The Time of the Dark

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Be still. Let your mind be silent. See nothing but the flames.” The hypnotic smoothness of Ingold’s voice filled Rudy’s mind as he stared at the brightness of the Guards’ campfire by which he sat. He tried to push aside his own chasing thoughts, his fatigue and need for sleep, and his wondering about the White Raiders he thought he’d glimpsed, dogging the line of march. He tried to think of nothing but the fire, to see nothing but the little cluster of sticks, transfigured by the flames and heat. He found that the less he tried to think of something, the stronger it crowded back.

“Relax,” Ingold said softly. “Don’t worry about anything for the time being. Only look at the fire and breathe.”

The wizard turned away to speak to a middle-aged woman who’d appeared on the edge of the Guards’ encampment with a sickly-looking young boy in tow.

Doggedly, Rudy tried to obey his last instructions. The cold, overcast daylight was fading out of the sky again, the eighth day from Karst. Voices bickered distantly along the line of the road as thin rations were handed out. Far off he heard the castanet-click of wooden practice swords and the harsh bark of Gnift’s sarcasm blistering his exhausted students. Somewhere he heard Alde singing and Tir’s little crowing voice joining in, making baby sounds of joy. A feeling went through him such as he’d never known before, a desperate tangle of yearning and relief and affection, and it distracted him hopelessly from the matter at hand.

He glanced up. Ingold was sitting on his heels, looking gravely into the sick youngster’s dutifully opened mouth, then into his eyes and ears. The mother wore that harried, angry look so common in the refugee train now. She was looking away, pretending she hadn’t brought her son to an old excommunicate wizard; but her eyes slid back to the child, anxious and afraid. There were doctors in the West of the World who were not wizards, but few of them had survived the coming of the Dark. Those few who moved south with the convoy had their hands full, between sickness and exposure, fatigue and starvation; people were not as fastidious about going to a wizard for help as they had once been.

Ingold stood up and spoke briefly to the woman, his hand resting on the boy’s dark, ruffled hair. When they had gone, he turned back to Rudy and raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

Rudy shrugged helplessly. “What am I supposed to be looking for?” he asked.

Ingold’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing. Just look at the fire. See how it shapes itself.”

“I have looked,” Rudy protested. “And all I see is fire.”

“And what,” Ingold asked tartly, “did you expect to see?”

“Uh—I mean—” Rudy was conscious of having missed the boat somewhere but wasn’t sure where. “I see you watch the fire every night and I know for sure you aren’t just watching wood burn.”

“No,” the wizard said. “And when you’ve been a wizard for fifty years, maybe you’ll see more than that, also. You must love things wholly for their own sake, Rudy, before they will give themselves to you.”

“Sometimes I just don’t understand,” Rudy said much later to Alde, when she’d slipped away from her wagon to sit in the warmth of their shared cloak. “I feel that I should understand all this stuff, but I don’t. I don’t even know what I don’t know—I feel as if I’ve been dumped in the ocean and I’m trying to swim, but it’s a million miles deep. I don’t even know how deep it is.” He shook his head. “It’s crazy. A month ago—” He broke off, unable to explain to this girl, who had grown up knowing kings and mages, that a month ago he would have laughed at anyone claiming to possess such powers.

Her body moved closer to him, her breath a little white mist in the air. Due to the narrowness of the canyons through which the road now wound, the lines of watch fires lay only a dozen paces from the edges of the sleeping convoy, hemmed in by the shoulders of the mountains whose heads were hidden behind towering promontories of granite, furred over with the black of the pine forest. Now and then that day, Rudy had been able to catch glimpses of the higher peaks of the Rampart Range of the Big Snowies gouging the clouds like broken teeth. But mostly he was conscious of the forerunners of that looming range, and the way they overlooked the turnings of the road and hid what lay beyond.

Alde’s voice was comforting. “If the water’s a million miles deep or only six feet, all you have to do is to keep your head above it,” she said. “For an outlander, you’re doing well.” And her arm tightened around his waist.

He grinned at her and returned the pressure gently. “For an outlander, I’m doing fantastic,” he said. He shifted his arm around her shoulders to look at the tattoo on his wrist.

Alde noticed the movement and looked, too, “What’s that for?” she asked.

He chuckled. “Just thinking. A girl I knew used to tease me about my tattoo. That’s my name on the banner there across the torch. She used to say I got it so I could remember who I was, if I ever forgot.”

“And do you need to be reminded?”

He looked out for a moment into the bitter stillness of the alien night, then up to the great, burning stars. His ears caught the distant howling of wolves. All the scents of the looming mountains came to him, shrub and pine, rock and water. The long hilt of the killing sword lying close by his right hand reflected the dim sheen of firelight, as did the braided hair of the woman curled, warm and fragile as a captive bird, in the circle of his other arm. He remembered, as if in an old legend, a sunburned California youth in a garish pachuco jacket, painting vans in a body shop. About the only thing they had in common, he reflected, was the tattoo.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, sometimes I do.”

“I know what you feel,” she murmured. “Sometimes I think I need reminding myself.”

“What was it like,” he asked, “to be Queen?”

She was so long silent that he was afraid he had hurt her by asking. But looking over at her face, profiled against the dim rose-amber of the fire, he saw in her eyes instead a kind of dreamy nostalgia, of memories whose beauty overrode their pain.

“It was very beautiful,” she said at last. “I remember—dancing, and the hall all lit with candles, the way the flames would all ripple in unison with the movement of the ladies’ dresses. The smell of the warm nights, lemonflowers and spice perfumes, coming up-river on the royal barge and the water stairs of the Palace all lit like a jewelbox, golden in the darkness. Having my own household, my own gardens, the freedom to do what I wanted.” She rested her head against his shoulder, the looped braids that bound her hair as smooth as satin under his jaw and gleaming like ebony. “Maybe it would have been the same, no matter whom I married,” she went on softly. “Maybe it wasn’t so much being Queen as having my own place to be.” Her voice was wistful. “I’m really a very happy person, you know. All I want is to take life as it comes, to be at peace, with small things, small joys. I’m not really a stubborn, bloodthirsty hellion … “

“Oh, yes, you are,” he teased her, holding her close. She raised her eyes to his reproachfully. “And I love you anyway. Maybe I love you because of it. I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t think there is any why in love. I just do.”

Her arms tightened convulsively around his ribs, and she turned her face away, burying it in his shoulder. After a moment he realized that she was crying.

“Hey … ” He turned under the weight of the cloak and stroked her shivering shoulders tenderly. “Hey, you can’t cry on guard duty.” The cloak slithered down as he raised his hands and caressed her bowed head with its gleaming, twisted braids. “Hey, what is it, Alde?”

“It’s nothing,” she whispered, and began wiping futilely at her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s just that nobody ever said that to me before. I’m sorry, I won’t be stupid like this again.” She fumbled at the fallen cloak, her face averted and wet with tears.

Rudy caught her firmly under the chin, forced her head up, and kissed her gently on the mouth. Her lips tasted of salt. “I can’t believe that,” he murmured.

She sniffled and swiped at her eyes with her arm in a child’s gesture. “It’s true.”

Rudy’s voice was soft. “What about Eldor?”

At that her eyes filled again, the tears making them seem fever-brilliant in the soft, glowing light of the watch fire. For a moment she could only gaze helplessly at him, unable to speak.

“I’m sorry,” Rudy said. So much had happened, he had forgotten how short a time it had been.

She sighed and relaxed in his hold, as if something had gone out of her, a tension whose very pain had kept her strong. “No,” she said softly. “No, it’s all right. I loved Eldor. I loved him from the time I was a little girl. He had a magic that drew people, a vitality, a splendor. You noticed even the simplest things he did, as if they had a kind of significance that no one else could match. He became King when I was ten.” She bowed her head, as if under the weight of memories impossible either to accept or to withstand. Wordlessly, Rudy took her back into the circle of his arm and drew the cloak up over her shoulders to cut out the icy air of the night. In those black cliffs above the road, the wolves were howling again, the full-throated chorus of the pack at the kill, distant and faint in the darkness.

“I remember standing on the balcony of our townhouse in Gae, the day he rode to his coronation.” The murmur of her voice was hardly louder than the soughing of the pines above the road and the crackle of the fire. She was a dreamer reliving a dream. “He’d been in exile—he was always in and out of favor with his father. It was a hot day in full summer, and the cheering in the streets was so loud you could barely hear the music of the procession. He was like a god, like a shining knight out of a legend, a royal prince of flame and darkness. Later he came to our house to go hunting with Alwir or to see him on some matters of the Realm, and I was so afraid of him I could barely speak. I think I would have died for him, if he had asked.”

Rudy saw her, a shy, skinny little girl, all dark-blue eyes and black pigtails, in the crimson gown of a daughter of the House of Bes, hiding behind the curtains in the hall to watch her tall, suave brother and that dark, brilliant King walk by. He was barely aware that he spoke aloud. “So you always loved him.”

That same small smile of self-mockery folded into the corner of her mouth. “Oh, I was always falling in and out of love in those days. For six months I had a terrible crush on Janus of Weg. But this was—different. Yes, I always loved him. But when Alwir finally arranged the marriage, I found out that—that loving someone desperately doesn’t always mean that he’ll love you back.”

And Rudy said again, “I’m sorry.” He meant it, though he saw now that the dead King’s ghost would always be his rival. She had loved so much, it was monstrous that she should be hurt by not having that love returned.

Silently the pressure of her hand in his thanked him, “He was so—distant,” she said after a time, when she had regained control of her voice. “So cold. After we were married, I seldom saw him—not because he hated me, I think, but because—for weeks at a time I don’t think he even remembered he was married. Looking back, I suppose I should have seen that that brilliance of his was so impersonal, but—it was too late, anyway.” She shrugged, the gesture belied by the quaver in her voice, and she wiped her eyes again. “And the worst of it is that I still love him.”

To that there was no possible reply. There was only physical tenderness, the closeness of another human being, and the reassurance that he was there and would not leave her. Against him, he felt her struggle to control her sobs and eventually grow still, forcing living grief back into its proper sphere of memory. He asked, “So Alwir arranged your marriage, too?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, in a small but perfectly steady voice. “Alwir knew I loved him, but I don’t think that was the reason. He wanted the House of Bes allied to the Royal House; he wanted his nephew to be High King. I don’t think he’d have forced me into it if there had been someone else, but since there wasn’t—Alwir is like that; he’s very calculating. He knew he would be made Chancellor after we were married. He’s always doing things with two intentions.”

You’re telling me, sweetheart.

“But for all that,” she went on, “he’s been very, very good to me. Underneath that gleaming edifice of sartorial splendor,” she declaimed, half-jestingly, “there really does lurk a great deal of love.”

Oh, yeah? Love of what?

He had realized that in Alwir’s case, there was no such thing as Love of whom.

From her watch fire in the darkness, Gil saw Alde stand up, wrap the soft bulk of her black fur cloak tighter around her, and make her way cautiously down the stony ridge of land back toward the dark silhouette of her wagon against the lighted camp. Gil was apprehensive, for the night seemed to her to prickle with evil, and she wondered how the silly girl could ever have left her child, even with the camp guards there, to go play pattyfingers in the dark with Rudy Solis. Gil was a woman who did not love, and her feelings toward those who did were a mixture of sympathy, curiosity, and occasionally a longing that she would not admit to. Ordinarily she would not have cared whether Rudy and the widowed Queen held hands and talked or engaged in al fresco orgies. But tonight was different—tonight she felt the presence of the Dark, that watchful malice she had fell lurking in the stygian mazes of the vaults at Gae, that chaotic, abhuman intelligence, so close to her that, despite the fire at her back, she was always turning her head to see if it were standing at her elbow.

At midnight one of Alwir’s troopers relieved her, a big, solid young man in a red uniform much patched and stained. She saw Rudy turn his post over to one of the Red Monks and descend the ridge toward the camp. From the darkness where she stood, halfway between camp and ridge, Gil watched him double back through the shadows of the wagons and slip quietly over the tailboard of the one that bore the banners of the House of Dare.

Gil sighed and started back for the campfire of the Guards. But, like a dog, she scented wrongness in the windshifting darkness. She kept looking out into the night that lay beyond the amber glow of the camp lights, feeling, like a cold and heavy hand, the threat of impending doom.

Most of the Guards were already asleep when she returned to their camp, rolled in their blankets and lost in the swift, hard sleep of physical exhaustion. Only one man was awake, sitting by the small glow of the fire like a weathered rock, somehow giving the impression that he had been there from the beginning of time. She’d seen him sitting thus night after night, when he wasn’t patrolling the perimeters of the camp. She could not remember when she had last seen him sleep.

Gil hunkered quietly down at his side. “What do you see?”

The wizard shifted his eyes from the blaze, light catching in the shadowy seams of his face as he smiled. “Nothing of any moment.” The small motion of his fingers took in the louring silence of the night. “Nothing to explain—this.”

“You feel it, too,” she said softly, and he nodded.

“We should reach the Keep in as little as three days,” he said. “Last night I felt this, dimly and far off. Tonight it’s much worse. Yet for three nights now there has been no report of the Dark anywhere along the line of march.”

Gil locked her hands around her drawn-up knees and looked at the muted light flickering over her bruised and swollen fingers, reddened with cold. “Is there a Nest in this part of the mountains?” she asked.

“Only the one I spoke of once to Janus. It’s an old Nest, long ago blocked. Night after night, I’ve sought it in the fire and seen no sign that it has ever been touched. Yet night after night I look again.” He nodded toward the small fire. “I can see it now. It lies in a broad, shallow-sided valley, maybe twenty miles from here. I can see the foundation lying at the very back of the vale, slanting upward against the cliffs; the valley itself is crowded with foliage; filled with heat and darkness.” A log broke in the fire and the scattering embers threaded his face with light.

“The place lies always under a kind of shadow. No reflection of sky or stars touches that polished stone. And in the middle of that darkness, like the mouth of a tomb, there is the deeper darkness of the entrance itself. But I can see that it is blocked, and the heaped earth and rock there are covered over with straggling weeds.”

Staring into the fire, Gil could see nothing—only the play of colors, topaz and rose and citrine, and the curling heat shivering over the rocks that enclosed the pit, revealing, like frost-traceries, the ghostly patterns of fossil ferns printed in the fabric of the rock. But his rusty voice put the images in her mind, the way the darkness clotted in those too-thickly twined trees, the stirring in the shadows of the mountain that no wind could account for. The sense of eldritch horror was latent in the whispering night.

“I don’t like it,” Gil said softly.

“Neither do I,” Ingold replied. “I don’t trust that vision, Gil. We are three days from the Keep. The Dark must make their attempt, and make it soon.”

“Can we go there?”

He raised his head and looked around him at the silent, sleeping camp. Clouds were building above the mountains, killing the stars; it seemed as if deeper darkness were settling over the land. “I don’t see,” he said, “that we have any choice.”

The Dark were all around them. Gil could feel them, sense their presence in the still, sour miasma that overlay the daylight. She stopped on the edge of one of the innumerable tangled woods that snarled the valley like the thick-grown webs of monstrous spiders, looking northward on the rising slant of that unholy land, and found herself firmly repeating in her heart that it was broad daylight and she was with Ingold.

But she knew they were there.

The climb had been an easy one. Too easy, she caught herself thinking—an odd thing to think. The broad, round, shallow-walled valley through which Ingold had led her most of the morning was smooth-floored, with an easy grade that would have made considerably better walking than the road below, were it not so badly overgrown. The wind that had tormented them on the long miles down from Karst was cut off here. The walls of the canyon, cliffs marching steadily back toward a tumbled pile of talus slopes and the sudden, dark ramparts of sky-gouging peaks, protected the place. In their shelter the air was warmer than she had encountered anywhere in the West of the World. But, though she was warm now for the first time in days, Gil found that the valley disconcerted her. The woods were too thick to be healthy, the air was too heavy, and the ground was too even underfoot. The clumps of dark, sullen trees that scattered the broad length of the valley seemed to hem her in with a labyrinth of shadow, guarding beneath their entangling boughs thin shreds of a night that never lifted.

“They’re here,” she whispered. “I know they are.”

Beside her, all but invisible in the shadows of the trees, Ingold nodded. Though it was not long after noon, the akin this valley seemed to play tricks with the sunlight. The thickness of the atmosphere dragged on Gil’s lungs and, she had thought once or twice, on her mind as well.

“Can they be a danger to us even by daylight?”

“We know very little about the Dark, my dear,” Ingold replied quietly. “All power has its limits, and we have seen that the power of the Dark grows with their numbers. We walk on a layer of ice that covers the depths of Hell. Tread carefully.” Drawing his hood over his face, he moved forward, a wraith in the vaporous, leaden air.

As they climbed the valley, this sense that they were tampering in evil far beyond human ken grew upon her. There was something hellishly symmetrical about the valley, some persistent wrongness in the geology of the crowding, stratified rock of the cliffs that whispered warnings to Gil’s mind. The land under their feet smoothed its way up over a great fault that cut the valley in half, with wild grape and a particularly tough-fibered species of ivy tangling over the break and the natural causeway that bridged it. Fossils Gil had seen on the stones of last night’s campfire repeated themselves, peeking from broken rock—huge ferns, long-fingered marine weed, and the crawling things of times long past, trilobite and brachiopod, imprinted forever in the stamp of the slate. The ground seemed leveled by the passing feet of millions, hard as an ancient roadbed among its pathless labyrinth of crowding trees.

Ingold paused and turned to check their backtrail for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Gil rubbed her aching eyes; she had snatched a few hours of sleep before setting out from the camp before dawn, but the lack of it was beginning to tell. Not, she reflected wryly, that she had gotten whole bunches of that particular commodity since this trail drive started. Some anomaly in the lay of the ground caught her attention, a stream bed that did not lie as it ought, a formation of rocks …

Looking back, she found she was alone. Momentary panic seized her. Even a few weeks ago she would have thrown caution to the winds and yelled for Ingold, even on the very doormat of the Dark. But living like a winter wolf and associating with the Icefalcon had altered her reactions, and she stood perfectly still, scanning the too regular landscape.

A hand touched her shoulder and she swung around. Ingold caught her wrist as her sword was half out of its scabbard. “Where did you go?” she whispered.

The wizard frowned. “I didn’t go anywhere.” His hand still on her wrist, he looked around them doubtfully.

“You sure as hell weren’t here a minute ago.”

“Hmm.” He scratched thoughtfully at his scrubby beard. “Wait here,” he said finally, “and watch me.” With these words he released Gil’s arm and walked away, his feet making barely a sound in the knee-deep jungles of undergrowth. Gil tried her best to watch him. Tired as she was with the weariness that seemed to have settled around her bones, she was certain she hadn’t moved or shut her eyes. But somehow she lost sight of the wizard, in open ground, in the sunlight, without an inch of cover in yards.

She blinked and rubbed her eyes again. There was something, she thought, in the air of this place, some foulness, an invisible game of blindman’s bluff. Then she looked back and saw Ingold standing about twenty feet off at the end of the track of flattened ivy, as if he had always been there. As he came back to her, she had no trouble following his movements.

Gil shook her head. “I don’t understand.” She hitched her cloak up on her shoulder, a gesture that was quickly becoming automatic, like straightening her sword belt. Always before, the cloak had never provided quite enough protection from the cold, but in this place, with its stifling air, it seemed hot and heavy. She was acutely aware of the wrongness of this place. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“I’m afraid I do,” Ingold said slowly. “The power of the Dark is strong here, very strong. It seems to be interfering with the cloaking spell I’ve had over both of us, which is a pity, because that probably means I’ll have to dispense with it.”

“You mean,” Gil said in surprise, “we’ve been under a spell all along?”

“Oh, yes.” He smiled at her startled face. “I’ve been keeping a number of spells on the convoy all the way down from Karst. Mostly ward and guard, aversion and protection. They wouldn’t hold back a concerted attack, but they have served to deflect random misfortune.”

She flushed, annoyed at herself. “I never knew that.”

“Of course not. It’s the mark of a good mage that he’s never seen doing anything at all.” She glanced suspiciously at him to see if he were teasing her, but he seemed perfectly serious—as serious as Ingold ever looked.

“But would a—a cloaking spell protect us from the Dark in the first place?”

“Probably not here in their own valley,” Ingold replied casually. “But the White Raiders have been following us since we left the road. If the cloaking spell is unreliable, we’re going to have a devil of a time getting back.”

They reached the place in mid-afternoon. Gil felt it from afar, horror coalescing in her veins. She knew without being told that this was the place that Ingold had seen reflected in the depths of the fire. The ground was unnaturally even, tipped at a steep angle, with a great slanting slab of basalt jammed into the foundations of the mountain behind it, its farther end rising like the hull of a heeled wreck; one corner was buried in the valley floor as if driven there by some unspeakable cataclysm lost in the abysses of time. The slanted angle showed how deep the slab was founded; though it had been displaced upward a good thirty feet, there was no sign of bottom. And in the midst of it gaped the black hole of its stairway, the plunging road down into the chasm of the Dark.

The stairway was open. Little trace of the earth and rock Ingold had seen in the shadow image of the fire remained anywhere near that hideous gulf. A great scattering of stones, like the fan-trail of a volcanic spew, littered the slope below, but Gil could see from the way the clutching, ubiquitous weeds grew over them that the stones had been blown from that hole many years since. Still she picked one up. On its side, she could see the dry ghost of a lush, obscene orchid, frozen in some primeval swamp a million years ago and fragmented by the violence of that ancient blast. Ingold, too, was examining the wide-flung pattern of the stones, working his way methodically toward the crazily tilted pavement and the hole that yawned like a silent scream at the day.

He paused at the place where the rank, overgrown ground ended and the black pavement began. Gil saw him stoop to pick up a stone and stand in thought for a moment, turning it over in his hands. Then he stepped cautiously onto the slick, canted surface of the stone and began his careful climb toward the stairway itself.

Though her whole being shrank from it, as it had on that other pavement in the vaults at Gae, Gil followed him. She struggled through the foliage that clung with such perverted persistence to her feet, scrambled up after the wizard onto the tilted pavement, and saw, ahead of her, Ingold pause to wait, his shadow lying small and leaden around his feet. Seen under the light of day, naked to the sky, the sheer size of the pavement awed her; from the corner buried in the weed-choked earth to the corner tilted upward and buried in the out-thrust knee of the mountain, it must have measured close to seven hundred feet. In its midst Ingold seemed very small and exposed. It was a tricky scramble up the smooth incline; when she reached his side, Gil was panting in the gluey, breathless air.

“So we were right,” Ingold said softly. “The vision was a lie.”

Below them stretched the stairway, open to the winds. A cool drift of damp air seemed to rise from it, making Gil’s sweat-matted hair prickle on the back of her neck. There was nothing now between them and the Dark except the presence of the sun, and she glanced at the sky quickly, as if fearing to see the gathering of clouds.

“So what can we do?”

“Rejoin the convoy as quickly as possible. We do not yet know what they plan, but at least we know the direction of the attack. And in any case, it may be possible to thwart them and cover Tir’s retreat to the Keep.”

Gil glanced across at him. “How?”

“Something Rudy said once. If we—”

He broke off and caught her by the wrist. Gil followed the direction of his eyes along the smooth, tangled floor of the vale and spotted a stirring in the dark woods near one of those queer formations of black stone that dotted the valley. A movement was quickly lost to sight, but Gil knew what it was. There was only one thing that it could be.

She asked, “Have they seen us?”

“Doubtless. Though I should be surprised if they came any closer.” Balancing himself carefully with his staff, Ingold began his cautious descent from the ramplike pavement, with Gil edging gingerly behind. When they reached the ground, Ingold scanned the valley again, but could see nothing further. “Which doesn’t mean anything, of course,” he said, turning to walk along the rising edge of the pavement. “Just because you don’t see White Raiders doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

“So what are we going to do?”

Ingold pointed with his staff toward the narrowing maze of crevices and hanging valleys at the end of the vale of the Dark, a great ruinous confusion of old avalanche scars, split and faulted from the rock. “There should be a way up there,” he said calmly, pausing in the vine-entangled shadows of the seamless black wall.

“You’re kidding,” Gil said, aghast.

“I never kid, my dear.” He started off up the talus slope.

Gil stayed where she was for a time, watching him disappear up the curve of the land. The ground rose and buckled oddly around the featureless wall of the black foundation, but whatever upheaval had disrupted it had been so long ago that the geology of the valley had settled around it. That in itself bothered Gil—the thing was so old, so incredibly old. Eons had rolled by since some arcane power had founded it here, so that the very shape of the lands and seas had changed. More fossils caught her eyes. My God, she thought, this place was a tropical swamp when this was wrought. How long have the Dark Ones inhabited the earth, anyway?

Who could ever tell, since they didn’t have a bone in their floating plasmoid bodies? And yet they had intelligence, the intelligence to sink shafts, to build these dark pavements at their heads and have them endure for millennia with very little appearance of decay. They were intelligent enough to work their own kind of magic, different from the nature of human magic, ungraspable by any human brain. They were intelligent enough to keep tabs on the convoy, to know where Tir was, and to know why he had to be put out of the way.

Arms folded, Gil stood for a while in the lengthening shadows and meditated on the Dark.

After a time she looked up and saw Ingold again, appearing and disappearing among the twisted confusion of boulders and huddled trees at the end of the valley. Some primordial cataclysm had broken the side of one of the guardian peaks of the valley, leaving a wilderness of split granite and bottomless chasms, and time had overlaid the ruin with plant life grown far too large for the vertical rocks. The result reminded her vaguely of a Chinese painting, with full-size trees sprouting unconcernedly from the sides of cliffs. But this was messier, fouler, darker; here dead trunks had fallen to rot in gullies bristling with dead white spikes below the crumbly footing above. She could see Ingold’s brown mantle shifting along impossibly narrow rock ledges high on the faces of those cliffs,

Ingold saw her looking and paused, flattened to the rock behind him. “Come up,” he called down to her, his voice echoing faintly among the rocks. “There’s a trail.”

What the hell, Gil sighed. You only die once.

Gil had never liked heights. Scrambling over the treacherous footing, she envied the wizard his six-foot staff, for in places the ledges narrowed to inches, and in others cascades of vines sprawled over the trail and masked any hint of the footing underneath. She found herself backtracking a dozen times, scrupulously avoiding looking up or down or anywhere but at her own scratched hands when a promising ledge petered out or a slit between two huge rock faces became too narrow to be passed, or too choked with rotting foliage that could house any number of creatures less Lovecraftian, but certainly as deadly, as the Dark. She wondered if there were rattlesnakes in this world—or, for that matter, poisonous snakes without rattles.

She finally caught up with him in the mouth of a dark slit in the rocks, after a precipitous scramble around the convex face of a boulder on a ledge over a nightmare maw of tangled thorn and broken stone. She was sweating and gasping in the afternoon heat and fighting for balance on the sandy, crumbling ground. The shift of the sun over the backbone of the Rampart Range had thrown the chasm into deep shadow. Ingold was barely visible but for the pale blur of face and beard and the bright glitter of his eyes.

“Very good, my dear,” he greeted her mildly. “We shall make a mountain climber of you yet.”

“The hell you will,” she gasped, and looked back down behind her. If there was any kind of trail she’d come up, she was damned if she could see it now.

“We should be able to follow this chasm up toward the top of that ridge there,” he went on, pointing. “Once over the ridge, we should be nearly to the snow line and, I believe, out of reach of the Dark for the time being. With luck, we should be able to pick up another trail on the other side that will lead us down to the Vale of Renweth, and hence to the Keep of Dare.”

Gil calculated the distance as well as she could in the deceptive clarity of the mountain air. They seemed to have climbed above the drifting haze of the valley; things seemed blindingly clear up here, and the slanting shadows altered the apparent positions of peak and ridge. “I don’t think we’ll make it by dark,” she stated doubtfully.

“Oh, I don’t either,” Ingold agreed. “But we can hardly spend the night in the valley.”

Gil sighed resignedly. “You have a point there.”

The wizard jabbed his staff cautiously at the loose rock hiding the foot of the trail, and a boulder curtsied perilously, sending a little stream of gravel and sand down across their feet and over the edge of the trail. Muttering to himself about the advisability of taking along a rope next time, coupled with imprecations against the unseen Raiders in the valley below, he began to scout cautiously for an alternate route. While he did so, Gil turned to look back over the cliff, appalled anew at the suicidal ascent she’d just made. Her gaze wandered to the valley below them and was held there by a queer, cold feeling of shock.

“Ingold,” she called quietly. “Come and look at this.”

Something in the note of her voice brought him scrambling and sliding to her side. “What is it?”

She pointed. “Look. Look out there. What do you see?”

Viewed from above and behind, the land wore a different aspect, the angle of the sunlight westering on the mountains changing the perspective of that darkness-haunted place. From here the symmetry was obvious, the nuclei of the long-overgrown woods lying in some kind of pattern whose geometry was just beyond the range of human comprehension, the stream beds following courses that held the echoes of perverted regularity. The clinging mats of the ubiquitous vines took on a curious appearance from this angle, the shifts in their color and thickness disquietingly suggestive. Almost directly below them the great rectangle of pavement lay, and its position relative to the anomalous mounds of black stone that thrust through the foliage became suddenly, shockingly, clear to a woman trained in the rudiments of archaeology.

Ingold frowned, staring down at the distorted counterpane beneath them. “It’s almost—almost as if there were a city here at one time. But there never was, not in human history.” His eye and finger traced the mathematical obscenity of a curved shadow in the weeds, the queerly obtuse angles faintly visible in the half-hinted relationships between stream and stone. “What causes that? It’s as if the vines grow thinner in places … “

“Buried foundations,” Gil softly replied. “From the looks of it, foundations so deeply buried that they leave barely a trace. The trees are more stunted on that line because their roots cannot go so deep. Look, see the line of that stream? And yet—” She paused, confused. “It looks so planned, so regular, but it’s not like any city I’ve ever seen. There’s a layout—you can see that in the angle of the sunlight—but the layout’s all wrong.”

“Of course,” the wizard said mildly. “There are no streets.”

Their eyes met. The meaning of this came to her slowly, like a whisper from incomprehensible gulfs of time.

“Come,” Ingold said. “This is no place for us to remain once the sun has gone in.”