The Soul Weaver (27 page)

First things first. I grabbed his head and pulled his ear close to my mouth. “Don't you
ever
do that again.” Paulo was
not
expendable.

Then I ran my fingers around the circle and walked through the dark hole. The effect was quite the same as when Vroon and company transported us from place to place, as if the solid earth had dropped away beneath my feet, taking my stomach with it. No shapes were visible. Only a nauseating smear of gray, swirling and streaking by. And I heard nothing but a fast, dull throb in the ears that might have been the beating of my own heart.

Before I could force my stomach back where it belonged, my feet jolted onto solid ground, and the world came to a standstill. My eyes blinked open to a sight so alien to everything we'd experienced in the Bounded that I almost burst out laughing.

Paulo leaned over my shoulder, whispering. “The damnedest, right?”

We stood in a doorway that opened onto a graceful, curved gallery, its floor made of diamond-shaped tiles of red clay, its roof supported by a row of slender columns that were joined by a waist-high railing of carved stone. Beyond and below the gallery lay a garden, acres of trees and shrubs of a thousand varieties; vines with stems as thick as my arm looped about the columns and railing; flowers of colors beyond my ability to count them. Bounding the garden on every side were sheer cliffs of varying height. Our perch was embedded halfway up one of them. To our right, maybe a quarter of the way around the roughly circular expanse, beyond the spot where the gallery ended in solid rock, water splashed down in a silver ribbon from the heights into a pool far below us, all of it sparkling in brilliant daylight. Not sunlight—the smell and taste and feel of the air told me we were not outdoors—but from some other fiery yellow source lost in the glare above us.

I stepped to the railing and hung over it, marveling. No storms. No black-and-purple sky. A pleasantly warm breeze, wafting a fine spray all the way from the waterfall, rustled the huge trees and stirred the scents of flowers and herbs. A cardinal, as deep a scarlet as King Evard's banners, flicked by at my eye level, mocked by a crested jay perched in the highest branches of an oak.

Pressing a finger to his lips—wise in the echoing vastness—Paulo gestured toward the pool and the falls. He led me quickly down a flight of narrow stone steps, and onto a well-worn path through the garden. We hurried past masses of pink and violet flowers, between rose bushes taller than my head and covered with red, pink, and white blooms, past fragrant patches crowded with herbs, and rocky mounds, their niches and crevices home to a hundred varieties of low-growing, thick-leaved greenery dotted with tiny, starlike flowers of yellow and red. The path led us around the pool past the base of the falls, a pool which must have drained directly into the earth below, for its only visible outlets were a dozen threadlike runnels that spread out through the garden.

Just past the pool, we entered a stand of massive maple, birch, and hemlock trees, the undergrowth thick with hobblebush and shiny-leaved laurel. On the far side of this clump of forest, the path ended at a rounded hole in the pale yellow stone of the cliff wall.

Motioning for silence, Paulo flattened his back to the rocks and peered around the corner into the cave. After a moment, he signaled me to follow him. I crept around the corner and into the heart of a jewel.

The modestly proportioned cave, perhaps twice my height and similar in width, was lined with amethyst. The light of two small torches set into sconces near the cave mouth bounced and glittered from the crystal walls and ceiling. As we slipped deeper into the cave, past more torches, the rush of the nearby falls was muffled. Soon we heard only a trickling of water and two voices, both ahead of us.

“. . . need not fear. No murder will be done in the Gray Towers. Set watchers about them to prevent any attack.”

The speaker, whose soft voice sounded neither male nor female, was nowhere to be seen. Only the Guardian was visible in the glittering purple light, standing beside a niche in the back wall of the cave, his head bowed. Inside the niche was a stone basin worn in the rock. I could not see the source of the water, but it overflowed the basin, dribbling down the rock wall onto the cave floor.

“I rejoice at your saying, O mighty Source of Wisdom. Next must I seek answer to a new heresy sprung up among the Singlars. Two of them, one male, one female, have petitioned to be together in one fastness. I have punished them for their crime. I beg knowledge of how I am to halt such villainy before others take it upon themselves to ask the same.” His voice cracked and quivered with emotion.

“Do not grieve, Guardian. It matters not how the Singlars arrange themselves. Until the king takes his place, the Singlars will not be other than they are,” said the speaker. “The king will bring an end to the old ways and order the Bounded as he sees fit.”

“I knew I was right.”

“Tell me, Guardian, has the king not yet found his way to us?”

“No, mighty Source of Wisdom. Our seekers have failed. I worry that he may have been killed by the beasts of the Edge or by a foolish Singlar. We must constantly defend ourselves and you, Source of Wisdom. I try to be vigilant, to send away those that have no business here and punish those who do evil. You have said I may punish those who threaten your safety, have you not?”

“Heed my words. Welcome all newcomers; greet them and keep them close until you understand their origins and purposes. Protect the root of the Bounded, yes, but have care with your judgments. You are forbidden to dismiss or banish or slay any being who might, in any imagining, be our king. You will rue the day your hand harms our king.”

“Truly I follow your teaching. But if I should discover interlopers, disgusting, foolish, insolent strangers who are clearly not our king . . . impostors . . . scoundrels . . . ?”

“Do with them as seems right to secure the Bounded. My only concern is to draw the king to us and keep him safe.”

“As you say, O mighty Source, so shall I do your will.”

“Though our king is young, Guardian, just out of boyhood, he will save his people from the storms of fire so that never again will they fear the breaking of the world—”

“I will watch for him, great Source.”

“—and his hand can shape the destiny of all bounded worlds, for his strength is unbending. You must teach the Singlars to watch for him, too: The color of fire shines in his hair, and his hands and heart bear scars of bitterness that time can soothe but not erase.”

“Our king has not come, O Source of Power. But when the glorious time is upon us, I will bring him here.” The man's voice had sunk almost to a whisper.

“You have done good service, Guardian. Wear your burdens with honor, for your time as steward draws to a close. Seek the king once more in the bounded worlds. Though he no longer dreams of us, the moon-doors remain open for your seekers to pass. Thus I am sure that our king lives and is not changed. I hunger for the fulfillment of my prophecies.”

The Guardian's fingers danced on the rim of the stone basin. His tongue danced over his wide lips. “Good Source of Wisdom, I struggle to maintain all as you have said, but the battle is wearing, and I fear I am too weak to fulfill your commands. If I could but taste of the spring . . . one sip . . .”

“O, Guardian, the spring is not for you. Its power would destroy you. Rejoice in your faithful service, and yearn not for that which can never be yours. You must not fail.”

Paulo tugged at my arm as the Guardian hurriedly dipped his hands in the water and poured it over his head, so that the splattering droplets glimmered like a shower of gems in the jeweled light. “Of course, Source of Power. As you say. It's not my place—not mine . . .” His jaws ground as he spoke, and his hands that had touched the water so lovingly curled into shaking fists.

Time to go. The cave provided no place to hide. We slipped out of the cave and dived into the laurel thicket just as we heard the Guardian's footsteps clattering on the stone floor of the cave.

The Guardian hurried out of the opening, muttering. “. . . but it will never be his either. Young. Yes, far too young. He could never control the Singlars. It would be chaos all over again. They just don't know . . . don't remember. I'll not be unreal again. Never.”

The hurrying footsteps crunched the gravel path past us. Paulo urged me to follow as soon as the knob-jointed man was out of sight. Lagging behind risked the doorway being closed or locked before we got through it.

Nevertheless I held back. “I need to question the Source myself. This might be my only chance.”

“I was afraid you'd say that. That voice . . . this place . . . there's something not right here. Thought maybe you'd feel it, too, and want to consider it a bit before you tried anything.”

Our instincts were usually quite similar, but I'd felt nothing of the kind. The voice of the Source had resonated deep in my bones, warm and comfortable and right. Strange as it all was, everything about the garden and the cave, indeed everything about the Bounded, seemed very natural, as if I were turning the pages of a favorite book long unread. Perhaps I couldn't remember what occurred on the next page, but it all unfolded just as expected as I read the familiar words. I didn't question that such a place as this garden could thrive in a sunless world. And it seemed right and reasonable that the Edge of the world moved outward, and that the Singlars' towers grew and changed. Though I didn't know its cause, I'd known what had to be done to stop the firestorm. From the moment I had stood on the windy precipice and surmised that this place somehow existed in the Breach between the worlds, I had gaped and wondered at its marvels. But I didn't think the Bounded held anything that would really surprise me, which, of course, surprised me very much.

“I'm going back inside,” I said.

Paulo sighed. “I'll watch then. Best be quick.”

I nodded and stepped out of the laurel thicket, only to have something large and fast and heavy slam into my head. As the darkness closed in, I caught a hazy glimpse of a knobby cheekbone and grinning yellow teeth.

One tentative finger on the throbbing knot that was my temple sufficed to remind me of the thick wooden stick I'd seen coming at my face when I stepped out of the laurel thicket. The manacles had come later, as well as the fiery laceration about my neck that felt like someone had started to slice my head off, but changed his mind halfway. My eyes didn't seem to be working. I hoped that was a result of the sticky glop that coated them—probably blood from my head. Though I was wickedly thirsty, anxiety enabled me to muster enough spit to wipe it off and reassure myself that I could still see.

I was neither in the amethyst cave nor in the garden of the Source. A dungeon would be more apt a name. Comigor Keep had housed two levels of dungeons, long abandoned in the days when I would explore them, crawling through rotted straw and pools of murky sludge to play at knights and sieges. This dungeon looked and smelled disturbingly well used.

My cell was small, its stone walls relieved only by an iron door with a barred window set into it. Somewhere beyond the door was a blazing torch that sent dancing shadows through the bars. The floor was straw-covered stone, not clean, but dry, at least. My wrists and ankles were chained to the rear wall of the cell, loose enough that I could sit, lie down, or stand as I pleased.

The chains clinked heavily as I staggered to my feet. Standing up allowed me to peer through the barred window, but I quickly decided sitting was preferable. My head spun like a whirlpool. Besides, I didn't like what I saw when I stood: more cells like mine across the way, two dark-stained flogging posts standing sentinel in between, and a wooden rack with a variety of whips, straps, hooks, and other metal implements hanging on it. I sank back to the straw, just as happy not to know whatever else lay beyond my field of vision. I'd used such things in Zhev'Na and needed no reminders. The place stank of untimely death.

“Hello,” I called out, as authoritatively as I could manage from my swollen face. “Is anyone there? I want an explanation!”

“Not bloody likely.” The faint voice came from somewhere beyond my cell door.

A knot in my gut loosened a bit, and I rested the back of my head on the wall. “Are you all right?”

“Been better. Should of kept my mouth shut early on, I guess. Knew it.”

Venturing to my feet again, I stretched my chains to their limit and squinted through the barred window. He sat at the foot of the second flogging post facing away from me. His hands were secured behind the post to a chain that dangled from a beam over his head, twisting his arms up awkwardly behind his back, and bending him forward so that his head almost touched his knees.

“How'd we get here?”

“The old man's quick . . . give him that.” Paulo's speech was tight, halting, breathless. He must be hurting. “Had you snoring and a noose around your neck before I could get untangled from the bush. Told me the cord would take your head off if I didn't carry you back through the portal real careful. Sorry. Didn't believe him at first.”

“I'm all right. So we're back in the Blue Tower?”

“I took you as far as the stair. Maintainers come . . . hauled you off. Don't remember much after that. Woke up here and wished I hadn't. He's wicked afraid of you.”

“He believes I'm the king.”

“You heard . . . in the cave. Not much mistake about it.”

“It doesn't make sense.”

“Best make sense of it. In a hurry, maybe. They're not even asking me any—Oh, demonshit . . .” He began retching violently.