To Gerrod, the tunnel he was led into suddenly grew very oppressive, reminding him of the path to a crypt. His, perhaps.
It grew cold, the first time Gerrod had felt cold since coming here. Even the Quel seemed touched by it, for they slowed their pace and a few looked around in what a Vraad would have been growing anxiety touching upon fear. Only the leader seemed nearly the same; its peculiar eyes blinked constantly, but it alone kept the steady pace. The warlock was not reassured, however. He had met enough madmen and fools. For all he knew, the worst of them now dragged him by the arm toward chaos incarnate.
They came to the mouth of yet another cavern, but unlike the others, this one was as black as Darkhorse. Gerrod could see nothing within even after allowing his eyes to adjust. As he turned to his guide, the warlock saw the rest of the band back away a few steps.
The leader’s eyes surveyed him from head to toe. Was he being measured? Had the Quel begun to wonder about Gerrod’s ability to survive whatever lurked within?
“What is in there?” he asked.
You/we… yourself/ourselves… statement!/question?
What could that mean? He asked the question again, but received only the same response. It made no sense no matter how he turned it. The impressions were jumbled, uncertain. Gerrod came to the conclusion that the Quel could not explain, might not even know. Maybe that was why they needed an outsider like an elf. Whatever lay waiting within the darkness could very well be beyond their comprehension. Once more, he was reminded of how different their minds were from those of his people. It might be that there was nothing for him to worry about.
Gerrod did not believe that for a moment.
As it turned out, his choice was made for him. The Quel leader gripped his arm tight enough to make the Vraad gasp… and dragged him inside. The others hung back and waited.
Somehow Gerrod found himself in front of the Quel leader, though he could only tell that by touch. The creature’s grip was now the only thing he could be certain about; his eyes could make out nothing in the darkness, and all sound appeared to have ceased the moment they entered.
The Quel released its grip and vanished into the darkness.
“Wait! Where are you?” The warlock turned around, but he could not find the path back even though it should have been visible. “Dragon’s blood! Don’t leave me in here! I cannot see a thing!” He feared to move, uncertain as to whether his next step would take him over some unseen brink or into the waiting arms of… of what?
When, however, it became apparent that no one would be coming to retrieve him, the warlock finally dared a tentative step forward.
A thousand blinding suns brilliantly illuminated the chamber. Gerrod put an arm before his eyes and drew the hood of his cloak over his face. After such complete darkness, the light was doubly harsh. He would have stayed as he was, wrapped tight in his cloak, but for the whispering. He could not make out what they said, but there was a familiarity to their voices, almost as if they were all the same voice, but speaking of different things. None of them heeded the others in the slightest.
They have thrown me to a legion of madmen or demons! he decided. Monsters who, no doubt, I will soon join in madness!
What was it about the voices that sounded so familiar to him? There were differences, to be sure, but the tones and inflections were the same regardless of that. He knew those voices, knew them to be only one voice.
One voice…
“Cursed Nimth,” the Tezerenee whispered. “What sort of mockery is this?” He slid the hood back a little and found the light more tolerable now. The discovery disappointed him, for Gerrod had hoped for an excuse to keep from looking. Now, the only thing holding him back was his own cowardice.
The mocking laughter of his father assailed his ears, but Gerrod understood that out of all the voices he heard, his sire’s was the only one solely of his imagination. The rest were very real.
He looked up and saw them-the faces in crystal.
They were everywhere, the faces, because, unlike the other chambers, there was nothing here but crystal. The floor, the ceiling, the walls-from tiny, indistinct specks to huge, horrifying demons, the faces were all about. They babbled on in a frantic manner, as if their very lives depended on his understanding them. Try as he might, Gerrod could not make out one true word. He strained to hear the whisperings of an ancient, balding seer and the harsh mutterings of a hooded fiend whose face refused to focus for him. Another, a young, amiable figure with a shock of silver hair amidst a field of brown, talked to him as if they were close friends. Even still, the warlock could not make out what the other was trying to convey, despite desperately wanting to understand one, any one, of the phantoms trapped in the crystals. He knew them now, knew them as well as he knew himself.
That was who they were. No matter how changed-and some were very, very changed-they were all Gerrod.
XII
Sharissa hated the riding drakes. She hated their appearance, their attitude, and their smell. They could not compare to a horse. Yet, she had been forced to ride one these past two days. The beast was stupid, and it often grew sidetracked. Once it had even snapped at her for no reason whatsoever.
The patriarch listened to her complaints with the air of one tolerating a whining child. It made no difference whether or not she was having trouble with her mount; Tezerenee used drakes for riding, especially when it was always possible that they might be engaged in combat at any moment.
The force that journeyed to the mountains moved with caution. Teleportation was still a spell beyond most of the Tezerenee, and so they were forced to travel in a more mundane manner. The patriarch also distrusted the absence of the Seekers. Barakas might claim that the aerie was abandoned, but he apparently believed that there was risk enough that rushing into things might result in chaos. He had even brought along a very submissive Darkhorse, who turned his head every time Sharissa attempted to speak with the eternal. Darkhorse was ashamed of his actions, despite the fact that much of what he had done had been for her sake. The captive sorceress did not blame him for anything, but trying to tell him that was proving impossible.
Evening came at last. Barakas gave Reegan permission to give the signal to halt. The heir did so in a sullen mood; he still burned over his father’s decision to leave his mother in control of the burgeoning empire. Reegan had assumed that the patriarch’s being absent would allow him to exercise his long-overdue desire to rule. The heir had even argued with Barakas at some length, but the end had been inevitable. All that Reegan could do was sulk afterward, and he had done so with a determination almost admirable.
Sharissa was just descending from her troublesome steed when a familiar and unwanted voice rose behind her.
“Allow me to help you, Sharissa.”
“I can do without your help or your friendship, Lochivan!” she retorted, dismounting as she spoke.
He aided her nonetheless. “I understand your bitterness and I know that nothing I can do will make up for the wrongs you believe of me, but we will be together for quite some time-all our lives, in fact.”
“I thought is was Reegan the patriarch wanted me to marry, not you.”
A brief chuckle escaped him. “I might admit to having had some thoughts on the subject; I like to think that you might find me a bit more entertaining than my bullish brother. That was not what I meant, however. I merely refer to a fact that you must come to face before very long-that you are now and shall ever be a part of us. There is no going back.”
She tried to take her pack from the drake’s back, but Lochivan moved around her and took it before she could even touch it. “Only a body of water separates me from my father and the other Vraad. Either they will come for me or I will go to them.”