13
The red gleam of torchlight flickered through the leaves ahead as she crawled along behind Paulo. To her right was Baraccus, and beyond him, she knew, was the Blue Triad.
From the clearing ahead came the wordless blend of soft wailing that was almost, but not quite, singing. It swirled in the air around them, raising her hackles and lifting the fine hairs along her arms.
The sound stopped, followed by a burst of laughter that seemed jarringly loud.
Ali's whisper, painfully clear, floated through the dark. "I am not looking at this. I have seen this before and I do not want to see it again, thank you very much, it was very bad…."
She hoped one of the others would hush him, but just then the brush before them thinned. She flattened herself and reached out to push the screen of vegetation aside. When her eyes fell on the clearing before her, she stopped hearing Ali.
Nearby, someone said, "My God," in a thin voice, and she felt like echoing them.
The surrounding trees were thick, and the moon had not yet risen high enough to light the clearing, but a blend of firelight and magelight revealed the scene in all its starkness. There was no stink of corruption, but death was everywhere, hovering in the air, dripping like blood from the trees, oozing like smoke from the shadows.
The witches filled the clearing, talking in low tones, laughing, or raising their faces to the sky to croon their eerie, tuneless moaning. And almost every face was one she knew.
Lily swirled by, laughing, a cup in her outstretched hand, her dress pulled from her snowy shoulders. Behind her came Ankh, like a tail after a comet, his face oddly grave despite his dancing steps. The smith — a beautiful young man with long, brown hair — laughed as he embraced two young women, one of whom helped in the kitchens of the Roan Horse Inn; the other was one of Galen's guards. The smith poured his drink into their red, waiting mouths by turn, spilling it down their nearly naked bosoms. The liquid was red and thick, and didn't look at all like wine.
Across the way, a male Sobaka, two Elves, one of whom Ton-Kel had seen about town, and a human — the messenger who had called them to rescue the Blue Triad — sat on and around a pair of crude drums, swaying as if drunk while they hammered out a broken rhythm and fed one another bits from a wooden platter. A huge Koshka reclined in the center, tearing hunks off a meat-laden bone he gripped in one hand, and occasionally roaring with laughter.
Around the very edge of the clearing, standing half in shadow, stood Galen's new guards. They neither moved nor spoke, but stared straight ahead as if entranced. Which they probably were.
Circling the clearing like a fence were poles, thrust into the ground. Though some held torches or glowed with mage light, most supported severed heads.
The head on the post in front of Ton-Kel was small and furry, with a vaguely human face frozen in a permanent mask of horror.
Another was that of a unicorn, uncorrupted and perfect despite the smeared blood that had dried on it, staining its beautiful white horn and matting its beard.
A firedrake's head decorated the next post, the long tongue falling limply from the gaping mouth.
There were several that she knew must be boggies, though they appeared far more human than the creatures she'd seen in the swamps; only the fern leaves intermixed with their matted hair, the moss growing in their eyebrows or beards, gave them away.
Skulls — human, animal, other — lay piled on the ground in places.
Ton-Kel turned her head slowly. At one end of the clearing was something that could only be an altar; large rocks stacked upon one another and covered with a stained plank on which rested a vaguely man-shaped lump of red and white that gleamed wetly in the firelight.
On either side, huge upright stones towered like pillars. A long, flat rock of immense size appeared to hover in the air above them, not quite reaching either side.
She did not try to puzzle out the illusion, because Alfred was standing before the altar, facing into the clearing — and beside him was Galen.
She didn't want to look at him, but found her gaze drawn there with a blend of loathing and fascination. The sleeves of his brown uniform were rolled up, his arms, resting on the handle of his blood-smeared axe, were red-stained, but otherwise he looked much as he had the last time she'd seen him.
She wondered that he looked so normal. Somehow, she'd expected to see the monster she now knew lurked under the surface. But he appeared less fiendish than simply restless.
He watched the antics of the other witches now and then, but his eyes always returned to Alfred.
Ton-Kel, too, turned her attention to the man she'd so far discounted.
Alfred wore a long, grey robe spattered with blood, and his eyes gleamed like an animal's from beneath his shaggy brows. In his hands he held a large goblet of blue and green glass, red dribbling down the sides. On the altar behind him stood another.
She realized with a shock that she was looking at the Earth Cup — no, the Chalice of Truth — being used for a purpose too vile for such beauty. She had seen that beauty, unmarred and perfect, sitting in plain sight in the back of the bar, the two halves united as a globe.
Alfred's eyes followed his dancing wife and her lover, but his expression was not that of a jealous husband. His blood-stained lips wore a smile of satisfaction, as if his wife's conquest pleased him on some profound level.
Lily had called the Chalice a gift.
A gift.
I didn't think she'd settle for someone like Alfred. But she decided to marry him, Galen had said.
The significance of what she was seeing crashed over her, stunning her. Alfred — Alfred was the leader of the witches? Ton-Kel felt dizzy as all her assumptions rearranged themselves. Alfred the invisible, Alfred the unspeaking, the inconsequential — Alfred the mastermind?
But it made a horrible kind of sense. How much easier to keep his secret, hiding in the background while others obeyed his commands? How else could someone like Alfred claim the young, beautiful Lily for his own but by magic, controlling her — and through her, her brother?
How long had he worked for this, Ton-Kel wondered? Had Alfred yearned for such power before Lily came to Westmere? Or had all this horror started with something as simple as a man's lust for a woman beyond his reach?
As Ton-Kel struggled with the concept, Alfred stepped away from the altar, giving her an unobstructed view of the poles on either side, and she sucked in her breath.
Nayir's head topped the nearer. His eyes were open in an expression of surprised protest. His hair had been pulled from its queue and hung white as moonlight around his face, making him look lost and very young.
Beside her, Paulo moved nearer. "Look at the other one."
She tore her eyes from the face of one she'd known to the face of a stranger on the other pole; a plump, older woman whose brown hair hung lank and matted with dried blood. Her eyes were closed, her face showing less fear than grief. "The Green Fey," she whispered.
"No — the other one."
Ton-Kel pulled her gaze from the grisly trophies and finally focused on what she'd taken for a firelit shadow, lying on the ground at the far side of the altar.
The pile of red cloth moved and a dark head rose. The face of Philemon van der Beck was nearly as colorless as Nayir's under the smears of dirt, but he still lived, his eyes glittering with terror above the gag that covered his mouth.
He shifted again, and Ton-Kel saw that his hands were bound in huge, iron manacles. Besides crippling the Fey's power, the iron had to be burning him badly. Not that the witches would care.
Ton-Kel shot a look at Baraccus, saw him staring, eyes wide; whether with disbelief, loathing, horror, or simple fascination, she couldn't tell. Beside her, Paulo put his face down for a moment as if he could no longer bring himself to look.
Where was Jax? When were they going to strike?
Alfred raised his arms, once more drawing her attention. The drums stilled as all the faces in th
e clearing turned toward him. "My children," he intoned in his harsh voice, "the moon is nearly upon us; soon her light will flood this place and we must be gone before then, where no eyes may see. For we must yet be cautious, and give our enemies no chance to spy upon us, to be warned of the fate that awaits them. That awaits all who would make us bend the knee and call them master."
The witches moaned, filling the air with their unearthly keening. Alfred raised his arms again and the noise quieted. "Let us return to our homes and families; we shall feast again next moondark…." he glanced over at Galen "…when we will induct our thirteenth member and become at last a full coven."
Ton-Kel went cold, pressing her hands over her mouth as her gorge rose. This was Galen's promised "surprise," the something he'd offered to share with her. She was suddenly deeply, intensely grateful to Ali, to her Triad, who had recognized her danger and fought for her.
Where the hell are you, Jax, she thought, wishing she could scream aloud. Attack now, now, before they break up and get away!
As if in reply, an arrow sprouted between the breasts of the woman hanging on the smith's left arm. She choked out a scream and crumpled to the ground.
Ton-Kel shot to her feet, running before she was fully upright, as the night exploded around her. She had to get the Chalice away from Alfred, or grab the other half from the altar, keep them from being joined. While the Chalice was open, magic would not work, at least within thirty feet. Without magic, the witches were vulnerable.
Of course, so were she and Ali, but that was a small matter.
Even as she cleared the brush, Alfred whirled toward the altar, moving like a snake, all his former awkwardness vanished.
A Koshka woman leaped out of the darkness and tackled him, obviously driven by the same thought that inspired Ton-Kel, and snatched at the Chalice as they toppled together.
They hit the ground and separated. The cat-woman sprang to her feet with the lithe quickness of her kind, but Alfred, impossibly, was no less swift, his robes swirling about him like the wings of a huge moth as he lifted the Chalice overhead, out of reach. The koshka shrieked and tried again, launching herself at the gangly witch-lord, but Galen's axe met her in mid-leap and her cry cut short in a flying spray of blood.
Ton-Kel did not pause; the koshka had kept Alfred's attention for a few precious seconds — with luck, it would be enough. She whipped her dagger from its sheath at her waist and threw herself at the arm holding the Chalice aloft, slashing.
Somehow he'd seen her, sensed her; he shifted, dodged out of reach, and she spun to see his mad eyes glittering at her from several feet away. His speed reminded her of Jax's. Blessed-Ohma-Mother-Mary, how was she supposed to fight him?
She flipped her dagger in her hand and threw it.
He dodged, but her luck was better than her aim; the knife struck his wrist — and the Chalice tumbled into the soft loam.
With his guttural snarl in her ears, she dove for the Chalice. She caught it, felt its smooth coolness in her hands, clutched it close to her chest as she rolled to her feet, and ran, ran—
She flew backward through the air, the breath knocked from her lungs, and slammed against a huge, muscular form. A familiar voice spoke in her ear. "Drop it, Ton-Kel. I have you."
Galen's arm was a steel band, squeezing the air out of her, but one of her arms was free; she shifted her grip and hurled the Chalice as far as she could; Ali and two of Jax's men reached for it as it soared overhead.
Before their fingers could so much as brush its gleaming surface, Ankh leaped out of nowhere like a gazelle and snatched it out of the air, whirling in the same move to slash the two bandits with a long, curved knife. They fell, throats spurting.
Ali swung his staff but Ankh ducked under the stroke and raced across the clearing toward the altar, toward Ton-Kel hanging in Galen's iron grasp, toward Alfred who moved to meet him, claw-like hands cupped around the second half of the Chalice.
With an airless shriek, Ton-Kel writhed wildly, desperate to stop the meeting. Galen shook her — gently, for him, she realized, but her head snapped painfully back and forth, foiling her efforts to breathe. "Stop struggling, my love," he said calmly. "You have already lost." His voice dropped. "It's better this way. One day you will thank me."
She cast a quick, desperate glance around the clearing, searching for an ally, but though several witches and nearly all of Galen's guard had fallen, the survivors fought with a crazed fury that kept her potential rescuers at bay.
At the farthest end, she caught lightning glimpses of Baraccus and the giant Koshka witch leaping and slashing around one another in a deadly dance, and Sir Charles backed against a fallen tree as he fended off a Sobaka pikeman.
At the far right of the clearing, Paulo rolled around in the dirt with another guard.
Across the clearing, Lily, shrieking like a banshee, leaped on Dale, knocking him to the ground and tearing at him with her bare hands; his fist slammed into her beautiful, snarling face and she fell back.
To the left, Jax, surrounded by guards, snarled as he swung, his axe splattering blood everywhere. His bandits and Galen's guards tangled, battled, killed, and died all around, but Ton-Kel couldn't tell them apart. Blackness swam around the edge of her vision as she fought for breath.
She could do nothing but watch as Ankh reverently placed the half he carried onto the half cupped in Alfred's bloody hands. The two halves melded into a single, seamless whole, its blue and white surface glowing through the smeared blood, and suddenly the air was alive and crackling with energy.
Alfred turned and met her eyes. His grin was wide and white, and held a degree of malevolence she could not have imagined; like that of a rabid animal that had at once been blessed with intelligence and the will to do evil.
He raised the Chalice before her face, then lifted his bleeding wrist before her eyes. Holding her gaze, he wiped the blood away. The wound vanished. "There — all better," he croaked. "Now it will be finished."
He turned away from her and looked over the struggle filling the clearing. "Release your power, my children," he roared.
Red and white exploded across the circle, dazzling Ton-Kel's eyes. She saw three bandits engulfed in flames. They fell, shrieking, while the Sobaka witch laughed and danced around them, then moved on for more prey.
The smith waved his hand and turned a swarm of arrows in mid-air, sending them thudding home in the archers who had fired them.
Lily rose and gestured; roots shot from the ground, writhing like snakes, and twined around Dale the Bowyer. His scream cut short as the roots twisted, tearing him apart like a rag doll.
Ali cried out in anguish and charged, jerking something out of his robes as he ran. As Lily turned to face him, smiling in contempt, he stopped and hurled his burden, and Lily was engulfed in red-hot flames.
She squealed girlishly, then stepped out of the fire as from a bath, laughing. As Ali stared, open-mouthed, she raised her hands. He threw his ki at her from his outflung hands; she brushed it aside like a pesky fly. With a shout of despair he ran at her, swinging his staff like a club.
She stooped and touched a blackberry vine; it exploded into violent growth, swelling in an arch before her. Ali's staff crashed down on it and she seized the other end, laughing, her eyes hard and mocking. "Do you think to hurt me with such a weapon?"
"That is not a weapon," said Ali through clenched teeth. He jerked back and the end of the staff slipped free of its sheath, revealing a foot-long metal spike. "This is a weapon," he said, and rammed it through her white throat.
As he pulled the spike free, Ankh reached him. Ali spun, spike raised in defense, and suddenly flashed green and white as lightning danced over his body. Ton-Kel's strangled cry was lost in Ali's as he jerked and spun, screaming in agony as his skin blackened and blistered; he crumpled into silence. Ankh stepped over the body and stared down at Lily, unmoving, as if nothing else existed.
Galen's anguishe
d roar rang in Ton-Kel's ears, and her view jerked and spun as he turned. While he quivered in indecision, she spotted Baraccus across the clearing.
The koshka witch leaped over the Cavalier's head and, as Baraccus whirled to face him, the witch reached into the air and clenched his clawed fist. Instantly Baraccus was surrounded by a huge ball of water. He choked, bubbles frothing from his mouth as he flailed his arms, his hair floating around his face like seaweed.
Paulo appeared out of nowhere, whipped his bow up, and fired. The koshka threw up his hands and the arrow bounced harmlessly from an invisible shield, but the bubble around Baraccus vanished.
The Cavalier leaped forward and struck, his movements haloed by a spray of water.
The koshka's head lolled back on his half-severed neck, and he crumbled to the ground.
Baraccus spun and raced across the clearing, howling a war cry.
Galen growled and shifted his grasp on Ton-Kel. She gripped his arm with her freed hand and sent her ki ripping into him with all her might.
"Ouch. Stop that." Galen shook her again, and she almost blacked out. Then Baraccus was on them and Galen finally dropped her.
She hit the ground hard and rolled, gasping for breath. As her vision cleared, she looked up to see Baraccus duck under the stroke of Galen's axe, leap in to slash, out again. She scrambled backward, out of the way. The great axe whipped from defense to attack as though weightless in Galen's huge hands.
Something moved in the corner of Ton-Kel's vision and she rolled again; Alfred stood at the altar once more, beneath the floating stone arch. His eyes glittered wetly, but within his grizzled beard, a savage smile bared his teeth. He raised his hands.
The earth roared and shook beneath her; she reached out for something, anything to steady herself, and watched in horror as a crack appeared just before Alfred's feet and raced across the clearing, yawning wider as it grew.
Jax's bandits had gained the center of the clearing; now they paid the price as, screaming, they slipped and vanished into the yawning mouth suddenly gaping beneath them.
Ton-Kel reeled to her feet. Baraccus and Galen still battled, oblivious to the destruction around them. She couldn't see Paulo anywhere. Sir Charles was surrounded by guards and getting the worst of it at the other end of the clearing. Most of Jax's bandits were dead.
Alfred — if she could stop Alfred, the madness would cease. The other witches could be defeated.
He was grinning as he watched the carnage, though his witches were dying along with the others. Did he think he could simply begin again, start over?
Take out the head, and the body follows.
She looked around for inspiration, for something, anything, that would help. The Chalice sat on the altar beside Nayir's remains, forgotten for the moment. But he could reach it before she could. No help there.
The floating arch. Runes, moss-grown, showed faint and weathered along its length. It had come from some Fey ruins. A barrow, perhaps? An old thing of power, anyway. Had the witches planned on making their own Gate, a magical escape route? Or did the stone serve some other purpose?
Then she realized that it wasn't really floating; the capstone rested on age-blackened beams, wood that had, doubtless, also been taken from the same ancient ruins.
Alfred raised his hands again
"Alfred," she screamed, "You're finished! Give up and die like the man you once were!" She fumbled at her pouch, found the leather case within, pulled out the fireball and held it up where he could see it.
Alfred looked at her and laughed. "Nothing you can do can stop me; I am not a Mystic — I have the power of the Fey. Throw your pitiful fireball, girl, and when the fire dies, so will you."
Ton-Kel prayed even as she threw. Her aim was true; the egg soared through the air and smacked against Alfred's chest. Instantly, red flames shot skyward, engulfing him, the altar, the Chalice, Nayir's body, everything within the standing stones. Over the roar of the inferno, Alfred still laughed. "Your flames cannot touch me, Mystic. I have drunk the blood of the fire drake and eaten of its flesh — no fire can harm me!"
She yelled back, "How many rocks have you eaten lately?"
He looked up as the the wooden beams overhead cracked like thunder. He screamed; then the capstone smashed down, crushing him and everything else beneath its massive weight.
Ton-Kel's whoop of triumph was drowned by the howls of the surviving witches. She whirled as another cry reached her; Baraccus slipped backward into the crevice. He dropped his sword as he fell and clung to the crumbling bank like a drowning man to a raft.
Galen loomed over him, dripping blood from what seemed every part of his body, as if Baraccus had carved him to bits and only magic and madness kept him whole and standing. His chest heaved with effort as he glared down through a mask of blood. Staggering, he brought his axe whirling aloft.
Ton-Kel screamed, knowing she was too far away, that nothing she could do would even slow him down—
—and then Sir Charles's greatsword whirled through the air and plunged into Galen's chest. The giant witch staggered back, gagging on his own blood, then toppled to the dirt.
Ankh seemed to take form out of the shadows, standing over Galen and gazing down, his face twisted with a great, unnamable passion. Galen stared back, his face straining with hope as blood bubbled from his mouth.
Ankh raised his gaze to the flaming altar and stepped over Galen as if his lover's brother no longer existed for him.
Hope and life alike fled Galen's eyes. The huge body shuddered and was still.
The Chalice — Ankh must not reach it. Ton-Kel whirled, poised to race for the altar.
A sound turned her. Baraccus fought the pull of the abyss behind him, gasping as the dirt slipped from his hands. She froze in mid-step. Stop Ankh or save Baraccus? She couldn't do both—
She dove as Baraccus's hands slipped from the edge. She seized his wrists and he clutched at hers in desperation, his weight dragging her forward. She gasped, rolled, and braced her feet, hauling back with all her might. She felt her arms being wrenched from their sockets — then Baraccus got a leg over the edge and scrambled up.
She lunged backward and he threw himself after her, rolling free of the deadly gap.
A noise snapped her attention toward the altar in time to see Ankh emerge from the burning ruins, the Chalice held tightly against his breast. She gasped, and Baraccus swallowed a curse and scrambled for his sword, rolling frantically to his feet.
Ankh stopped. His eyes were calm, but the tears streaking his face destroyed the illusion of serenity. "I'm sorry," he said. "I no longer have a choice in the matter. Forgive me." He raised one dark hand.
"Ankh!" The anguished shout came from the other end of the clearing.
Ankh's head snapped up and he froze, eyes wide. Then an arrow shattered the green triangle in his forehead; he fell backward and was still.
Jax stood beyond the line of spiked heads, his bow still raised, his face set and deathly white.
The survivors looked at one another in silence.
Baraccus stood beside her, panting and still dripping from the drowning spell; across the gap, Sir Charles wore the blank pallor of someone in shock, not seeming to feel the wounds soaking his sleeve and dripping red down his white boots. Jax, too, wore the look as he stared across at Ankh's body. Paulo limped from the woods, dragging his bow in the dirt.
Ton-Kel's hurts, she knew, were all inside, and it was too early to tally them.
In all the clearing, no one else moved. Nothing else lived.
Paulo came around the end of the gap and joined them. A gaping cut bled slowly down his cheek, and he clutched his side as if it hurt to move, but he was alive, and that was all that mattered. "A clever move, Mystic mine," he said as he reached them. "You saved us."
She turned to look at the altar. "I just wish I could have saved Nayir…." She stopped. "The Red Fey. Where is he?"
; Baraccus blanched. "You didn't—"
"No!" She shook her head. "He wasn't by the altar when I threw the fireball. Where did he go?"
Jax spoke at last, his red-rimmed eyes never leaving Ankh's corpse. "Who knows? Who cares? He escaped — that's enough."
Baraccus turned and yanked Sir Charles's greatsword from Galen's body. "My thanks, Sir Charles. Would I could have returned the favor."
Sir Charles nodded, then his head drooped. "By the Seven, I'm so tired," he said, his voice a thread.
Tired. She would have laughed if she could have summoned the energy. She drew a breath. "Let's go back to town and get some rest. We'll deal with the townsfolk in the morning."
Jax bared his teeth. "I don't ever want to see that place again.”
Sir Charles looked at him, eyes dull. "There's no where else to go. And I, for one, am too tired to do anything else."
The Green Ranger squeezed his eyes shut. "You're right. Let it be done. And I must find Rowan."
To deal with her as he had with Ankh? Ton-Kel turned away, clenching her heart against pity for him. Time enough for that if it became necessary. For his sake, she prayed it wasn't.
She dealt with her Ranger's wounds, then Sir Charles's, while the others rolled corpses into the gap, witches at one end, bandits at the other, tossing the severed heads in after them one by one.
She did not watch as Baraccus and Jax tipped Galen in after the others. She did not need to. It was enough that he was dead. Vengeance had been served. The price was higher than she wanted to think about.
The remains of Ali, Dale, and Nayir were buried apart, in a smaller hole close to the altar.
They argued, briefly, of where to bury Ankh. Ton-Kel listened, but took no part. She had come too close to standing in Ankh's shoes to entirely condemn him.
Perhaps her own silence as much as Jax's hollow-eyed grief decided the issue. Ankh was laid to rest with the other heroes.
When all was done, Jax returned to the gap. Pulling a torch from the ground, he threw it in after the bodies. Baraccus did the same, tossing loose bracken after it. Sir Charles solemnly followed their example, the mask of dirt and blood on his face striped with tears he did not seem to realize he wept. As smoke curled up from the gap and the smell of scorching flesh rose out of the hole, they turned and made their way to the trailhead.
It seemed to Ton-Kel that a lifetime had passed, but the moon was still not at its zenith as they crossed the bridge and filed silently into Westmere. No hint of the mayhem in the woods had reached the sleeping town; all was still.
She felt vaguely guilty for not retrieving the horses, for not looking for Rowan when they'd discovered her missing, but her exhaustion pushed all other concerns into insignificance. She headed for the inn with the other battered warriors, picturing herself immersed in the warm waters of the baths with a longing that was an almost physical pang.
Behind her, Jax murmured, "If Rowan isn't here, I have to go look for her."
"If she isn't here, we'll look for her tomorrow," Paulo assured him yet again.
She tried to think of something reassuring to say to the Green Ranger, but it was simply too much effort. If God were merciful, he wouldn't have to kill her, too.
Saying so would hardly bring him comfort.
They reached the base of the path that led up to the inn. Lights shown through the windows, warm and welcoming. She wondered vaguely who was there, who would take care of the place now. Not that it mattered. After tomorrow, they would leave and never return.
Like Jax, she did not ever want to set foot in Westmere again.
The ground rumbled under her feet and, against the moonlit sky, the rocky chimneys began to sway. She blinked in astonishment, certain that her exhaustion had got the better of her.
Somewhere, a dog began to sound an alarm, almost instantly joined by others.
"What in the name of the Three—" said Paulo.
A violent jolt threw Ton-Kel off her feet, slamming her into the suddenly gyrating ground, as the voice of the earth went from a sullen mutter to a full-throated roar. Somewhere, someone screamed.
She pushed herself up, looking around in blank astonishment as the house beside them collapsed with a clatter of wood and stone. Sheep bleated in terror in the distance, a child cried out for its mother closer at hand.
"Earthquake!" yelled Jax. "Get back over the bridge!"
Someone yanked her to her feet and she turned with the others; they fled, swaying and falling against one another as they stumbled down a path that writhed like a snake beneath their feet. Around them, the night filled with screaming, the shouts of people waking to terror.
Ton-Kel looked back and saw the inn collapse, the hill folding in on itself like badly baked bread. A crack split the hill down the middle and raced through town, branching out to swallow houses, sheds, and anything else in its path.
"Run!" she screamed, adding her voice to the din.
They ran, grabbing one another for support, stumbling, falling, climbing back to their feet to run on. Ahead, moonlight glittered off frothing water as the river spilled its banks and swept among the shops and houses that lined it.
Other people were in the streets now, clutching blankets and children and meager possessions as they ran this way and that. They were heading for the inn, for high ground, too conditioned by fear to think of crossing the bridge to the more stable land beyond. Ton-Kel tried to grab one woman in passing to scream her message, but her voice was lost in the din; the woman pulled away, eyes blank with panic, and fled with her neighbors toward the inn.
The bridge was still standing, though water lapped over its surface in a deepening swell. The Triads plunged ahead and were nearly swept off their feet, but somehow scrambled across through the racing current.
Ton-Kel fell as her feet touched dry ground, certain she would never find the strength to go another step. Baraccus grabbed her arm, hauled her upright, shoved her forward. The earth suddenly reared up, sending her sliding back toward the river; water lapped hungrily at her feet. Fresh strength flooded her limbs as she scrambled forward, up, up, desperate to reach the rising lip of earth and the safety she imagined beyond it.
Ahead of her, Jax clung to the edge of the rising bank and hung, as if he simply couldn't — or didn't want to — make his arms pull him up any further. His satchel, weighted by the Chalice, swung leadenly from his shoulder. The idea that the seemingly inexhaustible Ranger had reached his limits was nearly as terrifying as the watery death behind her. "Jax," she screamed, "Climb! Move! You have to!"
Behind her, Paulo yelled a warning, his voice high and tight. "Hurry — the water's rising!"
Someone gasped, cried out, the sound retreating. "I'm slipping!" She recognized Sir Charles's voice.
Jax grunted with effort, fought to raise himself — and suddenly Rowan reached down from the rim above him, caught him by his jerkin, hauled him up beside her. She reached down again. "Hurry — this thing might collapse any minute!"
Baraccus shoved Ton-Kel upward; she caught Rowan's hand, scrambled up beside her. Then Jax was back, lowering a rope, and in moments Baraccus, Paulo, and Sir Charles stood with them on more or less level ground.
Ton-Kel stumbled back with the others, away from the edge, stopping only when she realized the ground beneath her feet was stable. She stood between her Cavalier and Ranger, watching the destruction of Westmere with bewilderment.
The water swept through the town, spouting up through new cracks in the earth, steaming from vents in the sides of the hills, devouring everything in its path. The hiss and roar of water and earth drowned all other sounds, but there was nothing left alive down there to make noise. The river swallowed Westmere whole, leaving nothing in its wake.
Then everything was still except for the sound of running water.
Ton-Kel moved her mouth, but no words came. Around her, the others too, stood in stunned silence. The decimation below
was too total, too final. Her mind could not begin to encompass how or why it had happened. Her screams of protest remained unvoiced. No, she thought, only, no.
Jax turned away from the blank death below and faced his Cavalier. "Ankh's dead," he said numbly. "I shot him."
She nodded, her face pinched and pale. "I know, I felt it. It…it's better that way," she whispered. "He'd thank you for it."
He continued to look at her. "Would you?"
She met his stare, then drew her sword and held it like a cross before her. "I swear to you on my honor, by the Code, by the sword, I have neither eaten of the flesh nor tasted of the blood." She kissed the hilt, then lowered the sword.
Her eyes dropped, then flickered across the faces of the others and away, as if she could not bear to meet their eyes. Her voice was low and hoarse. "Every time I saw something, they made me forget, gave me other memories…I couldn't think, thought I was going mad. But Ankh never let them…make me one of them. He had excuses he gave the others, but he was still trying to protect me, in his own way. He was."
Jax looked at her for a moment, then nodded and turned to look back over the town. He gestured helplessly. "What happened?"
Behind them, a voice spoke. "I happened. There were to be no witnesses."
Ton-Kel turned with the others, eyes wide. Philemon van der Beck stood glaring at them, disheveled and dirty, but restored to his power. His blistered, bleeding wrists were bare. "And grateful though I am for your timely intervention, you shouldn't have escaped. I apologize for the necessity, but I really can't let anyone know of what happened here." He raised his hands. "I am sorry."
Something flashed and he jerked back, startled, staring at his hands. A Lady appeared beside him, her hands folded demurely in the skirt of her beautiful blue gown; Laurel. She looked down at the swirling, murky waters where Westmere had been. "That was ill done. There were innocents there."
"No one is innocent if they know of this," screamed van der Beck, his aplomb vanishing. "Get it through your sentimental head — no one is to leave here alive."
Laurel looked at him, lips pursed. "You make me regret having that guard free you." She sighed. "You're still upset. You'll think better of it when you've calmed down. It's all well for you, Philemon. Your Triad is already dead. And the Greens and Blacks have lost their patrons—"
"Nayir was a fool—"
"No more so than you. But I still have my own to look out for."
"My Lady." Sir Charles knelt at her feet, gazing up at her with blind desperation. "My Triad is dead." His voice cracked on the last word, and he bowed his head to conceal his face.
The Blue Fey shook her head sadly. "I had so hoped…." She sighed again. "You did well, Sir Charles. Your comrades did not die for naught. You have averted a great terror."
Philemon ignored him, glaring at Laurel. "They must perish. I don't like it any better than you, but practicality—"
"Says it is wasteful to throw away those who have proven themselves so worthy. And base indeed, most dishonorable, after all they've done," she said reprovingly. "Go back to your Faction and tell them what you will. But you'll do no more here." She made a shoo-ing motion with her hands. With a final snarl of fury, the Red Fey vanished.
The Blue Fey looked around at all of them, then bestowed a somewhat strained smile upon them all. "Well, I suppose that's that. You'd best be going."
"Lady Laurel—" Ton-Kel stepped toward her. "A favor, please, we beg you." She glanced at Paulo. "Our Ranger has been tainted. Can you do anything for him?"
Laurel blinked, and her perfect brow creased. "Oh, my. I really don't think so. The Black Faction does not look at all kindly on what they consider interference. This is really their concern. But truthfully, I don't imagine it will matter to them — you'll simply cease to be a Triad."
Ton-Kel felt like she'd been punched. "That. . . that's it? After all we've done, all we've been through…."
The Fey looked genuinely surprised. "Well, what else? The Black Faction has never used Tainted in their Triads. And I don't mean to imply for a minute that it was at all your fault, but you did, after all, fail to save Nayir." She shuddered delicately. "I don't imagine they'll look particularly kindly on that, either. Nayir's parents were quite highly placed, as I understand."
She stepped back and looked around. "Now. You Greens have something you need to get back to the Green Faction as soon as possible, don't you? And Sir Charles, you need a nice rest somewhere. I will see to it that you are rewarded. But I do have a long journey ahead of me. So, if you'll excuse me…." She spread her fingers and vanished.
Rowan and Jax did not speak, but trudged off side by side, Jax's bulging satchel slung over one shoulder. Sir Charles looked around in bewilderment, then followed them as if he couldn't think of what else to do.
Ton-Kel looked at Baraccus and Paulo.
Three days ago, she had resented her ties to them. Didn't know them, didn't want to. Now she didn't want to imagine life without them.
She cleared her throat. "What now? Suppose she was right?"
Baraccus growled and spat on the ground. "We go on. We stay together."
Paulo nodded, his mouth pulled into a bitter line. "Until they say otherwise."
Baraccus laughed suddenly in dark merriment, an unpleasant sound that lasted a bit too long. Ton-Kel watched him in weary alarm, but then he stopped, and there was real humor in his expression. "Oh yes. We'll play our honored parts to the end." He stepped between them, laying his hands on their shoulders. "Come on. Let's go find an inn. Somewhere far off."
Ton-Kel raised her fingers to brush his. It was as good an answer as any.
She turned and walked with her Triad across the meadow, away from the soft, dark waters of Westmere.
* * *