Chasing the Prophecy (Beyonders) (113 page)

The lock disengaged, and Rachel opened the door. Deciding that it would be most convincing to offer no additional comment, Rachel stepped through and closed the door. She was left in total darkness.

For a panicky moment she envisioned lurkers all around her. No, they were in the vicinity, but she still could not sense them clearly. Some barrier still intervened.

Starting at the doorway, Rachel felt her way along the wall
to a corner three paces from the door. Following the next wall, after several small paces, she discovered a step down. She was on a landing at the top of a stairway. The stairs descended directly toward where she sensed the torivors.

Feeling higher along the wall, Rachel found a sconce holding a torch. She lit the torch with a word and removed it from the sconce. The trembling flame revealed a long stairway, probably forty steps. Unsure how long she had before the guards she had bluffed would initiate an angry pursuit, Rachel rushed down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, a short hall ended at a large mirror. Closer inspection revealed that the mirror was a polished metal door perforated by a grid of tiny holes. Eight pegs resided in the centermost holes of the top row. It was a lock like the ones Jason had described at the Repository of Learning and at the lorevault of Trensicourt. She had no idea how Edomic might help her open it. Inserting the pegs by trial and error would take weeks or months or years. Maybe longer.

Rachel could perceive the torivors behind the door.
Can you sense me?
she wondered, projecting the thought with all of the energy she could muster.
I need to speak with you. Can you answer?

Although she could discern their collective presence, she recognized no individual thoughts. She was on her own opening the door. If she failed, this entire excursion would be for nothing. More likely than not, the day would dawn with her chained in the dungeon.

Rachel studied the door. It looked as though it had been fashioned from the same metal as the torivorian swords. The door itself was not going anywhere. But the door was anchored into the stone of the wall.

As soon as her thoughts turned to the message from Darian, Rachel knew what to do. Summoning her inner strength, she
spoke a command to turn all the stone around the perimeter of the door to glass. She felt the directive succeed. The stone took on a glossy sheen and gained a hint of smoky translucence.

Raising her voice and extending one hand, Rachel mentally rammed the door with everything she had. For an instant the door shuddered. Tiny fractures zigzagged across the surrounding glass. Dropping to one knee, Rachel kept up the pressure. The effort made her teeth ache down to the roots. Responding to a final surge of willpower, the door exploded inward, tearing free as its glass moorings shattered in a shower of shards.

Rachel dropped forward to her hands and knees, her torch clacking against the floor and rolling in a semicircle. She felt the cool stone beneath her palms. She could taste blood in her mouth. Her headache was returning. Her teeth ached and tingled. Her tongue felt numb. But her mind remained clear. She retrieved the torch and stood.

The room beyond the empty doorway was black. Her torchlight did not penetrate the darkness.

She could feel the lurkers beyond the threshold, their presence no longer muted or indistinct. There were dozens.

I need to speak to a representative
, Rachel conveyed.

You
, a torivor replied with recognition.
We are seldom visited.

I may not have much time
, Rachel emphasized.
I need to understand your relationship to Maldor. I may not be exactly like you, but I am a Beyonder as well. I want to free you.

Others have tried
, the lurker conveyed.
When Maldor sends us on assignments, we are not at liberty to communicate. But here we are, not operating under active instructions. Ask your questions.

Do you want to serve Maldor?
Rachel asked.

We want one thing
, the torivor replied, the slow words carrying heavy emphasis.
Our freedom. We yearn for home. We can
earn our freedom through service, according to the covenant.

Maldor bargained with you?
Rachel asked.

Zokar instituted the covenant. He summoned us to this world and then subdued us. Where we come from, we need not die. Life is always. Here we are more vulnerable. We had to agree to the covenant or perish. Some of us chose oblivion. Most compromised.

If the agreement was with Zokar, how does Maldor control you?
Rachel wondered.

The Myrkstone
, the torivor replied.
Truth is a principle of our existence. We cannot lie. We cannot break our oaths. Our oaths were bound to Zokar and the jewel. Maldor used the Myrkstone to secure our cooperation. We are under no other obligation to serve him. Our allegiance was to Zokar. Yet while the jewel survives, we remain bound to this world. Restricted by our vows, we are powerless to harm it. Only by fulfilling our covenants can we escape its power. We often resist the will of Maldor. We do not relish servitude. But as we fulfill our promises as established by the covenant, we can escape the Myrkstone and return home. In the end, when he asks, we comply.

Rachel thought about the command that had let her force open the burnished door.
What if I destroy the Myrkstone?

Then we would be free.

What if you agree to a new treaty with me? A treaty that goes into force after I destroy the stone? A treaty with simpler terms. A treaty that will free you sooner than your other arrangement.

Our interest would depend on your terms.

How many of you remain?

Seventy and one.

Rachel tried not to grin. She looked over her shoulder. Nobody was coming for her yet.
I’m not sure how long I have. We had better start negotiating.

CHAPTER
33

T
he first sensation was of raindrops sliding down his body. The fat drops were sparse at first. He felt where each one kissed his bare arms, legs, or torso, and where the residual water traveled afterward. As the drops fell faster, they lost all individuality, spattering against his exposed skin and flowing in rivulets toward his naked feet. At first his loincloth absorbed some of the water, but soon it became saturated.

Next he became aware of the smells. The rain provided the dominant aroma, rich and humid, subtly shifting with the breeze and the intensity of the downpour. Lesser smells included wood smoke, wet stone, damp plants, and the beckoning allure of fresh blood. The layered scents were more vivid and intense than any sensory indulgence he had ever encountered. Was this how dogs experienced the world? He felt he could see with his nose.

His hearing was worse. Still acceptable, but not quite as sharp, muddied by unnatural echoes. The overlapping reverberations from the pattering rain masked nearly all other sound.

The pressure of the rope around his neck was constant, but it caused no pain. At least that had not changed.

Despite the absence of pain, the rainfall was not pleasant. Not because of the cool temperature. The more alert his mind became, the more the feel and smell of the water bothered him, like taking a bite of rotten meat or sipping spoiled milk. It felt
wrong
, smelled
wrong
, unsanitary, unwholesome, unwelcome. He resisted the urge to squirm.

Even with his eyes shut, Nedwin could feel that it was night. He breathed the moist air, unsure whether respiration remained necessary.

Nedwin opened his eyes.

He was dangling above the castle gate, strung up by his neck as an example for the kingdom to behold. They had not bothered to bind his hands or feet. No need, he supposed, when the man you were hanging was already dead. He felt a surge of triumph. He had died, but the goma worms he had swallowed while Copernum gloated had brought him back.

Ingesting the worms had been a rash action. It placed the entire world in jeopardy. Then again, if Maldor was going to rule Lyrian, maybe a plague-ravaged nightmare was what he deserved.

Nedwin had taken the worms from Ebera, just in case. Collecting rare specimens had been his main occupation for years. When he had been left alone with an infected corpse, he had found the temptation irresistible. He knew that none of his comrades would have approved, but the deadly sample had offered him a final, potent weapon to employ in the event of a worst-case scenario.

As the wind rose, the rain lashed at him. His body swung in the darkness, the wet rope creaking. Grinding his teeth, he tried to ignore the foulness of the water. He traced the scar where Copernum’s sword had penetrated his chest. The worms had knitted it neatly, but his enemies had hung him too high for anyone to notice.

If Maldor had already won, unleashing the plague would be a beguiling temptation. Many innocent people would die, but under the tyranny of Maldor those same innocents were already doomed. The plague would be merciful for many, and it would leave Maldor with nothing to rule.

But Nedwin could not dwell on that line of thinking. He had to hope that Galloran would emerge victorious. He had to trust the prophecy. He had not taken measures to revive himself in order to destroy the world. He would be careful. He would use this second chance to accomplish a very specific objective.

The night was dark, but his intuition insisted that it had not been dark for very long. Maybe the suspicion derived from the temperature of the storm. Maybe from the amount of heat radiating from the nearby stones of the castle wall. Maybe he was influenced by some nuance of the smell.

Nedwin also instinctively knew that he had been dead less than a day. This was the night after he had been killed. Why was he so certain? Was he guessing based on how little his body had decomposed? After feasting on his blood, the worms would have set about repairing and preserving him. Perhaps the worms knew how much time had passed, and at some level the knowledge was transferrable.

Reaching over his head, Nedwin climbed the rope attached to his neck. It required little effort. His muscles felt stronger than before. Interesting.

Squatting in a crenellation between merlons, Nedwin untied the noose. The wet rope could have proven tricky, but his fingers were strong and nimble.

A guard was coming his way, walking along the battlements. A dutiful man. Most would seek shelter during a downpour of this intensity. They would keep watch, but they would wait until the
rain relented to actively patrol the walls. Nedwin crouched low, trying to keep his pale, freckled flesh out of view.

The blood of the oncoming guard was the sweetest aroma Nedwin’s nose had ever savored. It was an olfactory symphony. He hungered for it, thirsted for it. He craved that blood like he craved sleep, air, friendship, and peace. The blood promised to satisfy all urges and to heal all wounds, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual.

Lightning forked across the sky, jagged and close. Thunder crackled mightily.

The blood was off-limits. He had to remain in control of his urges. The worms had claimed his body. He could not let them have his mind. To taste that blood would spread the plague. To spread the plague would betray Galloran much worse than any of his previous failures. He had to resist. If he lacked the will to resist, he should have stayed dead.

Leaving eight fingers in view, Nedwin dangled from the wall and listened to the guard walk past. The guard did not pause. Nedwin pulled himself up, approached the guard from behind, seized him, and flung him over the wall. The man cried out before striking the ground. His armor clanged. The storm dampened the noise.

What next? Several stairways ran down the interior of the wall. Nedwin strode to the nearest one, hurried part of the way down, then leaped to the roof of a storage building. Working his way across the roof, Nedwin could feel the shingles creaking underfoot. He tried to be more careful and soon realized that he had lost some of his ability to move in silence. Was it due to a subtle reduction in motor skills? The loss of some instinct he had taken for granted? Interesting.