When the Heavens Fall (81 page)

“I never doubted you,” Luker said.

“I did.”

“You came.”

It was a while before Jenna responded. “No regrets. Not this time.”

“About leaving Arkarbour?”

“About any of it.”

“No,” he agreed, tightening his grip on her hand. “We … we made a good team.”

Jenna's mouth twitched. “Ah, Luker. You say the nicest things.”

He bowed his head, and they sat in silence for a time. To Luker's left one of Shroud's disciples—the cat woman—was helping Sickle Man to his feet. Together they hobbled toward the rent, Kestor ben Kayma's left arm draped round his companion's shoulders, his right foot dragging across the floor. Eventually the cat woman lost patience, lifting Kestor into her arms before carrying him up the steps of the dais. They vanished through the portal.

Jenna said, “Makes a change … me saving you.” Her gaze was suddenly intent. “Why did you, Luker? Save me, I mean … That first time.”

“The road to Koronos?”

“I wasn't exactly … friendly to you before.”

The Guardian shrugged. “If I'd taken the shot at Keebar Lana instead of you, it would've been me the demons were hunting.”

“That's not an answer.”

He stared at her.

“Why?” the assassin asked.

Luker struggled to find the words, but they would not come. The breeze blew strands of hair across Jenna's eyes, and he reached down to brush them aside. After a while her grip on his hand began to weaken, and perhaps it was this that made him take a breath and say, “Maybe it was because I saw something of myself in you on that rooftop in Mercerie. Maybe I thought you needed saving like I did.” He hesitated, then added, “And maybe because even then I knew you were special.”

Jenna did not reply.

Luker gave the assassin's shoulder a shake. “Jenna? You still with me?”

“Where would I go?” she whispered.

No,
the Guardian thought.
It was me who left you.
Two years ago he had left them both, Kanon and Jenna, when he'd gone to Taradh Dor.
Gone looking for something that was there right in front of me all along.
Now they were leaving him in turn.

A shadow fell across him, and he looked up. Ebon stood a few paces away, his expression masked. “Excuse my interruption. While I would not wish to raise your hopes needlessly, I have some limited healing abilities. Your friend…”

Luker's face twisted.
Not raise my damned hopes? How could you do otherwise?
He nodded.

Ebon moved to Jenna's side and crouched across from Luker. He paled when he saw the assassin's ruined arm.

“Sorcery?” he asked Luker.

“Aye.”

Closing his eyes, Ebon placed a hand on the assassin's forehead. The Guardian felt him reach out with his senses, but it was a tentative questing only. “Death-magic,” Ebon said. “It is eating away at her. The initial blast of sorcery cauterized the stump when it took the arm. The biggest concern is her ribs. Death-magic has infected the wound.”

Luker could hear the defeat in his voice, and he swung his gaze back to Jenna. A peaceful look had stolen across her face. Perhaps the pain was easing. Luker felt at her neck for a pulse.
Just a flicker.

Ebon drew his hand back, then opened his eyes and looked at Luker. “I am sorry, there is nothing I can do. I do not have the skill to regenerate flesh and bone, nor replace the blood she has lost. I could try to close her wounds, but my touch will not be gentle. I fear she would die in the attempt…”

Luker was no longer listening. Ebon had given him an idea—one he should have thought of sooner.
Stay with me, Jenna. This isn't over yet.
Maybe Ebon didn't have the power to heal the assassin, but there was one here who did. Perhaps it was not too late to accept the Lord of the Dead's offer of service. Perhaps the god would be prepared to make one final deal.

“Where's Shroud?” Luker asked Ebon. “Is the bastard still here?” Without waiting for a response, he rose.
He'd better be. If I have to drag him kicking and screaming …

His thoughts were interrupted by a footfall behind.

When he turned he came face-to-face with Parolla, her cold black eyes watching him dispassionately.

*   *   *

Sitting on the steps leading up to the dais, Parolla watched through the holes in the roof as Mayot's dome of death-magic slowly dissolved into gray clouds. In the half-bell since the Book's destruction, the worst of the storm had passed over to leave a chill in the air, and Parolla pulled her cloak about her shoulders. She could hear the hiss of foaming waves above the wind.

A watery light illuminated the burned and twisted bodies scattered across the dome. The last of the fires had gone out, but the smell of roasted meat still filled the building. Who would bury the Vamilians this time, Parolla wondered, now that Tumbal's people were gone from the world?
No one.
The corpses would stay here as Mayot Mencada's legacy, and a fitting one it would be, for the old man had forged his empire in the image of the underworld—a place of death and bones. How long before the earth-magic buried deep underground rose to rejuvenate the forest? Years? Decades, even? For while the Book of Lost Souls was gone, the air remained saturated with necromantic energies. Parolla could feel them seeping into her skin, and she shifted uncomfortably on the steps.

Shroud had stayed good to his word and left open the portal to his realm. The souls of the Vamilian dead were pouring into the dome in four ghostly white streams, one from each of the arched gateways. Strange, Parolla thought, that the spirits should still use the doors to enter when they could just as easily float through the walls, but then habit, she imagined, was just one more memory of the flesh. The four tributaries converged on the dais in a pale river that faded to black as it snaked into the underworld. Was Tumbal within one of those streams? It was several bells since they had parted company in the forest. If the Gorlem had succeeded in resisting the dissolution of his spirit he would now be feeling the tug of Shroud's realm.

Raised voices sounded to her left, and she looked across to see Ebon in conversation with one of the Sartorians—Consel Garat Hallon, she had heard him called. Garat's right arm was bound in a sling, and he was using his sword as a crutch. He also appeared to be doing most of the talking, addressing Ebon in a voice first beseeching, then insistent. Throughout, the shaven-headed
magus
listened with a guarded expression. When he finally spoke, his response brought a mocking smile from the Sartorian.

Parolla turned away. In truth, she had no interest in what they were discussing. She wanted only to be rid of this place—to put the Forest of Sighs far behind her, along with the memory of all that had happened here.

Soon.

Her gaze swept the dome. Ebon's companion, Vale, was offering Luker a sword, which the scarred man accepted. Luker stood over the sleeping form of Jenna. He had not thanked Parolla after she'd healed the woman's wounds, but he hadn't needed to. The spark of relief and gratitude in his eyes had spoken for him.

Ebon approached her and halted at the bottom of the steps. Parolla waited a few heartbeats to make it clear his presence was unwelcome before turning to look at him. There was still a blue hue to the man's lips, and the skin at the tips of his fingers was a darker color than the rest of his hands.
Frostbite.
In this instance, though, Parolla knew her healing powers were not required. Ebon was now more than capable of taking care of himself.

It had been easy enough to deduce from his earlier conversation with Shroud that his mysterious benefactor was the patron goddess of the Vamilians. Odds were, the shaven-headed man wasn't a sorcerer at all—or rather, he hadn't been before meeting Galea. Now, though? Parolla blew out her cheeks. Ebon's power had grown since their meeting on the hilltop, suggesting he had been forced to call on unexpected reserves in his struggle with Mayot. What had the touch of the goddess's magic done to him? What was he destined to become?

Ebon bowed. “Forgive my intrusion, my Lady. I was wondering what became of Mottle. Did he not accompany you—”

“He is dead,” Parolla cut in, then watched as yet another weight settled on the man's already hunched shoulders.

“Tell me.”

She spoke to him of the clash with the tiktar, ending with Mottle being carried away by the vortex. “The elderling … engulfed … him,
sirrah
. No one could have survived the injuries he sustained. And yet…”

“Yes?”

“The hill is only a short distance from here. If he were dead, would not his spirit have passed through the rent by now?”

Ebon turned toward the river of souls. “You have been watching for him?”

“No,
sirrah,
but surely
he
would see
us
.”

The
magus
considered this, then gave a half smile. “You are correct, of course. Mottle would never go quietly. He could not pass us by without stopping to regale us of his exploits.”

Parolla gave her voice a note of hope she did not feel. “He
wanted
the storm to take him. Perhaps it sustained him.”

Ebon's gaze was knowing. “Perhaps you are right.” He ran a hand over his head. “From which direction did you approach the Forest of Sighs, my Lady?”

“From the north and west. Why?”

“I was hoping for news of my city, Majack.”

Parolla had no words of comfort to give him. “There is nothing I can tell you. If you stay here, though, the spirits of your dead kinsmen will reach this place in time. Perhaps then you will find out—”

“Forgive me,” Ebon interrupted. “But I cannot just wait. I must go and see for myself. Farewell.” He turned to leave.

“A moment,” Parolla said. The
magus
looked back over his shoulder. “I'm sorry,” she added. “For your friend, Vale. When I held his arm … I cannot give back the years I took from him.”

Ebon nodded. “If Aliana should require help at any time,” he said at last, “may I call on you?”

“I won't be staying in these parts. How would you get a message to me?”

The corners of Ebon's mouth turned up. “I will find a way.”

Parolla watched him retreat. The king of Galitia, no less, or so he had introduced himself to Shroud. The man was so assured in some ways, so hesitant in others.
A king without a kingdom.
Majack was, what, ten days on foot from here?
Ten days under siege by an undead army.
And the man wanted news? Parolla shook her head. Ebon would be returning to nothing more than cold ashes, and from the bleakness she'd seen in his eyes he knew it too.

A cough sounded to Parolla's right, and she looked round to see the spectral figure of Tumbal Qerivan. The Gorlem stood watching her with his head cocked, lower arms folded, upper arms held out in front of him with hands clasped as if in prayer. Floating closer he said, “It warms my heart to see thee again, my Lady.”

Parolla rose. “I feared you would not make it,
sirrah
. You are still in pain?”

“A little,” Tumbal conceded. “I am hoping the underworld will bring some surcease.”

A flicker of movement to the Gorlem's left caught Parolla's attention. Threescore paces away, two of Shroud's disciples stood staring at her—the hooded halfling and its companion. No doubt there were others too, watching from the shadows beyond the rent. In future, Parolla suspected she would have not just the Antlered God's servants to look over her shoulder for. Turning back to Tumbal, she said, “I avenged you. Against the Fangalar.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” the Gorlem replied. His gaze slid away to take in the dome, and his grave expression gave way to a look of enchantment. “I remember this place from when I came to bury the Vamilians. Never did I imagine it would still be standing.”

“Soon it will fall. The sorcery that preserves it is almost gone now, destroyed by the Book's death-magic.”

“And yet the sounds of the sea remain.” The Gorlem's look became wistful. “A pity thou could'st not have seen the Vamilians as they once were. A people of beauty and invention. In order to escape the Fangalar they were forced to flee far from their homeland, yet their affinity with the sea remained. This building was once filled with fountains. The Vamilians discovered some means of pumping water to the top of the dome so that it ran down the outer walls. How was that done, dost thou suppose?”

“Why not ask them yourself? There must be someone in the river of souls who can tell you.”

Tumbal eyed her thoughtfully. “The river carries much information, it is true. I have heard tell of what took place here from one of the Vamilians who witnessed Mayot's untimely demise.”

“Untimely?”

The Gorlem spread his four hands. “But of course. Where now will I obtain solutions to the riddles that have vexed me so?” His look brightened. “Perhaps I will meet the mage in the underworld.”

“I doubt that,
sirrah
.”

“Why, my Lady?”

“Somehow I think Shroud has other plans for him.”

Tumbal bobbed his head. “What of thee? Did'st thou find answers to thine own questions?”

“From Shroud, I heard only lies and half-truths. Yet I learned much all the same.”

“How so?”

“I discovered that my father fears to face me beyond the confines of his own realm. And that he has powerful enemies in whom I might find allies.”

Tumbal's form was starting to distort, stretching toward the rent. “Thy quest continues, then?”

“What else is there for me?”

“But with the rebirth of thy mother, have not some of the wrongs been righted? A new beginning—”