Dangerous Talents (49 page)

*

Dahleven paused before a rough, narrow opening in the side of the tunnel and concentrated on his need for the quickest way to the crystal room of his vision. The pull of his Talent remained constant, urging him into the natural fissure.

Seven of the eight men with him shifted uneasily or stood cautious and stiff; Fender lounged against the wall assuming an air of nonchalance. Two of the other men, seeing him, relaxed and drank from their waterskins. After his vision, Dahleven had been reluctant to include Fendrikanin, but excluding him would have given insult. The younger man had the right to seek glory and honor in battle, after all, and Dahleven refused to believe the future was fixed. The Norns might set the warp of a man’s fate, but it was up to each man to weave the design. He was glad to have Fender along to steady the others.

They were all good men, and they’d followed him without question and with little rest, confident that his Talent led them true. Now they waited for Dahleven to confirm what they must suspect: that their path led into the natural passageways they’d been warned away from since childhood. The warnings were more than tales told to frighten children into obedience. Every generation a maid or a child disappeared, and even strong men had been lost without a trace after venturing into the Darkling passageways. The Dark Elves stayed away from the places of men, but they didn’t suffer trespassers cheerfully. A man might return whole of body but wander endlessly in his mind, if he were caught by Elven magic.

It didn’t matter. If Celia truly was being pressured or deceived into Finding the Hidden Talents, any risk was worth taking. The already contentious Jarls would erupt into open warfare with the power of the Great Talents suddenly at their command. The destruction that Fanlon had sacrificed so much to prevent would come at last—
if
Celia Found the Talents. If she failed, Dahleven wouldn’t bet on the length of her life.

It was that risk that drove him on.

Dahleven gestured into the fissure and spoke more confidently than he felt. “This is our path.” He settled his plain metal helm firmly on his head, then stepped into the rough opening.

The uneven ground was strewn with tumbled and fallen rocks. It narrowed to cracks where the walls came together sharply, then suddenly opened deep pits beneath their feet. Some they could jump, others they had to belay across. Dahleven forced himself to ignore the sensation of being watched; he needed all his wits to navigate the cavern safely. To free his hands, Dahleven hooked the lantern to his belt; a thick leather guard shielded his leg from its heat. At times he bent nearly double to avoid a suddenly low ceiling, and he was glad more than once for his helm. The going was slow, but he trusted his Talent; this was the quickest, most direct way to the crystal room.

After a candlemark or more of scrabbling forward, the floor grew smoother—just before a blind end. Dahleven stared, disbelieving. He held the lantern high.

A pile of tumbled rock and rubble barred their way, yet his Talent still pulled him forward.

Fender stood beside him and stared at the wall of boulders, hands on hips. “It will take an army of miners to move this, my lord, or a Stoneshaper Talent. Do we go back?”

Dahleven ignored the men muttering and bunching together behind him. There was no path here, yet the pull of his Talent was strong. He closed his eyes and concentrated. The Crystal Hall was close. “No. The Path is here, Fender. We must go forward.” He reached out to lay a palm on the barrier.

“My lord!”

Dahleven opened his eyes and turned at Fender’s exclamation, reaching for the hilt of his sword. Fear widened the younger man’s eyes.

“Your hand,” Fender whispered, “went through the stone.”

Dahleven gazed at his hand, turning it over and back again, flexing his fingers. He took off his glove. His flesh looked as it should. Then he reached out again. The rock felt solid. He looked back at Fender. The low brow and nosepiece of his helmet didn’t do much to conceal Fender’s distress. Dahleven turned to examine the surrounding boulders more carefully. They were all hard and immovable, yet their texture seemed indistinct. He closed his eyes again and stretched out his arm cautiously, concentrating on the pull of his Talent so he wouldn’t think about jamming his fingers on the stones. He encountered nothing but a cool mist and he stepped forward into it.

Suddenly he was jerked backward.

Fender’s grasp on his wrist was rigid. White showed around his eyes. “You were in the wall almost entirely. The light from the lantern was fading.”

“Darkling magic,” one of the men muttered.

“Elven witchery,” another grumbled.

Dahleven turned to his men and Fender loosed his hold. Some still gaped in horror, a couple looked sick. “This is my path. The barrier is naught but illusion and cannot harm us. Nevertheless, I will not order you into it. I must go forward. If you will come with me, hold on to the warrior in front of you and close your eyes. I will lead you through.”

Their faces grim, to a man they linked, fingers tucked in the belt of the man before, leaving their sword hands free. Dahleven nodded. “Your courage brings you honor.” Then he chose a brace of men. “Torvald, Seig, I must ask you to remain behind. I am sorry to deny you this chance at glory, but I would have you bear word back to Quartzholm, should the rest of us dine tonight in Valhalla.”

The two men nodded, and Dahleven took Fender’s wrist, hooding the lantern before stepping forward. He didn’t want the lantern to draw attention as they emerged. Nor did he want to imagine what might happen if one of them saw himself inside the illusory wall. Could one be entombed in the false stone? Better to avoid that ill chance by moving in the dark, even though that held its own risks. “Stay together,” he told his men, just before the mist enveloped him.

*

The floor of the fissure dropped down, and Jorund held Cele’s arm to steady her descent. Four of the men carried lanterns to light their way, but the hair on the back of Cele’s neck prickled as she stepped into the raw passageway. A vague feeling of being watched had plagued her all night, or what she thought of as night—it was impossible to tell underground. Now the sensation grew stronger. So did an awareness that she wasn’t welcome.

“Watch your head,” Jorund warned.

Cele ducked, feeling the uneven rock ceiling graze her hair.
I wish I had a hard hat
. She stubbed her foot and lurched forward. Jorund steadied her. Somehow it didn’t seem as reassuring as when Dahleven had done the same.
Correction: I wish I were somewhere else
.

“This section is the worst, Lady Celia. A little farther on, the way becomes easier,” Jorund promised.

Cele held on to that encouraging thought while she scrambled and climbed between the rough rocks. She clung to it when she leapt across a crevasse in the floor that breathed a warm draft of air up from its depths. It kept her moving forward when she had to crawl awkwardly up a sloping chimney on hands and knees, trying not to trip on her cloak and skirts.

As she climbed out of the confined passage, Jorund lifted her to her feet. He’d kept his promise. She wouldn’t be bumping her head on the ceiling here; the rough, natural walls soared to a dim crack over forty feet above, twice the width of the chamber, the length of which twisted out of sight. The floor was as smooth as the halls of Quartzholm.

“We’re here, Lady Celia.” Jorund drew her away from the chimney’s opening with an arm around her shoulders. “Safe and whole. We were given safe passage, just as I said.”

“Given by whom?”

Jorund ignored the question and bent close, sweeping his other arm out to encompass the long cavernous tunnel. “Have you ever seen such wealth in one place?”

Hundreds of geodes ranging in size from six inches to over four feet in diameter protruded from the walls or lay scattered on the floor like fossilized eggs. Sparkling inclusions glittered in the lantern light, making the cavern look like the treasure room of a fairy castle. “It’s beautiful,” Cele breathed.

“This room is a mile long and branches twice,” Jorund said, drawing Cele along with him. “It took two years for me to find it, even with the help of my friends. I feared it might take another two years of trial and error to find the Talents I need, until you came along. And thanks to you, I can now open their hiding places safely.”

“What do you mean?”

“You Found the Staff. It was the missing piece. Without it, releasing a Great Talent is…dangerous.” He lifted his gloved hand.

Cele looked at Jorund’s mask, remembered the sagging flesh it concealed.
Is that what really happened to his face
? “How did you get it out of Wirmund’s rooms? It was well guarded. I couldn’t get any closer than the floor below.”

Jorund smiled with half his face. “The Darkling Lords have servants with many skills.”

Darkling Lords
?

“And I am grateful for you, as well. You’re a gift from the gods, Celia. A Finder of great Talent, and beautiful as well. We shall do well together,” he murmured softly, bending close.

Cele’s skin stung as if he were lashing her with nettles. The assumption in Jorund’s words disturbed her.

“Until you send her home,” Angrim said, frowning.

Jorund inclined his head toward Cele. “Of course. Until I send you home.”

Cele shivered as Jorund’s warm breath caressed her ear. Again, she wondered why he was trying so hard. Why did he feel he had to use Persuasion on her?

Jorund straightened. “Your presence has allowed me to push my plans forward more quickly. Very shortly now the parley will come under attack, and Neven’s power will be broken.”

The news hit her like a cold rinse after a warm bath. “But Ragni’s there!” Cele blurted.

Jorund looked surprised. “What did you expect, my lady? I’ve made it no secret that I hope to destroy the Kon’s tyranny. Did you think his sons would be untouched by that?”

She hadn’t thought about it at all, not really. A chill realization stole her breath.
He’s going to kill Dahleven, too
.

Jorund’s voice took on a soft, soothing tone. “If they see reason, I’ll spare Neven’s family. They’re not to blame for his excesses, after all.”

His voice was as rich as honey, but no longer convincing.
Dahleven will never surrender
. Cele’s heart pounded as Jorund’s intention became clear to her.
Jorund planned to kill him all along. And what will he do to Kaidlin and Aenid and Ingirid
?
Give them to men like Harve
?

Cele felt sick.
How could I not have seen this
?

Various things had nagged at her. Things she’d avoided looking at too closely so she could focus on her one goal: going home. Jorund had dangled that carrot in front of her with great skill, distracting her from everything else. Each taken alone could be explained away, but together they were too much to ignore. Eirik’s lies. The poison meant for Neven. Knut. Harve’s protest that he’d followed orders.
Did Jorund really save me
? Or was it all a set-up? His explanation had shifted the blame smoothly onto Neven, and she’d believed him. She hadn’t had the amulet to protect her then.
Was all a lie
?

Jorund took Cele by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. The amulet’s warning made her skin burn like biting ants. “Now you must help me again, my lady. As you see, there are thousands of geodes here, but only one holds the Talent that can heal me. As you can see, I have no time to waste. I don’t have time to search them all. I need you to Find the correct stone. Then, when I am restored, we shall release the other Talents, and I’ll send you home.”

Home
. Longing flooded Cele’s heart. She hungered for all the familiar little things she’d taken for granted. She wanted to watch old movies with Elaine again, eat junk food, and listen to mariachi music. But the cost was too high. Hope shriveled in her breast like a flower in an icy blast. She couldn’t cooperate now that she understood the threat to her friends. Not even for a chance to go home.

She made her decision, and prayed it wasn’t too late.
Freyr, Baldur, if you exist, please help me. Help Dahleven and Ragni
.

She looked at Jorund’s escort of warriors, at Jorund. He would never let her back out now. This first Talent he wanted was for healing. It sounded harmless enough, but once she Found one, he’d know she could Find the others.
Maybe, if I pretend to fail, he’ll let me go and move on to plan B
.

Cele returned his eager gaze. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Jorund told everyone to be quiet, to let her work. Cele closed her eyes and pretended to concentrate. After several moments, she opened them. “I can’t Find it.”

Jorund frowned. “Try again. It might have other Talents hidden with it. Fanlon gathered them randomly, and hid them in the dark together.”

Hidden in the dark
. Cele looked around the cavern. Crystals sparkled in the flickering lamp light, punctuating the black shadows. Shadows that…moved?

She blinked. The shadows were still.
It must be a trick of the light
.

“Try again,” Jorund repeated. His words stung, and he didn’t quite keep the edge out of his silky voice.

Cele shut her eyes again. Furrowed her brow. Minutes later, she slumped in what she hoped was a convincing manner and declared, “I can’t do it.”

This time Jorund didn’t even try to be smooth. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword and his voice was cold and hard as ice. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you, my lady? I know the extent of your gift. You did what no one else could do. You Found the Staff despite the layers of powerful magic concealing it. This should be quite simple by comparison.”

A chill zigged down her spine as he tapped his fingers on his blade’s hilt. The threat was clear. If she didn’t Find the Talent, he’d kill her. No one would ever know what happened to her. She’d just disappear. Dahleven would believe she’d returned to Midgard, as she’d written in her note.