The library, in darkness, was a maze of obstacles, and Zanna was forced to find the way to the inner door with only her memory as a guide. Time and again she heard Vannor’s muffled curse, and felt him stagger as they collided with unseen hazards—tables, chairs, and protruding stacks of shelves. At least, she comforted herself, they would not have to worry about leaving a trail. The fastidious Lady Eliseth had been spending a good deal of time in the library lately, and had come up with a spell of Air to get rid of all the cobwebs and dust.
When they reached the rear wall, Zanna was forced to leave her father resting while she groped her way along the wall with outstretched hands, feeling for the grille of wrought iron that was the archive gate. At last she found it, and fumbled for the lock plate by touch alone. After a desperate struggle to fit the key into its hole, Zanna felt the door swing open on its well-oiled hinges, making not the slightest sound to disturb the profound peace of knowledge’s domain. Quickly, she groped her way back along the wall to fetch Vannor and found him by touch, slumped at the table where she’d left him.
“Dad! Come on—you can’t sleep now!” Though she shook him as hard as she could, it took him a long time to awaken. Mumbling a string of lurid curses that, had he been in full possession of his wits, he would have killed anyone else for speaking within his daughter’s hearing, he staggered after her, dragging on her hand like a shipwreck victim clinging tightly to the one last floating spar. Zanna pushed him through into the archives ahead of her and, reaching through the metal grille, locked the door behind her and pocketed the key with an audible sigh of relief.
It was not over yet, however. Despite the fact that they had escaped the Magefolk, for the time being at least, the worst was still before them—as Zanna soon found out. Dragging Vannor behind her, she groped her way through two turns of the passage before risking a light—but when she finally dared set a spark to one of her candles, she was glad she had waited no longer. The fragile flame revealed a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor with rough-hewn walls—and, not half a dozen paces in front of them, a steep stairway that plunged downward into who knew what depths of darkness.
That was too much. Trembling at the narrowness of their escape, Zanna decided that she and her father could go no farther without rest—not if all the fiends of the infernal pit were howling at their heels. Vannor needed no convincing. Even in the time it had taken her to light the candle, he had slid down the wall into a huddled heap by her feet. Zanna cursed aloud. It’s not fair, she thought wildly. Through most of her life, her dad had taken care of her. How had the tables suddenly turned?
The thought reminded Zanna of the Lady Aurian. Had she, too, felt this hopeless rage, this sense of helplessness, when she had been forced to flee Nexis? Well, she managed, Zanna thought sturdily—and so can I.
Nonetheless, it took a little time to revive her father.
Fishing the single goblet from her basket, she mixed another measure of water and brandy and held it to his lips. The drink seemed to revive him—if only in part. Vannor spluttered, opened his eyes, and looked around him dazedly. “Where the bloody blazes are we?”
“In the catacombs, below the library—at least we will be when we get down those stairs.” Zanna fought the urge to clutch her father’s sleeve. “Dad—I know you told me that the archives lead eventually to the sewers where you used to hide out, but do you know the way from here?”
“No, lass.” Vannor shook his head. “Not from up here. We should keep going down, that’s all I know. Keep heading for the older parts and the colder parts—that’s what Elewin said—until we reach a cave and a crack and a tunnel with a rotted iron ladder. It leads to the sewers, and then we’re halfway out…”
Wonderful, Zanna thought ruefully. That’s a lot of help. Still, if we get lost down here, it should be beyond even the ken of the Magefolk to find us—and I’d rather suffer any fate than fall back into Eliseth’s hands.
Smothering a sigh, she hooked her basket back over her arm and picked up the candle in the same hand. Putting her free shoulder under Vannor’s arm, Zanna helped her father struggle to his feet and, half leading, half supporting him, she guided him down the steps and into the unfathomable darkness that lay beyond.
14
Through Fire
“How many guards are there?” Anvar asked the Moldan.
“One round the corner, in the junction of the corridors,” Basileus replied. “Two in the doorway, and the rest inside the stillroom guarding the prisoners—a dozen guards in all.”
“A dozen?” Anvar gasped in dismay. How would he deal with so many? Aurian, who had been taught by the world’s greatest swordsman and had practiced the arts of combat for most of her life, might have considered such odds, but he knew his own limitations. But perhaps he could simply take them out of time… Even as he reached behind him for the Harp that was usually slung on his back, Anvar realized that in all the hurry and confusion he had left it behind in his chamber. He swore bitterly. How could he have been so stupid? And more to the point—what was he going to do now?
“Fear not, Wizard,” the Moldan told him. ” I will arrange a diversion. Be ready to act when I give the word.”
Anvar flattened himself against the wall and waited, swallowing to ease a throat gone dry with nervousness. Even as he tightened his grip on a sword hilt that felt cold and slippery in his hand, he could feel with his Mage’s senses, the tingling pulse of life through the silver veining in the smooth, dark stone that pressed against his shoulders. How in the world, he wondered, was Basileus going to distract the guards? What could an inanimate being such as the Moldan do to affect the outcome of the impending fight? It took all of Anvar’s self-control not to leave his body right there and then and send his consciousness ahead up the passageway to see what was happening. He knew better, however, than to make such a stupid error. What if more of the rebel Xandim should come this way while his body was unoccupied? No—he would have to trust Basileus, bide his time, and wait.
Schiannath could barely contain his anger at the base treachery of his compatriots. Even though he was helpless—lying, bound hand and foot, next to the stillroom wall—it did not stop his mind from struggling against his fate. Blood kept dripping down into his eyes from a cut in his forehead, and he was bruised and aching from the blows of fists and feet, for he and Yazour had sold their freedom dearly. But Schiannath was less concerned with his hurts than with the gut-wrenching fear of being captured and imprisoned, once again, by his own people. His return from exile had been like waking from the terrors of an evil dream—and now, it seemed, the nightmare was starting all over again. What would they do to him this time?
In an effort to control the panic that rose up in him like choking bile, Schiannath distracted his frantic thoughts by trying to make sense of what was happening. Why had the Xandim rebelled against Parric now? Even if the Herdlord was an Outlander, he had won his Challenge fairly by all accounts—and what was more, he had promised to relinquish his rule once his companions had been rescued. With the dark of the moon bringing the chance of a new leader tomorrow night, what was to be gained by this uprising? Was it really so important, this Xandim tradition that all aliens must die? As far as Schiannath was concerned, the oddly assorted band of northerners and their companions had been better friends to him than any of his own race—with the exception of Iscalda, of course.