Shadow War (24 page)

The water was so
cold it had pieces of ice floating on it. The shock of immersion in it robbed
her of breath, and she could not even scream.

Then she was out,
teeth chattering, hugging herself. They took her back to the steam and warmth,
sweating her again.

And thus it
alternated until her body was pliant and relaxed. She felt sleepy but
marvelous. How could she have been afraid? she wondered. Even the aftereffects
of the poisoning attempt had vanished.

When an elderly
sister rubbed scented oil on her hands and began to massage Elandra, she closed
her eyes and sank deep into luxuriant sensations. The sister’s strong fingers
dug into all the sore spots and melted away Elandra’s tensions. She felt
boneless, utterly at peace. Fears and worries about tomorrow faded from her
mind. Even the chanting about her sounded lighter now, more like singing.
Smiling, Elandra sighed and floated into sleep.

Only it was not
sleep. She had the sudden sensation of falling, and although she threw out her
hands to catch herself, she could grasp nothing. Faster and faster she hurtled
down through a darkness that terrified her. Then the darkness changed to light,
and she was falling through images. Faces loomed at her, huge and confusing,
only to dissolve and vanish as she fell through them. Dreams ... no, memories.
She saw her father shouting at a hapless servant. She saw the emperor place his
hand on a fragment of his magnificent throne. She saw Lord Sien sneering down
at her during her wedding ceremony.

Then with a jolt
she ceased falling and found herself in a featureless hallway. The walls were
very narrow. She could barely squeeze through, but she felt the urgent need to
run.

She did so, her
feet flying faster and faster. She wanted out of this place, wanted this
strange dream to end. But as she ran, a hand reached out from nowhere to grab
her arm.

Glancing down, she
saw the hand projecting from the wall. She screamed, but heard no sound.
Somehow she wrenched free and hurried on.

But there were
other hands brushing her, grabbing at her clothing and hair. Ahead of her stood
the healer Agel, arms outstretched. She veered around him and collided with
Caelan, who seized her by the throat. Pulling free, she stumbled on around a
turn in the passageway. And now Hecati followed her, beating her with a switch
until her back and legs stung.

Then, without
warning, she found herself in the grip of a woman tall and warm, smelling of
ambergris and henna. This person held her fast when she would have torn free.

“I must go,”
Elandra sobbed. “I must run.”

Abruptly the
loving hands were gone, and she found herself standing alone in the darkness.

From far in the
distance came a whisper: “Elandra, my daughter. Do not run. Do not heed them.
Find your own way. Walk to your destiny at your own pace. Do not be forced.”

Elandra spun
around, searching for the voice with a sudden yearning. “Mother?” she called. “Oh,
Mother, please help me!”

“Help yourself,”
came the reply, fainter than ever. “You are stronger than they know. Trust your
own heart. Heed nothing else.”

Elandra ran toward
the voice, wishing now she had not pushed her mother away. She had so many
questions, so much need for this woman she had never known. “Mother—”

But she could not
find her. The voice spoke no more to her.

Finally Elandra
stopped running. Anguished tears streaked her face. She had never understood
why her mother sent her away when she was so young. She had never understood
why her mother did not want her.

A feral snarl from
behind her scattered her thoughts. Whipping her head over her shoulder, Elandra
saw a huge black game cat leaping toward her from a thicket. Without warning
she found herself in the jungle, sunlight barely filtering down through the
upper canopy. The panther came at her fast. With fangs bared, it was intent on
bringing her down.

And she was ten
years old. Foolish and headstrong, she had wandered away from the safety of the
camp against orders, and now found herself terrified, the intended victim of
this predator.

Before she could
turn to run, its paws hit her chest with a jolt that knocked the wind from her.
She was falling, falling, her scream entwined with that of the cat. Its hot
breath scorched her face as its fangs tore into her exposed throat.

“Stop!” Elandra
cried.

She struck the
panther, and her hand passed right through it as though it were only mist. The
beast dissolved, and she was no longer lying on her back in the rotting humus,
but instead standing on a desolate mesa, all bare rock and scrubby weeds,
overlooking a sharp drop to the open plains below.

The air was cold,
and it blew constantly at her back with a mournful howl.

The jungle cat’s
attack was not a true memory. Elandra frowned, still feeling shaken by how
close it had come to killing her. But she had not wandered away from camp.
Someone else had—a bearer. He had been brought down and killed before the
soldiers could drive the animal away. And it had been tawny, not black.

And had her mother
ever spoken to her? Was that a true memory, or just a hope?

She felt angry
now. She had been toyed with enough. The sisters had no right to put her
through this nightmare.

“Stop this!” she
said aloud. “I will participate no further. Bring me back and have done with
your games.”

But nothing
changed or responded. She stood alone on the mesa, the precipice at her feet.
There was not another living creature within miles of her.

Suspiciously she
turned around, gazing in all directions, but she did not even spy a dream
walker standing at the fringes of her vision as they so often did. She no
longer chased dream walkers as she had at first. Right now, however, she would
have chased anything, if it meant a way of getting out of this dream.

The sky was
overcast and very dark, as though a storm was coming. The clouds roiled, and
now and then lightning flashed in their bellies, although none struck at the
earth. On the plains below she glimpsed movement.

Turning to give it
her full attention, she watched until she saw an army coming over the horizon.
Soon she could hear its approach, like thunder that grew ever louder. It was
huge—black, distant figures that stretched as far as the eye could see, an
endless mass that came and came. And as the army marched in perfect rows, spear
points gleaming with green fire, she saw dragons flying over, wheeling in the
sky and belching fire as they bellowed.

Every creature in
the army was black. The soldiers’ armor was black, as were their helmets,
cloaks, and gloves. Their swords were fashioned from black metal. Their horses,
dogs, and dragons were all black.

As the army came
closer, her vision improved. Suddenly she could see them clearly, although they
were truly too far away for such clarity to be real. She realized the cavalry
was not riding horses, but scaly four-footed beasts with vicious, barbed tails
and nostrils that breathed fire. Those were not dogs that bounded ahead of the
foot soldiers, but hellhounds with eyes of flame and teeth like razors. The
dragons were ridden by demons who screamed with laughter.

The sound was so
insane, so awful, she clapped her hands over her ears and tried to back away
from the precipice. She did not want to see the faces of the soldiers beneath
their helmets.

Yet she found
herself frozen, unable to move or look away. With the army came a dreadful
stench of death and decay. And at the head of the army rode a figure as large
as a giant, with armor that threw off sparks at every movement and a winged
helmet that caught bolts of lightning in its span, yet never burned. This
figure’s cloak was darkness. Wherever it looked, scrub crumbled to ash and the
rocks melted into lava. It carried a quiver of fire, and flames danced at the
tips of its spurs.

Terrified, Elandra
found herself consumed with recognition. The god’s dire name trembled on her
lips, demanding to be spoken. With all her might, she fought to hold it back,
knowing that if she said the name Beloth aloud, she would somehow chain herself
forever to his darkness.

The god looked up
as though he saw her standing on the rocky cliff high above him. He raised one
arm as though to launch a hunting falcon, but the creature clinging in chains
to his wrist was not a bird but a man, a man square and powerful of body, a man
with white curly hair and yellow eyes.

“Kost—”

She bit back his
name also, fearing to say anything.

The emperor waved
his arm in supplication. “Ela!” he cried, his voice a thin wail against the
howling wind. “Ela, help me!”

“Do not say my
name,” she whispered, pressing her fists against her lips.

The god looked in
her direction again, but his terrible eyes went on scanning as though he could
not see her.

She had the
terrible urge to kneel before him, to hurl herself over the cliff and fall to
her death screaming his name. She felt pierced with a thousand red-hot needles,
until she was writhing in agony, and yet she knew there was far worse to come
if she succumbed.

Sobbing, she
crouched down and plunged her fingers into the thin, stony soil. “Oh, goddess
mother, help me,” she prayed. “Give me the strength I need. Take me unto thy
bosom and shelter me.”

Suddenly she felt
as though invisible shackles had been removed. She whirled about and ran for
her life, full tilt away from the horrors behind her.

Then the ground
that should have been flat dipped down into a low place that was sheltered and
hidden. The cold wind ceased blowing. She found herself stumbling and slowing,
sobbing for air.

Ahead, her path
was blocked by a low altar of stone. Four thumb-sized jewels lay on top of it,
each of a different color, each square-cut and perfect.

An enormous
serpent, perhaps eight or ten feet long, lay coiled on the other side of the
altar. As Elandra approached reluctantly, the serpent lifted itself into the
air until its head was at her eye level. It swayed there, its forked tongue
flickering, with the altar between them.

“Choose a stone,”
the serpent commanded.

Shivering in fear,
Elandra closed her eyes a moment. She was still too close to the dreadful army.
She wanted to keep on running and never stop. She had no time for this.

“Choose!” the
serpent commanded.

She tried to go
around the altar, but her feet were frozen again.

“I don’t want to
choose!” she cried furiously. “I must run and warn the others. There is no
time.”

“Choose!” the
serpent commanded. “You will not pass by me until you have chosen.”

Impatiently she
swept her gaze across the gems again.

Ruby. Sapphire.
Topaz. Emerald.

Each was
beautiful. Each was flawless, worth a king’s ransom.

“Only one may you
take,” the serpent told her.

She felt hurried
and flustered. This was some sort of test, but she could not reason it out.
There was no time. She had to run and warn the others of what was coming.

“I don’t want any,”
she said.

“Then you will
stand here forever.”

An unearthly howl
lifted behind her. The hairs on her arms prickled, and she felt herself shrink
inside with fear. The armies of hell were coming closer. She dared not glance
back.

“Choose!” the
serpent said. “Quickly.”

The ruby she did
not want. She hesitated over the others, not understanding the significance
they represented.

The howl came
again, louder and closer. One of the dragons swept over her, and she felt the
hot scorch of its flaming breath.

Without further
hesitation, she reached out and plucked up the topaz.

There was a
tremendous explosive sound around her— blinding light and deafening noise. The
world went white, then black, and once again she was falling.

In the honeycomb
of chambers beneath the temple of the Penestricans, the night had passed and
dawn lay near. The candles were burning low with tired flickers. The chanting had
stopped hours ago. All was silent, and in that silence anxiety stretched so
strong it nearly became a sound itself.

The Lady Elandra
lay on a slab of stone, straight and stiff, with her hands folded across her
stomach. Robed in simple white, her unbound hair spread out beneath her, she
remained unconscious and still. Her breathing was so slight she might have been
dead. Her pale face was drawn, and a frown knotted her brows.

On one side of her
stood two of the sisters, looking frightened and anxious. On the other side
stood Anas, almost as pale as Elandra. And at Elandra’s feet stood the Ma-gria,
her old face very grim indeed.

With angry eyes,
she swept the faces of the others. “This has been badly handled from the start,”
she said, her gaze stopping on Anas. “I told you to be kind to her. Have you
grown so efficient, so cold, so brutal, Anas, that you have forgotten how to be
gentle? Have you forgotten the meaning of kindness?”

Anas looked mulish
and upset. “You blame me for this?”

Denial was always
a clumsy line of defense. It showed how rattled Anas was.

“You pushed her
into the memories,” the Magria said. “You pushed her too far.”

“The memories are
an important part of the cleansing process,” Anas said half angrily, defending
herself like a child. “I did not know she would go past them. We screened her
before, when she was with us. She exhibited no abilities to have visions then.”

“But she has had
one now,” the Magria said. She sighed, feeling every year of her age. It had
taken all her strength to pull Elandra back. Even now, as she thought of what
she had seen through Elandra’s vision, she shuddered. It was fearsome indeed,
as clear and vivid as any of Ma-gria’s own visions, and all too likely to come
true.