protected overdressed women, that she’d donned separate skirts and bodice over her ankle-length chemise this morning. She struggled out of the thick woolen overskirt by shoving it down around her ankles and then kicking it aside. The underskirt, meant for indoor wear, was lighter, but rapidly becoming drenched along its lower edge. She pulled off her jacket, tossed it back on to the sand, and applied herself to the skirt fastenings. She was already shivering, but at least, she’d be able to walk—or swim—as need be.

Dyannis! Stop—enough! We’re coming!
Rorie’s thoughts were clear enough to convince her that he’d emerged partway from his lethargy.