Ice and Shadow (17 page)

“Through an opening. Close your eyes, do not try to see—but come—” Roane had a sudden inspiration. Perhaps conditioning existed only at the panel, and once inside, he could see.

She led and he followed. “Raise your feet, there is a step barrier—”

His eyes were closed, his hand out as if to feel the wall his confused senses said was there. Then she caught his fingers, drew him on until he was in.

“Look!”

He opened his eyes. A spasm crossed his face. “Dark—blind dark!”

“Hush!” Roane searched for any stir among the pillars. But it would seem that their luck held. The chamber appeared empty.

“It is all dark.” He had himself under tight control again. “I see nothing—”

“Close your eyes once more.” If he could be more sure of touch than sight—

Roane drew him to the first of the pillars.

“There is a column here.” She made the description as simple as she could. “It has a wide plate set in the surface facing you. Around that are rows of lights which flash on and off constantly in patterns of color. At the top is a small crown about the size of your fist. It is in the form of—I think you might best term them flames—and these are brilliantly red, glowing as if actually afire—”

“The Flame Crown of Leichstan!” he cried.

“Now—give me your hands.” She had to move very close to do this, press against his back, reach around his waist to direct his fingers to the surface of the map and the lights, making him trace across and around.

“Do you feel?” She waited anxiously for the answer on which so much depended.

“Yes! These then are the lights? And the crown?”

“It is too far above to be touched.”

“And where is the crown of Reveny?” he demanded eagerly.

“Here—” She led him along to stand before the proper pillar and described it in patient detail.

“Tell me now of the others!”

Roane did, guiding him to each in turn, though he only touched a pillar now and then to reassure himself they were there. At last she came to the dead one, and since it had no light of its own she trained the beamer on it.

The diadem of fluted shells had turned an unpleasant green color which hinted of decay.

“The crown of Arothner in truth,” he admitted. “You have marked each nation that I know—Are these all?”

“Yes.”

“And
these
you believe can govern our thoughts, raise a kingdom high, smash it low—”

“We think so.” Again after some space of time she allied herself with the Service. “Though the records of the Psychocrat hierarchy were largely destroyed in the blasting of their command station, some pieces of information have been fitted together. We ourselves have extensions of computers which are akin to these in general formation. There must be a broadcast linkage between pillar and crown.”

“Which explains much,” he said as if to himself. “There have been puzzles a many in the past—why some kings seemed to reverse themselves. Roane”—Imfry swung around, his eyes open, searching for her though she stood there directly before him—“you are very right. This is evil, the blackest kind of evil! And it is better to face chaos than such slavery. I have seen it work with the Queen before my eyes. She became someone else when she held the crown. The person—the
thing
this wanted her to be! There must be an end!”

His voice rose but that did not distract Roane’s own warning system. A distort! Somewhere within these burrows a distort had begun to broadcast.

“Quick!” She pulled at him, forcing him around the edge of the pillar which stood farthest from the door. The sensation was growing stronger.

“There is something—I feel the need to get away,” he said.

“I know. That is a distort, a protective device. If they set it here—” Perhaps she could break out, as she had before. But Roane seriously doubted Imfry could.

Movement at the panel—Sandar! He slipped through with supple agility, took cover in the dark behind the pillars. So he must suspect their presence. Roane did not doubt he was armed with a stunner. He need only use that, spray at will, to render them helpless. Unless he was afraid of unguarded use of any ray around these pillars.

She pressed Imfry’s arm in warning, felt him tense. Had his sight been equal to hers, they might have chanced skulking behind this row of pillars, opposite to those behind which Sandar had gone to ground. But if there was a distort at the door to bottle them in, even reaching it would do no good. For the present Roane could think of nothing but to remain in silent hiding.

Imfry had his “gun,” she the tool, but neither was any defense against a stunner. Could the tool take out the distort, unseal the doorway as it had finished off the repeller? Perhaps, but Roane could not lead Imfry through hide-and-seek. And to leave him here would expose him, helpless, to Sandar.

That her cousin was on the move she had no doubt, though she could hear nothing but the click-click of the machines. And so engrossed was she in listening for some betraying sound that she was almost startled into betrayal when a voice called:

“Roane, I know you are here—” The words were in Basic and the loud tone echoed so she could not be sure of the direction from which they came.

“The LB is coming in,” Sandar continued. “When it lands you know what to expect—stass. If you surrender, you’ll escape that. The more you give evidence of abnormal behavior the worse it is going to be for you when the inspectors arrive.”

He was trying to frighten her, and Roane had to admit he was succeeding in part. If the landing party had been warned about her, they would have no mercy at all—the quickest method of dealing with her would be used. They need only bring in a stass projector and spray, and she and Imfry would be locked in a prison as tight as the cage of Hitherhow. Her eventual fate would be no less now than complete mental re-education. Which meant that she must—
they
must escape before that happened.

“You can’t get out.” Sandar’s voice continued to echo. But she must wait no longer. And one chance was as good as another. This duel was between them. He would be concentrating on her, not Imfry.

She took the chance of a whisper—“Stay here!”

His hand brushed her shoulder with reassuring touch, letting her know he understood. Roane slipped to the next pillar. She was more used to the echoing now and she thought that Sandar was still close to the door.

If she could create a diversion—there was the ruined crown of Arothner. Roane stood out and took aim on that discolored crest with the tool.

A flash of brilliance and the crown was gone, melted into fiery droplets. At the same time she saw Sandar begin a leap from one pillar to the next. In turn she took a desperate chance, swinging the tool around, aiming for the rock ahead of him. He cried out as footing disappeared, stumbled—But his stunner was coming up, he had not dropped it. Roane rayed again, trying to nick that. The edge of the beam did touch it, but the full force she released cut across the pillar which held Reveny’s Ice Crown.

CHAPTER 17

ROANE COWERED
as the world split apart in incandescent flame. Under her the rock floor was as unstable as bog scum. It swayed, buckled. The pillar which had taken part of the tool’s energy was now a torch, its brilliance blinding. And from that leaped tentacles of yellow-white to touch its fellows, so they also blazed.

Imfry—he could not see and he was behind one of those pillars. He might be caught in the holocaust sweeping from one column to the next. Only now she was as blind as he—

Roane began to crawl, feeling her way. A torrent of sound deafened her, even as the blaze sealed her eyes. That mutter arose to a shriek, as if the pillars had life and were now in torment. There was such a wave of heat that she could hardly breathe.

She never knew how she reached Imfry. Only by fortune she ran against his body. She clawed her way up to her feet, using him as a support, and then forced him back with her until they crashed against the far wall of the chamber. From there, there was no escape, not with them both as blind and far from the door as they were. They could only endure and hope that they would not be utterly consumed in the fury which raged, sending out sound and stifling heat.

Sandar! For the first time Roane thought of him and winced. Had he been in the direct line of that blast? If so—it was by her doing he was dead. She had not wanted that. She had not intended him any harm, only to knock out the stunner, give them a chance—

The roar was dying—or else her ears were becoming dulled. And the heat—surely that was not so great. Roane fought to see, moisture welling in her smarting eyes, trickling down her cheeks, where she impatiently smeared it away with one hand while with the other she kept her hold on Imfry. But all she could make out was a blood-scarlet curtain against the world.

There was no measurement of the time that devastation raged. It could have lasted an hour, a day—for it seemed endless. But at last Roane was certain that it was nearing the end, for the heat was gone now, the sound. They were trapped in a dark which was complete, where it was hard to breathe. Her gasps matched the ragged breaths of her companion.

“Get—out—”

Feel their way along the wall to the door? It was their only chance. She tugged at Imfry, but he was already on the move. Roane was not even sure of the direction, though she thought they must go left, their guide being one hand against the warm stone, while they linked fingers lest they lose contact. Roane’s eyes continued to tear and smart. In her a new fear was born. Had her sight been blasted? Then, for the first time, Imfry spoke: “Where—where are we?” There was an uncertainty in his voice which she had never heard before. He might have been one who had suddenly awakened from a deep sleep in a strange place.

“In the installation. No—stay with me!” For the hand she held fought against her, and he gave a sudden lunge as if to break her grip, but she held tight and pushed him on.

“Who are you?” Again that dull wonder. “What—what am I doing here? Where is this?”

“Hold—keep hold or we cannot get out!” She summoned what small authority she had to impress that need on him. “We cannot see. But if we keep to the wall we can find the door.”

“Who are you?” He no longer struggled, but he stopped short so she bumped against him.

“I am Roane—Roane Hume—” What had happened to him she did not know, and her fear grew. What if—But she would not allow herself to think of that. “Come—you must go on—we must get out!” Her control wavered and her voice rose shrilly.

“Out—where?” He took another step forward as if her urgency as well as her strong push had activated him.

“Out into the open! Please, we must go. Oh, please—Move, you must, you must!”

At least she had him on his way again. And a moment later, when he halted once again, she dared to beat one fist again the shoulder touching hers.

“On!”

“There is no way. It is all solid.”

For a second or two she was caught in panic and then a small measure of reason triumphed. Of course, they must have reached a corner! They had found the wall in which the door panel was set.

“Right—turn right—” Roane tugged and pulled at him. Perhaps “left,” “right,” had no meaning for him. Somehow she got him around, started in the new direction. And then—blessedly—cool air and an opening!

“Through here! Be careful, there is a step up—”

Somehow she got him through. The distort—But the blast must have rendered that harmless. They were safe in the passage, breathing untainted air. Roane leaned against the wall, drawing that reviving coolness into her laboring lungs.

The scarlet curtain before her eyes had faded. There was one thing she might try. She fumbled at the supply bag, brought out the night lenses, was almost afraid to look as she got them on.

Her eyes still smarted, burned, felt as if hot sand had been poured into their corners, under their lids. But—she could see! Though it was as if she peered through a haze. She drew close to Imfry, surveying him searchingly. He leaned against the wall as she had done, his hands raised to his head where he pawed feebly, as if trying to rub away something clinging to his face. But she could see no sign of burn or injury.

By so much they had escaped.
They
had—but what of Sandar? She looked back. There was no radiance within the chamber now—and dead silence. Dead—She hesitated. It could well be that the shock of what had happened here could be detected by the crew of the LB. Against them she and Imfry were defenseless. Yet she could not take even the first step toward safety.

Roane caught Imfry’s hands, held them tight, trying to get his unfocused eyes to meet hers as she spoke. “You must stay here until I return.” She accented each word with force.

“Stay—return—” he repeated. His mouth hung slackly open. She had never seen anything as empty as his face.

Horror fed her fear. She dared not think about his condition.

She fled back through the panel, making herself concentrate on Sandar. Dim as her sight was, the lenses were an aid to show what had been wrought here. Where the pillars had stood, there were now rent and blackened stubs, the crowns gone. Bitter fumes made her cough, rasped her throat.

Where had Sandar been? Without the crowns to guide her she could no longer be certain. Roane stumbled on, not sure she would even find evidence of his being, a sour bile rising in her mouth so that she had to keep swallowing to fight it. Then she saw the huddle of body and flung herself down beside it.

The horror of a fire death did not face her. But when she pulled at his shoulder, he rolled heavily limp. If he still lived she must get him out of this poisonous atmosphere. Somehow she was able to grasp him under the armpits, scramble backward, dragging him.

She bumped him across the panel barrier, letting him sprawl out into the corridor. Once more she rolled him over, her hand seeking a heartbeat. And she found that flutter just as the ground under her shook. Roane cried out—was the whole tunnel about to collapse around them?

Sandar coughed feebly, his head turned from side to side, his hands tried to dig into the rock as if he would lift himself. The tunnel—

Then Roane understood. Memories from the old life which might have been lived by another person reassured her. That had been the shock of deter rockets. The LB had landed.

A clear warning to move out. She arose. Her cousin was not dead, and he would soon be in the hands of his own people. If she and Imfry would escape, they must do it now. Nelis still stood against the wall, but now his arms were out, braced against the smoothed stone, his head strained forward as if he listened for what he could not see. As she moved, his face turned quickly to her.

“Who is there?” There was a new crispness in his demand. His voice was not dazed as it had been earlier.

“Roane. We must go now.”

When she touched him his tense body was iron-hard. He raised a hand, struck out blindly, as if to ward her off.

“Go where?” he demanded.

“Out of here. And quickly. They will come seeking Sandar, to see the installation—they must not find us here.”

“Who must not find us here?” He was impervious to her urging, stubborn in his rigidity of body.

“Uncle Offlas—those from the LB. We must go!”

“You mean that. You are afraid,” he answered her. “I can feel your fear. Who are you?”

“Roane! I am Roane.” She was close to tears. His voice was clearer, his face no longer had that slack, mindless look. But that he did not know her—there was something very wrong.

“Roane,” he repeated. “And who am I?”

She was trembling. Her worst fear was being dragged into fact. “You are Colonel Nelis Imfry. Do you remember nothing—nothing at all?”

He made her no direct answer. Rather he seemed to wish to avoid that. “You are afraid for yourself?”

“For myself, yes,” she answered honestly. “And for you. They will have good reason to wish us both under their hands. Please, we must go.” She reached for him again, fearing that he might strike her, yet determined to start him in flight. But when his hand came this time, it was not balled into a fist, but open, stretched to welcome hers. She seized it eagerly.

“Come!”

Again she pulled him along the passage at as swift a pace as she could urge on him. Then at last they were able to grope out into the open. She had hoped that, once free of the installation room, Imfry would regain his sight. But he still depended upon her guidance even as they walked into the night.

The wind, untainted by corrosive stench, was sweet and cold around them. Roane saw him lift his face into it. Then he said without visible emotion:

“I can see now.”

She gave a cry of relief, dropping his hand. Her own sight was dimmed. Even the lenses could not give things clear-cut outlines. That that impairment might be permanent she dared not consider.

“It is very strange,” Imfry continued. He might have been thinking aloud rather than speaking to her. “There is a kind of emptiness—”

Then more forcibly, as if he were uttering some necessary formula to establish a fact:

“I am Nelis Imfry, of the House of Imfry-Manholm. I am a Colonel in the service of Her Majesty, Queen Ludorica of Reveny. I am me—Nelis Imfry!”

He was quiet then, his eyes seeking the stars where the wind-tossed branches alternately revealed and hid their glitter. A waning moon was rising, its sickle of silver cutting the cloudless sky.

“I remember, but it is as if those memories have dimmed. Yet I am Nelis Imfry, and the rest of it is true.”

“Yes,” she told him.

Her agreement appeared to startle him out of that trancelike state. He turned swiftly as if he feared to face an enemy. Gazing full at her he stood silently, as one might study a landmark which was altered from what he thought it had been.

“Tell me,” he ordered, “what has chanced. While I was in darkness.”

“When I tried to stop Sandar the energy ray lanced across one of the pillars. It set off a chain reaction—all the installation was destroyed—the crowns are gone.” Would he understand?

His dark brows drew together in a frown. “Crowns? Pillars?”

“The installation left by the Psychocrats to rule this world—”

His mouth set firmly. “The
Queen
rules Reveny.”

“Now she does,” assented Roane, wondering if that were indeed the truth, or if the destruction of the crowns had pulled down upon Reveny the fate of Arothner.

“You speak of facts you believe in, but it is not clear to me. Make me understand!” He advanced as if he intended to shake it out of her.

She was afraid again. This haggard stranger was not Nelis Imfry. Was this what the destruction of the crowns meant? For there was as noticeable a change in him as there had been in Ludorica when she held the Ice Crown.

“It is a long story,” she said helplessly.

“That does not matter. Tell it!”

So once more she went over the familiar tale. Only this time she had no relief in the telling, only a cold feeling born not of the chill wind about them, but rather of a great loneliness.

He listened intently, though little change of expression was apparent on his lean face. He might have been some judge presiding over a trial where she was the accused.

Imfry did not interrupt her with any questions, but heard her through to that end which was the unplanned destruction of the installation. And when she was done Roane wavered. The pain in her eyes was worse, spreading back into her head, so that she was more aware of that than her surroundings.

“You understand the danger if those of the Service find us. They must not!” She put all the energy she had left into that last warning. Her eyes—her head—she could not stand it any longer. She remembered swaying, the sound of a cry, and then pain, a great sea of fire, engulfed her.

Coolness, blessed coolness—dark and cool. To hide in this dark, cool place and never venture forth again. Sensation rather than thought. Cool and wet—the fire going. She did not want to move, yet she was moving. Roane tried to protest, discovered she had not the energy to form words. She heard dimly a moaning sound.

“Roane—” A ripple through the cool dark. No—let her alone—just let her alone!

“Roane!”

Dimly she knew that for a summons. She would not answer. Let her be! She was moving, though not on her own two feet. And the jar set her head hurting, so she made a great effort and thought she begged to be let alone. But if they heard her they did not heed. She escaped once again into the cool dark.

But the second time she was drawn out of that refuge she could not slip back. She lay on a surface which was not soft, though there was that under her which cushioned it a little. Her face was wet, as if she had been out in a storm, but that came from a soaked cloth laid across her forehead and eyes. At least she lay still, no moving racking her body.

“. . . tall as a keep, I swear to you, sir. Nothing like it I have ever seen. And I counted five men come out of it. They went in and out by ladder, taking stuff back in. But a couple more went into that cave. Seeing that thing, you have to believe the whole story. But men traveling to the
stars?
You have to have proof of a tale such as that. And with one feeling like his head was empty—well, I could say this was a dream—or some Soothspeaker trick. Are you sure, sir, it is not? I mean, if Shambry was strong enough to hold the Queen in thrall that way, maybe he could be working on us now—even at a distance.”