Late the next morning, they were riding through a region of rocky pinnacles and giddy precipices when a sudden turn in the trail brought them to a narrow defile littered with tumbled boulders. A little black rill trickled down on one side of the gorge and disappeared into a crack in the earth. They had not ridden far when the trail ended abruptly at a sheer rock wall.
Craning her neck, Winloki tried to see what was happening. What place this was she did not know, but the urge to turn the mare around and ride away as swiftly as possible was all at once so strong, she would certainly have done so had there not been so many horses and riders blocking her way.
From his seat in the saddle, the High Priest began to sketch signs on the air. They were not like the runes of the warding spell and were none so wholesome. Mazelike, convoluted, they suggested the writhings of serpents or the movements of scorpions.
For a moment it seemed to Winloki that the bones of the mountain were shifting, that the face of the cliff would crumble, that all its great weight must come tumbling down and bury them—until the rock wall wavered like a reflection on water, and the illusion concealing a pair of immense doors at the base of the cliff dissolved.
The doors were like nothing she had ever seen before: tremendous in scale, of a hard, crystalline substance cut but not polished, with scrollwork hinges of sun-bright metal. Instinct told her the doors were immeasurably more ancient than the ruined cities, yet unlike the cities they had defied the ages.
“Where do they lead?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“Into a catacomb,” said Rivanon. “Behind these doors of adamant and gold are the tombs of ancient kings—the fathers of the fathers of the people who lived in the hills. But just as they were hidden by a spell, the doors are likewise sealed.”
She felt caught in a backwash of time, sucked back through the centuries. The world was far older than she had ever imagined, and its history more terrible.
“Then how will we enter—or are we to enter?” Her heart lifted at the thought that it might be impossible, then sank with his reply.
“The doors will open for Camhóinhann. He and Dyonas passed this way once before, eleven years ago, and learned the secret. Morquant and I were with them.”
But instead of beginning to work the necessary spells, the High Priest ordered two of the men to dismount and unload one of the packhorses. Halfway guessing what he intended, Winloki felt a cold sensation of horror creep over her skin.
“What is he waiting for? Why does he delay?”
“No king went into these tombs alone,” said Morquant. “Wives and concubines went with them—whether the women met death here, or previously, I do not know. But slaves were sacrificed outside these doors. It takes a death to open them from the outside.”
The lost souls that had haunted her all through the foothills seemed to press in on her, darkening the air.
The mare, sensing her distress, took several skittish sideways steps. Winloki made a low sound in her throat when the dun gelding, stripped of its gear, was led before the iron doors, where Camhóinhann waited with his long knife already drawn.
“It seems cruel,” she said, just above a whisper, “when the poor beast has come all this way, carrying our supplies—trusting our kindness.”
“Do not grieve yourself. It will be swift and painless. It would be different,” Rivanon added under his breath, “if Goezenou had the slaying of the unfortunate beast.”
She gritted her teeth and forced herself to watch. This magic of blood and death was the very reminder she needed of who these men were and of what they were capable. She was hating them all now, hating herself for not hating them enough these last weeks. Had she really forgotten how many of her countrymen they had slain? Let the lesson not be wasted. Let me remember this moment to the last drop of blood.
By a great effort of will she neither flinched nor turned away, determined not to show them any weakness. And yet, as promised, the death was humane. Camhóinhann put a hand over the gelding’s eyes, whispered a few words in one nervous ear. Then the front legs collapsed and the horse fell over on one side, lying so still Winloki was half convinced it was already dead. In one movement, so swift she scarcely saw it, the priest bent down and cut its throat. Blood bubbled out in a crimson stream, smoking on the cold air.
An acolyte knelt to catch it in a little earthen bowl. When the bowl was full, he handed it on to Camhóinhann. Moving toward the doors with his powerful stride, the High Priest dashed the basin against the stone, calling out as he did so:
Améroda, clüid boédhen na briénhani.
Néas dennath émi yllathos,
Émiras denna esora gôndhal!
Very slowly, and with almost no sound at all, the doors swung open. What waited on the other side was veiled in shadow, but Winloki thought she could see a broad, high-roofed passage: not level, but ascending into darkness.
Some of the men lit torches. Those who were afoot mounted up again, preparing to enter. Then, in truth, the Princess might have refused to follow, but Camhóinhann guessed which way her thought was tending even before the idea was fully formed. At a signal from the High Priest, one of the guards closed in on her left, while on her right Rivanon took the reins out of her hands.
Leading the mare alongside his own long-legged sorrel, he brought her across the threshold and into the stale darkness of the catacombs.
20
The tumult and fury of the storm continued unabated. Flames raced across the surface of the waves, fires of emerald and opal; lightning tore open the sky. As the embattled little craft plunged down an almost vertical slope, Prince Ruan could feel the boards groaning and buckling under his feet. In a moment, he knew, the entire bottom of the boat would shatter. Even if Sindérian’s voice did not give out, no spell could bind it together against such intolerable strain. The boat bucked, dived, and rolled; every moment those on board were pitched in some new direction; every moment they seemed on the verge of a watery death.
And then, quite suddenly, they broke through the wall of rain; the wind slackened. The sea remained agitated, but the wizards’ shibéath on the boat needed to hold only a short time longer. Perhaps, thought Ruan, it actually would. Faint with exhaustion, her voice worn to rags, Sindérian sank to her knees. Her eyes were closed and her lips were white, but she was still muttering spells.
Gradually, the waves settled into a more gentle motion. The clouds parted, revealing an eastern sky purple and gold with sunset. A wet and windblown Faolein perched on the thwart, preening his feathers, while Kivik and Skerry leaned wearily against the side, their faces as green as something dredged up from the bottom of the sea.
Ruan touched Sindérian lightly on the shoulder. “Rest now. You’ve brought us safely through the tempest. Leave the rest to Aell and me.” Then he went to help the man-at-arms step the mast and raise the sail.
Already he thought he could smell land. The storm had nearly killed them, but it had also helped to speed them across the channel. He thought they might even see Mistlewald by morning, for there was just enough wind, and it was blowing from the right quarter. Unless it changed direction, they would hardly have to tack at all.
They sailed into the harbor of a little seaside town with the dawn tide. After a long nap, Sindérian had revived enough to sit up and wring the water out of her hair, which was as lank as seaweed. They all had as much salt in their clothes and their hair as if they had swum, not sailed, across the Necke.
As they rounded the breakwater with Aell’s steady hand on the tiller, Ruan sat down cross-legged beside her. “Do you think Camhóinhann knew that someone was following, or did he call up the storm simply as a precaution?”