The Wicked Day (46 page)

“
Lig
,” said Severan.

A wisp of light glimmered into being above his hand. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it drifting into the air. The light was insignificant, but it was enough to illumine the place. It was obviously a bedroom. The place smelled of dust and stale air and something else. The drapes were drawn across the windows. They looked like coffin shrouds. The ghost shivered.

“Here,” it said. “In here. He left a few minutes ago.”

“But where?” Arodilac looked around. “There aren’t any other doors out of here.”

“The doors of Brimwell the Lame don’t look like normal doors.
Lig
.” Severan sent another wisp of light scooting up to the ceiling. “They’re spells—extremely complicated spells, of course—anchored to a physical object not intended to leave its location. The object could be small, like a hairbrush, or large, like a. . .”

“Like a tapestry?” said Arodilac.

They all stared at the tapestry on the wall. It was enormous. The fabric was woven from silk and depicted an intricate scene of buildings and soldiers and townsfolk. A king sat on his throne in the top right corner. An army of skeletons marched with spears across the bottom of the tapestry, advancing on a large building of stone and towers. Tiny flames of red silk poured from windows.

“Good grief,” said Severan, peering closer. “That’s Dol Cynehad, the last king of Tormay. And that’s obviously the university. This must be a depiction of the Midsummer War. Priceless! I’ve never seen anything like this before. This needs to be studied. Look, there are some odd runes woven into the sides of these buildings. It almost looks like—”

“Dol Cynehad was very fond of onions,” interrupted the ghost. “And speaking of smells, this tapestry stinks of magic.”

“Onions? I suppose this might be what we’re looking for. Aha! Can you sense that? There’s a ward sleeping in the threads, but it isn’t pointed this way. It’s guarding somewhere else. Somewhere that is not this room. Yes. This is definitely what we’re looking for, but how does it activate?”

Severan prodded the tapestry with one finger. It didn’t feel unusual. It felt like a silk tapestry. He thought a moment, and then waved his hands in the air. Nothing happened.

“Open,” he commanded. “
Vena
.”

A wooden chest on a nearby table creaked open, but the tapestry did nothing.

“Stop that,” said the ghost. “You’re making my ears itch.”

“Perhaps the key to a spell like this has something to do with the person who uses it the most. In this case, your uncle.” Severan nodded at Arodilac.

“I could’ve told you that,” said the ghost.

“He never said anything about this to me.” Arodilac touched the tapestry. “To be honest, we didn’t get along all that well.”

“Wait. What did you just do?”

“Nothing,” said Arodilac. “What are you talking about?”

“The tapestry just moved.”

“Maybe it’s because he touched it,” said the ghost. “I’ve often noticed that things move if you touch them. For instance, if you touch a blade of grass, it will invariably move to some degree. This is due to the pressure of your finger. I know that’s probably a startling concept to someone with your lack of—”

“Staer Gemyndes or not, stop being a blockhead. The pattern in the tapestry moved. I saw it. The buildings shifted.”

“I didn’t do anything,” said Arodilac. “All I did was touch the thing. See?”

He touched the tapestry again. This time, they all saw it. The buildings woven into the design began to shift around. They slid away from the center of the tapestry until the center of the hanging was an oval of blue-black thread that rippled with shadows. Arodilac snatched his hand away.

“It’s alive! Did you see that?”

“It moved because of you. Is it because of who you are? A member of the Botrell family? That’s logical. But I’ve never heard of any spell attuned to people because of what family they belonged—what’s that you’re wearing?”

“That? Oh, that’s my ward ring. It’s. . .” Arodilac’s voice trailed off. He looked up, embarrassed. “My uncle had all the castle wards woven into it. He always said it was the match of his own ring.”

“That’s it.”

Arodilac placed his hand again on the tapestry. He was acutely aware of the ring on his finger now and he thought he felt it grow warm. The buildings slid away from the center. The king on his throne in the corner of the tapestry seemed to be staring down at them.

“I suppose one of you’ll have to go first,” he said. “If I go through, then you might be stuck here.”

“You’re probably right,” said Severan. “Ghost, how about you go first? You’re dead already, so you’ll be safe from whatever might be lurking on the other side. Perhaps you can distract it, or them, or whatever it is.”

“Safe? What do you mean, safe? I think I should go last, as I’m the oldest and have experienced more of life than the two of you put together. I don’t need any more experiences. So, go on. You’ll thank me later. You’ll find that difficulties are maturing. While you’re fighting off whatever monster is chewing on your ankle, just remember that it’s a learning experience. You can never place too high a value on education. Particularly the hands-on sort.”

“Look,” said Arodilac hastily. “Why don’t you go through together? The tapestry’s big enough.”

Severan reached out one cautious hand and touched the tapestry. It was definitely not silk anymore. It was more like a thick, greasy vapor. He could feel it clinging to his fingertips.

“Oh, very well,” he said. “Ghost, are you ready? On three. One, two, three!”

And then they were gone, both of them blurring into the tapestry and disappearing with a soft, wet sort of sound. It wasn’t a pleasant thing. At least, it wasn’t pleasant for Arodilac. He didn’t like the sound of that noise. He didn’t like the way the tapestry seemed to pull at his hand, like it wanted to swallow him up. Most of all, however, he didn’t like being alone in that room. The wisps of light Severan had spelled into being were guttering out. Arodilac took a breath and stepped through the tapestry. His stomach plunged for a sickening moment. He couldn’t see a thing. He stumbled forward and then felt a hand grab hold of his arm.

“Steady,” said Severan.

Arodilac found himself standing on a flight of stone steps. There were stone walls on both sides and a low ceiling above his head. The steps led down into a passageway that disappeared into the dark. A torch burned in a sconce high on the wall. Behind him, at the top of the stairs, a gray wall shimmered.

“Where are we?” said Arodilac.

Severan shrugged. “I suppose somewhere in the Thieves Guild tunnels. I’ve never seen them before, but I’ve heard tales about the labyrinth the Guild has beneath the city. They use the tunnels to get quickly about the city. Some stories say the tunnels move, they rearrange themselves, though I’ve never seen proof of that sort of magic in anything I’ve read. The Silentman of the Guild is supposed to have his court hidden in the labyrinth. Mind you, the Guild didn’t build these tunnels, if that’s where we are. They’re supposed to be from Dol Cynehad’s reign.”

“Actually,” said the ghost, “the tunnels predate the founding of Hearne. But don’t get too excited. I can’t remember more than that. Moving tunnels. Wonderful. It’s like we’re in the belly of a snake.”

Arodilac took the torch from the wall and they advanced down the tunnel. The air was cold and still. Their footsteps echoed in whispers against the stone walls. The torch did not do much more than illuminate the ground around their feet and send their shadows wavering across the nearby walls.

“
Lig
,” said Severan, and a wisp of light rose into the air above his hand. He repeated the word and sent one of the lights floating several yards ahead of them. The other light retreated until it was well behind them. The darkness in the tunnel was so complete, however, that just past the edge of the light was a wall of utter black. It retreated before them and it advanced behind them. Severan opened the bag in his pocket and fished out a little stone.

“
Lig
,” he said, and the stone blazed into life like a tiny star.

“You realize, of course,” said the ghost, “that
lig
is merely a crude formulation of the original word for light? It’s a weak word, in terms of power. The original word isn't just a word, it's light itself.”

“
Lig
works for me,” said Severan irritably. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me the original word, are you?”

“I can’t remember,” said the ghost. "At least, I can't remember right now."

“Hmmph,” said Severan. “Just what I thought.”

They came to a crossroads in the tunnel. Corridors branched off into the darkness. The stonework in them seemed somewhat newer, even though the cracks and corners of the ceiling were festooned with spiderwebs. The ghost sniffed the air, slowly turning in place. It pointed at the corridor on the left.

“He went this way,” said the ghost, somewhat hesitantly. “And I don’t think he’s all that far ahead of us.”

“How can you tell?” said Arodilac.

“He smells like death. Ghosts have an affinity with death because, well, we’re dead. He’s a wihht, so he doesn’t just carry his own death with him, but all the deaths of however many people he’s eaten. Dozens and dozens, I’d guess. He’s a walking graveyard.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“You might hope I’m wrong before the night’s over,” mumbled the ghost.

Time passed slowly, or perhaps it passed quickly. There was no way to tell down there. No windows, no clocks, just the whisper of their feet on the stone paving, the occasional halt at a crossroads or split in the passage while the ghost sniffed about. Arodilac guessed they had been walking for two hours. Severan thought it closer to five. The ghost, sounding somewhat hysterical, said it might be a whole day, and how was he to get out if they both died of starvation down there and left him all alone?

The silence and the darkness and the sensation of weight pressing down—how many tons of earth and stone were resting on the low ceiling?—began to wear on them. Shadows crept behind them in grotesque mimicry of their own movements. The darkness whispered around them in unintelligible sounds that hinted at old magic, old wards fraying into deadly fragility. The ghost walked with slower and slower steps in dread of what lay ahead. Arodilac and Severan felt it as well, and even though the cold of that place chilled their bones, sweat shone on their faces.

“What happens if it doesn’t work?” said Arodilac.

“We’ll be fine,” said Severan, trying to smile. “This was Jute’s idea, and he’s not just anyone. He’s an anbeorun. The stillpoint of the wind.”

If it doesn’t work, we’ll be dead, Severan thought to himself. He glanced at Arodilac and felt a pang of regret. The lad was young. He had many years to live in front of him, not to mention that the regency of Hearne was now on his shoulders. He should never have been ordered to guide them, but he knew the castle. For himself, he was an old man. He had made his choices, good and bad, becoming so accustomed to regret that it had aged into a close friend with whom to discuss faded sorrows. Still, he didn’t relish the thought of dying. He touched the stones in his pocket and shivered. Surely they were too small to bear so much hope.

They followed the ghost through the darkness, with their paltry lights illumining the stones of the passage. The dust was so thick it seemed it had lain undisturbed for hundreds of years. But in a few places, they saw the evidence of others having passed that way. Boot prints and scuff marks and, at one spot, the dark, dried splotches of what looked like blood. The ghost tiptoed in front of them, jumpy as a nervous cat as it tracked the scent of the wihht. The tunnel turned and angled and split into other passageways that yawned off into the darkness. They passed a jumble of bones, the skull leaning back against the wall and grinning with yellowed teeth at them.

“There must be rats down here,” said the ghost.

“Among other things,” said Severan.

The passage continued on another few yards until it opened up into a chamber. It was a large room, and their collection of lights—Severan’s spelled wisps and Arodilac’s torch, which was burning down to the stump in an alarming fashion—did a poor job of dispelling the darkness. They ventured across the floor toward the center of the chamber. A large stone pillar stood there, rising up to the ceiling.

“
Lig
,” said Severan, sending a few more wisps of light floating into the air.

“There isn’t another way out,” said the ghost, sounding somewhat embarrassed. “It’s a dead end. Funny. I could’ve sworn his trail came in here. Oh well. Shall we, er, backtrack a bit?”

“But there’s no door out,” said Arodilac.

“That’s what I just said. Ah, youth, born deaf and dumb. How I remember it well. Not that I was ever like that, but my students were all reliably stupid.” The ghost smiled kindly at Arodilac. “Don’t worry. You’re normal.”

“No, I mean, there’s no door out.”

“Wind and rain above.” Severan turned around, and then glanced quickly at the other walls. “The door’s gone.”

This news was not received well.