He limped up the steps rising to the solar, a tapestry bundled sacklike on his shoulder. Kedryn could not tell whether the grin that stretched his mouth was from triumph or pain.

  “Quick!” he snapped, and Brannoc tossed his bundle outward, then leaped through himself.

  Kedryn and Tepshen paused just long enough to toss more flambeaux against the decorations on the walls and the carpets covering the floor, then launched themselves after the half-breed.

  Brannoc was already running for the moon-silvered ribbon of the river. His comrades caught up and all three reached the bank as the blaze engulfing the solar delayed Taron’s changeling folk.

  They ran along the bank, aware that soon the creatures of the hold must emerge from the postern and the gates to head them off, stumbling in the deceptive moonlight, the red glow of the burning hall at their backs.

  “A boat,” Tepshen grated, and Kedryn saw a dory beached among the reeds.

  Brannoc flung his bundle into the scuppers and they manhandled the craft into the water. The current was swift and they had barely sufficient time to drag themselves on board before the dory drifted clear, carried to center of the stream, moving steadily faster as the inhuman howling of their pursuers drew closer. Kedryn peered over the high stem, seeing the host halt on the riverbank, the thing that was Taron foremost, staring after them, taloned hands upraised, his head thrown back to send a shriek of frustrated rage echoing into the night.

  No further pursuit was made and he relaxed, slumping against the thwarts.

  “I found food.” Brannoc indicated the bundle he had carried with him. “The remnants of a feast.”

  From the prow Tepshen said, “There are no oars.”

  “AtTeast we escaped them,” Kedryn answered. “Though not unscathed.”

  Brannoc grinned wryly at this reference to his wounds, glancing down at his now blood-soaked shirt. “She—it!— scratched me, no more than that.”

  “Fortunate that Kedryn heard your cries,” Tepshen said. ‘Take off your tunic and let me bandage those wounds.”

  Brannoc stripped off his tunic and shirt, which the kyo tore into strips, winding them about the ugly claw marks ribboning the half-breed’s chest.

  “By the Lady!” Brannoc muttered when Tepshen was done, essaying a smile. “I have known hellcats before, but none like that.”

  “Henceforth,” returned the kyo solemnly, “you had best choose your bedmates with more care.”

  “Until we quit this place,” Brannoc declared, no less gravely, “I shall sleep alone. Save for my sword.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wynett woke to the cheerful play of sunshine on her face, opening her eyes to see the sky blue beyond the window. She rose, opening the flawless glass, and felt a breeze gentle on her skin, fresh with the scents of grass and flowers, delightful after the morbid opacity of the rain. The lawns and woodlands gleamed with the aftermath, their colors heightened by raindrops and the brilliance of the sun. Birds fluttered, darting kaleidoscopes of color among the blossoms, and she felt her spirits lift despite her doubts. She went into the outer chamber, seeing the chair still firm against the door, and shed her robe, making swift toilet before selecting a demure gown of soft pink, slippers of a matching hue.

  On the balcony outside her rooms the air was heady with the perfume of roses and magnolia, the atrium a glory of color where Eyrik waited, rising politely as he caught sight of her face. He lifted a hand in greeting and she essayed a smile, her mind racing as she descended the arboreal stairs to the breakfast table. Her decision was as yet unmade, but she knew that she could not delay it and somehow, in the warm light of the welcome sun, she found it hard to doubt the sincerity of the tall, chestnut-haired man who beamed as she approached, radiating pleasure at sight of her.

  “Are you cheered by this glorious day?” he asked as he saw her seated. “Does the sun not lift your spirits?”

  She nodded, accepting the cup he offered, the aromatic steam of the tisane enticing. She sipped and said, “Aye, the sun is a wondrous cure for poor humor.”

  Eyrik nibbled delicately on warm white bread spread with rich, yellow butter, his gold-flecked eyes alight as he studied her. “I have thought,” he said, “on our discussion and I see that I was, perhaps, a trifle precipitate. My enthusiasm was founded on alarm at your distress and the fear that the denizens of these realms might waylay Kedryn. I desire only to aid you, and that urgency in some measure rendered me abrupt.” Wynett offered no response save a smile as she helped herself to eggs and Eyrik paused, watching her before he continued. “I would not have you think I hurry you to a decision. More important, I would not have you think I seek to rob you of the talisman! Therefore, I suggest that you examine the apparatus I have constructed and permit me to explain it as best I may, and decide after.”

  Wynett nodded. “And Kedryn’s danger? What of that?”

  “It is very real.” His handsome features grew solemn, his lips pursing as though he hesitated to outline the jeopardies. Wynett made a small, impatient gesture and he said, “As best I am able to know, the nether world consists of numerous overlapping realms. A few are benign as this, but most are fraught with peril. Some appear tranquil but conceal deceptive hazards; others are overtly dangerous, filled with malign creatures. To steer a safe course through is no easy matter—hence my desire to establish a beacon. I believe that my creation may guide Kedryn and also in some measure protect him.”

  “He wears the other half of the talisman,” she murmured, seeing only sincerity in his eyes, honesty on the planes of his face.

  “Indeed,” he agreed, “and that will doubtless afford some measure of protection, but I fear it may not be sufficient. Remember, my dear, that Ashar holds sway here and his power is mighty. He will doubtless seek to destroy Kedryn if he is able. To thwart him if not. I would circumvent such design and bring your love safely to you.”

  Wynett dabbed at her lips, still unable to choose between trust and suspicion as Eyrik fell silent, clearly awaiting some response. Finally she said, “Mayhap I should see this construction.”

  He smiled hugely then, his handsome features rendered boyish, emanating the enthusiasm of a child with some new toy to display.

  “When you are ready,” he said.

  “Let us go now,” Wynett returned, and he rose, moving around the table to take her chair, offering his arm.

  She took it and he escorted her across the courtyard to a door of beaten silvery metal, runes engraved on its surface. Beyond was a chamber tiled in dusty red, the walls black and marked with further runes, pillars of crimson marble standing in two lines to either side, dividing the room. There was no furniture and he led her through the chamber to a second door of metal, this locked unlike any others she had encountered. He produced a golden key from his tunic and turned it, swinging the door open. Wynett was surprised despite herself to find they entered the great, dark hall beyond the chamber of the pool. It was brighter now, candles and flambeaux set in rows along the walls, chandeliers she had not previously noticed suspended from the vaulted ceiling, their candles giving off a sweet, somewhat cloying scent. The yellow light outlined the thronelike chair, glinting off its basalt surfaces, seeming to penetrate the dark stone to fill it with a shifting, lithic life. Set around it in a circle were high tripods of dull black metal, each holding a tall, thick candle, and within the circle stood a construction of gold filigree and crystal.

  Its design was fantastic, its usage unguessable. Slender columns wound in intricate convolutions about their neighbors, shards of multifaceted crystal exploded candlelight in rainbow profusions, dazzling her eyes so that she found it difficult to follow the lines, the complicated curves. Eyrik indicated a point atop the device, where nine fine ribs joined to form a shallow cup.

  “That is where your talisman will,” he smiled, correcting himself, “should be placed. Without it the device is no more than some fanciful sculpture.”

  “And with it?” she asked softly, blinking as the light assailed her eyes.

  “With it,” he said proudly, turning to face her, taking both her hands as if to impress upon her his honesty, his enthusiasm, “I shall be able to establish a beacon that will send out a call to Kedryn, guiding him here. More than that, I believe it will open a path down which he may travel safely, the power inherent in the two halves of the stone linking to ward him against the pitfalls of Ashar’s domain.”

  He stared down at her, the gold flecks in his brown eyes dancing, inspired by the candles’ glow, hypnotic, radiating an intensity of purpose Wynett found hard to resist. She felt the pressure of his strong hands and it was a reassuring pressure. She studied his face and found it honest. She looked into his eyes and found her doubts dissolving. It was a sensation akin to waking, finding sunlight on her face, the dismal rain ended, this weird realm again beautiful. Memories of lost hope, of the despair that had gripped her as she stood upon the roof of the palace, as she watched the multiple possibilities of the oracular pool unfold, flashed through her mind. Trust me, said his eyes. I seek only to aid you, said his hands. Believe me, said his smile. And she felt her suspicions falter, her doubts waver. If he is your enemy, said a small voice deep inside her mind, then surely the talisman will be anathema to him. The Messenger could not stand against its power, nor can any opposed to Kyrie. And another whisper said, Kedryn may fall without this aid. Kedryn and Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc, all of them, may go down victims of Ashar. You must aid them. You must allow Eyrik to aid them. It is the only way.

  “You are sure?” she asked slowly. “You are sure this is the only way?”

  “I am,” said Eyrik, solemnly.

  Wynett eased her hands free of his grip and felt them rise to the chain about her neck. His eyes did not leave her face as she drew the chain over her head. He stood immobile as she cupped the jewel.

  “Then use it,” she said, extending her hand. “Use it to aid Kedryn.”

  “You give this willingly?” he asked, not touching the stone.

  “Aye,” she nodded, “I do.”

  Eyrik held out his hand, palm upward, and Wynett gave the talisman to him.

  “My thanks,” he smiled. And laughed triumphantly as the world shifted and Wynett screamed in raw terror.

  The leather-bound manuscript Gerat studied fell unnoticed to her feet as she gasped, eyes widening in shock. Her body shuddered, wracked by a force she dreaded to define. Her mouth opened to emit a strangled cry, part anger, more fear. Malign laughter echoed inside her skull and she shook her head, lips dried by awful apprehension mouthing words she was loath to utter.

  “He has it,” she moaned. “Lady stand by us now, for he has the talisman!”

  Kedryn and his companions woke to a new day that revealed a landscape disconcertingly normal, for the horrors of the previous night were fresh in their memories; indeed, in Brannoc’s case they were engraved upon his living flesh. The dory drifted leisurely down a broad stream banded by timber and meadows, the scene bucolic, woodlands and grass both verdant as the Tamurin highlands. Sunlight dappled the water, spreading harlequin patterns of light and shadow among the trees, a gentle breeze rustling the foliage, from which birdsong rang, so natural the horrendous attack ofTaron’s changelings seemed a nightmare left behind them in the darkness. Several times they saw gaily clad folk along the bank, and these called to them, beckoning, urging them to beach their craft and partake of food or ale. None, however, ventured onto the river and Kedryn came to the conclusion that running water was a barrier they could not cross. Taron’s folk gave no pursuit and the watchers on the banks did no more than cajole, so the journey became a respite from the travails they had so far freed. Kedryn lounged at the dory’s stem while Tepshen sat peering ahead over the high prow and Brannoc slumped on the thwarts, dozing in the warm sun.

  It was not until he began to moan that either of his companions realized he was hurt worse than he admitted.

  At first Kedryn assumed him in the grip of a dream and ignored the faint sounds that escaped his lips, but then they became louder and the half-breed began to shudder. Kedryn moved from his position in the stem to find a seat alongside the wounded man, shaking him gently to wake him. His hands, where they touched flesh, found skin slick with sweat, and when Brannoc opened his eyes they were glazed, failing at first to focus. Kedryn unstoppered a canteen and raised it to Brannoc’s mouth. As he drank, Kedryn saw that his lips were dry and caked with spittle, his swarthy features drawn, a greenish hue shining beneath the tan.

  “I dreamt,” Brannoc said slowly, the words ponderous as he stared about, seeming at first not to know where he was. “I dreamt that I was taken by that. . . creature . . . and become one of them.”

  “You are safe,” Kedryn assured him. “I do not think they are able to cross water.”

  Brannoc smiled his relief and abruptly lapsed back into sleep. Kedryn washed his face and looked to Tepshen. The kyo’s features were grave as he moved from the prow, settling beside the half-breed and easing him gently upright as he said softly, “We must examine his wounds.”

  Kedryn nodded and they slipped Brannoc’s tunic loose, unwinding the makeshift bandages to reveal the cuts beneath. Parallel gashes latticed his torso and midriff, cut deep by the therianthrope’s claws. All were inflamed, the edges swollen in pinkish yellow ridges, pus oozing from beneath the blood that had crusted there.

  “Would that we had retained our packs,” Kedryn murmured, thinking of the salves stowed therein.

  “We must cleanse these as best we may," Tepshen responded, trailing the encrusted bandages in the river’s transparent flow.

  He scrubbed the cloth as Kedryn swabbed the wounds, and when they were dry wrapped them once more about Brannoc. The half-breed’s body was hot to the touch and by nightfall he was feverish, crying aloud and writhing with such force that they took turns holding him still for fear he might, upset the dory. They forced a little food between his lips, but what he did not instantly spit out he vomited and they gave up their attempts, concentrating instead on calming him as best they could and bathing his sweat-soaked body as the sun went down and a gibbous moon shone pale over the woodlands.

  They began to share Brannoc’s nightmares then, for the folk they had seen along the banks became more numerous, as if called by the moon and their presence, and they no longer wore human form, become again the monstrous creatures of the hold. The night was filled with their howling; it echoed over the river as they raised wings and paws and scaled, clawed hands toward the boat, as though they sought to draw it close by the sheer power of their joint will. Kedryn clutched his wounded comrade as Brannoc moaned and trembled, seeming almost to answer the clamor, Kedryn tried to block his own ears to that awful cacophony, and saw that despite the brightness of the moon the talisman glowed brighter still, encompassing the dory in its comforting blue nimbus. A thought came to him then and he called Tepshen from his watch at the prow, urging die kyo to help him strip Brannoc.

  The lacerations seemed almost to glow in the night, pulsing with a baneful life, as if they sucked out the half-breed’s vitality to stimulate their own virulence. Kedryn drew the chain of the talisman over his head and pressed the stone to Brannoc’s chest, onto the topmost scratch. The half-breed screamed shrilly, the sound seeming to come from a throat other than his own, greeted by an excited ululation from the bank.

  “Hold him fast,” urged Kedryn, and Tepshen gripped the wounded man in powerful hands, immobilizing him as best he could in the narrow confines of die boat.

  Kedryn slid the talisman down over one long gash, repeating the action for each cut. Brannoc screamed and struggled against Tepshen’s hold then, but afterward sighed and fell supine against the kyo. His breathing, previously labored, grew more steady, and it seemed to Kedryn that the lacerations dulled, the poisonous oozing lessening. He replaced the talisman about his neck and washed the bandages afresh, cleaning them of the purulent encrustations. Brannoc lay still, his brow cooler to the touch and the moaning of his dreamladen sleep softer; Tepshen released his grip and resumed his seat in the prow.

  Morning dawned bright, the mist that spread across the river quickly burned off by the rising sun. The changelings along the banks dispersed, resuming their human form, cheerful birdsong replacing their awful yammering. Kedryn and Tepshen breakfasted on the food looted from Taron’s hall and succeeded in feeding a little to Brannoc. Kedryn repeated the curative process, sun’s light revealing a distinct reduction in the mephitic exudations, the wounds less angry.

  Nonetheless, Brannoc remained unconscious for most of the day, his delirium heightening as night fell and the angry yammering once more rose from the banks. Again Tepshen held him as Kedryn applied the talisman, and again the stone worked its magic, quieting his struggles so that he fell into fitful sleep.

  The next day he awoke and asked for water. Kedryn held the canteen to his lips and fed him small pieces of roasted meat. This time the half-breed kept the food down.

  “I feel there is something inside me,” he said hoarsely.

  “Something evil. When I close my eyes I see that succuba, and she calls me to join her. ”

  He shuddered and Kedryn pressed his hands to the talisman. ‘The stone cures you,” he declared. “Kyrie’s magic overcomes the venom of her claws.”

  “I pray so,” Brannoc replied, but Kedryn heard doubt in his voice and saw that his dark eyes had a haunted look.

  “It does,” he said firmly. “See how the cuts repair.”

  He eased Brannoc’s tunic off and stripped away the bandages, passing them to Tepshen to wash again, then once more ran the stone over the lacerations.

  Brannoc winced, gritting his teeth, but did not struggle this time, only muttering, “Oh, by the Lady! It bums so!”

  The cuts were healing visibly now, the pustulent seepage halted and the swellings reduced, the surrounding flesh no longer glistening with that angry redness, but pink as clean flesh grew over the gashes.

  Brannoc sighed, staring down at the wounds, his face drawn. He reached dumbly for the canteen, drinking deep, then turned to face Kedryn.