Realm of Light (5 page)

Elandra’s hands
rested on the neck of her horse, slackly holding the reins. She listened to the
strange and steady
boom-boom-boom
of her heartbeat.

I am going to
the dark god,
she thought to herself and was horribly afraid.

With all her soul,
she wanted to whirl her horse around and bolt out of there, away from the
darkness flowing so cold and tangible around her. Yet she could not command her
own hands. It was as though by drinking from that mysterious cup, she had accepted
something worse than death.

Had she
surrendered to Beloth?

She did not want
to think so. All her life she had been taught to abhor and fear the shadow god,
whose name was not to be spoken. Yet, was she not now taking the path into his
hell? And had she not done it willingly, with the helpful trickery of Lord
Sien, her enemy?

She tried to cry
out, but her mouth would not open. She could not draw enough breath to utter a
sound. But in her mind she screamed.

Stepping through
the portal took every ounce of Caelan’s courage. The darkness was a living
force, something that pressed against him from all sides, seeking his soul.
Sevaisin,
his special gift for joining, brought him unwelcome awareness. He
could sense the putrid evil that permeated the walls of the passageway and
filled the darkness itself, an evil so strong and pervasive it comprised the
very air he breathed.

Spell residues
crisscrossed the chilly air. They were long expired and too ancient to cause
harm, yet he could sense how powerful and dangerous they had been.

He drew in deep
breaths, sensing unnameable things lurking unseen beyond the darkness, beyond
the walls of the passageway. The things were aware of him. He sensed the shift
and focus of their attention, the stirring and awakening of the evil force
itself.

He found himself
afraid, with a fear that bathed him in sudden cold sweat. His mouth went dry.
He could not breathe. The hair on his arms rose in swift prickles, and his
heart pounded in sudden, uncontrollable panic.

Get out of
here,
urged a voice inside him.
Get out. Get out!

Yet it was too
late. His sweating fingers gripped Elandra’s horse’s bridle, and he quickened
his pace toward the emperor’s torch—very dim—blazing ahead of them. Elandra had
hesitated too long, letting the distance between her and the others stretch
uncomfortably far.

Behind them, the
approaching Madruns yelled and cursed in their barbaric tongue, pounding their
weapons on their shields in an unholy din that echoed off the cavern walls. The
priest jumped through the portal with a gasp of fear.

Caelan danced back
in time to see a bright flash of light. The air smelled suddenly of something
burning, yet there was no fire. Without being touched, the heavy stone portal
swung shut as though of its own volition, and the bolts shot home. Sparks burst
from the hinges, setting off orange flames that burned impossibly in midair for
a moment before gradually disappearing. The door, however, continued to glow
faintly.

Caelan recognized
the dark magic. Stark, primal fear twisted his entrails. He had seen much in
the years he had lived in Impe-ria, yet never before had he willingly entered
the shadow realm. Better to traverse this passageway quickly in the emperor’s
wake, and pray that whatever lived within the darkness would let them pass
unharmed.

Instinctively he
reached for the warding key in his pocket. It should have been glowing and hot
in response to the magic that had just been released, but the metal disk lay
cold and lifeless against his palm.

Fresh sweat broke
out across Caelan’s forehead. The warding spell that had been linked across
himself, Elandra, and Kostimon must have exhausted all the power within the
key. Once again he pushed down incipient panic and reminded himself to keep his
head. Using
sevaisin,
he attempted to bring the warding key to life, but
it remained unresponsive.

Abandoning it in
his pocket, Caelan wiped his forehead and told himself the warding key would
not be necessary. All he had to do now was catch up with the emperor.

Accordingly, he
clucked at Elandra’s nervous horse, leading it forward.

The lady herself
uttered not a word. He was not certain she could. As for himself, he had the
uncomfortable feeling that this was no place for casual utterances. Words might
draw the attention of whatever lived here.

He did not even
dare call out to the emperor’s party ahead of them. Although he believed he and
Elandra would be safer with numbers, he believed even more strongly that making
too much noise was unwise.

A cobweb brushed
its filmy strands across his face, making him flinch. He lengthened his stride,
holding his breath without realizing it. Elsewhere in the gloom he could hear
whispers of sounds, indistinguishable and somehow menacing. Sometimes, an
unexpected breeze—cold, dank, and smelling of the grave—would blow into his
face, then die away.

Nothing came near
him. Still, this was the realm of shadow, and it was populated. His nostrils
picked up a faint, musky, cloying scent like that of decayed flowers, and he
drew in a sharp breath. A Haggai witch was nearby. When his feet crossed a
patch of slickness, he knew he’d just walked over the slime trail of her
passage.

He slowed down,
every sense alert, his free hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He must be
careful, every moment.

Yet the Haggai was
gone.

After a time, her
scent faded and he slowly relaxed. However, there were other scents, other
indications that denizens of this place had recently been present. It was as
though they had cleared the passageway for the emperor and his party.

If that were true,
Caelan refused to think about the implications. The emperor’s involvement with
the shadow gods had been made all too clear. He had passed this way before, and
he commanded elements that no mortal man should even know about.

Caelan felt more
beads of sweat trickling from his forehead. He longed for a drink of cool
water, longed to rest. Instead, he quickened his pace again, breaking into a
jog and urging the horse to trot beside him. Never mind his fatigue. Never mind
that he had been fighting through half the night, or that his nerves were tight
to the breaking point, or that his emotions were drained and weary. It was time
to catch up with the others.

Yet no matter how
fast he went, he could not close on them. Only an occasional flicker of
torchlight in the far distance told him they were still ahead. But he never saw
the men, never heard them or their horses. It was as though the darkness had
swallowed them whole, and they were gone.

In his head, he
marked off the distance, counting his strides, grimly determined not to be left
behind.

When he had gone a
league, he finally stumbled to a halt, breathing hard and trembling from
exhaustion. His legs were burning; his wind was gone. The torchlight ahead
vanished completely.

He heard no sounds
from the emperor’s party. He and Elandra had been left behind.

“No,” he said
aloud, his voice hoarse with panting. He leaned against the wall and wiped
sweat from his face. Its pungent scent reminded him that he was alive, that he
was of the world of life and light aboveground, that he did not belong down
here in this hole, in this grave.

Yet, how long was
the way to safety? Was there hope of getting out, or had Sien trapped them down
here forever? ‘

Caelan no longer
believed he could catch up with the others. He suspected that there was a
reason why he and Elandra had been cut off from the others, and he did not like
where that thought led.

Groaning a little,
he pushed himself upright and strode forward again.

Time ceased to
have meaning. As he walked, he grew numb and spent. Every inch of him ached,
yet it was more than mere physical exhaustion. The fire of the warding keys
that had united him with Kostimon and Elandra had used up his inner resources
as well. Three forms of magic—Choven, Mahiran, and an indescribable mixture of
forces from within the emperor—had blended momentarily. It was as though
Caelan, Kostimon, and Elandra each carried some special power inside, kindred
power that had linked from one warding key to another with exhilarating effect.

The demonic
shryieas
had been no match for it.

Even now, just
remembering awakened in Caelan a faint, resonant hum of the soul. He craved
another taste of that fiery power, longed to feel it course again through him.
In those moments he had felt as though he belonged to all the world, was one
with nature, yet master of it. He had seemed to be larger than creation itself.

Words could not
describe what he had felt, what he had become for those few breathtaking
moments.

Caelan had shared
with Elandra, becoming one with her. Before tonight he had admired her from
afar. His loins had ached with simple infatuation. But she had been forbidden
and unattainable. Now, he glanced up at her, unable to see her, yet aware of
her like the steady pulse of his own heartbeat. She had given him the beauty of
her soul and received his. On some level he felt as though they had walked the
road of life together in some other time and place. He felt as though he had
known her forever—their memories, laughter, and passion bound together through
the endless threads of time. The very concept of it sent tremors through him,
for he now understood what it meant to love another more than himself, what it
meant to put another first.

Again he glanced
at her, and his heart swelled with the words he could not utter. No matter what
they had shared in a moment of magic, that had been another world. Reality was
this world, the here and now. Elandra still belonged to the emperor.

Frustration sawed
through him. Hadn’t he fought in her behalf? Hadn’t he saved her when her
husband abandoned her? At this very moment, where was Kostimon? Was he here, by
his wife’s side? No, there was only Caelan, faithful Caelan, to watch over her
and protect her. Did that not make his claim on her more valid than Kostimon’s?

Caelan gritted his
teeth to hold back the temptations that suddenly swept over him. Perspiration
popped out across his forehead. He was flooded with heat, with the conviction
that he was going mad. His warrior’s blood pumped with a fury that urged him toward
the madness. For years his only passions had been hatred and the joy of
combat—savage, destructive forces that burned his heart. He had never imagined
that he could also burn with love for a woman.

Had she not
pleaded with him to come with her? Had she not shown her preference?

She was his. She
had always been his.

A stumble tilted
Caelan off balance, and his shoulder crashed into the wall. The jolt snapped
him back from the edge.

Blinking, he
rubbed his face and drew in several quick breaths, amazed at himself.

Was he losing his
mind? To be feeling like this, to be thinking like this ... it was treason. It
was forbidden. She was not his woman. She was the empress, not some village
maiden he could throw over his shoulder and carry off like booty.

She trusted him,
and he could not violate that by abducting her. She depended on him, and he
could not respond to that with dishonor. Never mind what he wanted. Never mind
if he burned as though he had been torched. Never mind that all the forces of a
storm whirled and raged inside him, threatening to shatter honor, rules, and
what was right.

To love her meant
he could not harm her. He could not tempt her into dishonor. He could not even
ask her to choose.

Besides, he had
shared also with the emperor, becoming one with him. Even now he could still
taste the darkness within Kostimon, as well as the incredible force of will
that drove the man. Kostimon’s thirst for power, the vigor of his ambition, his
lust for life and all that it offered still hummed in Caelan with a resonance
that could not be entirely silenced. Caelan realized that he too possessed his
own dark side: the failures in his past, his joy of combat and killing, the
hatred for old enemies, and an unrequited desire for revenge. Even before his
life had changed, before the Thyzarene raiders had destroyed his home and
killed his father, before he abandoned Lea to die ... back when life was still
good and still full of all possibility, he had craved weapons, had longed to be
a soldier simply because he wanted to fight. It had always been a thread of
darkness in his blood, calling him. And had the Thyzarenes not come and
enslaved him, he would have still used a sword to carve his path of life.

The empire itself
had been built by swordpoint and strife. Now the empire was falling. Although
tonight the emperor and empress had escaped the traps laid for them, the palace
had been sacked and burned by the enemy. Prince Tirhin had seized the throne
for himself. Whether he could keep it, with his power base built on treachery
and betrayal, remained to be seen.

Only a fool would
discount Kostimon. Even old and failing, the emperor was not yet defeated. He
could still call on other parts of his empire to rally. He had men who would
hold to their oaths of allegiance. He had resources beyond those of his
enemies.

But if he had been
broken?

Caelan thought of
the confused old man arguing over scroll cases instead of plotting strategy. He
thought of the coward who had believed a general’s lies to abandon helpless
women and servants in the palace. He thought of the fool who had refused to pay
heed to warnings.

Now, driven from
his own palace, with the very seat of his power wrested from him, a refugee
forced to run for his life, where would Kostimon go? Who would support him? Could
he rejoin the main forces of his army? Could he drive the Madruns from his
borders? Could he recover from this coup? Could he summon the wits and the
strength to lead the men still loyal to him?