The red eyes shimmered beneath the water, blossoming into flowery blooms that pulsed and grew as Ghaelya drew closer. Slowly they retreated, deeper into the dark beyond the stairway, a soft wake rising and lapping at the lowest step.
“Tess?” she called, though her voice was slurred, her tongue heavy and unwieldy in her mouth. Panic gripped her as the glowing blooms dimmed to tiny dots of fiery light. She tried to descend faster, reaching for the light as the whispers grew softer. She stumbled, disoriented on weary legs, and fell toward the glistening surface of the pool.
Clinging to the shadows, Sefir’s clawed hands dug deep into nearly rotted wooden rafters as he writhed and gritted his teeth in the throes of an exquisite agony. His back twisted beyond the range of his old body; bones popped as they loosened and adapted to his changing form. His jaw ached as blunt, useless teeth were pushed aside by rows of sharp, needlelike teeth. Blood trickled through his lips, dripping onto his dark robes as he accepted the Lady’s gifts and gave quiet thanks for her blessings and pain.
Only the palm of his left hand, where he’d touched his mistress’s warm, sinuous body remained unchanged and painless-the mark of her lasting favor and a symbol of his place among the Choir, her chosen.
His skin had grown cool to the touch, smooth and translucent, during his swift journey with the pack of dreamers. Khault, he had mused, would look upon him with pride when they were reunited. But Sefir remained alone, waiting in a web of shadows as a rhythmic torrent rushed through his veins, making him stronger with each new exertion, each act that professed his faith in the Lady’s song and the ethereal beauty of her voice.
Somewhere in his haze of pain he heard footsteps echoing across old wood, clumping on the floorboards as they drew closer, and he grinned widely, his sharp, new teeth scraping unevenly against one another. He hissed quietly in pleasure, his new appendages curling from beneath his robes to grip the rafters above. Puckered slits opened at the base of his neck, flaring excitedly in anticipation.
He studied the dark, searching curiously with his remaining, lesser, right eye, hearing and feeling far more than any mere reflection of light upon a surface could provide. His skin tingled with the slightest movement of air, and every sound thrummed acutely in his sensitive ears.
“How blind I was,” he said to himself, “Fumbling through a dull, lifeless world.”
Slowly he drew his heavy, serrated blade, the sound of steel sliding on leather vibrating through his palm, a beautiful shriek of battle that was his alone among the Choir. He lowered his head as ripples circled outward from a strident clap of splashing water, the sound reverberating from every surface, shaping his view of the murky basement in fine detail.
“This servant has been patient Lady,” he whispered and let the tips of his dangling toes descend into the water as he recalled the prophecy preached by Khault, the purest among the Choir. “Twin shall embrace twin, and all the world will shudder to hear their voices.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
10 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One
(1479 DR)
Caidris, Akanul
Uthalion crept cautiously into the old house of Khault, gently pushing tall weeds out of the way with the tip of his sword, avoiding deep cracks where the plants had burst through the floorboards. Moth-eaten curtains, once clean and brightly colored, hung in pitiful tatters that blew ghostlike in the wind. Thunder shook the house, and dust rained down from the ceiling. Uthalion braced himself, ready to bolt for the door; but the structure held, groaning with settling noises that darkly complemented the grim weather.
He paused at the sight of a dusty chair in the common room, its cushions moldy and sagging with age. Khault had once sat there, leaning forward and insisting he help the strange warriors he’d welcomed into his home. As stubborn as he was brave, he had refused to take no for an answer, and had immediately set about warning the rest of the town to take shelter. His wife had fretted in the kitchen, gathering food for the hungry soldiers in the last of the day’s light and forcing them to eat what she could spare.
A part of Uthalion smiled at the memory, but his face would not show it as he passed through the common room and into the kitchen. He imagined the strong woman as she’d been as the black clouds had overtaken Caidris-and not as she’d been in the days after, prepared for her grave by a stoic husband.
The images were clear and haunting, as though time had stopped that day. But Uthalion felt he knew better, knew the malleable and inconstant nature of time. He placed his hand on the kitchen table, dusty and still standing, and did not measure the years that had passed so much as he bore witness to a ravaging sense of the present.
Slowly and with held breath he looked up, turning to face the dark place just east of the kitchen, at the end of a short hallway. The simple door remained, marked by deep gouges, stained by life and old blood. He wondered briefly if it had ever opened again after the day he’d closed it behind him and put Caidris to his back. Lightning lit its surface, much as it had the first time he’d opened it.
It stood waiting for him, like a hope chest buried in the back of a closet, a box full of memories and years of nightmares. The silver ring was heavy on his hand, its magic having shielded him from dreams of Caidris for so long. There was no waking up this time. Shaking free of hesitation, he crossed the kitchen floor and gripped the door handle tightly, daring himself to throw it open and face the dark where he and his men had hid for three days and nights as the sorcerous rage of a dying aboleth had played itself out.
He stared down into the basement, listening and watching for any sign of Ghaelya in the dark below. Placing his sword in front of him he took one step, then another, forcing himself to return and wondering if he’d ever truly left. Dust and shadows enveloped him in the stairway, occasionally lit by flickering lightning, the old handrail shaken by rumbling thunder.
He paused, feeling the wall and finding the short nub of an old candle still in its rusty sconce. Fumbling in the dark he managed to ignite a tindertwig and light the taper’s wick before continuing his descent. A heavy scent of rust grew stronger as he neared the bottom, the smell reminding him of his grandfather’s basement and his childhood fear of being alone in the place.
The sound of dripping water echoed faintly as rain leaked through the soil, but he stepped down only onto a soft, damp floor of thin mud. The candlelight glittered dully on rusted tools hanging on the back wall and reflected on the brimming surface of a well-placed rain barrel, but he saw no sign of Ghaelya or anything that would have indicated she had been in the basement at all.
Ghaelya awoke with a cold slap of water.
Reality rushed her senses, overwhelming them with the chill of the flooded basement even as water filled her lungs. She gagged as she made the swift transition from breathing air to inhaling the cold water, shivering as it flowed down her throat. A taste of rust filled her mouth, and gritty bits of dirt caught in her teeth. Quickly orienting up from down, the images and sounds of her sleepwalk seeped into her conscious mind as she faced the cloudy darkness of the basement waters. Thrashing away from the murk, she braced herself against the wall and waited for the crimson eyes from her dream to come rushing at her through the shadowy flood.
Her body cooled, adapting as she waited, submerged and fearful of where she’d awoken and even more so of how she’d gotten there. As she drew her sword, careful not to disturb the water’s surface any more than she already had, she caught sight of a wavering shadow dancing through pale light from a narrow window. Mud and rust settled, allowing the shape to form in fractured beams of flashing light on the basement floor. Her eyes widening, she drifted forward, following the light to the dirty glass of the window.