The Obsidian Oracle

FIFTEEN FYLO’S RETURN

Agis threw the satchel down, then reached out and grabbed Sacha by the topknot, plucking him from midair. “Where are Tithian and the lens?” demanded the noble.

“He never left this tunnel,” answered the head. “The spineless wretch betrayed us all.”

Agis smashed his prisoner into a gleaming wall of black mica. “Liar!”

“Would I be down here if I knew where Tithian was-or the lens?” countered the head. “I came to search for them, the same as you.”

Gripping Sacha’s hair with one hand, the noble slowly surveyed the mica-sheathed room, searching every corner and nook for some sign of what had happened to the king. He did not bother to light the shattered harpoon he had brought as a makeshift torch. The crimson sunlight that spilled through the fissure in the roof illuminated the chamber in bright scarlet colors.

“You’re wasting our time,” said Sacha. “Tithian’s not here. I looked.”

“I’ll look myself,” Agis said, systematically moving along every wall and peering into every dark corner. When he did not find the king, he returned his attention to Sacha. “If you’re telling me the truth, then explain how Tithian disappeared from this room with the lens.”

Sacha rolled his eyes toward the crevice in the roof. The crimson orb of the sun hung about a quarter of the way from the eastern end. “Maybe he climbed,” suggested the head.

Squinting against the glare, Agis studied the crack more carefully. Tilted at a steep, almost vertical angle and covered on both sides with slick sheets of mica, the rift would be a difficult, though not impossible, climb. It was just wide enough for a man to scale by pressing his back against one side and his feet against the other-or, in Tithian’s case, to ascend through levitation.

“You’ll have to think of a better lie than that, Sacha,” Agis said. “From what Sadira has told me, the lens would never fit through that crack.”

“It would if it was in the satchel,” suggested the head.

Agis eyed the satchel. He was tempted to say that the Dark Lens would never fit inside, but he had seen Tithian draw enough objects out of the bag to know that there was something magical about it. “If the Dark Lens was in there, Tithian wouldn’t be gone,” said Agis, casting an eye at the crumpled sack. “He’d never leave it behind.”

In spite of his words, the noble laid Sacha on the ground next to the satchel, placing a foot on the disembodied head to hold him in place. “Still, there’s no harm in checking. How does this thing work?”

“Put your hand inside and picture the lens,” the head said. “If it’s in there, it will come to your hand.”

“What does the lens look like?” the noble asked.

“How should I know?” Sacha snarled.

“Rajaat used it to imbue you with the powers of one of his Champions,” Agis replied, pressing his foot down on the head.

“It’s big, obsidian, and round,” came the strained reply. “That’s all I remember-I was in pain, and the tower was full of flashing light.”

Agis gripped the satchel beneath the elbow of his broken arm, preparing to thrust his good hand inside. Before he did so, he looked down at the head and said, “If this is a trick, I’ll tie you to a rock and drop you in the Bay of Woe.”

“I want to locate the Oracle as much as you do,” snarled Sacha. “And to find out what happened to Tithian.”

Agis put his hand inside the sack and pictured a large obsidian sphere, similar to the ones that they had found in Kalak’s treasury when they killed him. An instant later, he felt the cool, glassy surface of obsidian in his hand. The noble pulled his hand out of the satchel and saw that it contained an obsidian ball about the size of his own head.

“Too small,” hissed Sacha. “Try again.”

Agis tossed the sphere aside and returned his hand to the satchel. This time, however, as he pictured what he imagined the Oracle to look like, he also concentrated on the cool, smooth feel of the glassy stone, hoping the added detail would compensate for never having seen the lens.

When nothing came to his hand, the noble shrugged. “Nothing.”

Sacha looked back toward the ceiling. “Then he had to have taken it out through the crevice,” said the head.

Keeping the satchel tucked under his broken arm, Agis picked Sacha up again. “What about magic, or the Way?” he asked. “Could Tithian have used his powers to take the lens out of here without going through either exit?”

“Anything’s possible with the lens,” said Sacha. “Which is all the more reason we should leave now.”

Agis frowned. “Why are you so anxious to get me out of here?”

“Because that traitor Tithian has a good lead on us,” sneered Sacha. “Let’s go.”

Agis shook his head. “I think not,” he said. “It strikes me that you’re trying to hide something. Tithian’s still down here, isn’t he?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” hissed Sacha. “You can see for yourself we’re the only ones here.”

“And what about Wyan?” asked the noble. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you don’t know where he is?”

Sacha’s gray eyes widened. “He was supposed to be watching the entrance to the tunnel,” he said. “Didn’t you see him there?”

“No, I didn’t,” Agis growled, stuffing Sacha into the satchel. “And I’m tired of your lies.”

The noble closed the sack and folded the top over to form a tight seal, then, using his knees to help hold it, he bunched it together in a ruffled wad. Next, he tore a strip off his cape and used it to bind the sack closed, using the surest knot he knew. Once that was done, he dropped it near the exit, where he would not forget to pick it up on his way out of the chamber.

The noble began searching the chamber again, this time more carefully. Several times, he used his broken harpoon to scratch away at crannies and niches that seemed suspiciously deep or straight, hoping to find a secret door or hidden passage lurking behind them. Twice he even resorted to peeling sheets of mica off the walls when the light played tricks on his eyes and he thought he had spied a torch flickering behind them.

Agis discovered nothing but more mica. Whatever had become of Tithian, it seemed that he was not here-and the noble doubted that the king had any intention of returning. He looked around the room one last time, then turned to leave.

That was when he heard a giant’s heavy breath puffing down the tunnel.

With his wyvern’s tail wrapped around the Oracle, Tithian continued to fly through the Gray, traveling in what he hoped was the direction from which the red flash had appeared a few moments earlier-or had it been longer? The king had no way of telling. All he could do was flap his leathery wings, keep his nose pointed straight ahead, and hope that he was flying on the correct course.

After driving away his brother and the other murder victims, Tithian had rested for a time-he did not know how long. His welts had slowly faded, and with them his pain. By that time, he had regained his strength and was ready to continue his search for the exit.

The task had been more difficult than he expected. At first, he had called on the Oracle’s power to visualize the opening to his satchel. The effort had failed miserably. Although he had created more than a dozen red circles resembling the exit, after passing through them he always found himself back in the Gray.

Next Tithian had tried magic, and the results had been even more devastating. Because there were no living plants in the Gray, he had turned to the Oracle for his power. But when he had summoned the energy into his body, its intensity had burned the flesh from his hand. From that, the king had deduced an important lesson: as a mindbender, he was experienced enough to channel the power of the lens through his body without injury. But as a sorcerer, he could not control the savage energies.

Next, Tithian had tried to use the Way to make a compass out of his bone-handled dagger. When he balanced the blade on his finger, the tip had always pointed slightly to the left. It had taken him only a short time to realize that by following it, he would do nothing but fly in circles.

The king had just decided to stop and try to think of something new when he had glimpsed a faint red flash. Casting aside his useless dagger, he had turned toward the light and flown as fast as he could, pulling the Oracle along with him. Tithian had seen no more red lights, flashes or otherwise, since.

Cold fingers of despair were just beginning to creep into the king’s heart when he spied a small point of darkness in the Gray ahead. He redoubled his efforts and flew toward it as fast as his wings would carry him. He did not even allow himself to blink. It was the first substantial form that he had seen since chasing his brother away, and the thought that it might disappear before he reached it terrified Tithian.

To his relief, it did not. As he approached, the dark point became a dot, then a circle, and finally he identified it as the back of a head-a disembodied head with a long topknot of hair.

“What are you doing here?” Tithian demanded.

The head slowly turned around, and the king saw by the broad cheekbones and yellowed teeth that it was Sacha. His gray eyes darting to the lens, Sacha said, “I see you’ve found the Oracle-though I don’t know what you think you’re going to do with it in here.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be watching the entrance to the tunnel?” the king bristled, resisting the impulse to leap too quickly to the question foremost in his mind-how to escape.

“I did what I was supposed to,” Sacha snarled. “That’s why I’m in here with you.”

“What do you mean?” Tithian asked.

“Somehow Agis freed himself and located the Oracle chamber,” the head explained. “When we saw him enter the compound, I came down to warn you. All I found was the satchel-with no sign of you or the lens. Agis showed up a little later and stuffed me in here.”

“Does he know where I am-or the lens?”

“No, he thinks you used magic or the Way to disappear,” replied Sacha.

“Good-then I’ll be able to take him by surprise,” snickered the king. “Now, tell me how we get out of here.”

“When you put Wyan and me in here, there’s only one way we ever found,” Sacha replied, laughing bitterly.

Tithian scowled. “And what’s that?”

“We wait-until someone takes us out.”

Agis looked up the tunnel and saw the blocky silhouette of a small Joorsh crawling toward him. Although the figure was not large enough to be an adult, it filled the corridor completely. The noble could see that, even had the giant been willing to let him pass, there was no room to squeeze between the lumpy body and the passage’s slick walls-much less to do so without alerting the warrior to his presence.

The Joorsh stopped crawling, and Agis feared that the giant had glimpsed him peeking around the corner. Although his heart began to pound like a Gulgian war drum, the noble forced himself to remain motionless. If the Joorsh was not sure of what he had seen, the last thing Agis wanted to do was draw attention to himself by making a careless move.

To the noble’s immense relief, the giant peered back over his shoulder. “I see the Oracle, Sachem Mag’r!” he called. His voice was that of a boy, but it was so loud that it shook the narrow tunnel. “A red glow, just like you said! It’s real bright!”

“What?” Mag’r’s coarse reply thundered down the passage with a deafening rumble. “You see a bright glow, Beort?”

Beort nodded. “Very bright,” he said. His tone was not as enthusiastic as it had been a moment before.

“Something’s wrong!” the king growled.

Before the youth could look down the tunnel in Agis’s direction, the noble backed away from the corner. He picked up Tithian’s satchel and slung it over his uninjured shoulder, then he crossed the tiny chamber to where the crevice in the ceiling met the far wall. He paused there to pull his injured arm from its makeshift sling.

The limb was in no shape for a climb. From the elbow down it was grossly swollen and discolored, with a huge purple lump directly over the break itself. The noble tried to lift it and discovered that the muscles would not obey his will. The injured arm had become a dead weight.

A quick glance at the wall’s sheer surface confirmed Agis’s suspicion that it could not be climbed with a single functioning arm. The noble closed his eyes and visualized a healthy, fully functioning limb in its place. He opened his spiritual nexus and felt a surge of power rise through his body, then he guided this energy into his injured arm.

A pang of agony shot from the point of the break back through his arm and even into his chest. Agis concentrated on the image of an oasis pond, keeping his muscles and mind relaxed, allowing his suffering to flow through him like the wind. The edge quickly faded from his pain, and soon the anguish tapered to a dull ache.

Agis opened his eyes again and tried to lift his arm. A surge of spiritual energy flowed into the limb, bringing with it a fresh wave of agony, but his hand slowly rose into the air. He flexed his fingers, curled them into a fist, and opened them again. Then, convinced that his arm would serve in spite of his injury, he stepped over to the wall. Using thick sheaves of mica for handholds, he climbed.

Agis had not healed his arm; he had merely used the Way to animate it, much as he had animated the dead bear when they entered the castle. To move the limb he had to summon energy from deep within himself, then consciously direct it to do what he wished. Each time he did so it sent a fresh wave of pain rushing through him, but the noble hardly noticed. He was accustomed to pain. Besides, he felt certain that letting the giant catch him would result in agony much more severe than what he was suffering now.

Just a short distance from the ceiling, as Beort’s knees were scraping along the floor outside the chamber, the noble heard a soft hiss from one of his handholds. The mica peeled away from the wall, and Agis felt himself beginning to fall. The satchel slipped off his shoulder, landing on the floor below. He paid it no attention and thrust his good arm up into the crevice, his fingers madly grasping for another grip. He found the edge of another sheet, clutched at it, and pulled.

His fingertips scraped along the surface of the crevice, finding purchase in a rough-edged hollow. Agis quickly transferred his weight to this arm and pulled himself up into the crevice, bracing his back against one wall of the fissure and his feet against the other.

As soon as he felt secure in his new perch, the noble looked down at the satchel he had dropped. Although he didn’t know what Tithian had stored inside, it seemed too valuable an item to leave behind. He closed his eyes, preparing to retrieve it with the Way.

In the same moment, a rush of hot breath filled the room, and Beort crawled inside. Agis opened his eyes again and found himself looking down on a mass of greasy braids, as large as a kes’trekel’s nest and just as tangled. The Joorsh boy’s shoulders were so broad that he had to turn them sideways to fit through the chamber entrance, and his arms were as long as a normal man was tall.

“There’s nothing here!” Beort yelled. His gaze fell on the satchel, and he reached across the room to grasp it. “What’s this?”

The noble began to climb, leaving the sack to the young giant. Although he tried to move as quietly as possible, he was more concerned with speed. Even if the Joorsh heard him, Beort would have to turn over on his back before he could thrust one of his long arms up into the rift. The noble ascended quickly and quietly, pushing his back up the fissure a short distance, then bringing his feet up. By the time the young giant had pulled Agis’s binding off the satchel and peered inside, the noble was already halfway up the crevice.

Stuffing Tithian’s satchel into his belt, Beort craned his neck and peered up into the crevice. Although safely out of the youth’s reach, Agis climbed even faster. The youth squinted in the noble’s direction, trying to shield his eyes against the sunlight with a massive hand. “What’s that?” he asked, rolling onto his back. “Come down, you!”

His heart pounding from the hard climb and the exhilaration of escape, Agis returned his attention to his ascent. He had neared the top of the shaft, where the silvery mica reflected the sun’s crimson rays with such intensity that even the air seemed to glow blood-red. Just a few more moments, he told himself, and I’ll be safe.

The ruddy light was suddenly replaced by a shadow. Agis looked up and saw one of Mag’r’s brown, puffy eyes peering down into the rift.

“What’s wrong, Beort?” he demanded. “Where’s the Oracle?”

“Ask the man,” came the reply.

The youth pointed toward the corner of the rift, where Agis had halted his climb, his legs trembling as much from fear as from the strain of keeping his back pressed against the wall of the crevice. His broken arm, no longer needed for the climb up the narrow fissure, hung limply at his side.

The sachem’s eye shifted to the noble, then his fleshy lips curled into a fiendish smile. The giant thrust his pudgy hand into the crack. He pinched Agis between his thumb and forefinger, plucking the noble from the crevice. Mag’r was a mess, with dried blood caked around the wound where Nal had gored him. The gash across his huge stomach had been sewn shut with what looked like sail rope.

When he looked past the giant, Agis saw that they were in the southern end of the compound, where the mica walls formed a cul-de-sac around the rift from which he had just been plucked. Although the rift ran east-west, directly beneath the sun’s path, the silvery sheets of mica surrounding it were all angled so that they would reflect any stray rays down into the cleft.

“Where’s the Oracle?” Mag’r demanded, drawing Agis’s attention back to his bloated face.

“It’s not down there,” the noble replied, keeping his voice, and himself, calm through an act of will. To escape the giant, he would have to keep a clear head.

“I know where the Oracle is not!” the giant bellowed, his breath a hot, rancid wind. He closed his fist around the noble’s body and squeezed. “I want to know where it is!”

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his broken arm, Agis said, “I didn’t get here much before you, and all I found was an empty satchel.” He gestured toward the cleft below. “Beort has it now.”

Mag’r scowled, then knelt on the ground. “Give me the sack, Beort.” The sachem thrust his long arm into the rift, then returned to his feet with the satchel in his hand. He opened it up and peered inside, then started to toss the satchel away. “It’s empty.”

“Empty?” Agis echoed, hoping the young giant had not let Sacha escape. The disembodied head inside the sack remained Agis’s best hope of tracking down Tithian and the lens. “Let me keep it anyway.”

The giant shrugged, then handed it to Agis. “What good is an empty sack?”

“Not much,” the noble admitted, “but I found it down in the tunnel where the Oracle should have been. There might be a connection.”

Scowling, Mag’r reached to take the satchel back. “What connection?”

Agis pulled the sack away from the giant’s fingers, tucking it under his arm. “I’ll tell you after you take me to the quartz enclosure,” he said.

“Speak now, if you want to live.”

Agis shook his head. “You’re going to kill me anyway,” he said. “But Nal has thrown a giant into the crystal pit who doesn’t deserve to die. I’ll tell you what I know after you rescue him. You might even want to make him a member of your tribe-he’s clearly an enemy of the Saram.”

Mag’r scowled and shook his head. “After what you did at the gate, I can’t trust you.”

“What happened at the gate was Nal’s doing, not mine,” Agis replied. “Besides, an empty sack and a dead body will do you no good. If you want my help in finding the Oracle, you’ll have to do as I ask.”

The sachem pondered this for a few moments, then reluctantly nodded. “I’ll help the giant out of the pit,” he said, “but I won’t take him into my tribe. I see no reason to trust him just because my enemies did not.”

Limping badly from the lance wound that the noble had inflicted on him earlier, the giant exited the mica compound, leaving Beort in the Oracle chamber. As they crossed the barren granite grounds of Castle Feral, Agis was astonished. He had expected to see lakes of Saram blood and mountains of beasthead bodies, with Joorsh warriors chasing down and slaughtering their captives.

But Mag’r’s victorious army had gathered the defeated giants at the far end of the citadel, where Nal’s body rested atop a huge funeral pyre. While the Saram knelt in a circle around their dead bawan, the gray-haired Chief Nuta walked back and forth in front of the burning body, sternly lecturing them on the folly of trying to keep the Oracle for themselves.

The chief’s efforts were hampered by a cloud of Castoffs swirling overhead. They occupied the attention of the nervous Saram far more raptly than either Nal’s body or Nuta’s lecture, despite the two Joorsh shamans dancing in the prisoners’ midst to keep the spirits at bay.

“It looks as though you intend to let the Saram live,” Agis said.

“That’s right,” Mag’r replied. “Jo’orsh would be angry if we killed all our brothers-especially after winning the war.”

“Still, it’s very generous of you to forgive them.”

Mag’r fixed a brown eye on the noble. “Don’t expect the same mercy,” he warned. “You’re no giant. Jo’orsh doesn’t care what happens to you.”

With that, the sachem stepped into the enclosure. The giant-hair rope that Kester had tied to the footings of Sa’ram’s Bridge still ran over to the edge of the pit, but the line now lay slack and loose. After Agis had been taken from the pit, the crack in the crystal cover had sealed itself, cutting the cord in the process.

As Mag’r lumbered forward, the noble’s heart sank, and he was overcome by a sick feeling of disappointment. The crystal pit’s cover had grown milky and opaque, suggesting that Tithian had already taken the Dark Lens far from Lybdos.

“I never should have listened to him!” Agis hissed, his anger with himself growing by the moment. “This is what comes of breaking promises!”

“What promises?” asked Mag’r, frowning.

Agis started to tell the giant of his suspicions, swearing that though he might not survive to hunt Tithian down himself, Mag’r and his giants would do it for him. Then, remembering another promise that he had made, he thought better of it and stopped.

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” the noble said. “First, you rescue Fylo.”

Mag’r knelt at the edge of the pit and studied the lid for several moments. Finally, he shrugged and said, “No handle.”

Before Agis could object, the king reached out and smashed his fist through the center of the cover. It shattered into dozens of fragments that fell into the pit, leaving only a few jagged bits sticking out from the sides. The noble cringed, trying not to think of what the falling pieces might do to Fylo.

Mag’r peered down into the hole, then said, “I see him.”

Agis looked over the edge. For a moment all he could see were beads of sweat dripping off his brow and plummeting into the darkness, then his eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light and he saw Fylo, still lying impaled on the crystal. The half-breed’s free arm and his legs were dangling down into the pit, while his eyes were closed and his chin lay slumped onto his chest. Although he had suffered several gashes from falling shards of crystal, none of the cuts were bleeding very badly.

“You’ll have to go down and pull him out,” said Agis.

Mag’r frowned at this idea, then shouted, “Hey, you!”

Several yellowed skulls fell from their perches and bounced off Fylo’s torso, and the half-breed opened his eyes. He looked toward the top of the pit, his gaze cloudy and unfocused. “Agis?” he called.

“The Sachem of the Joorsh is coming down to get you,” the noble replied. When Mag’r frowned at him, Agis added, “Go on-can’t you see that he needs help?”

Grumbling angrily, the Joorsh king dropped his captive. When Agis hit the ground his knees buckled, and he tumbled end over end, landing next to one of the jagged shards of crystal still protruding from the edge of the pit. Tithian’s satchel fell at his side.

In front of the satchel’s mouth, a tiny area of the broken lid began to clear, shimmering with a strange, mystic power. For a moment, the noble simply watched the limpid area expand and grow more translucent. Then he realized what was happening. The magic of the Dark Lens was flowing into the crystal shard, and it could only be coming from one place: the satchel.

As Mag’r started to climb down into the pit, Agis grabbed the sack and pulled it back. He folded the top over and crawled away from the edge of the hole. The motion attracted the sachem’s attention, and the giant promptly climbed back out.

“What’s wrong?” Agis asked, rising and moving away from the shard into which the magic of the lens had spilled.

“I’m no fool,” the giant replied, grabbing the noble. He went over to the footing of Sa’ram’s Bridge and pointed to the rope which Kester had left tied there. “Tie your feet together,” he ordered, glancing at the highest point of the bridge. “And make the knot strong, or you’ll be sorry.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Agis objected. As he spoke, he carefully tucked the satchel into his sling, knowing that even Mag’r was not a big enough fool to let a prisoner roam free. “I promise-”

“Tie!” Mag’r growled.

Agis did as he was ordered, once again using the Way to animate his broken arm, testing the knot several times to make sure it was secure. When he was finished, a fair length of rope remained.

Mag’r used some of the extra line to bind the noble’s arms to his sides. Once the king was satisfied that his prisoner could not easily slip his bonds, he carried Agis over to the bridge and tied the other end of the rope to the railing, leaving the noble suspended over the pit.

“Now I can watch you while I rescue your friend,” the sachem said, chuckling at his cleverness.

With that, Mag’r returned to the edge of the pit and began his descent, knocking more than one skull off the sharp crystals lining the pit. As Agis waited, his broken arm began to throb, and the ache caused him to sweat more profusely. Every few seconds a few beads of perspiration would roll off his brow and vanish into the abyss below. The noble did not mind, considering a little pain and a few ounces of body water a small price to pay for having discovered the location of the Dark Lens-and probably of Tithian, as well.

When the sachem reached his destination, he grabbed the half-breed’s arm and pulled him roughly off the crystal. Fylo cried out in pain and glanced up at Agis. A thankful smile creased his lips, then he closed his eyes and slumped into Mag’r’s arms. “Stupid giant!” the sachem cursed.

With that, the sachem laboriously ascended the pit again, dragging Fylo’s unconscious body up behind him. The sharp crystals scraped over the half-breed’s gravelly hide, opening tiny scratches that did nothing to rouse him. Once Mag’r reached the top, he pulled the half-breed out of the hole and laid him aside.

“Where’s the Oracle?” he asked, looking up at Agis.

Agis briefly considered trying to talk the giant into letting him borrow the lens for the purpose of killing Borys, but he quickly rejected the idea. Even if Mag’r were disposed to make such an agreement, which seemed doubtful in the first place, the sachem had shown no inclination that he would be willing to trust the noble.

Mag’r rose. “If you break your word, I’ll-”

“I have no intention of breaking my word,” Agis interrupted. “But I didn’t say I knew the Oracle’s location. I promised to tell you what I knew about its connection to the satchel that Beort found,” Agis finished, being careful to remind Mag’r of exactly what he had said. “You’ll have to figure the rest out for yourself.”

Mag’r scowled, then nudged Fylo toward the pit. “Tell me what you know-now!”

“The satchel belongs to my companion, Tithian,” said the noble. “Because of where we found it, we can assume he found the Oracle.”

“Where’d he go?” the giant demanded.

“As I said, you’ll have to figure that out for yourself,” Agis replied. He did not feel honor-bound to give a more direct answer, since he had not known the information when Mag’r had plucked him from the fissure-and certainly would not have agreed to reveal it if he had.

The sachem started to nudge Fylo toward the pit again. “Tell me!”

“Don’t hurt him!” Agis said. “I’m not certain, but I suspect you’ve been closer to the Oracle than you think.”

“Down there?” Mag’r asked, pointing at the pit.

When the noble did not answer, Mag’r knelt at the edge of the pit. “Perhaps Nal had nothing to do with your friend’s injury,” the giant suggested. “Perhaps your friend was trying to hide something when he fell?”

The sachem peered into the darkness for several moments, and at first Agis could not think of what he expected to see in the murk. Then he remembered how, as Beort had come crawling down the mica tunnel, the youthful giant had called out that he could see a red glow coming from the chamber.

Agis waited until a few drops of perspiration had gathered on his brow, then closed his eyes and visualized the beads slowly beginning to glow with a red light. He felt the tingle of spiritual energy rising from deep within himself-and remembered something else about the exchange between Beort and Mag’r. The moment the youthful giant had described the glow as bright, the sachem had realized that something was wrong.

After softening the red glow in his mind, Agis shook his head to release the beads of sweat on his brow. They plunged into the pit, and as they passed into its black depths, they began to flicker with a scarlet light so faint it was almost imperceptible.

Without a word, Mag’r clambered into the pit and began to climb down. Agis waited until the sachem had descended past the narrow neck where Fylo had been impaled, then began twisting his good arm back and forth within its rope bonds. He managed to open up enough space to twist his hand around and grab Tithian’s satchel.

Pausing just long enough to make sure he had a secure grip, Agis pointed the mouth of the sack at one of the crystal shards still protruding from the side of the pit. A faint stream of glimmering energy poured out of the sack. As soon as it touched its target, the milky color faded from the crystal. The shard slowly expanded along the rim of the pit, its limpid edges reaching out to connect with the adjacent pieces.

As the shards connected with each other, the lid seemed to draw more energy from the satchel, and the crystal restored itself at an ever-increasing pace. Still, the process seemed to take forever, and Agis began to worry that Mag’r would discover his error before the pit sealed itself.

At last, the final sections of the lid connected to each other and formed a complete ring around the edge of the pit. About the same time, a muffled roar of rage rumbled out of the hole, and Agis knew that the sachem had reached the bottom. A distant rattle began to echo up from the pit, presumably as Mag’r angrily searched through the ancient bones covering the floor. It was followed a moment later by the vicious shrieks and roars of wild animals, and the giant’s pained howls began to echo up from the depths of the abyss.

Mag’r’s voice began to grow louder, and the noble knew that his captor was climbing up from the depths. Agis watched helplessly as the crystal ring expanded inward, closing the pit’s entrance at the pace of a stone-worm. Soon, the sachem’s curses became intelligible as he swore at the animal spirits pursuing him. The opening to the pit remained large enough for an angry Joorsh to push through, and there seemed no possibility that it would close in time to save Agis.

“You’ll die slow, you little trickster!”

Through the opening below, Agis could see the giant’s plump head weaving its way up through a tangle of crystals just a few yards below the lid. The sachem’s eyes were burning with hatred, and a pale swarm of bones was swirling around his ankles. Mag’r thrust one, then two hands through the opening and tried to pull himself out.

His hands began to pass back through the crystal, much as Agis and his companions had sunk through it earlier. Mag’r cried out in alarm, trying to move his hands so he could renew his grip on a more solid surface. His efforts were in vain, for his fingers were already caught deep inside the crystal.

“Brace your feet, or you’ll fall and end up like Fylo!” Agis called. “Then be patient. One of your warriors is bound to find you sooner or later.”

Mag’r did not take the noble’s advice, choosing to glare up at him instead. “You’ll never leave the island!” he hissed. “My warriors-”

The giant’s hands passed through the bottom side of the cover, bringing an abrupt end to the threat. Mag’r plummeted into the darkness, his screams ringing off the walls of the abyss. A moment later, his voice fell abruptly silent as the crystal lid sealed the opening through which he had tried to climb.

The sound had barely died away when a familiar, antagonistic voice sounded from Fylo’s direction. “Well done. I didn’t think you were that smart,” said Wyan, rising into view from behind the unconscious half-breed. He began to drift toward Agis, his eyes fixed on the stream of shimmering energy pouring from the mouth of Tithian’s satchel. “Am I to take it that it was the Oracle’s power that sealed the pit?”