Antrax

15

Even though he had been persuaded by Ryer Ord Star to follow the little sweeper in search of Walker, Ahren Elessedil insisted on waiting until after dark before reentering the deadly ruins. He accepted that it was unlikely they would be attacked by creepers or fire threads if the sweeper was leading them and it probably made no difference whether it was dark or light, but he didn’t care. Still firmly in the grip of his memory of the attack that had destroyed everyone with him when they had attempted an entry in daylight last time, it was all he could do to make himself go back down there at all. He must at least, he insisted, be allowed the one concession.

Ryer Ord Star had no choice but to agree since she wanted him with her; the sweeper had nothing to offer on the matter. It sat there on its wheeled base, insides whirring, keeping its images to itself. Summery and hot, the day drifted slowly away, and Ahren and Ryer took turns sleeping. Below their hiding place, the ruins sat shimmering in silence.

With the coming of nightfall, darkness settling over the land in blue-gray shadows and thinning light, they set out. The sweeper led them down out of their concealment, its wheeled base flexing on the stairs and over the rubble, scarcely making a sound as it worked its way through the perimeter and into the ruins. The seer and the Elven Prince followed, the former without hesitation, the latter with nothing but. They were barely twenty yards into the maze when the sweeper approached a wall, made a series of small clicking noises, and triggered a concealed entry. The wall slid back to reveal a dimly lit ramp leading down, and the three unlikely companions stepped within.

When the door slid shut again behind them, Ahren experienced such an attack of panic that it was all he could do to keep from crying out. He felt trapped, exposed, and helpless all at once, and he expected the fire threads and the creepers to cut him apart. But there was no attack, and they proceeded unchallenged down the ramp to a joining of corridors at a hub. Flameless lamps encased in glass spilled yellow light across the flooring in dim pools. Pipes ran along the ceilings, burrowing in and out of the walls like snakes. Sealed doors, some of them round rather than rectangular, were the only thing marring the smooth metal surfaces. Spaced evenly along each passageway, glass fish-eyes peered down at them from overhead, tiny red dots within dark centers flashing wickedly.

Ahren, his eyes peering everywhere at once, found himself regretting anew his decision; he was still bothered by their willingness to accept that the sweeper could help them. Or would, for that matter. That a machine that was at least part creeper would be anxious to help them seemed patently ridiculous. In his mind, he replayed the images the sweeper had shown them, reevaluating them, trying to get behind them to see more than he had been shown. The whole business felt wrong. He kept thinking that Ryer Ord Star would have detected any subterfuge, but the seer was so blinded by her need to reach Walker that he couldn’t be sure. Even if they found the Druid, how were they supposed to help him? If he couldn’t help himself, what use would they be? He thought about the missing Elfstones. If he had their magic to call upon, he might be able to do something, although even that wasn’t a given, since he had never used them and had no real idea if he could.

They walked a very long way without seeming to get anywhere, the tunnels and chambers and stairways passing in endless succession, all of it looking and feeling the same. Every so often he heard machinery at work, soft and distant, muffled by steel and earth. He kept thinking they would find something new, a chamber that would reveal something important, but it never happened. On the other hand, they didn’t encounter anything that threatened either. Time drifted away, and their strange descent wore on.

Finally, Ahren called a halt. They had walked for miles, and there was nothing to suggest they wouldn’t walk for miles more. They needed to rest. Ryer, he felt, would keep going until she dropped. He sat down with his back against one of the metal walls and took out his water skin. The seer sat down next to him, accepting the water skin when he passed it, then a small bit of bread and cheese from the little food that remained to him. The silence of the underground passageways seemed to echo all around them, a reminder of just how alone and isolated they were.

The sweeper took up a position in the center of the corridor just in front of them, lights blinking in sleepy cadence. It did not seem to be in any hurry.

Ahren shifted himself so that he was facing the young seer. “Do you have any sense of how close we might be to Walker?”

She shook her head. “I can still feel him, but the feeling isn’t any different from before.”

“Nothing? But we’ve been walking forever. You have to be able to tell something.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Ahren. Distance doesn’t matter. I can feel the same things whether I am very near or far away. Only the healing part has anything to do with being close. Then I have to touch the one who is in pain.” She tried a quick, reassuring smile. “Don’t be afraid.”

He was, though, and he couldn’t seem to help himself. Everything about Castledown felt like a weight pressing him against the earth, crushing him to nothing. He was embarrassed and ashamed, still carrying guilt for having run from the attack, for having been so petrified with fear that he couldn’t bring himself to help the others. Maybe that was why he was afraid. Maybe that was why he seemed to be afraid all the time.

She reached over and touched his arm, surprising him. “It’s all right to be frightened. I’m frightened, too. I don’t want to be here either. But we might be the only ones who can help Walker. We have to try.”

He nodded disconsolately. She was right, but that didn’t make him feel any better. Or braver. They rose and started off again, following after the little sweeper. It took them down new passageways and ramps, stairs and corridors, leading them on, deeper and deeper into the catacombs of the underground city. The journey was tedious and numbing; the world of Castledown was the same wherever they went. Fatigue set in, physical and emotional both. Ahren found himself wondering if it was still dark outside. He didn’t think it could be. He wondered if anyone else had come into the ruins since. What were the chances that someone else from their scattered little band would find a way underground as they had?

Several times he tried asking the sweeper how much farther they had to go, but there was never any response. The sweeper simply pressed on, not bothering to communicate, no longer showing images. They were completely dependent on it by then; they could not find their way back to the surface alone. They could not find their way anywhere. If the sweeper did not lead them to Walker, they were hopelessly lost.

When they stopped again to rest, backs against the wall once more, eating and drinking to stay strong, tired enough to sleep, but unwilling to chance it, Ahren was so consumed by their predicament that he could no longer stand it. He waited a moment, thinking through the suggestion he was about to make, watching the sweeper as it faced them from the center of the corridor some ten feet away.

“I want you to do something,” he said quietly to the seer. She glanced over at once. He paused and leaned closer. “I want you to try your empathic skills on the sweeper and see what they tell you.”

She furrowed her brow. “You want me to see if touching it will induce a vision?”

“Of the past, of the future, of the present, of anything that will help us.”

“But it’s a machine, Ahren.”

“Try anyway. You said it was sentient. If that’s so, you might be able to trigger something from its thoughts. Maybe you can discover how much farther we have to go or where to look for Walker.” He shook his head helplessly. “I just want something that says we’re down here for a reason and should keep going.”

She stared at him for a long time, undecided. Then she gave him a slow nod. “All right, I’ll try.”

She finished a last bite of bread, put down the water skin, and rose. The sweeper started to move away, thinking they were ready, but then turned back when Ahren made no move to follow. Ryer approached it without speaking, knelt beside it, and put her hands on its rounded metal body, fingertips pressing as her eyes closed. Her pale, ethereal features tightened in concentration, and her face lifted out of the shadow of her silvery hair.

In the next instant, she rocked back sharply on her heels and her slender body went rigid with shock. Ahren started. The sweeper never moved; Ryer Ord Star clung to it, fingertips crooked and head thrown back, eyes closed and arms extended, finding in whatever vision her contact with the sweeper had induced such images that the emotions elicited could be read upon her face, raw and naked and terrible.

She gave a low moan, then sagged, her hands falling away. Right away, without prompting, without even opening her eyes, she began to speak.

“A young man, an Elf, was brought here in chains, battered and broken from a struggle that left his companions dead. His eyes were then gouged out and his tongue removed. He carried Elfstones, gripped so tightly in his hand he could not release them. They were magic and so powerful that they could have freed him had he the will to use them to do so. But his mind was shackled like his body, and he no longer had control over it. Creepers bore him into this place, deep underground, into a chamber filled with machines and blinking lights. He was placed in a chair. Iron cuffs secured him and wires were inserted into his body, carefully inserted beneath his skin by creepers.”

Her eyes snapped open and she looked at him, her face wan and haunted. Stricken by what she had witnessed in a world she hadn’t imagined could exist, she looked like a child woken from a nightmare.

“A presence watched it happen, a sentient being that lacked substance and form. It was called Antrax. It hid in the walls and floor and ceiling, all about, everywhere at once. It could see, but had no eyes. It could feel, but had no touch. It was controlling the fate of the ruined Elf. It was controlling his mind. When the Elf was securely attached to the chair, a box with many wires was latched about the hand that held the Elfstones. Images were fed into the Elf’s mind through the wires, causing him to see things that were not there, forcing him to use the magic of the stones. That magic was captured by the box and stolen away, carried down into the wires, siphoned off to other places.”

She stared at Ahren as if unable to look away, lost in the images of her vision. “This is what I saw. All of it. Everything.”

“You saw Kael Elessedil,” he said quietly.

She took a deep breath. “Kael Elessedil,” she repeated. She shuddered. “For thirty years, Ahren, that was his life!”

He tried to picture that and failed. How could anyone be used in that way? What sort of creature could commit such a travesty? A deep cold settled into the pit of his stomach as he realized that whatever it was, it wasn’t human. Antrax was something else altogether.

He rose to go to her, to help her to her feet, but she made a quick warding gesture. “Don’t touch me, Ahren. There’s something more—something darker still. I couldn’t bear to look on it all at once, but now I must. I have to. I have opened myself to visions triggered by the sweeper’s memories. If you put your hands on me, it will disrupt everything. Stay clear.”

Without waiting for his response, she leaned forward again and placed her hands on the sweeper once more. Her face went rigid instantly, and a gasp escaped her lips. Her head drooped, and she was clinging to the sweeper as if she might otherwise fall. “Oh! Oh!” she cried softly, almost desperately.

Her hands dropped away and she sagged back on her heels once more. She remained like that for a long time, her breathing ragged and shallow, her face bloodless, her body limp. Ahren, though wanting to go to her, stayed where he was, obeying her instructions. The tunnel was still as a tomb, its silence a voiceless echo racing up and down the corridors through the dim pools of yellow light. Filled with dread, the Elven Prince waited. He felt young and stupid and vulnerable all over again, as if exposed by the seer’s visions, as if laid open without ever having been touched.

Then, crablike, Ryer Ord Star backed slowly away from the sweeper, her head bent and her body slumped. “Ahren?” she whispered brokenly.

He reached for her, taking her in his arms. She melted against him, and he held her close and gave her what strength he had to lend. Within her robes, she was shaking and cold. He touched her face, and he could feel the dampness leaking from her eyes. “It’s all right,” he reassured her, not knowing what else to say.

She shook her head instantly in denial. “Ahren,” she said so quietly that he could barely hear her words. Her face lifted so that her lips were pressed against his ear. “You were right,” she whispered. “We’ve been tricked. It’s a trap.”

He went still, terror-stricken. He started to say something in response, but kept himself in check. He had enough presence of mind to remember that the sweeper could hear and translate what they said.

“Antrax plans for you to replace your uncle,” she murmured, her hands clutching him. “You’ve been kept alive and brought here to serve as he did.” Her words were tiny bits of glass, cutting at his heart. “The sweeper is a tool. It was sent to lure you to the same room in which Kael Elessedil was imprisoned for all those years. It used me to persuade you. And I …”

She couldn’t finish, and he pressed her closer still, hanging on to her as much as giving her something to cling to in turn. Are you sure? he wanted to ask. But that was a foolish question. Her power at reading the fates was already proved several times over, and there was no reason to doubt her here. Especially since he had been uneasy about what they were doing from the start. His eyes shifted up and down the corridor. Still empty, still deserted. Whatever fate awaited them, they hadn’t crossed its path yet, although they were clearly on their way to doing so if they didn’t act quickly.

But what were they to do? They were deep underground, hopelessly lost, their companion and would-be guide a creature in the enemy’s service. Antrax would have tracked them the whole way, watching their progress, orchestrating their passage. It would be watching them now. Whatever they did, wherever they went, it would see. Antrax would not let them walk away from what it intended for them. It would not allow its plan to replace Kael Elessedil to be thwarted. Ahren’s heart was pounding.

The seer’s words came back to him in a rush, and he closed his eyes against the pain they induced in him. Antrax had kept him alive, she had said. His escape, while all the others with him were fighting and dying, had been arranged. It was not by chance or good fortune that he had not been harmed. Perhaps Antrax saw him as weak and malleable, a coward through and through. Perhaps it knew how easily Ahren could be manipulated without any use of force. That way he would stay undamaged and whole, better able to serve as Antrax wished, perhaps for fifty years instead of the thirty Kael Elessedil had endured.

It all made sense to him. Walker had told them that whatever had lured them to Castledown wanted their magic. It had never occurred to Ahren that in order to secure that magic, it might require a summoner, as well. Hence the fate of Kael Elessedil. Hence, perhaps, his own.

Tears filled his eyes and ran down his face. He hated himself. He hated what had been done to him. He hated everything about Castledown. But he hated Antrax most of all. He wanted to scream his rage into the silence and watch it explode in shards of razor-sharp fury that would smash the sweeper, that would put an end to at least some small part of the monster that had inhabited this loathsome place. He ran his hand along the back of Ryer Ord Star’s silken head, gently, comfortingly. He went still inside, and all of his rage drained away like blood out of a dead man. They were going to die down there, both of them. They had come too far, gone too deep to get out. Perhaps if he had possession of the Elfstones, they might stand a chance. But the Elfstones hadn’t done Kael Elessedil much good. Another magic, a stronger one, might make a difference. But he hadn’t any other magic to call upon, nothing he could—

Then he remembered the phoenix stone. In the crush of events, he had forgotten it completely. It hung where he had placed it, on its chain about his neck, tucked within his tunic—Bek Rowe’s magic, given to him by the King of the Silver River on his journey to Arborlon, given in turn by Bek to Ahren. He tried to remember what Bek had told him about the stone, struggled to recall the words of the King of the Silver River.

When you are most lost, it will help you find your way. With your heart as well as your eyes. Back from dark places into which you have strayed and through dark places into which you must go.

He closed his eyes. He could not be more lost than he already was. He could not find himself in any darker place. He was sick in heart and mind, and he was trapped in every way imaginable. If ever there was a time when he needed the magic of the stone, it had arrived. Would the magic work for him? He didn’t know, but there was nothing else left to try. He had not thought he would ever use the stone. He had thought he would keep it safe for Bek and return it to him when they met again. But he didn’t think that they would ever see each other again if he did not use the phoenix stone and find a way clear of the labyrinth.

He looked past Ryer Ord Star to the sweeper where it waited in the center of the corridor. If they followed it, things would continue as before. If they broke away from it, Antrax was certain to employ other measures to assure their compliance. There was no reason to wait any longer on what he must do.

He moved the young seer back from him, easing her gently away by placing his hands on her shoulders. “Ryer,” he said softly. Her tear-streaked eyes lifted to meet his. “Listen to me.” He kept his voice at a whisper that would not carry beyond the two of them. “We’re not going any farther. Not with this sweeper. We’re finished with that. I have something that I think will help us escape, something Bek gave me when we left the ship. It is a magic given him by the King of the Silver River. If it works, perhaps we will find our way to Walker or, if not to Walker, at least back through these tunnels and outside again. Are you willing to try?”

She nodded at once, her lips compressed, her gaze steady. He waited a moment to be certain of her; then shielding his movements from the sweeper, he reached into his tunic and pulled out the phoenix stone. He glanced down at its silvery surface, a glimmer of liquid light in his hand, then slipped it free of its chain.

You can use it only once, Bek had recalled. Only once, for casting it to the earth to release its magic will shatter it. Ahren looked at Ryer Ord Star, feeling for the first time in days that he was doing something right.

“Take my hand,” he said.

She did so, her eyes never leaving his. Then he took a deep breath, pulled her to her feet so that they were both standing, and cast the phoenix stone to the passage floor.