Realm of Light (6 page)

The man was
ancient, at the end of his time. Even if he drove his enemies back, he could
not beat his own fate. Age was finally conquering him, a man who had not
surrendered to mortality for nearly a millennium.

How long did the
old man have?

His threads of
life were thin and weak. He might have days. He might have hours.

And when he died,
what then?

Caelan’s eyes
narrowed. What would it be like to seize power in Kostimon’s stead?

What would it be
like to ride at the head of the imperial army, to hear the roaring shouts of
acclaim? What would it be like to have absolute command over the lives of
everyone? To have wealth, glory, and possessions?

What would it be
like to travel from one end of the vast empire to the other, ruler of every
scrap of earth beneath one’s boot soles? What would it be like to change laws,
to effect reforms, to free slaves, to abolish slavery altogether? He could
drive out the evil Vindicants, close temples, put an end to forbidden rites and
practices.

A surge of
confidence and ambition swept through him before he tried to thrust his thoughts
aside. He was a fool to think such things. Yet he felt ambition burning bright
inside him. Prince Tirhin had no more right to rule than any other man. There
had been no prophecy cast to indicate a successor. The future of the empire lay
open like an arena, with no rules, ready to be taken by the best and strongest.

I am that man.

But was he? Caelan
frowned at himself in self-ridicule. He was a former slave, an ex-gladiator, a
provincial nobody from nowhere.

But Kostimon had
been a nobody from nowhere, Caelan reminded himself. No one could remember
where Kostimon had come from originally. What clan? What tribe? What region of
the empire? The scrolls of history had been rewritten many times, whenever
Kostimon wanted to reinvent his past. A strong man could take the reins of
power, if he dared.

A sharp pain
flared in Caelan’s chest without warning, making him gasp and double over. His
fingers slackened on the bridle, and Elandra’s horse pulled free and trotted on
without him.

Alarmed by the
thought of becoming separated from her in the darkness, he called, “Elandra,
wait—”

The pain hit him
again, and he could not finish his sentence. Gritting his teeth, he staggered
forward a step, then sank to his knees. He had to call out to her, had to stop
her, had to stay with her. But the pain was too great. It consumed him, and he
had not even the breath to cry out.

For a moment he
thought he had been wounded by some mysterious force coming at him from the
darkness. But his groping fingers found no cuts, no blood. Nothing tangible had
attacked him.

Gasping through
another burst of pain, Caelan fought to hold himself upright. He would not
fall, he told himself grimly, struggling to hang on. He would not die here in
this evil place, alone and forgotten.

The pain grew more
intense, stabbing and hot, until his face dripped with sweat and he thought he
must scream from it. Then it ebbed enough for him to catch his breath. He
opened his eyes. As his senses came back to him, he realized the pain was
focusing itself now into one central spot just below his throat.

The emerald . . .

He loosened the
thong holding his amulet bag and pulled it over his head in a swift yank. Then,
with fumbling, unsteady fingers, he opened the bag and poured out his talisman.
Originally there had been two emeralds, one thumb-sized, the other smaller.
They had been given to him by his younger sister Lea shortly before he had been
captured by Thyzarene raiders, never to see her again. Later, on the hillside
of
Sidraigh-hal,
the two emeralds had fused together into a single,
irregular-shaped stone, somehow becoming larger in the process.

Now, the lumpy gem
was glowing here in the darkness, as though possessing a life of its own. And
as soon as he dumped it on the ground, it grew again, swelling into a fist-sized
gem that flared angrily with radiant, pale green light.

The pain in his
chest faded swiftly. Limp with relief, Caelan pressed his palm against the spot
and drew in deeper and deeper breaths. He felt clammy now in the cold air
blowing through the passageway. His sweat was drying on his skin; his clothing
stuck unpleasantly to him beneath his armor. Wiping his face with a corner of
his tattered cloak, he thought he heard a footstep in the distance.

His head snapped
up. “Elandra?”

She did not reply,
and he knew even as he uttered her name that the sound had come from behind
him. Elandra was ahead of him, lost already in the darkness beyond the dim
light cast by his emerald. It v/as as though the shadow forces were separating
them, one by one, from each other. Divide and conquer. Isolate and kill.

The soft scraping
sound came again, furtive and quick. Hair prickled on the back of Caelan’s
neck. He pushed himself to his feet, drawing his sword, and gazed behind him.

In the eerie light
of the emerald, he saw nothing, but he believed the force that had come to life
in the stone was drawing the attention of something he did not want to meet.

Caelan did not
understand the magic contained within this emerald. He only knew it somehow
responded to the shadow forces, fed on their power to mysteriously augment its
own. Sometimes it served as a protector; sometimes not. He did not know how to
direct it, how to use it. And now it was too large to be concealed in his
amulet pouch. He would have to find another way to carry it.

Using a corner of
his cloak as a pad against the heat thrown off by the stone, Caelan scooped it
up and hurried on. With every stride he listened for sounds of pursuit, but
whatever lurked behind him did not follow.

The pain in his
chest was gone now, but it had drained him. He knew he was not fast enough, not
as alert as he should be.

Sighing, he rubbed
his chest and felt old, tired, and mortal. His ambitions had been driven out of
him, and now he could only look back at them with wonder and amazement. Why had
he even fantasized that he could accomplish such things?

It was time for
him to leave Kostimon and Elandra to their fates and go home to Trau. He had
unfinished business there, old scores to settle, old ghosts to make peace with.
Even if E’nonhold had been destroyed, the land remained. He should claim it
before the provincial governor awarded the deed to a purchaser.

And as this
determination settled within him, the ambitions faded from his heart. The heat
inside his emerald gradually cooled until once again it felt cold and lifeless
like any stone. The light it cast went out, and Caelan was once again plunged
into the darkness.

He stumbled to a
halt, frustrated and discouraged. With all his will, he tried to reach into the
stone and reawaken its magic. It remained unresponsive in his fist.

Ahead, however, he
heard the plodding hoofbeats of Elandra’s horse. Straightening his shoulders,
he reminded himself of his duty to protect this woman and pushed onward.

Jogging on legs
that felt leaden with fatigue, Caelan mentally gave thanks for the years of
tough conditioning and training for the arena that enabled him to keep going.
The walls of the passage began to glow softly, very dimly at first, then strong
enough to see by. The illumination came from streaks of a pale, slimy substance
on the walls. He dared not touch it, but he was glad to finally be able to see
where he was going.

Ahead, Elandra’s
horse had stopped and stood with its head down. Elandra’s hands rested on her
horse’s neck. The reins dangled free from the bridle.

He staggered up to
the animal, taking care not to startle it, and gripped the dangling reins with
a sigh of relief. The horse snorted and rubbed its head against him as though
seeking comfort. Caelan stroked its muzzle and scratched its ears, too tired to
murmur to it.

Sitting a little
slumped in her saddle, the empress looked wan and unearthly in the peculiar
light. Her long auburn hair had blown across her face and hung there, half
concealing her features. Her mouth was slack, and her eyes held nothing at all.
It worried him, to see her like that. He did not know how long the spell would
last, or whether it would ever wear off.

“Elandra?” he said
very softly to her. “Majesty, are you all right?”

She stared into
the emptiness ahead of her. She did not blink. She did not move. Her lips
remained slightly parted. Only the slight rise and fall of her chest told him
she was even alive.

“Majesty,” Caelan
said again, knowing he should not try to break the spell that protected her
here, but unable to silence himself, “can you speak?”

She remained
silent.

Frowning at
himself, he shoved his worries away. He urged the horse forward, and together
they trudged on.

He could feel the
aches of battle: sore muscles grown stiff, the stinging discomfort of scrapes
and cuts, the flaring tenderness of bruises. He was hungry. He longed to rest,
yet dared not stop.

Gault of
infinite mercy,
he prayed wearily,
guide our way and keep us from harm.

It was a fool’s
prayer, he knew. He was a long way from the realm of light, but he repeated his
prayer anyway.

A splashing sound
and the cold wetness of water filling his boots startled him.

Halting, he peered
ahead. At first he could not see the water he stood in, so black was it.

It ran swift over
his feet, as icy cold as a glacial stream. Bending over, Caelan splashed it
onto his face.

It burned his
skin, making him nearly cry out.

Gasping, he
staggered back a step and rubbed the water from his eyes. His face still stung,
but he was awake now, fully alert again.

With burning eyes,
he squinted at the stream. The streaks of glowing illumination were few and far
between here, casting only the palest of shadowy light over the black water. He
could not judge its width in the gloom.

The water ran
swift yet silent, with none of the usual rush and roar of a river. He could
smell the water now, and despite the rapid current that should have kept it
fresh, it stank like stagnant pond water.

Wrinkling his
nose, Caelan
severed
his nearly overwhelming thirst, putting it aside.
This was not drinkable water.

The horse dropped
its muzzle to the dark surface of the water as though to drink, but flinched
back, snorting and rolling its eyes. It put down its muzzle again, only to
refuse to drink. Nervously, the animal backed up.

Caelan jumped at
it and succeeded in catching the dangling reins before it could turn around and
bolt back the way they’d come.

“No, you don’t,”
he said softly through his teeth.

They would have to
cross. Better to do it now and get it over with. He hesitated a moment, still
trying to calm the unsettled horse, then touched Elandra’s foot briefly.

“Majesty,” he said
with respect, “if you can hear me, then see that you hang on tight. I don’t
know how deep the water is. We may have to swim, and the current is swift. Take
care you don’t let it sweep you from the saddle.”

He looked at her,
but she gave no sign of having heard him. Sighing, he took her hand and
entwined some of the horse’s mane among her fingers. Her flesh was cold and
stiff, almost inanimate. He felt chilled simply from touching her. It was like
handling the dead before they are stiffened.

Swiftly he turned
away, unwilling to think of her that way.

He unbuckled his
sword belt and breastplate, knowing he could not swim weighted down by so much metal.
Pulling off his quilted tunic and the linen undertunic beneath it, he rolled
the garments, along with his boots and leggings, into his cloak and strapped
them across the front of the saddle in hopes they would stay dry. Clad only in
his nethers, he secured his sword and armor to the saddle, then wrapped the
reins securely around his hand and urged the horse forward. It flinched and
resisted, the whites of its eyes glimmering, but he shouted at it and tugged.
Finally it plunged forward, nearly knocking him off balance.

Caelan kept
shouting, to encourage himself as much as the horse. He pushed his way forward,
and the water deepened quickly until it came up to his chest. He felt as though
he’d been plunged into ice. The water was so cold it stole his breath. After
another step the bottom dropped out from beneath him. He swam awkwardly,
keeping his chin and mouth as high above the surface as he could. The stench
was bad enough to turn his stomach. He didn’t want to think about what the
water contained to make it smell thus.

Snorting, the
horse swam beside him. The current grew stronger, and Caelan stayed close
against the horse, clinging to a strap of the saddle and trying to steer the
animal straight instead of letting the current carry them downstream.

A ghost-pale mist
formed on the surface of the water ahead of them, swirling and circling as
though alive. Caelan’s sense of danger grew stronger. He did not want to swim
into the mist. Yet he could not turn back.

When the clammy
fog wrapped its tendrils around his face, Caelan felt himself in sudden,
unexpected contact with a torrent of emotions, none of which were his own. They
swept over him in a deluge, and the faint sound of weeping and piteous cries
filled his ears. He had entered some kind of miasma of human misery. He wanted
to weep with the voices. Their agony and torment were unbearable, drowning him.
He lost all sense of himself, feeling instead this terrible sorrow and grief
that encompassed his soul.

“No,” he said
aloud, struggling with the last remnants of his will. “No!”

He
severed,
isolating himself, and at once there was only roaring silence in his ears
instead of anguished wailing. The tendrils of fog melted away, and a light of
sorts—very white and pure—shone down on him as though moonlight had somehow
reached to the bowels of the earth.