Trev thought about it. He liked the sound of the Quicksilver. In a way, it would be like the situation he experienced right now. He was immune to the Dead King, and so he could stand here talking to him, standing in a spot safely where perhaps no other mortal could. The Jewel could make one invisible, in a way. Untouchable. Trev smiled.

  “Ah,” the lich said, gazing at him with a canted skull. “I see the light of avarice in your expression! Rare is it to see the glow of greed in one so young. It warms my bones.”

  Trev didn’t know what the lich was talking about, so he decided to continue with his questions. “Where was the Quicksilver last known to be?” he asked.

  “A group of ambitious wizards used it. An order of fools, they were, but they once held the Primal Jewels. They used the Sunstone as a group and thus could cast any spell. They used the Quicksilver as their defense.”

  “And the Black?”

  “One among them took the Black and turned its power upon the rest. That was their downfall.”

  Trev nodded, understanding immediately. “You took it. You destroyed your friends.”

  “Weak fools, not friends! I used the Black to scatter the rest of them and hunt them down. They managed to hide the other Jewels from me, however. They squandered them and lost them. Humanity is so weak. We once held all the Jewels, you know. That’s why there are nine ruined castles in the Dead Kingdoms.”

  Morcant was up now, striding about the room. It was almost as if he stretched—like a man who has finished a long sleep and needs to limber his body for work. Morcant marched up the stairs and King Arawn shuffled after him. Trev trailed them both.

  Trev frowned, thinking hard. “Isn’t it true only one Jewel can be wielded by one person at a time? How did these wizards manage to control the three greatest and do so together?”

  “All things are possible, just difficult. The powers can be combined, braided together to form something new. Every Jewel is unique. Each is potentially a great power—it all depends on what one makes of it. Imagination—that is the key!”

  They were climbing the final stair now, the one that led up into the sunlit surface world. Trev blinked at the brightness that streamed down from the crypt entrance. He saw a reddish tinge to the light. It must be nearly sunset. He thought of his mother, waiting for him to return from the commons where he had supposedly been playing with other children all this time. He hoped she wasn’t too worried.

  He heard a voice then, a gruff voice that called out to him. “I know you’re in there, kid. Come out and take what’s coming to you!”

  “Daz?” Trev asked.

  The lich leered and came close. Trev felt the cold bones near his face. It felt as if someone held a chunk of snow near his cheek.

  “A friend of yours?” the lich asked.

  Trev shrugged. “He runs this place. He’s done me no harm nor good.”

  “You are a strange one. You think like a teen, but have the fearlessness of extreme youth…” said the lich. “I think you are not of the River Folk. I think you are another.”

  “My father is Puck,” Trev said.

  “A mongrel! I knew it!”

  “Who’s down there?” called Daz. “All of you, come up here this instant. There will be a good thrashing today, I’m afraid.”

  “Why don’t you come down here and thrash us in the dark?” asked the lich.

  “It will go the worse for you if I do!” shouted back Daz angrily.

  The lich leaned back toward Trev. “One of your blood should appreciate the fine prank that’s about to be played.”

  Trev frowned. He didn’t like the cemetery caretaker much, but he didn’t wish the man harm. He cupped his hands over his mouth. “Run Daz! Run for your life! The Dead walk down here!”

  The lich lifted the silver rod and made as if to smite Trev with it. The boy cowered, but the blow did not come.

  “No!” the lich shouted at the boy. “You are clever! I’ll give you that. You tempt me mightily, but I will not break my vow so easily, mongrel.”

  The lich tapped Morcant’s broad back with the Jewel. The corpse stiffened as if burned. “Now, race forward my pet! Take this man Daz and ride him to the ground! Do not slay him yet!”

  Morcant charged out of the crypt into the light of the dying sun. Excitedly, the lich shuffled after him.

  Trev came last, horrified at the scene he found. The sun was like blood in the sky. The trees cast long shadows that would soon grow into purple pools of darkness. Morcant had caught Daz, who lay on his stomach with the huge dead-thing sitting on his back. The man was keening and clawing up clumps of grasses with his hands, desperate to escape.

  King Arawn moved to stand in front of Daz and to gaze into his face closely. Daz blubbered and squirmed. Trev trailed after and stood at the Dead King’s side.

  “Mercy, death-father!” Daz begged.

  “I know what you’ve done in years past! I’ve got ice for eyes in my orbits, but I still see!”

  “I’m an innocent!” cried Daz. “I’ve cared for your kind for all my life. I am a servant of the Dead already!”

  King Arawn dipped his silver rod low. The Black Jewel sucked the light from Daz’s face and made him hard to see. The Jewel did not touch the man, however. “Let us speak of the truth, caretaker. You have not always been true to the Dead.”

  “I have, lord!” screeched Daz in mortal terror. “I’ve always done right by your kind!”

  “Lies will always be found out, caretaker,” said the lich.

  “Boy!” cried Daz. “Save me if you can!”

  King Arawn turned his head toward Trev. “Yes! Let us ask the boy,” he said. “Now and then, when a girl came up yonder lane freshly-dead, Daz here looked at them with pleasure. He did not wear gloves as is required by custom when he prepared their bodies. He felt their cold skin against his fingertips as he put them into their fine dresses for burial.”

  “An accident, milord!” said Daz. “I’ve done no such thing for decades!”

  King Arawn’s gaze stayed fixedly upon Trev. “It is said elves are born wise. I’ll let you pass judgment—you, a living ghost with silver hair. I’ll let you decide what shall be done with him.”

  Trev stammered, uncertain as to what to do.

  “Remember lad,” said Daz, his voice hoarse, “if you decide unjustly, you will be his as well. You will gift yourself into the lich’s hands.”

  Trev stared, unable to speak for a long moment. At last, he thought of what his father might say. “I cannot judge. I did not see these crimes. I don’t know the truth of the matter.”

  King Arawn released a long hiss of frustration. He urged Morcant to action with a pointed finger, which was only a white stick of bone. He leaned close to the pitiful Daz. “Slay him. He will join the ranks of my legion at the lowest rank.”

  Morcant grabbed Daz’s throat and throttled him. The process took long minutes. Daz thrust with his chisel, which was sharp and flashed in his hands. He stuck it into Morcant’s dead arms and thighs, but the other did not do so much as grunt. Morcant’s thick gray fingers closed inexorably, crushing Daz’s windpipe.

  Trev wanted to help, but he knew he could not do much. If he even tried to stop Morcant, he knew he would have broken his pact with the Dead King and thus his life would be forfeit as well. Before Daz stopped moving, Trev finally broke and ran. Tears streamed down his face. He raced over the carven headstones toward the inviting embrace of the trees.

  “I’ll have you in less than a year, mongrel!” the lich called after him. “A year is like a day to a creature such as myself, who has existed for so long. I’ll wager the time will pass quickly for you as well!”

  * * *

  Brand’s party marched down the seemingly endless stairway. For hours, they traveled and the water traveled with them, slicking each step beneath their feet. But when they reached a breach in the stairway that had to be crossed with ropes and swinging leaps, the water fell into the depths and they were left dry upon reaching the far side of the breach. Every half-mile or so, the stairs switched back upon themselves. When they reached the fifth such landing, Telyn asked for a rest. Brand turned to her with wide, staring eyes. For a moment, everyone stared at him, not certain he had heard her words.

  But then finally, Brand nodded. He leaned back against the coarse stone walls and let the axe lie across his legs. The moment he took his hand away from the haft, his chin dipped forward and rested upon his chest. He knew no more for hours.

  Brand dreamt of things unseen. To his sleeping eye, they were not in an empty place, but rather one that teemed with restless spirits. Each drifted in a ghostly fashion, touching and tickling the mortals in their midst with feathery fingers. Occasionally, those who were touched shivered and twitched as if a fly had alighted upon their skins.

  When he finally awoke, he sat up and rubbed his stiff joints. Stones never made good pillows. The yellow glimmer of Ambros and a single guttering taper lit the scene around him. Brand gazed at Telyn and Kaavi, who both lay nearby, sleeping. So lovely were they both, in their own ways. They lay upon the flat stones, their bodies dry now and their hair drifting in the breezes that puffed up from the deeps. He felt sorry, knowing he was responsible for bringing them to such a place. They should never have known this sort of horror. He recalled he had vowed years ago not to bring Telyn into places like this, back when they’d met the Wurm in the Everdark. Somehow, he had forgotten that pledge and buried them all alive. What would their three children, Cadmon, Taffy and Dee do, if their parents never returned?

  Brand heard light steps coming up from below. He craned his neck, and saw Puck’s face. He beckoned for the elf to come near, which the other did.

  “Puck,” he said softly, lest he awaken the women. “Where have I led us this time? What folly has this been? Have I slain us all deep within the earth?”

  Puck smiled. “At least we will not soon drown, axeman.”

  “No. I suppose we’ll starve instead.”

  Puck held up something in his hand. It was a carcass with clawed feet, a black-furred body and yellow fangs.

  “What’s that?” Brand asked in a whisper.

  “Dinner,” Puck said.

  Brand sighed, supposing they must make the best of it.

  * * *

  Gudrin nearly met her end when they found the central nexus of the infection that bubbled beneath Gronig. Something lay rotten there, something that had lain in wait since it had fallen years earlier. It was one of the big abominations, she felt certain of that. Not even a company of Merlings nor a squad of the Kindred could create so large a grave. A mass of the soupy black-blooded liquid was found simmering under the spot where the old ore refinery had once stood. The smelters had been destroyed in the struggles over Gronig, and her bombards had reduced the area to rubble. They had, in fact, blasted a deep crater into the ground which had served the Kindred well as a mass burial ground for the most disgusting corpses they had to bury. As time had passed, the spot had not been rebuilt upon, but had formed a sort of town square, as nothing would grow upon this dusty spot.

  It was the newly driven well that went bad first—and the Kindred who drank from it second. Those who drank from the well with wooden buckets and iron ladles complained of a foul taste. Madness overcame these same Kindred a few days later. They awoke in the depths of the night, burning in their beds and feeling their faces ooze as if hot grease had been applied to their cheeks in the night. Padding to a mirror and lighting lamps, their howls of horror awoke their households.

  In each case, the infection was the same. Painless sores dripped redness so thick it was black, a substance reminiscent of blood-pudding. Their eyes were the worst, unable to shut soon after the affliction took hold. The eyes ran with the vile stuff, the wide whites of their lidless orbs stained pink and permanently staring.

  Wild with fear, some took up tools and gouged away the sores and eyes. Others lifted weapons over their families, not knowing what they did in their pain of spirit and mind. Eventually they were slain or wrestled down by the rest of the Kindred in their household. Gudrin was summoned, and before dawn came she’d passed judgment upon them all. Each tainted Kindred was burned away to ash by Pyros. She wept while she did the deeds, but none saw her tears because the heat evaporated them from her cheeks before they could glisten. She burned the contents of the houses as well, until there was nothing but four standing walls of granite and blackened iron staples.

  In the morning, four houses were smoldering ruins. A few dozen of the Kindred guarded the square and the tainted well, which had been filled with rubble. Surveying the scene, Gudrin called upon Rorvik, and had a private talk with her captain.

  “You did not evacuate soon enough,” she said.

  “I did not know the danger was so near. We were preparing. I’ve summoned a hundred carts from Snowdon, each drawn by rams. We’ll—”

  “They won’t be here in a day or two,” Gudrin said. “Too long. Too late. We are leaving this town today. By tonight, no one shall be allowed to dwell here.”

  “But, milady…” Rorvik sputtered.

  “This is an infection!” she roared at him. “It will worsen and become ever more vile. I can’t cleanse the entire world with the Orange Jewel’s flame.”

  “We can’t get them all out of here today,” Rorvik said. “The old, the injured—some are sure to be left behind.”

  “Your Queen has spoken,” Gudrin said, baring her teeth. “I’m not a heartless Wurm, man! I’ll not stay and be forced to burn out another hundred of my people in the morning!”

  Rorvik stared, and at last he nodded. “My Queen has spoken. It will be as she commands.”

  He left her then, and Gudrin drank ale and sobbed quietly while she did so. She would have to alert Brand. She would have to send him a note.

  She soon put her quill to work on a pile of scrolls. She penned a writ which was to be copied and spread throughout Cymru, to wherever Kindred might be. The writ ordered her people to return to Snowdon or one of the other mountain fortresses. Very soon, she would have to close the doors and allow none to enter the safety of the deeps. It was time for all the Kindred to retreat within the safety of stone, as they always did when the greatest of storms threatened. Her people would survive, she knew. Others, such as her River Folk allies…it did not bear thinking about.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Grasty

  Grasty was the only member of the Kindred whose heart flared with joy when the writ came from that crazy old witch Gudrin. She had called them all back to Snowdon, had she? Well, it could not have come at a more perfect time.

  Grasty had planned well and deeply. He fully believed Brand and his crew to be floating in flooded chambers by now. He’d explained to the rest he’d been ordered back to the camp while the arrogant upstart river-boy investigated the ruins on his own. The Kindred and River Folk had turned him narrow-eyed glances, but they’d not said anything. He’d played the fool to the hilt of course, tottering around and muttering incoherently. They’d all figured Brand had gotten tired of the crusty old fool and sent him back to camp.

  They would get suspicious as more time passed, however. He knew that very well. Now, he had come to the tricky part of his plans. He had a cart all packed with six barrels labeled as rare earths. One was marked with the Kindred symbol for cadium, another boron, a third cerium and so on. Every element listed was low in value, naturally. His subterfuge gave him the chuckles every time he looked upon the barrels, as they did indeed carry rare earths. But they were of a very different kind than were indicated by the false labels. Each of the six was filled with glinting gemstones. Topaz, emeralds, diamonds, rubies, opals and his personal favorite: sapphires.

  The Shining Lady had been true to her word and he’d never been happier with a bit of graft than with this haul. After filling the barrels with rare gemstones, Grasty had packed the barrels carefully with fine soft grit so that they would not clatter and rattle when transported. This made them heavier, of course, and carrying them up from the mines at night on his back, one barrel at a time, had been quite a chore. His spine was permanently bent now, he could swear, and he knew he’d be sore for days. But now first half of his escape plan had been completed.

  The second part of his exit, however, had always been less clear in his mind. He cursed himself for not thinking further when he’d made his bargain with the White Witch. She made it so damnably difficult to think. At least he’d been smart enough to keep away from her embraces. His kind weren’t as vulnerable to lusting for her as were humans, but even an old Kindred foreman had certain weaknesses in that regard. Fortunately, as she had wanted his services, not his soul, she had not enticed him in that manner. The entire deal had been strictly business. He was to lead Brand into a trap and he would find his shovel-loads of gems waiting. Enough for a long-overdue retirement in luxury.

  But the part about his exit strategy had been fuzzy from the start. Now that he had the gems in their falsely labeled barrels…he had no idea how to spirit them out of the camp. Worse, by the second day after his treacherous deed had been done, he had to dodge more questions than he expected. That devilish cousin of Brand’s named Corbin, in particular, had been probing and was not easily put off. Suspicious, hulking piece of river-trash! Grasty already wished he had somehow gotten Corbin to crawl down that hole with the rest.

  By the second night, when the writ came, Grasty was growing more and more nervous. He could tell that neither the River Folk nor his own Kindred were going to allow this to pass unquestioned. They kept talking about Lord Rabing. The arrogance! The cheek of it! He could scarcely imagine where that stripling boy with a fancy axe had come by the gall it took to call himself a lord.

  When Gudrin’s order came, it was like a blessing from the Rainbow itself. He could barely breathe while it was read aloud. Most of the Kindred groaned in disappointment. These crazy River Folk paid well and Grasty had always been an easy-going, slipshod foreman. But, there was nothing for it. They were loyal folk, and when their Queen called, there was no question in their minds. They dropped their tools, packed up their belongings and formed a long train to retreat.