Binabik’s face was unhappy. “We are not losing everything yet.”
“Not yet.”
Cadrach caught up to them in the chaplain’s walking hall. The monk said nothing—perhaps in part because he was fighting for breath—but fell in behind the troll. Miriamele allowed herself one icy stare.
As they reached the door, everything seemed to shift again. For a moment Miriamele thought she saw pale flames running up the walls; she struggled not to cry out as, for a dreadful instant, she felt herself torn apart. When the sensation passed, she did not feel as though she had been completely restored.
Long moments passed before she felt able to speak.
“The ... chapel is on ... the other side.” Despite the incessant keening of the wind beyond the walls, Miramele whispered. The terror inside her was struggling to break free and it took all her strength to keep it in place. Binabik was wide-eyed and unusually pale; Cadrach looked ill, his forehead moist, his gaze fever-bright. “On the far side there is a short hallway that leads directly into the tower. Look to your feet. With all these broken things about, you might trip and hurt yourself—” she pointedly addressed her concern only to Binabik, “—or make enough noise that whoever is inside will hear us coming.”
The troll smiled wanly. “Like hare’s feet are the steps of the Qanuc,” he whispered. “Light on snows or rock.”
“Good.” Miriamele turned to stare at the monk, trying to divine what further treachery might lurk behind his watery gray eyes, then decided it did not matter. There was little Cadrach could do to worsen their situation: the time for stealth would be over in moments, and what had been their greatest hope seemed now to have been turned against them.
“Follow me, then,” she told Binabik.
As she opened the door into the transept of the chapel, the cold reached out and grasped at her; a cloud of her steaming breath hung in the air. She paused for a moment and listened before leading her companions out onto the wide chapel floor. Snow had drifted into the comers and against the walls, and pools of water lay everywhere on the stone. Most of the benches were gone; the few tapestries that remained flapped in ragged, moldy strips. It was hard to believe it had once been a place of comfort and refuge.
The storm and the clamor of the struggle outside were also louder here. When she looked up, she learned the reason.
The great dome overhead had been ruptured, the glass saints and angels all tumbled and shattered into colored dust. Miriamele trembled, awed even after all she had experienced to see a familiar thing so changed. Snowflakes swirled lazily downward, and the storm-darkened sky, touched with the bloodlight of the flaming star, twisted in the broken frame like an angry face.
As they made their way across the front of the apse, past the altar, Miriamele saw that other forces beside impersonal nature had worked desecration here: crude hands had smashed the faces of the holy martyrs’ statues, and had smeared others with blood and worse things.
Despite the dangerous footing, they made their way silently across to the far transept. She led them down a slender passageway to a door set deeply into the rock. She stooped and listened at the keyhole, but could hear nothing through the echoing din that leaked from above. A strange, painful, prickling sensation came over her, as though lightning were in the air—but lightning was in the air, she reminded herself.
“Miriamele....” Cadrach sounded frightened.
She ignored him, trying the latch. “Locked,” she said quietly, then shrugged against the crawling itch, which was worsening. “And too heavy for us to knock down.”
“Miriamele!” Cadrach pulled at her sleeve. “Some kind of barrier is being formed. We will be trapped.”
“What do you mean?”
“Can you not sense it pushing in on us? Feel your skin creep? A barrier is being formed and drawn inward to surround the tower. Pryrates’ work—I feel his heedless power.”
She stared at the monk, but there was no sign of anything but unfeigned concern on his face. “Binabik?” she asked.
“I am thinking he speaks rightly.” He, too, was beginning to twitch. “We will be squeezed in a most comfortless way.”
“Cadrach, you opened the dwarrows’ door. Open this one.”
“This is a simple lock, Lady, not a door-warding spell.”
“But you have been a thief, too!”
He shivered. Wisps of hair were beginning to stand upright on his head, and Miriamele could feel a stirring on her own arms and scalp. “I have no lockpicks, no tools—it is useless. Perhaps it is just as well. I wager it will be a quick death.”
Binabik hissed in exasperation. “I am not wanting any death, of quickness or slowness, if it can be escaped.” He stared at the door for a moment, then threw down his pack and began to rummage in it.
Miriamele watched helplessly. The oppressive feeling was growing by the moment. Praying they could find some other way into the tower, she hurried back up the passageway, but within a dozen strides the air seemed to become grossly thicker, harder to breathe. A strange humming was in her ears and her skin burned. Unwilling to give up so easily, she took a few more steps; each was more difficult than the last, as though she waded in deepening mud.
“Come back!” Cadrach cried. “That will do you no good!”
She turned with difficulty and made her way back to the door. “You were right, there is no going back. But this thing, this barrier, moves so slowly!”
The monk was scratching frenziedly at his arms. “Such things take a certain time to appear, and the priest has expended much power summoning it. He obviously intends nothing should go in or come out.”
Binabik had found a small leather sack and was rooting in it. “How do you know it’s Pryrates?” Miriamele asked. “Perhaps it’s ... the other.”
Cadrach shook his head mournfully, but there was a hard core of rage beneath. “I know the red priest’s work. Gods! I shall never forget the feeling of his filthy presence in my head, in my thoughts....”
“Miriamele, Cadrach,” the troll said. “Lift me up.”
They bent and raised him from the floor, then moved at his direction to the side of the door. The air seemed to be tightening around them: the effort to lift tiny Binabik seemed tremendous. The troll climbed until he stood with his feet on their quivering shoulders.
“It’s ... hard to ... breathe,” Miriamele panted. Something was buzzing in her ears. Cadrach’s mouth hung open and his chest heaved.
“No speaking.” Binabik reached up and poured a handful of something into the door’s upper hinge.
Miriamele’s ears were hammering now; she felt squeezed, as though held in a huge, crushing fist. A constellation of sparks spun in the shadows before her.
“Turn away your faces,” Binabik gasped, then took something from his hand and smacked it sharply against the hinge.
A sheet of light filled Miriamele’s eyes. The throttling fist became a giant open hand that slapped her away from the door. Despite the force, she fell backward only a little way and retained her feet, buoyed by the unseen but encroaching barrier. Binabik toppled from her shoulders and fell onto the ground between her and Cadrach.
When she could see again, the door lay a-tilt in its frame, half-obscured by drifting smoke.
“Through!” she said, and tugged the troll’s arm. He snatched up his pack, then they pushed into the dark space, stumbling on the tipped door. For a moment Miriamele stuck in the doorway, her pack wedged, her bow snagged on the broken hinge, but she fought free at last. When they had passed over into Green Angel Tower’s broad antechamber, the pressure was suddenly gone.
“Lucky we are the hinges were outside,” Binabik gasped, fanning the air.
Miriamele stopped and stared. Through the murk she could see a flash of bright red on the tower’s staircase. A moment later the smoke had cleared enough that she could clearly see Pryrates’ gleaming pink skull. Bodies lay scattered at his feet, and Camaris stood before him in the room’s center. The old man was st
aring at the priest with such hopeless misery that Miriamele felt her heart tear in her breast.
Grinning, Pryrates turned from the old knight and took a step down, swiveling his bottomless black eyes toward the doorway where she stood. The door’s destruction seemed to have startled him no more than the fall of a tumbling leaf. Without thinking, Miriamele lifted her bow, straightened the arrow, drew, and fired. She aimed for the widest part of the priest’s body, but the shaft flew high. It seemed a miracle when she saw Pryrates stumble backward. When she saw that the arrow stood from his throat, she was too dumbfounded at her own shot even to feel joy. The priest fell and rolled bonelessly down the few remaining steps to the antechamber floor.
“Chukku’s Stones!” the troll gasped. “You have ended him.”
“Uncle Josua!” she shouted. “Where are you? Camaris! It’s a trick! They wanted us to bring the swords!”
I’ve killed him! The thought was a quiet bloom of exultation deep inside her. I’ve killed the monster!
“The sword must not be going any farther,” cried Binabik.
The old knight took a few lurching steps toward them, but even with Pryrates facedown on the floor, dead or dying, Camaris still seemed in the grip of some terrible power. Of Josua there was no sign; but for the old man, all in the chamber lay motionless.
Before anyone could speak again a bell rang in the tower high above, monstrously loud, lower and deeper than any bell Miriamele had ever heard. The very stones of the wide room shuddered, and she felt its tolling strike into her bones. For an instant the antechamber seemed to melt away, the waterstained tapestries replaced by walls of gleaming white. Lights glittered everywhere, like fireflies. As the cry of the bell faded, the illusion flickered and disappeared.
As Miriamele struggled to regain her wits, a figure rose slowly near the foot of the stairs, grasping at the stone arch for support. It was Josua, his cloak hanging raggedly, his thin shirt torn at the neck.
“Uncle Josua!” Miriamele hastened toward him.
He stared at her, eyes wide and, for a brief moment, uncomprehending. “You live,” he said at last. “Thank God.”
“It’s a trick,” she said even as she threw her arms around him. The small return of hope, when the greatest perils still remained, was painful as a knife-wound. “The false messenger—that was the rhyme about the swords! It was a trick. They wanted the swords here, wanted us to bring them!”
He gently disengaged himself. A trickle of blood showed along his high hairline. “Who wanted the swords? I do not understand.”
“We were fooled, Prince Josua.” Binabik came forward. “It has been the planning of Pryrates and the Storm King all along that the swords should be brought here. I am thinking the blades will be used in some great magic.”
“We didn’t find Bright-Nail,” Miriamele said urgently. “Do you have it?”
The prince shook his head. “The barrow was empty.”
“Then there’s hope! It’s not here!”
Josua opened his mouth to reply, but a loud moan of pain from Camaris stopped him.
“Ah, God, why do You torment me?” the old man cried. He lifted his free hand to his head as though he had been struck by a stone. “It is wrong—that answer is wrong!”
The prince’s face was full of startled concern. “We must take him out of this place. Something in the sword drew him here. While he still has his wits about him, we must get him outside again.”
“But Pryrates was making some barrier around the tower,” said Binabik anxiously. “Our only hope is that now . . .”
“This is my punishment!” cried Camaris. “Oh, my God, there is too much blackness, too much sin. I am sorry ... so sorry!”
Josua took a step toward him, then leaped away again as Thorn flickered through the air. The prince backed toward the stairwell, trying to keep himself between Camaris and whatever called him so powerfully.
“The thing Pryrates has begun is not yet being finished,” Binabik shouted. “The sword must not be going further!”
Josua danced back from another awkward blow. He held Naidel before him, but seemed reluctant even to use it for defense, as though fearing he might hurt the old man. Miriamele, full of fluttering panic, knew that the prince would be killed if he did not resist with all his power.
“Uncle Josua! Fight back! Stop him!”
As Josua backed up the wide stairway and Camaris reached the bottom step, Binabik bolted from her side. He leaped across the motionless bodies lying before the stairs and threw himself at the back of the old knight’s legs, knocking Camaris down. As Miriamele hurried forward to help the troll, another figure came up beside her. She was amazed to see that it was the Wrannaman, Tiamak.
“Take one of his arms, Lady Miriamele.” The marsh man’s eyes were wide with fear and his voice shook, but he was already reaching down. “I will take the other.”
Although Binabik had wrapped both his arms and legs around the old knight’s knees, Camaris was already beginning to rise. Miriamele grasped at the hand that sought to pull Binabik loose, but it slipped from her sweating grip. She clutched again at his upper arm and this time hung on as Camaris’ long muscles bunched beneath her. A moment later all four of them tumbled to the floor again, landing among the scatter of bodies. Miriamele found herself staring down into the half-open eyes of Isorn, whose slack face was as white as one of the Norns. A scream tried to force its way out of her, but she was clinging so fiercely to Camaris’ flailing arm that she could not think much about Isgrimnur’s son. There was only the scent of fear-sweat and rolling bodies.
She caught a glimpse of Josua, who stood a short distance away on the stairs. Camaris again began to climb to his feet, dragging his attackers up with him.
“Josua,” she panted. “He’ll ... get away from us! Kill him ... if you have to ... but stop him!”
The prince only stared. Miriamele could feel the old knight’s tremendous strength. He would shake them off in a few moments.
“Kill him, Josua!” she screamed. Camaris was half-standing now, but Tiamak was draped around his sword arm; the knight’s chest and stomach were unprotected.
“Something!” Binabik grunted in pain, struggling to hold Camaris’ legs together. “Be doing something!”
But Josua only took a hesitant step forward, Naidel hanging slack in his hand.
Miriamele let go with one arm and hurriedly groped for Camaris’ sword belt. When she had it, she slid off his arm and grasped the belt with both hands, then braced her legs against the bottom step and pulled backward as hard as she could. The old man swayed for a moment, but the tangling weight of Tiamak and Binabik were making his movements clumsy and he could not keep his balance. He tottered, then fell backward as heavily as an axed tree.
Miriamele’s legs were caught beneath the knight. His collapse knocked the breath from her. When Camaris stirred after a long moment, she knew she did not have the strength to pull him down again.
“Ah, God,” the knight murmured to the ceiling. “Free me from this song! I do not wish to go—but it is too strong for me. I have paid and paid....”
Josua seemed almost as wracked with torment as Camaris. He took another step downward, then paused before backing up again. “Merciful God,” said the prince. “Merciful God.” He straightened, blinking. “Keep Camaris there as long as you can. I think I know who is waiting at the top of the stairs.” He turned away.
“Come back, Josua!” cried Miriamele. “Don’t go!”
“There is no time left,” he called over his shoulder as he mounted upward. “I must get to him while I can. He is waiting for me.”
She suddenly realized who he meant. “No,” she whispered.
Camaris was still lying on the floor, but Binabik had not let go of the knight’s legs. Tiamak had been flung to one side; he crouched at the foot of the stairs, rubbing a bruised arm and staring at Camaris with fearful anticipation.
“Tiamak, follow him,” pleaded Miriamele. “Follow my uncle. Hurr
y! Don’t let them kill each other.”
The Wrannaman’s eyes widened. He looked at her, then back to Camaris, his face solemn as a frightened child’s. At last he clambered to his feet and hobbled up the stairs after Josua, who had already disappeared into the shadows.
Camaris drew himself into a sitting position. “Let me up. I do not wish to hurt you, whoever you are.” His eyes were fixed on some distant point beyond the antechamber. “It is calling me.”
Miriamele pulled herself free and, trembling, took his hand. “Sir Camaris, please. It is an evil spell that is calling you. Don’t go. If you take the sword there, everything you have fought for may be destroyed.”
The old knight lowered his pale eyes to meet hers. His face was bleak, drawn with terrible strain. “Tell the wind not to blow,” he said hoarsely. “Tell the thunder not to roar. Tell this cursed sword not to sing and pull at me.” But he seemed to sag, as though for a moment the summoning grew less powerful.
A wordless cry like a howl of animal fear rang through the antechamber. Miriamele suddenly remembered Cadrach. She whirled to look at him where he crouched by the doorway, but the monk yowled again and pointed.
Pryrates was climbing slowly to his feet, loose-limbed as a drunkard. The arrow still protruded from either side of his neck. A faint, putrescent glow played about the torn flesh.
But he’s dead! Horror gusted through her. He’s dead! Sweet Elysia, Mother of God, I killed him!
The priest staggered a step, groaning, then turned his sharklike gaze toward Miriamele. His voice was even harsher than before, ripped raw. “You ... hurt me. For that, I will ... I will keep you alive a long time, womanchild.”
“Daughter of the Mountains,” Binabik said hopelessly. He still clung to the old knight’s legs. Camaris lay staring at the ceiling, oblivious to all but the call from above.
Swaying, the priest reached up and grasped the black shaft just behind the arrowhead and snapped it off, bringing a fresh dribble of blood from the wound. He took a couple of whistling breaths, then grasped the feathers and drew the rest of the arrow back out through his throat, his face stretched in a rictus of agony. He stared at the blood-smeared thing for a moment before tossing it disdainfully onto the floor.