Uthalion spied dark cloaks and jade eyes. Heavy-bodied spiders scrambled along the walls and crouched among the glowing roots overhead. Humanoid forms dived out of side passages, their bodies shifting with alarming speed. They landed more gracefully on eight legs than Uthalion mused he might have managed on two. They hissed as he passed, glaring before moving on, clearly not pleased with the newcomers’ presence, but loyally gathering to defend their warrens.
The light flashed and flickered constantly as the sounds of battle faded farther and farther behind them. The tunnels slowly widened into ones less ornate than the web-lined artworks of the araneas entrance tunnels and more easily traversed by those unused to such shifting terrain. At length they came to a massive chamber scattered with thin shafts of glimmering light. An incline at the far end led to a loosely circular line of illumination, much like the trapdoor Chevat had led them through. It was a welcome sight for Uthalion’s impatience to be free of the spiders’ kingdom.
They rested at the base of a narrow tunnel leading out, listening to the passing of the Lightning Tide and waiting for Chevat’s word that it was safe to leave. Uthalion kept a sharp eye on the aranea, half-expecting any moment for the spiders’ leader to change his mind and seek to slay Ghaelya-it was, after all, a decision Uthalion would have considered had he been in the same position.
“What used to live there, in the Temple?” Ghaelya asked Chevat, breaking the silence. “Did your people ever discover?”
The aranea shook his head thoughtfully.
“Whatever it was, men died trying to possess it,” he said after a time. “The walls were decorated with their bones, their drowned bodies used for trifles, the abandoned artwork of a fickle creature that thought little of mortal lives or desires.”
Chevat’s words turned over and over in Uthalion’s mind, stirring an old memory that he couldn’t quite grasp. When he was young, his grandfather would tell him stories of fantastic beasts, of dragons and evil elves. Though no one story came to mind, he recalled having a long-standing fear of water before learning to swim years later. He looked to Ghaelya, remembering her voice echoing up to him from the bottom of the vine-tree lined pit.
Something in the water.
Uthalion blinked, turning away from the genasi and the flickering ring of light just beyond her at the tunnel’s edge, suddenly unsure of which he had been truly focused on. With some effort he calmed his racing, muddled thoughts, though he was anxious to keep moving rather than sit and wait in the dark.
“Almost there,” he said under his breath, repeating the phrase for the strange sense of calm it brought him.
“I must admit,” Chevat said sternly, “I do not know if I have chosen wisely in this.”
“Not all sacrifices involve blood,” Vaasurri replied.
“It’s always blood,” Brindani muttered as he cleaned his sword, not bothering to look up. “One way or another, always.”
The chamber’s dim light grew darker, and the thin ring at the tunnel’s end disappeared as if shadowed from the outside. Chevat crawled closer, listening and raising his head to sniff the air, nodding and gesturing for Ghaelya to approach.
“You must run to the southern foothills. They are not far,” he said quickly, his eyes darting to them all. “Climb until you are well beyond the lower level of blackened rocks, and the Tide shall not catch you. Tohrepur lies half a day’s journey from the top-just follow the cliffs.”
“Thank you, Chevat,” Ghaelya said.
“No,” the aranea replied. “I might have killed you myself. And by helping you, I daresay I may have done just that.”
The genasi merely nodded and crawled toward the trapdoor, followed by Vaasurri and Brindani. As Uthalion took the first handhold, Chevat placed a long-fingered hand on his arm.
“Those affected by the song do not return from Tohrepur as they once were,” the aranea said solemnly. “Do you hear the song, human?”
“No,” he answered, the lie slipping out before he could stop it, denying that his motives were anything but honorable, though he wondered if they were truly his motives at all. Chevat slipped a leather pouch into his hand and closed his fingers around it tightly before letting go.
“Be swift,” the aranea said. “And if I happen to find you no longer yourself in the days to come, I shall slay you quickly.”
Before Uthalion could think of how to reply to such a statement, the aranea had dashed into the shadows, his legs lengthening and splitting behind him into the long, sharp-footed legs of a spider. Wind caressed Uthalion’s face, and he turned to the pale light outside, scrambling up the tunnel and out onto the stiff, warm grass of the Lash.
Brindani staggered out into the light, wild-eyed and running through the gray. The foothills were just ahead, and he quickened his stride at the sight of them, desperate to reach them, to climb them, and to find the place of the song and dreams. He felt as though he were falling with each step, tumbling toward an end he knew deep down he should fear, and yet he could not resist the summons in his blood. Cool wind blew across his fevered skin like a breath of winter. The sweat on his brow felt like ice, and he ran faster.
He was dimly aware of the poisonous ache in his limbs. Though Chevat’s potion had done much to ease the pain, it left him drained and nauseous. He stumbled against the incline of the foothills, falling to his hands and knees in blackened soil that smelled of char. He craned his neck to the top of the rocky foothills above, grinning weakly as he stood, so close to the promise of the song, a promise of peace. His eyes widened as he panicked for a moment, looking around until he saw Ghaelya climbing the hill behind him. He watched her pass with a dazed expression, letting relief calm his anxiety.
“All will be well,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on the genasi. “All will be well.”
He tried to stand and felt a twisting pang in his stomach. He faltered, confused and trying to catch his breath when the pang returned more forcefully, stabbing his insides with pure agony. A dry scream scratched its way through his throat as he doubled over, rolling in the ash. He felt rough hands grab his arms and haul him up, and tried to keep his feet moving as he was dragged up the hill backward. Rolling thunder deafened him and hid his feeble cries in crashing waves that shook the air. Though his eyes were closed, he could see the Lightning Tide return in bright flashes of red as it scoured the Lash.
His body curled in on itself as pain needled hungrily through his gut. It was not the gentle pain of the song; it did not bring him dreams or enhanced senses and it did not sink through his skin or bear the sweet scent of the red flower that Sefir had fed him. The pain was more familiar, almost forgotten, and it seemed it had returned with a vengeance. As the thunder died, following the Tide on its route around the Lash, he heard the tired grunts and cursing of Vaasurri and Uthalion, heard Vaasurri muttering as they pulled him to safety.
“Silkroot,” the killoren said derisively.
“No …” Brindani whispered, gasping for air and fighting against the hands that held him. He’d left the silkroot behind him, not having needed or wanted the drug since finding the song and tasting the red flower. But his body was betraying his wishes, filling him with a base hunger that he loathed. He fought harder and found his voice, roaring in defiance of his own addiction, “No!”
He kicked against the ground hard, and he was released in a volley of shocked curses. Hitting the ground he turned and leaped forward, climbing as fast as he could manage, scraping his hands on the rocks, feverishly pulling himself higher and higher. All the while he felt the memory of the summoning song fade a little from his mind, felt his blood grow cold, and wanted to weep. The taste of blood filled his mouth; he huffed it from between his lips to spatter little red droplets on the gray stone as he climbed and scrambled for the top of the foothills.