Child of Darkness-L-D-2 (20 page)

This seemed to subdue Malachi, but Ayla knew that this was temporary. There would be an argument. There would be many arguments until she relented and let him limp off into battle. She had no energy for such a fight, now. “What are we to do, then? Wait, until we are overrun by the Waterhorses, and hope that our clumsy fighters will rally to save us?”

“A bleak prospect, I know.” Some animation returned to Cedric as he turned back to face them. “But not how it must play out. You see, there was an unintentional benefit to Malachi’s attempted deception.”

“The Elf,” Malachi said, as if he suddenly understood what Cedric had begun. Irritated at her fatigue and inability to catch on as readily, she waved a hand at the both of them. “The Elf, yes. We have an Elf. Has anyone spoken to him, yet?”

“No,” Cedric admitted. “But we will not need to, not yet. I propose that, instead of waiting until the Elves send the Waterhorses to do their bidding, we use the Elf to our advantage. Make him lead us into the Darkworld, to their stronghold, and launch an attack there.”

“That will start a war,” she said uncertainly. “Is that not exactly what we wished to avoid?”

“It was what Flidais wished to avoid,” Malachi said, his voice a growl. “I see no reason to follow the advice of a traitor.”

“It was not only Flidais,” Cedric admitted. “But we are beyond wondering whether or not the Elves have reason to war against us. The Waterhorses have been seen in the Darkworld. Cerridwen has gone to warn the Elves that we plan to attack. The latter alone will prompt action. As they already believe we will come after them, we should do it, and before much time passes, before they truly expect it.”

Ayla considered a moment. “We have a reduced number of soldiers,” she mused aloud. “But we still have the Guilds.” True, they did not know how to fight in an organized manner, but they did know how to sneak about, how to strike without being seen. “We could use the skills of the Guild-trained fighters, in conjunction with the guards.”

“Use the latter to create a diversion, while the former attack in more unconventional ways,”

Malachi finished, his face alight at the idea. “The guards they will expect. But Assassins, lurking in the shadows…”

Cedric nodded. “Exactly. The Elf we have prisoner can lead us there, and then we can strike at them before they come anywhere near the Lightworld.”

“What about the Waterhorses?” Ayla did not like to cast a pall over the only idea of merit that they’d managed to construct so far, but to leave that threat out of their plans would spell disaster.

Cedric thought on it for a moment. “I do not believe that the Elves would be stupid enough to let the Waterhorses roam free, if they had summoned them. The creatures can turn without warning and kill even those who command them. If the Elves are the ones controlling the Waterhorses, and we have no guarantee that this is actually so, they will have them locked up somewhere, or they are more foolish than any immortal creature should be. We will simply have to strike quickly, before they can be released, and pray that it is indeed the Elves who command them, so that we do not come upon them by chance in the Darkworld.”

It was the best they could hope for, Ayla realized, and though she did not like the element of chance that ruled the outcome of their plan, she would force herself to accept it. But one aspect remained undiscussed, and that was one she would not leave to chance. “And what of Cerridwen? If her plan is to fight against us, with the Elves…what will you do then?”

Cedric did not answer, so Malachi did, angrily. “We will bring her home. If she fights against us, we will subdue her—without harm—and we will bring her home.”

“Is that true, Cedric?” It was a fine speech for Malachi to give, but he was in no position to offer his aid. He could not fight in his present condition, and they could not afford to wait for him to heal. If he was not there, he could not assure Cerridwen’s safety.

“And what if she does not wish to return?” He said it as if she had a choice in the matter, as if he valued her wishes. “If she wants to stay and fight and die with the Elves?”

“You place too much trust on her judgment.” Ayla sniffed. “If I cannot charge you with the task of returning my daughter safely to me, then I will find someone else to do it.”

There was no one else she could trust, and Cedric knew that. That was how she knew he would promise her, and fulfill his promise.

He nodded in defeat. “If I must bind her and drag her all the way, I will return her to you unharmed.”

“Do I have your word?” She could have simply left it, but she needed to hear this reassurance. Not that he would bring Cerridwen back unharmed—she knew he would do that—but that he would give his word, despite the lies he’d been telling her for so long. She needed a geis hanging over his head, to prove the seriousness of his commitment. The threat of death, should he fail, not to spur him toward his goal, but so that he would know she had lost her faith in him.

“You have my word,” he promised solemnly.

Ayla cleared her throat and straightened her back, returning to a more conversational tone. As if she had not just discussed going to war, as if she had not just forced a once trusted friend to make a geis to her. “If we are to undertake such a task, we must meet with the Guild Masters. I will speak with the Thieves. They are my most ardent supporters. You can see to the Assassins, as you led them well for so many years, and the Weaponscrafters, since the two Guilds work so closely together. We should gather all involved for the royal audience tonight.”

“A wise decision,” Cedric said with a bow of his head. “But I must beg a small indulgence.”

“Go on,” Ayla prompted.

Hesitantly, Cedric began, “You know of my involvement with the Gypsies in the Darkworld. I wish to see that they are safe, so that my mind can be easy and I can turn my full concentration toward our battle.”

“You cannot turn your full concentration toward the survival of your race in the Underground, otherwise?” She did not mean to sound so angry, she was certain. But the words had already been uttered.

Cedric did not respond. He waited. As if he did not need to explain his request. And truly, he did not. Who was she, to demand he put his duties first, when under his command in the Assassins’ Guild, she had broken her geis without consequence? It was twenty years past, but no doubt still fresh in his memory.

“Will you return?” Malachi asked, breaking the silence. “I do not doubt your feelings for this Human mistress, but it is unfair to ask us to trust you on a topic you’ve already lied about.”

“I can accept your distrust, Malachi, and Ayla’s. But I could not devote my thoughts entirely to our cause if I feared my mortal friends were in danger.” He spread his hands helplessly, as if content to offer this explanation as his only plea.

Ayla sighed. “Go. If you do not return, we are in the same predicament as now, and I do not believe you will desert us. But return before the evening audience.”

“Thank you.” Cedric bowed. “With your permission, I will leave at once.”

“After you talk to the Guilds, of course,” Malachi said, flicking a glance to Ayla. “I have no doubt that you could persuade them to hear you out, Ayla, but while you were one of them, you have not been for twenty years, and you weren’t a Guild member for long. They trust him. He is the one who should go.”

“You are right, Malachi,” Cedric conceded. “I will go to them immediately, and hasten my departure from there.” He bowed and went to the door, stopping before he exited. “I will return in time for the evening audience, but please, Your Majesty, take care until then. We do not know who else in the Palace may have turned traitor, or who else might try to flee.”

A chill ran up Ayla’s spine. “I will be careful,” she told him. She turned to Malachi and tried to conjure a smile, something to reassure him.

But he was not the one who needed reassuring, and the feeling of doom that haunted her had not diminished. It had blossomed.

Thirteen

T he Strip was not as thick with traffic as usual, Cedric noted as he moved through the thinned crowd. But the inns and shelters had all taken in their signs, indicating that they were full. More creatures had thronged to the neutral zone, but they kept to their own lodgings, rode out the storm where it was safe. It was not unusual, and the level of activity on the Strip was a good indication of the activities going on in the worlds of Light and Dark. More troubling to Cedric was the absence of the Gypsy market stalls that usually cluttered the Strip, no matter what occurred. They viewed themselves as apart from, rather than a part of, the Underground, and seemed to operate under the assumption that so long as they were not involved in any intrigues, the consequences of such would not affect them. Their little shops—some no more than blankets spread on the ground to display their wares—were often the only things still present on the Strip during times of unease. Now, they, too, were gone. Whether anyone else noticed, Cedric could not say for sure. But it pricked at him as he moved toward the Darkworld path that would lead him to the Gypsy camp.

Perhaps their absence on the Strip meant they had all gone; he panicked at the thought. They had said to go west, after them. But he could not follow them now, and if they had left some time ago, or if he was detained, he might never catch up to them. To calm himself, he remembered the chaos of the folding camp, the seeming lack of any plan to flee in an organized fashion. They could not possibly have picked up and left already. Maybe the Gypsies on the Strip had realized that which the other creatures huddled there either did not know, or wish to acknowledge: that the Waterhorses would not care which spaces were neutral in the Underground, and that they would cut a bloody swath wherever they strayed. Those in the inns were as dead as the soldiers who would fight. It had rained in the Upworld, and heavily. The Darkworld echoed with the sounds of storm drains emptying into the tunnels below, the walls were slick with moisture. The ground was stained with seeping wetness, which deepened into puddles as he walked, then banded together to form one long, shallow stream down the center of the tunnel, continually widening and deepening until it splashed over his boots. He ducked the first few overhead drips he passed, then gave up trying; he did not wish to stumble and strike his head on the curved concrete walls simply because he feared a bit of rainwater. He no longer needed the map to find his way, but the way did seem more sinister and unfamiliar, covered in water. A few times, he wondered if he’d taken a wrong turn or passed by a tunnel he should have come upon already. By its very presence, the water had changed things. It made him uneasy, and he hastened his steps.

The familiar scent of smoke did not rise up and greet him as he drew closer to the encampment. Instead, something else was on the air, the stale smell of long-dead fires and something sickly sweet.

He ran.

The tunnels were dark. The flickering shadows were the cool white echoes of light on water, not the chaotic imprint left by the orange-red glow of fire. They had left, he realized in dismay. He slowed his progress through the knee-deep water, made his way to the mouth of the cave, which was dark, but for the sunlight streaming from the opening in the rock ceiling. Though the water was deeper in the cavern, and choked with debris, it was not impossible to make out the shapes of the cinderblock cubicles that still stood. The paths toward the central fire pit were clear, as well, marked out as unbroken, serpentine stretches that pooled beneath the beam of sunlight.

He turned away and started back for the Lightworld, cursing himself for making such a promise to Ayla. He should have been free to fly after the mortals, to be quit of the Underground entirely. But he could not break his oath. She had known that, and it was why she had forced it on him.

Something between a whisper and the flutter of dried leaves caught his ear, sent a spark of doom through him that he could not ignore. He knew that sound, and his ears strained for it again in the darkness. Ahead of him, blocking his way, it became louder, the sliding of a corpse’s winding sheet…a mournful wind…the slithering of dark and festering things in a grave…

A Wraith.

He took a few steps backward, unwilling to turn away from the sound, though he did not wish to see the creature come into view out of the darkness. Wraiths were notorious even on the Astral; slinking through the darkest fears of mortals and immortals alike, feeding on the life and energy of all they could touch, they twisted their victims into copycat shadows, which would, in turn, feast on others and corrupt them as well. Even the dead were not safe, and here, in the Underground, especially in the Darkworld, the Wraiths found that type of defenseless victim easy prey.

He could not go forward and risk capturing the creature’s attention. He knew no other way out of the Gypsy encampment, save for the hole into the Upworld, and if the Wraith gave chase, it could easily follow him there. But why had it come to the Gypsy camp in the first place? It was empty. All the mortals were gone.

When the creature noticed this, it was certain to move on. Though he had not much time, and had sworn to return for the evening audience, he had no other choice. He plunged back down the tunnel, moving as quietly as he could through the standing water, and splashed down into the lake that had once been the Gypsy city.

There were plenty of places to hide, he realized as he pushed his way through the chest-deep water. It would be easy enough to hide from the Wraith and let it pass him by, then leave the way it had entered. He checked over his shoulder, saw no trace of the creature, though the sounds of its approach echoed closer and closer. Something bumped his leg in the water, and he jumped, then cursed himself for it. He was, or at least had been, a warrior. A tap on the leg should not have been enough to terrify him into panic.

Drawing closer to one of the concrete buildings, he slipped inside. There was not much room, and he barked his shins against something—a table? A bed?—below the water, but it gave him something to climb up on, and he did, moving back the blue tarp that served as the ceiling. From his vantage point, he could see the mouth of the tunnel he’d come from. He waited, the horrible sounds growing nearer and nearer, louder, lapping over each other as they approached. Finally, a flicker of white at the source of the tunnel, and five wraiths slid into view.