“Metra,” Cashel said hoarsely, “how do we close this hole you made?”
The wizard held her sides as she laughed, rocking back and forth. Tilphosa bent and cocked her hand for another slap.
Metra’s face cleared. Perfectly lucid and in a tone of cold malevolence, she said, “Shine your ring on the portal from the other side, girl. That’s all. It will shrink and close as it’s expanding now. Except that the Pack will suck you dry before they devour all the rest of us!”
Tilphosa straightened and looked at Cashel. “Will you guard me?” she said simply.
“Sure,” said Cashel. “As long as I can.”
The portal was transparent in the center, though the edges had a milky tinge like the membrane inside the shell of a hard-boiled egg. Both the clear portion and the border expanded slowly, like water pooling on a flat surface.
Tilphosa put her hand out to the hole; her flesh passed through unaffected. The creatures on the other side watched; only their tongues moved.
The girl took a deep breath and poised. Cashel stepped between her and the portal. “Guess I’ll go first,” he said.
He clambered through. The translucent edge had a spongy feeling, but the clear center was plenty big enough for his body.
The sun here was a hammer. The ground was a stony waste with no sign of life or water. He heard Tilphosa’s breath catch as she followed him.
The Pack, swaying like monstrous willow trees, glided toward them on short, fat legs.
As they came, the one holding their first victim tossed the emptied body away.
Ilna’s fingers knotted cords with a swift ease that kept her calm. For as far down the valley as her eyes could see, giant spiders were leaving their webs and walking toward her. Their spindly legs and cautious pace reminded her of cripples on crutches.
DRINK HER BLOOD. SUCK HER DRY.
Of course, in these numbers even cripples could kill her. She smiled. It was as good an expression as any to wear as you prepared for death.
Ilna looked over her shoulder, just in case the giants behind her had mounted their side of the dome more quickly than those she’d just watching killing the sheep and shepherd. She found that she wanted to face her slayer rather than feel the sudden icy shock of fangs driving into her body from behind.
Was that pride, bragging that she wasn’t afraid? Well, there wasn’t anybody here to blame her for pride.
Ilna was afraid, of course. Not of death, exactly, but while being torn apart by fangs dripping amber poison might be quick, it certainly wouldn’t be clean or painless.
She’d failed in her mission for Tenoctris—and for Garric. That was a worse pain still, but it too would end with her death.
Some might say she’d failed the Isles, the kingdom. Ilna had never met a kingdom, so she didn’t know. She understood friendship, though, and duty.
DRAIN HER TO A HUSK!
Ilna’s fingers wove and knotted, adding cords to a pattern already more complex than anything she’d attempted in the past. Above Ilna the barrier shifted as her fingers moved; and with every change, another layer became clear in her mind.
The spiders picked their way toward her. Ilna frowned. She knew the creatures were clumsy on the ground, but she’d seen them stagger toward their victims a few minutes before. They were awkward, but because of their size and long legs they nonetheless moved as fast as a horse could run. Now…
For a moment Ilna thought the spiders were afraid of her. Her patterns could stun, could kill. Spiders whose skills were second only to hers would understand that—but they would also know that their size and numbers could overwhelm her.
Besides, they could see that she wasn’t weaving a weapon. They knew Ilna was tearing an escape route between their world and the wider cosmos.
SHE MUST NOT ESCAPE! the chorus shrilled; and at last Ilna understood.
For a moment her fingers paused. Oh, the spiders knew what Ilna was doing, all right: she was about to achieve the thing which they in the ages of their exile had never been able to do.
She was going to show these monsters the way back to the world from which some ancient wizard had barred them. The way to Ilna’s own world.
Ilna looked up at the barrier. The eyes of her soul showed her the final pattern, the path for which she’d been searching.
Yes, of course. I was right to trust Her craftsmanship.
Ilna’s fingers gathered and knotted, making the last adjustments to her linked cords. Above her the milky barrier cleared in response.
A needlepoint of white light flashed on the hillside before Ilna. It spread jaggedly, a tear racing through the fabric separating the spider world from the greater cosmos.
SHE HAS OPENED THE WAY!
Ilna could close the gap again, but that wouldn’t matter. The spiders couldn’t create the pattern, but they could duplicate it now that they had seen Ilna’s masterpiece.
SHE HAS OPENED THE WAY!
The giants stumbled up the slope, maddened by the thought of the warm blood that waited on the other side to slake their age-long thirst. Ilna thought of the future of webs and monsters she’d glimpsed in the Intercessor’s mind. She understood now what he feared.
Ilna stepped through the opening as giant spiders staggered toward her from all sides. She was smiling.
The chamber in which Garric stood had been a burial place for the wealthy and powerful. Three deep niches were cut into either sidewall of an arched vault; in each of them was a sarcophagus of marble or porphyry. The ends of five had floral designs, but the last showed a man in flowing robes gesturing to a crowd which knelt reverently. Behind the central figure, holding a wreath and crescent moon with which to crown him, was a giant spider.
Lord Thalemos followed Garric into the chamber, his hand stretching back to help Vascay. The chieftain’s peg didn’t grip as well on the slant of crumbling rock as a boot or bare sole.
The three men stared at the delicate carving. “Here’s the wealth Ademos and the others were looking for,” Garric said. “Think what carvings this fine would be worth in Valles or Erdin. If you could get them there.”
“Would people pay for this?” Thalemos said. “A spider?”
“People will pay for anything,” Vascay said, wheezing between his words. “Some people will, boy. After all, it wasn’t sand crabs who carved that with their claws.”
Metron, sliding and gasping, stumbled into the chamber. His torch waved wildly.
Vascay cursed as the flames whisked close. He touched his javelin point to the wizard’s throat. “I’ve left you alive when maybe I shouldn’t have,” he said, “but don’t push your luck!”
“Lord Thalemos?” Metron said. He steadied the torch, but he gave no other sign that he’d heard Vascay’s threat. “Here, take the ring. You have to wear it yourself now.”
The wizard held out his left hand with the sapphire on the middle finger. He couldn’t pull it off himself because he held the torch in his right, its oily red flames now licking the ceiling. The vault’s fresco showed painted webs connecting the moon in the center to the six burial niches. Plaster blackened, and a piece fell off.
“To reach Lady Tilphosa?” the youth said doubtfully. “Is that what you mean?”
“Put the ring on or we’ll all die here when the Intercessor comes for us!” Metron said. “It’s our only chance!”
Thalemos reached for the ring. Garric watched without expression; he didn’t know what the right decision was. He wouldn’t interfere with the wizard’s direction, but—
He took the torch from Metron’s right hand. The wizard resisted momentarily, then gave it up. Garric started down the passageway at the back of the chamber, with Vascay following him closely.