Authors: Deborah Chester
He stared, unable
to believe it. “Father?” he whispered.
Almost as he
spoke, Elandra tugged at his hand as though she wanted to break free. Her gaze
remained centered on the Guardian as though she were mesmerized.
“Bixia?” she said.
“How come you to this place?”
The Guardian swung
its eyes toward Elandra and spoke something, but Caelan could not hear the
words it said.
He frowned, his
puzzlement and sense of alarm intensifying. This could not be his father. Beva
was dead, killed by Thyzarene raiders years before. His soul had been released
into the world of spirits, was now part of the spruce forests, part of the
glacier, part of the rain and the falling snow.
Yet no matter how
hard Caelan stared at the Guardian, it continued to be his father’s stern,
unyielding face that he saw.
But what name had
Elandra said? Whom did she see while she gazed up at the Guardian’s visage? Why
did she smile so tremulously, so apologetically, so regretfully? Why did tears
shimmer in her eyes?
“Who is Bixia?” he
asked, but Elandra did not seem to hear him.
She was still
gazing at the Guardian, listening to it utter words that Caelan could not hear.
Various expressions chased across her face, and he worried that she was falling
under some spell. He must not lose her now.
Pulling her to her
feet, Caelan pushed her behind him.
Glaring up at the
face of his father, he saw Beva’s gray eyes shift and focus upon him.
A shudder passed
through Caelan. In an instant he was ten years old and standing on the wall
surrounding their hold. Spring sunshine warmed his shoulders, and the air lay
fragrant from the blossoming apple trees. He stood next to his father, who
rested a hand casually on his shoulder as they watched a pair of birds building
a nest in a larch tree beyond the wall. For once there was no argument between
them, no scolding, no lectures ... only peace and mutual enjoyment. The nest
completed, one bird flew away, but the other one—the female, judging by her
drab colors— perched on the edge of her creation and sang.
Caelan and his father
glanced at each other and smiled.
Thinking of that
long-forgotten moment opened a boiling cauldron of emotions in Caelan. Tears
stung his eyes, and he wanted to cry out to the man he had loved so very, very
much, the man he had never been able to please, the man he had never been able
to reach. What had gone wrong for them? Why had he failed so utterly to be what
his father demanded he become?
He met his
father’s eyes now and opened his mouth. Now was his opportunity to say he was
sorry. Now was his chance to set things right.
“Yes, Caelan?”
Beva’s voice spoke his name with warmth, urging him to say the words.
Caelan’s chest
hurt. His eyes were burning. Tears slipped down his cheeks, and he realized he
was crying. Everything in him wanted to rush to his father, to find a way to
bridge the chasm between them.
“Father—” He
choked up and glanced away, trying to gain control over his voice. “Father, I—I
want to—”
“Yes, my son?”
Beva’s voice prompted. How gentle it was, how kind, how loving. It drew Caelan
as nothing else could.
He took a step
toward his father, then stopped with a frown. That was not his father’s way of
speaking, never his father’s tone.
This was not
really Beva. And Caelan was not really back in Trau at E’nonhold. Struggling
against the beauty surrounding him, the dark green forest, the arching sky, the
familiar shapes of the buildings inside the hold, Caelan reminded himself that
he was in the realm of shadow, and everything before him was a trick.
With effort, he
severed
the vision, letting it fade and the strange gloom return. His eyes
were still wet, but now he ached for what had never been and never would be. It
was past. Old hurts became grooves in the soul. They no longer made fresh
wounds.
Tipping back his
head, he faced the Guardian again. But this time he did not meet those stern
eyes. This time he focused his gaze slightly to one side, and let the memories
slide away.
“You are the
Guardian of the gate that leads back to the world of light,” he said, making
his voice harsh and brisk. “We do not belong here. Let us pass.”
“Caelan,” said his
father’s voice, sounding bewildered and a little hurt, “don’t you remember me,
my son? I am your—”
“No!” Caelan said
sharply. “You are not my father. He is dead. You are the Guardian. Let us pass
through the gate.”
The Guardian
tilted its head. “Do you not think the dead can come here?”
“Perhaps they
can,” Caelan admitted, finding a lump in his throat. “If they deserve it. But
you are not my father, no matter how much like him you look.”
Beva’s face
frowned, and his eyes grew stony. “Then look at this!”
As the words were
spoken, Beva’s face melted as though it had become hot wax, his features
sliding down the skull bones to fall, hissing, on the ground. For a second a
bleached skull with terrible glowing eyes stared at Caelan, and now it was no
longer Beva’s calm, flat voice that issued from the gaping jaw of this
apparition but instead a voice like thunder, raw and savage.
“Is this better?”
it demanded.
Caelan’s heart
pounded so fast he felt dizzy. His wits felt like charred bits of paper, blown
and scattered. Hanging onto his last shreds of courage, he forced himself to
nod in answer. “It is more truthful.”
“Truth?” the
Guardian roared, making the ground shake under Caelan’s feet. “Is
this
truth?”
Again its visage
changed, the skull suddenly on fire, flames bursting forth through eye holes
and nostril slits, charring the bones until they were black and crumbling. The
flames grew brighter, hotter, until instead of a head there was only a blazing
ball of fire and light, too bright to look at.
Elandra cried out
in fear, and Caelan turned away, shielding his eyes.
“Don’t look at
it!” he told her. “Whatever you do, don’t look directly at it.”
He couldn’t keep
from staggering back. He believed it was going to engulf them in flame and
destroy them on the spot. He drew his sword, but suddenly the blade was on
fire, blazing up like a torch. The hilt grew too hot to hold, and with a cry he
was forced to drop it. Beneath his feet, the ground itself began to burn.
Little tongues of flame popped forth from the soil, reaching hungrily for the
hem of Elandra’s gown.
But where they
touched her cloak, they fell back as though extinguished, and burned no more.
A moment later,
the air cooled to a bearable degree. The ground also cooled. The flames
disappeared. Caelan’s sword lay misshapen and partially melted on the ground.
The light emanating from the Guardian’s head dimmed, and once again only a bare
skull with glowing eyes gazed at Caelan.
“Who is this
woman?” it asked him.
Its voice no
longer reverberated with deafening volume, but it sounded blurred and scratchy
and deep. Danger lay real within its tone.
Caelan wiped the
sweat from his face and straightened up. He felt breathless, as though he had
run a long distance. His heart still went too fast. They had come very close to
death.
“Who is this
woman?” the Guardian demanded again. “She did not burn. She wears protection,
spell-woven garments.”
Caelan pulled
himself together. “She is my heart,” he answered.
“Say her name.”
Caelan said
nothing. Elandra shrank close against him; he could hear the quick rasp of her
breathing and remembered how earlier she had begged him not to speak her name
aloud. Now he sensed the danger closing around them. To speak a name as
commanded here transmitted great power. He dared not obey.
“You know
everything else!” Caelan said to the Guardian, putting a jeer into his voice.
“You know my life, my memories, my secrets. You know who she is—”
“She is known. But
she is protected. Say her name and release her into my power.”
“If I resisted
your master, I can resist you,” Caelan said. “Let us leave.”
“The gate is
forbidden to all of the realm of shadow.”
“We are not
shadow!” Caelan said sharply. “We are light.”
The Guardian
pointed a bony digit at him. “Take great care,
donare.
Your tongue can
be burned from your mouth.”
“Let us leave.”
“Speak the name of
the woman.”
It was not a
choice. He refused to consider it. Caelan told himself he would find another
way of escape.
Elandra tugged
against him, and fresh fear filled him.
“Stay with me,” he
whispered, feeling his strength fading again. If she panicked and fled, he
would lose her. “For the love of light, stay with me.”
“Guardian,”
Elandra said.
“No!” Caelan cried,
turning on her. “Don’t.”
“If you are told
my name, will you let us leave?”
“No one leaves the
realm of shadow.”
She gazed up at
the monster and never hesitated. “Kostimon, emperor of the world of light,
passed through the realm of shadow and left it. He has done so many times.”
A dry, rasping
noise filled the air. After a moment, Caelan realized it was laughter. The
sound chilled him.
“The emperor of
light may do many things denied to men ... or
donares,”
the Guardian
replied.
Caelan drew a
quick breath and tightened his grip on her hand. “Don’t—”
But she ignored
him. Her gaze remained on the Guardian. She held her head high. Proudly, she
said, “I am the empress of light. I may pass through the realm of shadow and
leave it, as may my escort.”
The Guardian’s
shoulders drew up, and it lowered its head toward her like a predator. It
hissed in satisfaction. “You are the woman called Ela in Kostimon’s dreams. You
are the one we have searched for. The Master wants you.”
Caelan saw her
face go white. His own felt cold and drained of blood. “No,” he whispered.
“Stay calm,
donare,”
the Guardian said without glancing his way. “You have not the
strength to fight me.”
Elandra’s face
held no color. Her eyes looked huge, but she did not quail. To the Guardian,
she said, “Kostimon dreams of many women. Kostimon owns many women. I am the
empress sovereign. Grant me passage.”
“You are the woman
called Ela—”
“That is not my
name!” she shouted. “In the name of the force that rules you, stand aside and
let me pass!”
The Guardian stood
silent and unmoving, its implacable gaze locked on Elandra.
Her eyes dropped
shut. “Sweet mother goddess, bless the weavers of Mahira and their protection.”
“Amen,” Caelan
responded, although he wasn’t sure if the goddess would be insulted by the
prayer of a man.
“You will speak
your name.”
“I am the empress
sovereign,” she replied. “That is name enough. I am one with Kostimon.”
The Guardian
uttered a low, grumbling sound of displeasure. “Kostimon has not spoken your
name to the Master, but he will. Kostimon has not told the Master he gave
sovereignty to a wife, but he will explain. Kostimon has not mentioned that his
wife keeps a
donare
as a pet, no, not after Kostimon promised the Master
he would have no such creatures—no
donares,
no
jinjas,
no
Penestricans, no seers—in his palace to interfere with the plans of the Master.
Kostimon has kept many secrets, but soon he will tell them.”
“Let Kostimon give
the answers,” she said boldly, her face ashen. “That is his place, not mine.
Let me pass, as he has passed.”
“Kostimon went not
through my gate,” the Guardian said. “Kostimon does not come to the temple of
Beloth except to drink from the Cup of Immortality.”
As it spoke, the
Guardian turned to one side and gestured below at the bottom of the amphitheater,
where stood an altar stained with blood and ringed with flames that burned in
midair.
“Do you ask for
this cup?” the Guardian asked.
“We do not,”
Caelan said firmly before Elandra could answer. “We ask only for passage
through the gate.”
Again there came
the rasping sound that was the Guardian’s laughter. “Do you know where the gate
leads,
donare?”
Another trick
question. Caelan’s spirits dropped, but he allowed himself to show no
hesitation. “It leads to the world of light.”
“I guard the Gate
of Sorrows. Will you pay the toll?”
“What toll?”
Caelan asked warily.
The Guardian’s
glowing eyes blazed into his and held them before he could look away. “If you
go through it, you must return.”
“No!” Elandra said
before Caelan could speak. “He is here only because of me. I will pay the toll
for both of us.”
Aghast, Caelan
looked at her in horror. “You don’t know what you’re doing. Make no bargain,
Majesty.” He turned to the Guardian. “She is the empress. Her passage is free.”
“Not in the world
of shadow, mortal,” the Guardian said angrily. “Take care. She rules in light,
but here in darkness our lady is Mael and her name stands supreme beside the
Master’s.”
Caelan found his
mouth so dry it took two swallows for him to speak again. “I am corrected,” he
said at last, cautiously.
The Guardian
stared at him, then at Elandra. “Very well,” it said. “Passage is granted for
both, in exchange for the price you will pay.”
“No,” Caelan said
in horror. “Please, don’t—”
“What is your
price?” Elandra asked.
“You will know,
when the time comes to pay.”
Caelan frowned,
unable to believe Elandra was considering this. “Don’t agree,” he said sharply
to her. “He’s influencing your mind. Don’t listen.”
“I agree,” Elandra
said. Her voice did not falter.
The Guardian
extended its gloved hand to Elandra. “Touch me to seal your word.”