When the Heavens Fall (33 page)

The birds must have seen the sorcerous construction too, for they fled back toward the roof, squawking. For a few heartbeats the darkness inside the dome was complete again. Then moonlight returned as the birds scattered into the night, their cries dying away. Overhead, all that remained of the starry sky was a small gray circle, shrinking rapidly. The birds sped toward it.

Too late.

The net closed.

“It would appear the birds are snared,” Mayot said, looking at Romany pointedly.

She ignored the remark. If he thought to include her in that observation, he had just restored her faith in his idiocy. Far above, flashes of black sorcery showed as some of the birds tried and failed to break through the magical barrier. They fell from the sky. Moments later Romany heard their bodies hit the roof of the dome. The remaining creatures retreated screeching to the transient safety of the ruined city—transient, the priestess knew, because their life forces would soon be drained by the threads of death-magic all about. “It is as I warned,” she said to Mayot. “The master of those birds is no disciple of Shroud. The Lord of the Dead is not the only one with an interest in the Book. Others will be drawn to this place.”

“Let them come. When I destroy them, they will serve me as the Vamilians do.”

“
If
you destroy them. Or have you forgotten about Shroud's minions? You cannot defeat them
all
.”

Mayot hesitated before replying. “With each death, I become stronger. Soon I will be invincible.”

Romany seized on the opening. “
Soon,
my Lord? Forgive me, but that is not the same as
now,
is it?
Soon
you may indeed be able to withstand all that your enemies throw at you. For
now,
though, you need my help, is that not so?” Mayot made to speak, but she raised a hand to head him off. “No, my Lord, the issue is decided. I will hear no more on the subject!” She quickly moved the conversation on to safer ground. “And since we are on the matter of
subjects
”—she gestured to the silent figures standing round her—“it appears you now have a surfeit. I'm sure you can spare me a helper.” Her gaze fell on the women behind the throne. “Perhaps one of those—”

“No!” Mayot snapped, his hands clenching into fists. “They are mine!”

Romany took a step back from the vehemence in his voice. There was a covetous glint in his eyes, and the priestess made no attempt to conceal her disgust.
I hope Shroud has something special planned for you, old man.
“Another, then,” she said. “I will let you choose. A woman, though. Not too young…”

She was interrupted by a squawk to her left. Mayot's head swung round. The noise came from within the ranks of Vamilians, and he gestured with his right hand as if drawing back a curtain. The lines of undead parted. Walking round in circles in their midst was a bird—a razorback judging by the crest of feathers on its head. It tried to take off, but one of its wings was broken, and it fell back to the ground. Smiling, Mayot extended an arm in the direction of the creature. The razorback was lifted into the air, and it floated toward the dais. As it settled onto Mayot's outstretched palm it tried to peck at the old man's flesh.

A knife appeared in the mage's hand. He looked at Romany. “Like you, woman, the sender of this bird has overextended himself. What agonies will the master experience, I wonder, through the death of his familiar?”

Tutting her disapproval, Romany spun round and headed toward the arched doorway. The Vamilians did not part for her this time, and she suffered in silence the indignity of having to weave her way through the host.

The razorback's screams started before she reached the passage leading out.

*   *   *

Parolla picked up a stick and used it to stir the fire. Her mood was somber. The dwarf had been right to chide her for her show of anger, but it seemed she was as incapable now of keeping her emotions in check as she had been since her mother's death. No matter how she tried to shield herself from the bitterness of the past, the pain remained always just a hairbreadth beneath the surface. The truth was, she had not even begun to come to terms with her mother's loss. In some ways she hadn't even tried to. Was that all this quest for vengeance against Shroud was? A way for her to hide from her grief?
No,
she told herself.
It is justice I seek. Justice for what was taken from me.

A flicker of movement to her right caught her eye, and she looked across. A wraithlike figure was materializing on the opposite side of the fire, and for an instant Parolla took it for one of the earth-spirits of the steppes. Then, as the image gained clarity, she saw the apparition's four hugely muscled arms, and she remembered the Gorlem who had fallen victim to the dwarf. He stood an armspan taller than Parolla and wore a sleeveless leather jerkin and leggings. His lower arms were crossed, his upper arms held out before him with hands steepled. A frown of concentration creased his forehead.

A voice spoke in Parolla's mind. “I bring thee greetings, my Lady,” it said in the common tongue.

She eyed the newcomer warily. “What are you doing here,
sirrah
? Your soul should have passed through Shroud's Gate by now.”

The Gorlem spread both pairs of hands. “Thou art correct in that. It would appear that I am trapped in this place at present, though I had hoped … My Lady, I am here to request of thee a boon.”

“I cannot grant your spirit release, if that is what you want.”

“I understand. I have nothing to offer in return.”

“That's not what I meant. If I could, I would, but I am not one of Shroud's servants.”

The man's frown deepened. “I had not mistaken thee. And if thou would'st forgive my presumption, I believe thou dost indeed have the power to grant my request. Mayhap it is simply the knowledge that thou lack'st.”

“Either way, my answer is the same. Now, if you will excuse me.”

Parolla stared into the fire. She didn't want company. Dawn could not be far off. The sigh of the wind through the trees was soothing, and her eyelids drooped. Perhaps she could risk a bell of sleep. It seemed, though, that the Gorlem had no intention of respecting her solitude, for when she looked up again he was still watching her.

He took a half step forward. “Allow me to introduce myself. Tumbal, I am called.” He bowed low.

“Tumbal?”

“Just so. Tumbal Qerivan.” When Parolla made no response, he added, “Might I have the honor of thy name?”

“Parolla.” Then, since she was clearly destined not to get any rest this night, she continued, “How is it that your soul remains trapped here? What holds you to this place?”

“Holds? Why, nothing, that I can determine. I suspect the responsibility for my predicament lies with Shroud's servants.”

“What do you mean?”

The man looked down at his feet. “I have a confession to make. Curiosity is one of my many failings, and I could not help but overhear thy conversation with the Jekdal. Thou canst imagine the profusion of questions that I would like to put to thee. Might I suggest an exchange of knowledge?”

“I'm afraid I have little knowledge worthy of trade.”

“I am humbled by thy confession and therefore shamed to admit the like. If not an exchange of knowledge, mayhap an exchange of educated suppositions?”

Parolla smiled faintly. She poked at the fire again. “After you, then. You mentioned Shroud's disciples.”

“Just so.” Tumbal glanced at the rent. “Unlike thee, I have had the dubious pleasure of traversing these lands in the orthodox manner. The steppes are littered with lost souls such as mine. A consequence no doubt of the, shall we say, unsavory characters abroad.”

Parolla raised an eyebrow.
Littered?
“It is unusual for Shroud's servants to be so lax in their duties.” The god was never slow to gather up the souls he considered his.

“Most regrettable, my Lady. Most regrettable. Though it may be—a suspicion only, I must emphasize—that we cannot lay the blame wholly at the door of Shroud's minions. Mayhap they have been—how may I put it?—distracted by the same force that draws us.”

Parolla added some sticks to the fire. “We are still far from the source of the death-magic. Its effects are too weak here to interfere—”

“Forgive my interruption, but thou hast misunderstood me. I am suggesting, rather, that Shroud's house is in a state of disarray at the moment. That the god's attention, and that of his disciples, is focused on other matters.”

“You think some conflict is under way?”

The Gorlem spread his four hands again. “For the natural order to have been so fundamentally disturbed…”

“No mortal, not even an empire, is stupid enough to oppose Shroud. And I think we would know if the gods themselves were at war.”

“Thy logic is persuasive, my Lady, but still leaves many questions unanswered. What cause is so dear to Shroud—”

“Shroud cares for nothing but himself,” Parolla cut in. “He would not interfere unless his hand was forced.”

Tumbal studied her as if he could read her thoughts in the lines of her face. “Thou speak'st true. A threat to the god's authority seems most likely. Or mayhap a prize he was determined to gain.”

Parolla's eyes narrowed. “The dwarf spoke of resurrection.”

“An intriguing prospect, would'st thou not agree? The power to wrest a soul from Shroud's clutches? Reason enough for the god's intervention, surely.”

“Could it be a portal that draws us? A doorway to the realm of the dead?”

“Mayhap,” the Gorlem said, his tone skeptical. He sat down beside the fire. In the glow from the flames, his spectral form appeared even more translucent than it had before. Through him Parolla could make out bloodstained patches of earth and the scraps of clothing left by the dwarf's demons—all that remained of the Gorlem's corpse.

When she returned her gaze to Tumbal, she found him staring at her again. He held his hands out to the flames.

She said, “I didn't realize a spirit could feel heat.”

Tumbal seemed taken aback, and he peered at his hands. “In truth, I cannot. And yet I sensed … something. Intriguing.”

“Intriguing?” Parolla's lips quirked. “When I meet my end, I hope I can show such good grace as you.” She thought to ask him about his encounter with the dwarf, but decided against it, for while the Gorlem did not appear unduly distressed by his death, Parolla had no wish to test the limits of his mood.

Tumbal drew a breath. “My Lady, since we have now addressed thy query regarding Shroud's followers … I was wondering whether, in the interests of reciprocity…”

“You wish to ask a question?”

Tumbal beamed. “Just so. Earlier, thou did'st ask me why I remain here. I would know the same of thee. Thou did'st pass through the rent, correct? Why hast thou not fled this place?”

“The Kerralai will not come for me. I made a deal with the lord of their realm, Mezaqin.”

“And yet thou told'st the Jekdal…” A look of delight lit up the Gorlem's face. “Ah! Now I understand. I applaud thy ingenuity. But, if thou would'st pardon my curiosity, how?
How
wast thou able to negotiate safe passage?”

“Mezaqin knew I was traveling toward the source of the death-magic. Whatever it is, I agreed to put an end to it.”

“And the demon lord believed thou capable of this?” The Gorlem's eyes glittered. “Who art thou, my Lady?”

Parolla wagged a finger at him. “Not part of the deal,
sirrah
. My name will have to suffice.”

Tumbal wrung both sets of hands. “Such cruel intrigue, yet the hope of enlightenment ever endures. I shall await the dawn with impatience.”

The heat from the fire was building, and Parolla shuffled back. She tossed into the flames the stick she'd been using as a poker. Shadows flickered round the grove. “Where will you go now,
sirrah
?”

“Why, onward, of course. Mayhap I will find one of Shroud's servants to grant me deliverance. And if I must remain in this world, I shall continue seeking answers to the questions that plague me.”

“If you
must
remain? You sound almost regretful.”

“Just so. What greater mystery exists than Shroud's Gate? Long have I yearned to witness that dread portal and the realm that lies beyond.”

You and I both.
“Then I wish you luck in your search.”

Tumbal paused for a moment, deep in thought. He looked from Parolla to his hands, then back again. “My luck shall be thine also,” he said at last, “for I have decided that I will journey with thee.”

Parolla eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Honor demands it. I cannot abandon thee to walk this perilous path alone.”

“I make a poor traveling companion.”

“I doubt that, my Lady. I doubt that very much indeed.”

A woman's cry pierced the night, far off to the south and west. It went on for a few heartbeats, then faded beneath the crackling of the fire. Parolla half rose and squinted between the boles of the trees, but could make out nothing through the blackness. Her first thought was of the dwarf and his demons. By tricking them into fleeing the grove, had she driven them toward some other unfortunate soul?
No,
she told herself, settling down again,
the source of the death-magic is east of here. The Jekdal was heading that way.

Parolla met Tumbal's gaze and saw the curiosity written there. “I must rest for a while,” she said. “Just a couple of bells.”

“Alas, sleep is something forever denied to me now. Mayhap I will scout the area.”

“In other words, you mean to investigate the cause of that cry.”