Realm of Light (50 page)

Caelan shut his
eyes, feeling tired.

Orlo patted his
cheek. “Stay with me, Giant. I’m going to put you on your feet. No, don’t help
me. I’ll do the lifting. But it’s time we got you out of here. The smell of
blood will draw things you don’t want to meet.”

Caelan nodded,
then grimaced as Orlo pulled him to his feet. A wave of clammy misery swept
through him, and the room spun violently. Desperate not to faint again, Caelan
struggled to find
severance.
Shakily he pulled it around him, closing
off the pain, and slowly straightened.

Orlo watched him,
looking a little awed, a little frightened, a little admiring. “You’re a tough
brute,” he said. “Always were. Even if you haven’t any sense.”

Caelan looked over
at Pob, who was wrapping a bloody object in a rag while his fellow ruffians
watched. “Gladiators?”

“Aye,” Orlo said
proudly. “Trained every man of them. Did you really think you could take on
five guards by yourself?”

Caelan grinned at
him and nodded his thanks to the men. “Four,” he said, still struggling to find
enough breath to talk. “Just four, but thanks for coming in time.”

A rumble passed
through the room, and the walls shook ominously. Caelan glanced up in alarm.
“Earthquake?”

“Aye. Men, clear
out!”

Lifting Caelan’s
arm over his shoulders, Orlo guided Caelan out into the passageway. Another
rumble came, longer than the first, and this tremor was stronger. Dust rained down
on them. Someone called out a breathless prayer. Someone else cursed the world,
the gods, and the shadows. Pob tucked the wrapped heart inside his jerkin and
ran ahead of them out of sight.

“We’re too far
down,” Orlo said, breathing hard. He pushed Caelan forward. “Too close to—”

An unearthly cry
uttered by no mortal throat came rising from below them. Caelan looked back. In
the torchlight, he could see another flight of steps leading down. He pulled
free of Orlo’s arm.

“What are you
doing?” Orlo asked in alarm. “You can’t go that way. There’s Haggai and worse
down there.”

The shout rose
again, uttering words this time that seemed almost understandable. Caelan
listened, feeling his skin crawl. “I should know that voice,” he said
thoughtfully.

Orlo gripped his
arm. “Are you mad? Don’t listen to it. If hell spills its jaws tonight, I don’t
intend to be standing down here to meet what comes out.”

More howls, louder
than before, echoed through the passageways. A swarm of rats came boiling up
the steps toward them. The men turned and ran. Orlo ran too, urging Caelan
along with him.

“Run, you big
fool!” he said hoarsely. “Forget how much you hurt, and let’s get out of here!”

Fear coursed
through Caelan in waves. He could smell a terrible dank, decayed stench like
the fetid breath of a predator. A shrieking, skittering, squeaking noise came,
swelling in volume as the rats caught up with them and fled on ahead of them,
both angry and panicked, their red eyes glinting in the torchlight.

“We can’t let it
out,” Caelan whispered, feeling himself choking up. He coughed blood, and his
knees tried to buckle under him. “Have to stop it.”

Orlo kept him
moving. “Come on! This is no place to fight, you idiot. Mender, come back here
and help me. If he swoons, I can’t carry him by myself.”

The gladiator
turned back to shoulder Caelan’s weight on the other side. Caught between Orlo
and Mender, Caelan ran awkwardly, trying to hold
severance
and
consciousness at the same time.

He looked back
once to see four-footed beasts like wolves bounding at them. The creatures came
closer, and they were not wolves at all but furred things with claws and heads
like cobras.

Their yellow eyes
glowed ferociously, and their jaws dripped death.

Caelan gasped out
a warning.

Orlo glanced back
and turned pale. “Holy goddess mother,” he whispered, skidding to a halt. He
shoved Caelan against the wall and met the charge of one of the beasts with a
hard thrust of his sword. The creature screamed and fell, its deadly claws
missing Orlo by mere inches. Shouting in panic, Mender stabbed at another one
with his spear, but it seemed impervious to the wounds he dealt it. Orlo struck
it from behind, severing its spine in one blow, and it fell dead at Caelan’s
feet.

Gasping for air,
Orlo stared at it, then shuddered once and gathered Caelan to run again. Other
creatures appeared, frenzied and wild, as though driven forth from the realm of
shadow by something more terrible than all imagination. More than once the men
had to stop and fight off attacks. A cross passageway teeming with demons cut
them off. Orlo, Mender, and Caelan shrank back into the shadows, and the demons
rushed on without noticing them, howling in their madness.

The earth quaked
again, rending and cracking. Caelan thought at any moment everything would come
crashing down on them, but the old passageway timbers held, groaning, long
enough for them to duck through.

They ran until he
couldn’t breathe. They ran until his lungs were on fire, and every step jolted
the pain back through
severance
like stitches from a long needle. Even
with all his control he felt the agony more and more sharply. He was gasping
and staggering by the time Orlo half dragged him up the last ramp into the cold
air.

Demons and
monsters streamed into the streets.

Then a sudden, very
strange hush fell over the chaos. Caelan turned his head, sensing something
stirring, awakening, coming, something unbearable in its horror.

He shuddered in
Orlo’s hold, knowing this was what he had been born to face, but knowing also
he was not ready, not up for it. He had lost Exoner, now in Tirhin’s hands, and
without the spell-forged sword he might as well throw stones.

Without warning,
weakness sagged through his knees. Orlo grunted with the struggle to hold him
up.

“Quick,” Orlo
said, panting. “Let’s get him to a hiding place. There’s no safety out here.”

They pushed Caelan
behind a shaky wall and crept along cautiously, heading toward a collection of
buildings on the other side of the city square.

“It’s coming,”
Caelan whispered, swirling through a mist of darkness and raw, burning pain.
Severance
came and went, sustaining him for a blessed moment of relief only
to fade again. “Coming.”

“He’s raving,”
Mender said worriedly.

“I know,” Orlo
replied. “Let’s go to the tavern. We can hide there.”

Caelan knew he
must explain to them. They needed to understand that he was warning them, not
babbling in delirium, but he couldn’t gather the words. Stumbling over rubble
and timbers, he lost his footing and fell, half dragging Orlo and Mender down
with him. From a long distance he heard them pleading with him to climb back on
his feet and keep going. Orlo sounded afraid, and that surprised Caelan. He
didn’t think Orlo knew what fear was.

But the earth was
spinning beneath him. He reached up, but the black waters of Aithe, river of
dead souls, swept him away.

He slept and
dreamed and fought the creatures that tormented him in his feverish haze.
Concealed in the underground cellar of a burned-out tavern, Caelan lay propped
up on a crude pallet of straw and blankets. He dreamed of red-eyed demons and
men who breathed smoke. He dreamed of the arena, hot in the merciless sun, the
spectators screaming. He dreamed of Elandra. Her eyes were radiant, glowing
only for him.

“I have a secret
to tell you,” she said.

He reached for
her, only to have her turn to smoke in his fingers and vanish.

And there stood
Kostimon, yellow-eyed and sly, cloaked in purple with a crown of gold on his
head. Pointing at Caelan, he laughed scornfully. Beyond the emperor, a trio of
Penestrican women robed in black lifted despairing hands to the sky, while they
wailed cries of mourning. Darkness crawled across the earth like a vast
serpent, swallowing the light, swallowing Caelan.

Lea’s voice called
his name. Holding up a lamp, she came searching and did not find him.

“I’m sorry,” he
said as she passed him by.

“I’m sorry,” he
said, unexpectedly finding himself kneeling to Moah, the leader of the Choven
tribes.

“I’m sorry,” he
said.

And Exoner lay
broken in the snow, while he dreamed and shivered and burned in fire.

The queer tolling
of cracked bells awakened Elandra. She could hear them across the city, some
near and some faint on the distant hills. One rang whole and pure, its beauty
serving only to accentuate the dead, flat notes of the others.

She lay there in
her bed, in the fine suite of apartments, and thought of another day when the
bells of Imperia had rung for her. It seemed a lifetime ago.

She had been on
her way to be married.

“No!”

Sitting bolt
upright, she flung off the covers and swung her feet to the floor. Around her,
servants were moving quietly, refilling the lamps with oil and lighting them.
Pushing back her hair, she glanced at the window and could see the sun hanging
halfway above the broken spires of the city, still veiled by the hazy gloom.

She remembered the
horrible talk with Tirhin last night, and fresh grief rose inside her along
with grim determination. She would not marry the man. No matter what he did, no
matter what he plotted, he could not coerce her.

Iaris came toward
her, veering around a maidservant carrying a tray of food. “It’s about time you
woke up,” she said. “Your bath is being poured. I’ve been sewing since dawn,
trying to alter the wedding gown your groom has provided. He says it belonged
to his mother. It’s charming, but very old-fashioned. Still, we do what we
must. Hurry!”

Elandra ignored
her as she would a buzzing fly.

Gripping her by
the wrist, Iaris marched her into a small bathing chamber wanned by a burning
fire. Curls of steam rose off the surface of the water.

“This is the fate
of women,” Iaris said, stripping the sleeping robe off Elandra’s back and
pushing her into the deep marble tub. “The more you fight, the more miserable
you will be. The result is still the same. Find obedience in your heart, and cease
this struggle.”

Elandra sat in the
water, letting it lap around her shoulders. She could not cry now. She had
cried all her tears for Caelan the night before. Now she felt hollow and empty
inside, as empty as the city around her. She felt as though she had died, yet
still was able to move about and talk. It seemed so strange.

“I am a ghost,”
she said, staring into the distance. “I am nothing.”

Iaris slapped her
hard. The blow rocked Elandra backward, and stung enough to get her attention.

Lifting her hand
to her face, she turned her head and stared at her mother.

Iaris was glaring
at her, looking both angry and afraid. She gripped the rim of the tub so hard
her knuckles turned white. “Stop this!” she repeated sharply. “Our lives depend
on you. Don’t you understand? Your father, Pier, myself, the others. If you
displease Tirhin, he will hurt us. Not you. Us.”

Elandra’s eyes
widened. She looked at her mother, heard the truth in her mother’s voice, and
felt shame rise inside her.

“You are safe,”
Iaris said in a tight, hard voice. “But we are not. No one in Imperia is safe
except you. He needs you, Elandra. The rest of us are expendable.”

Elandra’s lips
were trembling. She felt cold despite the warmth of the water. “He is a
monster,” she said. “A madman. He killed Caelan.”

“He will kill
Albain next,” Iaris said. “You know that. Stop being so selfish, girl, and
think of someone besides yourself.”

Bowing her head,
Elandra began to cry.

“Stop it! Pull
yourself together. Did you tell him about the child?”

Still weeping,
Elandra shook her head.

“Thank Gault for
that.” Iaris sighed. “I am sorry about your lover,” she said, making her voice
more gentle. “He was not suitable in birth or rank, but—”

“He was noble in
his heart,” Elandra said, aching for Caelan. She told herself she would never
see him again, she would never hear his voice or feel his arms around her. It
seemed unreal. How his eyes lit up when he smiled. His mouth had a funny way of
quirking up at one corner when he teased her. Oh, her dear, gentle Caelan, a
man who could be fierce, savage, and unbending. He was also a man with a heart
as tender as a child’s, a man who gave himself heart and soul to whatever and
whomever he believed in.

She looked at her
mother desperately, seeking solace that was not offered. “What makes one man
better than another? Is it an accident of birth, or is it what he proves
himself to be?”

“I don’t know,”
Iaris said. “But if he is dead, then he is dead. Your tears won’t bring him
back. And if Tirhin is mad, then you truly are the last hope Imperia has. Don’t
throw that away, Elandra.”

Elandra wiped her
face and nodded. She felt colder than ever inside, but her grimness had not
lessened. Nor did her intentions waver. No matter what her mother said, or how
much she pleaded, Elandra would not let herself be made Tirhin’s wife.

She thought of the
Magria’s strange prophecy and how she had been given two destinies. If she
locked herself in her chamber, refusing Tirhin, there would be civil war. She
remained popular with the people, and they would support her. But Tirhin had
killed the man she loved, and Elandra hated him for that. Her grief hardened
inside her, becoming cold, implacable hatred. She would not sit in passive
resistance. No, she meant to strike hard. She must avenge Caelan. The goal
burned in her heart like fire.
Woman of fire,
the prophecy had called
her. So be it.

When she was
dressed and adorned with jewels and veiled, Elandra dismissed everyone.