Realm Of Light Part 4

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 l.u.s.t 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?

The man was ancient, at the end of his time. Even if he drove his enemies back, he could not beat his own fate. Age was finally conquering him, a man who had not surrendered to mortality for nearly a millennium.

How long did the old man have?

His threads of life were thin and weak. He might have days. He might have hours.

And when he died, what then?

Caelan's eyes narrowed. What would it be like to seize power in Kostimon's stead?

What would it be like to ride at the head of the imperial army, to hear the roaring shouts of acclaim? What would it be like to have absolute command over the lives of everyone? To have wealth, glory, and possessions?

What would it be like to travel from one end of the vast empire to the other, ruler of every sc.r.a.p of earth beneath one's boot soles? What would it be like to change laws, to effect reforms, to free slaves, to abolish slavery altogether? He could drive out the evil Vindicants, close temples, put an end to forbidden rites and practices.

A surge of confidence and ambition swept through him before he tried to thrust his thoughts aside. He was a fool to think such things. Yet he felt ambition burning bright inside him. Prince Tirhin had no more right to rule than any other man. There had been no prophecy cast to indicate a successor. The future of the empire lay open like an arena, with no rules, ready to be taken by the best and strongest.

I am that man.

But was he? Caelan frowned at himself in self-ridicule. He was a former slave, an ex-gladiator, a provincial n.o.body from nowhere.

But Kostimon had been a n.o.body from nowhere, Caelan reminded himself. No one could remember where Kostimon had come from originally. What clan? What tribe? What region of the empire? The scrolls of history had been rewritten many times, whenever Kostimon wanted to reinvent his past. A strong man could take the reins of power, if he dared.

A sharp pain flared in Caelan's chest without warning, making him gasp and double over. His fingers slackened on the bridle, and Elandra's horse pulled free and trotted on without him.

Alarmed by the thought of becoming separated from her in the darkness, he called, "Elandra, wait-"

The pain hit him again, and he could not finish his sentence. Gritting his teeth, he staggered forward a step, then sank to his knees. He had to call out to her, had to stop her, had to stay with her. But the pain was too great. It consumed him, and he had not even the breath to cry out.

For a moment he thought he had been wounded by some mysterious force coming at him from the darkness. But his groping fingers found no cuts, no blood. Nothing tangible had attacked him.

Gasping through another burst of pain, Caelan fought to hold himself upright. He would not fall, he told himself grimly, struggling to hang on. He would not die here in this evil place, alone and forgotten.

The pain grew more intense, stabbing and hot, until his face dripped with sweat and he thought he must scream from it. Then it ebbed enough for him to catch his breath. He opened his eyes. As his senses came back to him, he realized the pain was focusing itself now into one central spot just below his throat.

The emerald . . .

He loosened the thong holding his amulet bag and pulled it over his head in a swift yank. Then, with fumbling, unsteady fingers, he opened the bag and poured out his talisman. Originally there had been two emeralds, one thumb-sized, the other smaller. They had been given to him by his younger sister Lea shortly before he had been captured by Thyzarene raiders, never to see her again. Later, on the hillside of Sidraigh-hal, Sidraigh-hal, the two emeralds had fused together into a single, irregular-shaped stone, somehow becoming larger in the process. the two emeralds had fused together into a single, irregular-shaped stone, somehow becoming larger in the process.

Now, the lumpy gem was glowing here in the darkness, as though possessing a life of its own. And as soon as he dumped it on the ground, it grew again, swelling into a fist-sized gem that flared angrily with radiant, pale green light.

The pain in his chest faded swiftly. Limp with relief, Caelan pressed his palm against the spot and drew in deeper and deeper breaths. He felt clammy now in the cold air blowing through the pa.s.sageway. His sweat was drying on his skin; his clothing stuck unpleasantly to him beneath his armor. Wiping his face with a corner of his tattered cloak, he thought he heard a footstep in the distance.

His head snapped up. "Elandra?"

She did not reply, and he knew even as he uttered her name that the sound had come from behind him. Elandra was ahead of him, lost already in the darkness beyond the dim light cast by his emerald. It v/as as though the shadow forces were separating them, one by one, from each other. Divide and conquer. Isolate and kill.

The soft sc.r.a.ping sound came again, furtive and quick. Hair p.r.i.c.kled on the back of Caelan's neck. He pushed himself to his feet, drawing his sword, and gazed behind him.

In the eerie light of the emerald, he saw nothing, but he believed the force that had come to life in the stone was drawing the attention of something he did not want to meet.

Caelan did not understand the magic contained within this emerald. He only knew it somehow responded to the shadow forces, fed on their power to mysteriously augment its own. Sometimes it served as a protector; sometimes not. He did not know how to direct it, how to use it. And now it was too large to be concealed in his amulet pouch. He would have to find another way to carry it.

Using a corner of his cloak as a pad against the heat thrown off by the stone, Caelan scooped it up and hurried on. With every stride he listened for sounds of pursuit, but whatever lurked behind him did not follow.

The pain in his chest was gone now, but it had drained him. He knew he was not fast enough, not as alert as he should be.

Sighing, he rubbed his chest and felt old, tired, and mortal. His ambitions had been driven out of him, and now he could only look back at them with wonder and amazement. Why had he even fantasized that he could accomplish such things?

It was time for him to leave Kostimon and Elandra to their fates and go home to Trau. He had unfinished business there, old scores to settle, old ghosts to make peace with. Even if E'nonhold had been destroyed, the land remained. He should claim it before the provincial governor awarded the deed to a purchaser.

And as this determination settled within him, the ambitions faded from his heart. The heat inside his emerald gradually cooled until once again it felt cold and lifeless like any stone. The light it cast went out, and Caelan was once again plunged into the darkness.

He stumbled to a halt, frustrated and discouraged. With all his will, he tried to reach into the stone and reawaken its magic. It remained unresponsive in his fist.

Ahead, however, he heard the plodding hoofbeats of Elandra's horse. Straightening his shoulders, he reminded himself of his duty to protect this woman and pushed onward.

Jogging on legs that felt leaden with fatigue, Caelan mentally gave thanks for the years of tough conditioning and training for the arena that enabled him to keep going. The walls of the pa.s.sage began to glow softly, very dimly at first, then strong enough to see by. The illumination came from streaks of a pale, slimy substance on the walls. He dared not touch it, but he was glad to finally be able to see where he was going.

Ahead, Elandra's horse had stopped and stood with its head down. Elandra's hands rested on her horse's neck. The reins dangled free from the bridle.

He staggered up to the animal, taking care not to startle it, and gripped the dangling reins with a sigh of relief. The horse snorted and rubbed its head against him as though seeking comfort. Caelan stroked its muzzle and scratched its ears, too tired to murmur to it.

Sitting a little slumped in her saddle, the empress looked wan and unearthly in the peculiar light. Her long auburn hair had blown across her face and hung there, half concealing her features. Her mouth was slack, and her eyes held nothing at all. It worried him, to see her like that. He did not know how long the spell would last, or whether it would ever wear off.

"Elandra?" he said very softly to her. "Majesty, are you all right?"

She stared into the emptiness ahead of her. She did not blink. She did not move. Her lips remained slightly parted. Only the slight rise and fall of her chest told him she was even alive.

"Majesty," Caelan said again, knowing he should not try to break the spell that protected her here, but unable to silence himself, "can you speak?"

She remained silent.

Frowning at himself, he shoved his worries away. He urged the horse forward, and together they trudged on.

He could feel the aches of battle: sore muscles grown stiff, the stinging discomfort of sc.r.a.pes and cuts, the flaring tenderness of bruises. He was hungry. He longed to rest, yet dared not stop.

Gault of infinite mercy, he prayed wearily, he prayed wearily, guide our way and keep us from harm. guide our way and keep us from harm.

It was a fool's prayer, he knew. He was a long way from the realm of light, but he repeated his prayer anyway.

A splashing sound and the cold wetness of water filling his boots startled him.

Halting, he peered ahead. At first he could not see the water he stood in, so black was it.

It ran swift over his feet, as icy cold as a glacial stream. Bending over, Caelan splashed it onto his face.

It burned his skin, making him nearly cry out.

Gasping, he staggered back a step and rubbed the water from his eyes. His face still stung, but he was awake now, fully alert again.

With burning eyes, he squinted at the stream. The streaks of glowing illumination were few and far between here, casting only the palest of shadowy light over the black water. He could not judge its width in the gloom.

The water ran swift yet silent, with none of the usual rush and roar of a river. He could smell the water now, and despite the rapid current that should have kept it fresh, it stank like stagnant pond water.

Wrinkling his nose, Caelan severed severed his nearly overwhelming thirst, putting it aside. This was not drinkable water. his nearly overwhelming thirst, putting it aside. This was not drinkable water.

The horse dropped its muzzle to the dark surface of the water as though to drink, but flinched back, snorting and rolling its eyes. It put down its muzzle again, only to refuse to drink. Nervously, the animal backed up.

Caelan jumped at it and succeeded in catching the dangling reins before it could turn around and bolt back the way they'd come.

"No, you don't," he said softly through his teeth.

They would have to cross. Better to do it now and get it over with. He hesitated a moment, still trying to calm the unsettled horse, then touched Elandra's foot briefly.

"Majesty," he said with respect, "if you can hear me, then see that you hang on tight. I don't know how deep the water is. We may have to swim, and the current is swift. Take care you don't let it sweep you from the saddle."

He looked at her, but she gave no sign of having heard him. Sighing, he took her hand and entwined some of the horse's mane among her fingers. Her flesh was cold and stiff, almost inanimate. He felt chilled simply from touching her. It was like handling the dead before they are stiffened.

Swiftly he turned away, unwilling to think of her that way.

He unbuckled his sword belt and breastplate, knowing he could not swim weighted down by so much metal. Pulling off his quilted tunic and the linen undertunic beneath it, he rolled the garments, along with his boots and leggings, into his cloak and strapped them across the front of the saddle in hopes they would stay dry. Clad only in his nethers, he secured his sword and armor to the saddle, then wrapped the reins securely around his hand and urged the horse forward. It flinched and resisted, the whites of its eyes glimmering, but he shouted at it and tugged. Finally it plunged forward, nearly knocking him off balance.

Caelan kept shouting, to encourage himself as much as the horse. He pushed his way forward, and the water deepened quickly until it came up to his chest. He felt as though he'd been plunged into ice. The water was so cold it stole his breath. After another step the bottom dropped out from beneath him. He swam awkwardly, keeping his chin and mouth as high above the surface as he could. The stench was bad enough to turn his stomach. He didn't want to think about what the water contained to make it smell thus.

Snorting, the horse swam beside him. The current grew stronger, and Caelan stayed close against the horse, clinging to a strap of the saddle and trying to steer the animal straight instead of letting the current carry them downstream.

A ghost-pale mist formed on the surface of the water ahead of them, swirling and circling as though alive. Caelan's sense of danger grew stronger. He did not want to swim into the mist. Yet he could not turn back.

When the clammy fog wrapped its tendrils around his face, Caelan felt himself in sudden, unexpected contact with a torrent of emotions, none of which were his own. They swept over him in a deluge, and the faint sound of weeping and piteous cries filled his ears. He had entered some kind of miasma of human misery. He wanted to weep with the voices. Their agony and torment were unbearable, drowning him. He lost all sense of himself, feeling instead this terrible sorrow and grief that encompa.s.sed his soul.

"No," he said aloud, struggling with the last remnants of his will. "No!"

He severed, severed, isolating himself, and at once there was only roaring silence in his ears instead of anguished wailing. The tendrils of fog melted away, and a light of sorts-very white and pure-shone down on him as though moonlight had somehow reached to the bowels of the earth. isolating himself, and at once there was only roaring silence in his ears instead of anguished wailing. The tendrils of fog melted away, and a light of sorts-very white and pure-shone down on him as though moonlight had somehow reached to the bowels of the earth.

The horse surged ahead of him, lunging up and out of the water onto the bank. Snorting and stamping, it switched its dripping tail and shook itself violently.

Caelan followed, gaining ground only to find his knees buckling beneath him. Despite severance, severance, he had little strength left. But at least he had sweet peace-no tormented emotions, no cries of misery, no pervading coldness, no stench of foul water. Gasping for breath, he collapsed on the ground and pa.s.sed out. he had little strength left. But at least he had sweet peace-no tormented emotions, no cries of misery, no pervading coldness, no stench of foul water. Gasping for breath, he collapsed on the ground and pa.s.sed out.

Chapter Four.

A low, chattering sound stirred through his mind, half rousing him. He listened, uncaring, then sank away from the noise.

Something nudged him, blowing hard and nervously on the bare skin of his back. It tickled, this warm breath. Caelan came awake reluctantly. He was nudged again, and something twitched through his hair, brushing over the back of his skull.

Swearing in alarm, he rolled over and sat up.

The horse snorted and whirled away from him, then stopped at the edge of the water, pawing and tossing its head.

Elandra, like a ghost figure, remained on its back.

Breathing hard, Caelan blinked himself fully awake and sat up. The strange, pale light continued to fill the cavern area next to the river. It was white and silvery, almost like moonlight, yet unnatural. The shapes of the horse, the walls, the scattered stones all seemed flattened, without dimension, and without color. It made everything feel like a dream, yet would he smell the pungent river in his dream? Would he feel this cold and stiff in his dream? Caelan rubbed his face and shoved back his hair, then climbed to his feet.

He untied his sword and breastplate from the saddle, letting them crash onto the ground, then took down his bundle of clothing eagerly. He was freezing, as cold as when he'd first climbed out of the icy water. Rubbing his bare arms briskly in hopes of warming up, he found his clothing slightly damp around the edges but mostly dry. He dressed quickly, leaving off his armor for the moment, and wrapped himself tightly in his cloak.

His teeth started to chatter, and he felt no warmer than before. He needed a fire to thaw himself out.

But first he checked Elandra. She must be cold and wet too.

He was sure she was very uncomfortable up there in the saddle, trapped with no one to take care of her needs while he slept.

When he touched the empress's cloak, however, he found it dry. The hem of her gown was dry. It was as though she had never crossed the river.

He frowned. Had he slept that long?

Yet his own clothing was still damp in places where the water had splashed it. Why had it failed to dry when her clothing had?

Or had she gotten wet at all?

No matter where he touched Elandra, her clothing was dry. She seemed warm and comfortable. Amazed, Caelan withdrew his hand. Even from this, the spell had protected her.

Ruefully, he told himself it was too late to regret not drinking from the cup while he had the chance. He could be standing here warm and dry ... and with his wits frozen in limbo. Caelan shook his head. He would rather have the physical misery than surrender to whatever had been in that cup.

A sound caught his attention. Glancing around, he saw a row of eyes, glowing red, feral, and unearthly. They watched him from the boulders piled along one side of the cavern.

Caelan froze. For an endless moment he could do nothing but stare back. He barely dared to breathe. His sword was an eternity away, at least four strides. If the watchers chose to attack, he might not reach it in time.

He swore harshly and silently in his mind.