Garda straightened herself in her chair, fighting a weariness that grew with each word he uttered. “What difference will it make? If your wish comes true, and no sorcerer returns, what will you so graciously offer? Will you defy your own people’s hatred of us? Or will you only grant us the consolation of a tyrant whose one weakness is that he’s forced to work a little harder for his revenge?”
Ferguen leaned back in his chair again. “I’m not sure what is more likely—that there’s any hope to rid the world of this evil, or that you will ever see past your own hatred. In the end it might be better if you
all
died in battle. Yet listen to this, ruler of Ada, and hear words of grace from an uncouth Hodyn mouth.
“Half of Ada shall be yours. Dorgonan is ours again, and ours for good. Enilií as well, for we would be fools to give up its strategic advantage and natural resources. The Treth have already accepted our promises of trade. But the lands south of Eastgate and surrounding the whole of Tnesen shall be yours—your towns, your farms, even your fortresses, Garda! You can take the art of Wsaytchen with you, if you can manage it. You can expand south, west, east,” he explained, jabbing his hand at the corresponding parts of the map. “But the north shall remain ours, as it was long ago, and your greatest loss will be the city you once stole from us—and, of course, your loss of life in battle.”
The Overseer glared at him. “If!”
He nodded. “You must tell me the secret of your quest.”
A lengthy pause followed, during which Garda sat as though carved from stone. Ferguen released a snort of scorn. “Don’t you have
anything
to say?”
Suddenly the door opened. A slender woman entered the room, her glance bright and her face shadowed by no trace of illness. No Hodyn were visible in the hall beyond. Yet behind her, half concealed and peeking around her like a timid waif, stood none other than the Bringer of Strength.
The Overseer turned to her opponent again. “You might get your answer after all, Ferguen.”
♦
The image of La’hegré in the Hall of Memories had long vanished in the gloom behind. There were no guards, no aides, and no lights to accompany them down the passage to Larientur. Without the palace attendants who had cared for the chamber and its miles-long approach for centuries, there was no one to keep the lanterns burning. Only the solitary flame of Garda’s lamp lit the way.
Beside her walked Warren, his footsteps silent, and Telai, her steps more determined yet her heart clouded with anxiety. Ferguen walked close behind, his hand at a sheathed dagger at his side and his stony glance narrowed in suspicion.
Telai remembered the day she escorted Caleb down this very same corridor, and the tales of Urmanaya she told to distract him from his fears about the Judgment. Now she was the one who needed reassurance. She had nearly surrendered to the temptation to demand Caleb’s presence: he had every right to be here at Warren’s side. But his role in the war and his friendship with Soren made him a prime target of the enemy’s hatred, and she dared not risk this final hope for her people by rousing Ferguen’s wrath.
The Hodyn leader had peppered her with many questions. She only gave him one answer: the key to what had happened to the Bringer lay in the sacred chamber of Larientur. In exchange for this secret she demanded that no one else accompany them, and none of his threats could persuade her otherwise. If Caleb can’t be with them, she’ll be damned if any of Ferguen’s people deserve it!
The passage finally ended at the long flight of shallow steps. The gold and silver inlays of Larientur’s tall doors barely reflected the lamp’s tiny flame. Telai led the way up to the landing, then pushed on the ivory handles.
Wavering shadows offered only a hint of what lay beyond. At her daughter’s nod of assent Garda worked her way around the chamber, lighting each lantern. The glare of all those mirrors overhead nearly blinded them until their eyes adjusted.
The massive oak chair of the Overseer still occupied its privileged circle of illumination. To Telai it looked emptier than ever. Here the loss of her city struck its deepest wound; so many of Ada’s history-changing decisions were wrought in this sacred chamber, and she heard those ancient voices gathering in a collective scream for revenge.
“Well?” Ferguen said, his voice traveling the walls. “Where is this answer you promised?”
Garda turned on the spot. “Get out!” she shouted, waving at the entrance. “If you have so little patience or respect, then get out!”
He pointed at her. “I’ve already given you more patience and respect than I can tolerate, Overseer!”
“Please,” Telai yelled, “
both
of you.” They stood frozen in place, and she added, “I need to concentrate. This may take a while, so you’ll just have to wait.”
Garda nodded once; Ferguen gave no assurance, but kept his peace. Telai closed her eyes in preparation, the silence only broken by the faint echoes of shuffling feet.
Her mother gasped, and she opened her eyes again.
No ghost or pearly manifestation greeted her this time. Ksoreda was simply and suddenly there, as clear as when she first met him in Tnestiri. Ferguen held his long dagger ready, but Ksoreda took no notice. He turned a slow circle, the growing surprise on his face suggesting that the last thing he expected after Telai left his domain was to be summoned to her own.
Garda stared at him. “Is this—”
“Yes,” Telai answered. “This is the man we went to see in Tnestiri.” She spoke directly to him, drawing his attention. “I thought you were forbidden to appear in our world in the flesh.”
“Indeed,” he said. “But it seems I have vastly underestimated Rennor’s talents—and yours, for that matter.”
“Rennor’s talents? I don’t understand.”
He waved a finger to indicate the high chamber above. “I always wondered how he came and went without anyone detecting it.”
The realization slowly dawned on her. “You mean this—”
“—is not a part of your world.”
“Telai, what in Orand is he talking about?”
“It’s what he calls a portal, mother. It’s a kind of doorway to his world—wherever that is.”
“What?” Garda cried. “You’ve been listening in on our councils all these years?”
Ksoreda held out his hands to placate her. “I knew nothing of this place until you summoned me. The lengths to which that man was willing to go continues to amaze me. This is such a direct, blatant violation of our laws.”
“Which man?” asked Garda. “Rennor? He created this—portal, did you call it?”
”Yes,” Ksoreda answered. “Probably long before the Hodyn came here, even.”
“Yet somehow it went unnoticed for all those years,” said Telai. “You had the means, I’m sure—you simply couldn’t see under your own noses. Or
wouldn’t
. Even now you don’t understand what this place is, or why he created it.”
Ksoreda stared first at her, then at the walls around him. He shook his head reluctantly. Telai felt an unexpected rush of vindication: for once he no longer owned all the secrets, could no longer hide behind his clever excuses.
“Are you allowed to use your powers here?” she asked.
“If necessary. Why?”
“Search the entire chamber. I know what you’ll find. I’d do it myself, but I don’t have the means.”
Ferguen, mesmerized by this exchange, had absentmindedly lowered the knife to his side. Now he growled and slapped the blade into its sheath. “Enough! What does any of this foolishness have to do with him?” he said, pointing at the boy.
Warren, who had kept quiet and practically invisible behind his benefactor, seemed almost as mystified as Ferguen about these proceedings. But Telai knew there was one more part for him to play in Orand’s prophecy.
Ksoreda’s mouth fell open. “She’s here!”
“What in Hendra’s name are you talking about?” Garda blurted.
A shadow of pain darkened Telai’s heart. “You can’t use that name anymore, mother.”
She held a hand to her brow. “Are you saying—”
“Heradnora’s body. It’s here, hidden for ages—ever since Grondolos defeated her. But that’s not her real name.”
Garda stood speechless as the import of her daughter’s words sank in. For centuries the Adaiani had placed their faith in a spirit that had enslaved their ancestors. Telai remembered the words inscribed above Larientur’s doors, and nearly laughed at the irony:
Here the truth cannot hide from those who seek it
.
Ksoreda turned toward the center of the chamber, his own Lor’yentré suddenly in his hand. Telai almost expected him to utter some profound incantation. But the power of the Lor’yentré was a matter of thought, not command, and he circled the room in silence, the light from the mirror above gleaming off his barren pate. Ferguen shifted restlessly but kept his peace, realization dawning in his eyes that the secret of the Bringer of Strength was at hand.
Grim laughter ended their thoughts. Ksoreda nodded emphatically, as if deciphering a vexing riddle. “I might not like him or what he’s done, but I’ll never call him unimaginative.”
He pointed at the doors. “You’ll need to wait outside. I can’t follow you. Rennor has contrived it so that no one in Ada could ever find his secret, but none of us could have discovered it without violating our laws.”
They glanced first at the entrance, its tall doors flung wide, then at him. “In Wsaytchen?” Telai asked, her faith shaken for a moment.
“No. Everything you see here is a ruse. She’s here, but in your world, not mine. In order for you to find her I must remove this portal for a little while. If you stay you’ll be swept out of Ada altogether.”
Doubt remained in their faces, but they obeyed and headed back outside. Garda hesitated at the threshold, the dead lamp in her hand, then lifted it to the nearest lantern to bring its small flame back to life. At last they all stood waiting anxiously outside, the open arch with its brilliant illumination rising before them.
The guardian of Tnestiri bowed his head and vanished.
As Garda had foreseen, the chamber went dark. The others gasped. Even with the lamp there was nothing to see at first. But their sight soon recovered enough to reveal a wall of polished black stone, spanning the same opening where Larientur’s doors once stood. It revealed no lines or any sign of an entrance—except for a small oval to the right glowing pale, like a firefly frozen in time.
Telai approached, her footsteps cautious. The few days she had spent at Caleb’s ship with all its devices had lessened some of her fear, and before the others could say a word she reached out and pressed the light.
It faded for a second, then turned red. Faint, broken lines appeared across the wall, slowly brightening, until they resolved into several rows of text in the ancient tongue of Urmanaya:
IN THE FIRST YEAR
OF THE MOST HIGH AND NOBLE
REIGN OF GRONDOLOS,
HERADNORA
WAS LAID TO REST
BY HIS TRUSTED FRIEND AND
COMRADE, RENNOR.
HERE HER INCORRUPT FLESH LIES,
FAR FROM LIVING FOLK,
AND LET NO ONE HENCEFORTH
RETURN HER SPIRIT TO THIS PLACE
BEFORE THE PROPER TIME,
LEST THEY DESTROY THEIR LAST HOPE,
AND THE LAST HOPE OF HER PEOPLE.
Garda stepped closer. “What does it mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Telai answered. “Right now I’m only trying to figure out how to get in. I thought the small light I pressed would open a door of some kind.”
“This is insane,” Ferguen muttered. “How can two different places occupy the same spot?”
“I doubt any of us will ever understand it, Ferguen.”
Warren pointed. “Heradnora’s name glows brighter than the rest. Maybe it’s a clue.”
“You can read this?” she asked.
“Well, I can’t,” Ferguen said. “Seems that fool’s laid another puzzle for us.”
“Perhaps one better left unsolved,” said Garda.
Telai shook her head. “Rennor’s gone. We’ve got to discover the truth behind all this.” She placed a hand on Warren’s shoulder. “Why do you think it’s a clue?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Telai smiled. “Of course,” she whispered.
She faced the wall and cried out a single word: “Hendra!”
Nothing happened at first. Then Heradnora’s name shimmered and spread outward, bleeding across the dark stone like oil on water, the light of it flooding the landing on which they stood. Finally the entire inscription and the wall on which it was engraved faded like smoke, and they peered in amazement through the opening.
A chamber stood before them, the same size as Larientur yet flooded in a homogeneous, pearly light. Its circular walls shone like gray satin, plain and unadorned. At the exact center, her feet dangling mere inches above the floor as if she were suspended by invisible threads, hovered the slender body of a young girl.
Her hair was raven black. She looked to be in her early teens; her face, emerging from the comeliness of childhood, had begun to lengthen and take on the beauty of a woman. She was dressed in a close-fitting gray suit with no adornment, save for a pale ruby like a buckle or large brooch shining from her midsection. Her eyes were shut fast, serene like those of a sleeping baby. Yet it was clear that no blood pumped through her veins, no warmth softened her skin. It was as if a consummate artist had created a sculpture of the child as close to lifelike as humanly possible.
Ferguen waited behind the others, knife ready, the sight of such magic, as he no doubt regarded it, rendering him speechless. For Telai, this was only confirmation of what she had suspected. But she would never look upon the night sky the same again. The stars that Orand once wrote about had become agents not of shame but of destruction, careless gods ignorant of the suffering their power had wrought.
The only other person in the room who had been born among those stars stood facing the girl, his blue stare fixed and unblinking. At last he approached. Telai placed a tentative arm around Warren’s shoulders, her powers of clairvoyance engaged like never before. Now the visions in her mind were not of his past but of the present, of a terrifying inferno of grief and rage barely kept in check.