Dhiammara

5 The Undead

Little Alissa, named after her mother, awoke in the darkness. She had slept uneasily that night, her dreams disturbed by the presence of the cold-eyed woman with the silver hair who had come to stay. Though she was not usually a timid child (she was a big girl now—six years old—and had to look after her little brother, Tolan), there was something about the stranger that made Alissa want to run away and hide. She was grateful for the reassuring presence of her mother, who, as the visitor had taken over the best bedchamber, was sleeping on a pallet on the floor of the children’s room.

The noise that had awakened Alissa came again—the stealthy shuffle of a furtive footfall on the stairs. Trembling, the girl huddled deeper beneath her blankets, and hugged her rag doll tightly. She heard the harsh, repetitive hiss of ragged breathing outside the door. Feeling slightly foolish, Alissa relaxed her stranglehold on the doll. It was only Dad, coming to bed. How could she have forgotten him? But as she listened to his fumbling efforts with the door latch, she shuddered, and tensed again with fear. He must have been drinking too much wine again—and she knew all too well, with a sad wisdom that belied her brief span of years, what the result would be.

Most of the time, Alissa’s father was just a strict, stern master of the little household. He worked hard and expected his family, children included, to do their share—or woe betide them. Occasionally, however, he would spend the evening in a tavern, or sit up late on his own drinking wine—and then there would be trouble. On too many nights Alissa had crept out of bed, disturbed by the sound of blows and muffled cries, to watch or listen unseen, her heart hammering with fear, as he beat her mother. Too many times in her short life had she been thrashed during his drunken rages, or clouted as a result of his savage temper in the mornings that followed. Usually, the children’s room was a sanctuary when he was drunk. If they were out of his sight, he often didn’t bother them. Tonight, however, there would be no escaping him, unless ...

The door swung open, spilling a wedge of light into the room, but Alissa, shivering in her thin nightdress, was already under the bed, rag doll and all.—It was very dusty under there. Alissa put her hand over her face and breathed shallowly, hoping to subdue the tickling in her nose. Peeping out from her hiding place, she saw a pair of feet in sturdy boots shuffling unsteadily toward the pallet on the wall, where her mother, tired out from a hard day’s work, slept on, oblivious. Hoping against hope that her father would be in one of his better moods and just go right to sleep, the child inched her way nearer the edge of the bed and craned her neck to see better.

Dad put the lantern down on the floor, beside the pallet. He stooped, and as the golden wash of lamplight illuminated his features, Alissa thought he looked strange, somehow. His expression was preoccupied and distant, as though he listened to some faint sound, far away. Her mother stirred, disturbed by the light, and rolled over onto her back. Something glittered in Dad’s hand.—Alissa muffled a shriek as the knife flashed down, burying itself to the hilt in her mother’s chest. With an odd, gurgling noise, the woman convulsed, then went limp. Alissa, numb with horrified disbelief, desperately wanted to look away, but could not. It was as though she had been turned to stone. This just couldn’t be happening—it couldn’t be her own father who was doing this dreadful thing! The blood—the blood was everywhere, reeking, darkly gleaming in the lamplight.

With a jerk, Dad wrenched the knife out from between Mother’s ribs and turned toward her little brother, who was awake now and howling in his cot. Only then was the spell of horror broken. Alissa realized, with a shock that sent a bolt of ice shearing down her spine, that she would be next. Dad turned his back on her, the knife raised high to strike. Alissa rolled out from underneath the bed. Little Tolan’s high, thin scream drowned her footsteps as she raced toward the door—and then the sound cut off abruptly. Dad, whirling, lunged toward her with an incoherent shout—but Alissa was out and hurtling down the stairs before he could reach her. She reached the outer door a scant few strides ahead of him and pulled frantically at the handle—but the door was locked, and the big key turned too stiffly for a child to manage.

Alissa shrieked as the wild-eyed figure she had once known as her father loomed over her, eyes wild and vacant in his spattered face, his knife, dripping gore, held high in one clenched and bloody fist. As he swooped down on her she ducked beneath his clutching hands and dodged away, taking the only route that was left open to her—the short passageway that led into the bakery—though she knew that outside door would be locked too. Bern, hot in pursuit, tried to turn too quickly and his blood-soaked boots slipped on the polished tiles of the hallway. Alissa heard him curse, and recognized the thud as he fell. It would give her a moment—a single moment—in which to hide herself.

Gasping for breath, the child ran into the bakery and looked wildly around for a place of concealment. The only place that seemed to offer a refuge was the big oven, cold now that the fire had gone out. Without another thought, Alissa ran across the room and climbed into the bread-scented interior. She slammed the door behind her just in time and huddled in the darkness, still clutching her rag doll and scarcely daring to breathe.

Eliseth, her awareness ensconced like a parasite within Bern’s mind, used the baker’s eyes to scan the room and scowled in vexation. Curse the child! Where in perdition had it gone?

She tried the door. Still locked. Well, in that case the misbegotten little brat couldn’t be far away. At first she thought of the closets until she gleaned from Bern’s memory that they were too well stocked to provide enough space for a hiding place—then her eye fell on the ovens. One of them wasn’t large enough to hold a child, but surely the other ...

The baker moved as though he were sleepwalking: conscious, but with no volition of his own. He made no effort to fight the Mage as she guided him across the room to the oven and had him wedge the heavy door shut with the shank of a broom. The ashes of the fire were still warm, and it took no time at all to rekindle a blaze. As Bern piled on more wood, Eliseth heard Alissa shrieking. Testing her control of the baker, she forced him to stand there and listen to the death of his little daughter. It took a long time for the screams to stop.

Leaving instructions in Bern’s mind that rendered him immobile for a time, Eliseth rummaged through the house, picking out items she thought might be of use to her. Bern’s small hoard of gold she took, and blankets, quilts, provisions, candles, and anything else that could be found in the bakery to make her life more comfortable in the decaying Academy. Sadly, the baker’s wife had been much shorter than the Mage, so her clothes were useless, but Eliseth helped herself to several pairs of stockings, some gloves, and a thick woollen cloak. Although it was too short, it would keep out the worst of the cold until she could get another.

Eliseth heaped her selections on the floor by the back door and returned to the Academy, unencumbered and unseen, by the swiftest route. Once there, she extended her consciousness toward Bern, for she could not control her own body and someone else’s at the same time, and had been forced to leave him down in the city. It was far easier to find the baker than she had expected. In the dank squalor of the Academy kitchens, she lit a fire, then filled the chalice with water and squatted down by the hearth to look into the cup by the light of the flickering flames. Their link, through the Mage’s control of the grail, was such that she seemed almost to be drawn to him. As soon as she thought of the baker, she saw him in the water, lifting the body of his only son out of a tangle of blood-soaked blankets.

Bern bowed his head over the little corpse, and wept.

“Gods, how could this have happened?” he cried in anguish. “How could you let this happen?”

Eliseth shrugged, and insinuated herself into the baker’s mind once more. She forced him to leave the bodies of his family and sent him downstairs to harness up the horse and load her looted implements and provisions on to the cart. Then she sent him back indoors with a bottle of lamp oil and a long stick from the woodpile that would serve as a torch. For many reasons, it would be best to get rid of the evidence.

With his will under the Mage’s iron control, Bern drove his horse and cart up the hill to the Academy, laden with goods that had once been his own hard-earned possessions and were now Eliseth’s spoils. Behind him, the flames of the burning bakery roared up into the night, sending a swirl of sparks drifting up toward the sky like lost, searching souls.

Eliseth made herself comfortable as best she could in the hard wooden chair, and watched the flames licking the sooty stones of the fireplace as the twilight deepened outside the window in the Archmage’s suite. It seemed that Miathan must have set some kind of self-renewing spell on his chambers. The rooms, located high above the damp lower stories of the tower, were in by far the most habitable condition—and it was just as well, because the Mage was exhausted. Throughout the daylight hours, she had been concentrating hard to control the mind of her puppet as he swept and scrubbed the chambers, throwing out anything that was soiled or decayed beyond saving. Eliseth sighed and stretched. By the Gods—it had been almost as wearying as doing the work herself!

The Mage poured herself another glass of wine, and picked fastidiously at a platter of bread and cheese. It had been worth all her effort to create this haven. None of the Mortals would dare come near the Academy—they were afraid of the place, and she would make sure they stayed that way. For the first time since she had come into this strange future, Eliseth relaxed. She was safe here,and now she could be reasonably comfortable while she worked out the best way to restore the Magefolk rule to Nexis.

Her possession of Bern was an excellent beginning, and boded well for the future. Eliseth could get into his mind at any time without his being aware of her presence. She could see through his eyes and manipulate his actions from a safe distance, and afterward, she had discovered, the baker had no recollection that his mind had been under the control of another. A slow smile of triumph spread itself over Eliseth’s face. What a weapon this chalice had turned out to be! Miathan had been an utter fool not to discover the potential that lay within it—but thank the Gods he had not. It was the solution to all her problems. Not only would she gain her revenge on Vannor and his wretched daughter, but she would rule Nexis, and those stupid Mortals wouldn’t even know it!

This led to a further thought, and the Mage felt pleasurable excitement stir within her. Aurian would arrive eventually—that much was certain. What if Eliseth were to possess Anvar in the same fashion? Then she could spy on her enemy’s movements, and influence her plans from afar. What if she could kill Aurian without a confrontation, either physical or magical—without, indeed, endangering herself in the slightest way? And wouldn’t it be marvelous to bring about the ultimate betrayal—a fitting fate for the Mortal-loving bitch, and the one thing that would hurt Aurian more than anything else in the world—before she put an end to Eilin’s daughter once and for all?

Eliseth laughed aloud. I’m going to enjoy this, she thought. But she knew her pleasure must be postponed for a while. After all, Aurian was not here yet—but Vannor was, and it was through him that she intended to carry out her conquest of Nexis. And what better time to start than tonight?

Somehow, however, the Mage simply could not settle down in the Archmage’s chambers. Perhaps it was because she would be spending the night in what had once been his bed that she was consumed with uneasy thoughts of Miathan, and remembered the last expression of fury and loathing that had been stamped indelibly on his face in the instant she had betrayed him, and taken him out of time. Disquiet began to stir within her. The Archmage’s spells to preserve the food had faded, as she had seen. Supposing her own time-spell had weakened in her absence? What then?

What utter nonsense! Eliseth tried to laugh at herself for entertaining such foolish fancies, but somehow, the laughter had a hollow ring. It would be a simple matter to put her mind at rest, she told herself firmly—she need only go down into the catacombs where she had stowed Miathan’s immobile form in one of the archive chambers, out of harm’s way. She would see that he was still there, safely in her power, and that would be that. Yet Eliseth paced the chamber uneasily, putting off the moment when she must venture down into that dark labyrinth of abandoned tunnels. There were more unpleasant things than Miathan down there. She remembered the Death-Wraiths, and wished that she had not.

By this time, Eliseth was becoming increasingly annoyed with herself—so much so that her anger finally outweighed her trepidation. Snatching up a lamp from the table, she clattered swiftly down the spiral stone staircase and, slamming the door of the Mages’ Tower loudly behind her, marched across the courtyard and into the library without a backward look. As soon as she entered the cold, damp archives, Eliseth remembered why she had hated spending so much time in this place while researching the powers of the grail. Her footsteps, sounding far less swift and certain now, echoed hollowly in the narrow tunnels, on sloping stone floors with a smooth depression down the center of the passages, where the stone had been worn away by the feet of generations of archivists who had passed and re-passed through the catacombs. Trails of moisture gleamed on the wall, reflecting the light of her lamp, and the Weather-Mage shivered in the damp, Uphill air. She wished she had thought to bring her cloak with her from the tower. Still, she thought, I won’t be down here for long. I just need to check on Miathan and go. If I remember rightly, the room where I left him is just along this passage.. . .

He was gone. She couldn’t believe it. Miathan had escaped her. At first she thought she must have lost her way and come into the wrong chamber—but there was no mistaking it. To be absolutely sure, she had marked the door, and when she stepped back, she could see the runes shimmering in the lamplight.—Eliseth looked into the empty room, and dread went through her like a bolt of ice-cold lightning. Where was he?

Suddenly, the Mage remembered what Bern had told her—that the Mortals were afraid to come near the Academy because of Miathan’s ghost. Could he still be here? Could he, even now, be lurking in these dark tunnels? Creeping up on her? With a gasp of horror, Eliseth turned and fled.

The wine that she had taken from Bern’s home was of poorer quality than she was accustomed to, but for once, Eliseth didn’t care. Once she had regained the sanctuary of her chambers—Miathan’s chambers, she thought with a shudder—she barred and bolted the door, and reinforced the lock with every warding spell that she could dredge from her panic-fuddled mind. The Weather-Mage was badly shaken. She took another long draught from the cup that she held in trembling hands and tried to assemble her scattered wits. Her plan to stay here and rule the city from the Academy was in ruins now. One thing was for sure, she thought grimly—until she had discovered Miathan’s whereabouts, it would not be safe to remain in Nexis at all. Should the Archmage come up on her unawares, she could measure her life in minutes—if she was lucky.—Once the initial shock faded, Eliseth began to think more calmly. It seemed doubtful, she decided, that Miathan could be here at present. Surely he would have discovered her by now? Her emergence through the rift in time had caused a backwash of power that he must certainly have sensed, had he been lurking in or beneath the Academy. Perhaps there would be time after all to deal with Vannor and Anvar—then once her pawns were in place, it wouldn’t matter if she had to leave the city and hide in safety elsewhere. Everything hinged on Vannor. If she could only act quickly enough ...

Sadly, swift action was impossible. In reality, three or four anxious days—she was so busy that she almost lost count—were to pass before the Mage was ready.

At last! Eliseth thought with relief. After tonight I can find somewhere safe.—The night was old, with but an hour or so still remaining before the sky would begin to grow light. Unseen in the darkness, Eliseth glided along the mossy path that led up from the river and through the gardens of Vannor’s mansion.—She approached within an arm’s length of the sentry, and still he did not notice her. Dear Gods, however had these pathetic creatures ever ended up ruling her city? Eliseth reached out a hand in passing-and touched the man’s face.

“Shit!”

The guard started and spun around, his sword leaping out of his scabbard in a single fluid motion as he turned. He saw nothing. By that time, the Mage was gone. From several yards away, she heard his companion’s voice.

“Thara’s titties! What in perdition do you think you’re doing, waving that sword around?”

“But I felt something touch me,” the other protested. “Something brushed my face.”

“Oh for pity’s sake, don’t be so bloody feeble—it was probably just a moth.—It’s bad enough being stuck out here on duty in all this wet, without you seeing sodding fairies....”

Their voices faded in the distance as Eliseth left them and made her way up through the shrubbery, heading for the great house itself. She was glad of the drizzling overcast that deepened the gloom of the night. She was using an Air spell to diffuse the light around her silhouette, and as long as the moon did not show itself from behind the low clouds, she was fairly confident that she would not be seen.

Eliseth had given careful thought to this plan. Vannor was too well guarded to be approached directly—she would never be able to get him alone, as Bern had been, so that she could slay him by magical means. Besides, she did not want the Mortals to know that she had returned to their world, and if she used her powers against the upstart ruler of Nexis, her secret would be out. She had more sense than to try a physical attack against Vannor. Even one-handed, he was stronger and more experienced with weaponry than she. There was just too much that could go wrong.

There was more than one way, however, to kill a Mortal—and in fact it was Bern’s late and unlamented wife who had given her the idea. In the Mage’s pocket was a small vial containing poison made according to instructions from one of the scrolls in the library, and concocted from ingredients found in Meiriel’s infirmary. The last days had been spent in experimentation on the rats and other vermin that infested the Academy, until she was sure she had it right. According to the records there was no antidote. Of course, in order to make sure that her poison reached its intended victim, she would probably have to kill everyone in the merchant’s household—but so what? They were only Mortals, after all. The lethal liquid was colorless and tasteless, and much to Eliseth’s satisfaction it was slow-acting, so that Vannor would take a long and painful time to die. At last he would suffer the death his perfidious daughter had prevented so long ago—but Zanna would not be able to save him this time.

The Mage had reached the rear of the house, and found the back door that led into the kitchen. Carefully, so as not to make a sound, she tested the latch.—Locked—but she could soon take care of that. She put forth her powers—and after a moment, she heard a satisfying click as the mechanism of the lock sprang open. A faint glow of lamplight outlined the kitchen window. Edging alongside the wall, Eliseth flattened herself against the brickwork and peered around the side of the frame. The kitchen fires, banked for the night, had been revived, and a solitary man was working at the long wooden table. As she had expected, Vannor’s head cook was up well before the dawn, setting the dough for the day’s bread before the rest of the kitchen helpers were awake.—The man seemed surprisingly young to be a head cook, and, most unusual for one in his profession, he was very thin and gangling. Eliseth dismissed these details with barely a glance. To her, one Mortal was very much the same as another. There was no sense in waiting. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her will to manipulate the air within the kitchen. A glowing patch of greenish mist appeared close to the feet of the unsuspecting cook. Slowly it elongated and solidified in form, until it had taken on the appearance of a small green serpent. Then the Mage paused. This was her favorite illusion and it would distract the cook sure enough—but what if he was afraid of snakes, as were so many of these ridiculous Mortals? He would yell and wake the rest of the household, and that was the last thing she wanted. Eliseth cursed under her breath and dissolved her illusion of the reptile. What could she use instead?—A more complex creature would both tax her powers and stretch her ingenuity to the utmost—but she could do it. For the chance of revenging herself on Vannor at last, she could certainly do it.

The Mage narrowed her eyes and concentrated with all her might. The patch of mist turned pale and opaque. It shimmered and twisted in upon itself, until, after several minutes, an outline began to emerge. “Come on, come on,” Eliseth muttered impatiently to herself as slowly, one by one, the details of the creature began to emerge from the amorphous background. When the cook glanced down, a small white cat was sitting at his feet.

“Goodness! Wherever did you come from?” Smiling, the man stooped down and reached out to stroke the little creature. Eliseth, concentrating so hard that drops of sweat broke out on her forehead, shifted her illusion away from his outstretched hand.

“Frightened, are you, little one? Has someone been mistreating you?” Vannor’s cook asked the cat.

Eliseth grimaced and cast her eyes up to the heavens. She had never been able to work out why some Mortals actually spoke to animals as if they could understand. Still, if it served her purpose . . . Though she was unable to reproduce sound in her illusion, she opened the kitten’s mouth in a silent mew.

“Poor little thing—are you hungry? Just you wait here a moment, and we’ll see what we can find for you.”

As the cook vanished into the pantry, Eliseth moved like lightning. She slipped through the back door, sprinkled her deadly liquid over the bread dough on the table, and was out again before the cook emerged. As she slipped soundlessly down through the gardens, she glanced back to see him silhouetted in the open doorway, a plate in his hand, calling out to the cat that was no longer there—and never had been.

Between the Worlds was a lonely place. Forral had no notion of the time that had passed in the Mortal world while he had been trapped here, for time held no sway in the realms of Death, and the silvery, misty landscape of rolling hills and starry sky remained unchanging, never altering their aspect to mark the passing hours or changing seasons. Now that the Reaper of Souls had forbidden him access to the sacred hilltop grove and the portal it contained, the swordsman’s only contacts with the world he had departed were the spirits who would pass through this limbo, singly or severally, on their way from the Door Between the Worlds to the Well of Souls, where they would be reborn. All of these, however, were guarded and guided by the Specter of Death, in his guise of the old hermit with the lamp, and the Reaper would not permit Forral to approach the shades too closely, or delay them with his questions.—Increasingly, it seemed to the swordsman that he was becoming the ghost in this landscape of the dead, for the longer he lingered here, the more insubstantial he seemed to become to the shades of the once-living who passed through swiftly on their way to a new existence. When he had first come to this place, the others had noticed him at least, or heard his voice, though when this happened they were always sped quickly on their way by their grisly guardian. Now, however, his fellow-spirits seemed not to see the form of the lonely swordsman who hovered anxiously nearby, desperate for news of Aurian.—It was most painful when a familiar form appeared whether the shade was that of an old friend or even an enemy. To see someone he had once known in the Mortal world pass him by without the slightest trace of recognition—it was almost like dying all over again.

Forral had become increasingly frustrated and wretched as the relentless isolation gnawed away at his confidence and his nerve. There was no way to help this timeless imprisonment pass more easily—he could not eat, or drink, or sleep, and there was nothing to do or to make, and nothing new to see. He could touch nothing, feel nothing—not even his own body. Occasionally Forral would begin to walk, or even run frenziedly, endlessly, in an attempt to escape this dim and dreary landscape, but he never tired, and his hurrying steps only led him among the rounded hills, back to the place where he had started—the valley below the sacred grove. The way to the Well of Souls was barred to him now by a barrier of some invisible force, as was the Door Between the Worlds. Even Death himself would no longer converse with Forral, for the Specter simply vanished every time the furious and embittered swordsman attempted to confront him. Forral knew that the Reaper was waiting him out, hoping that sooner or later he would tire of this miserable half-existence, and volunteer to be reborn.

Had he not been so afraid for Aurian and her child—his own child—Forral would have capitulated gladly. How could he leave, knowing that he might be losing a chance—a single chance—to help them? Even so, he was alarmed to find that his memory of the Mage was fading, eroded by the endless changelessness and solitude of his surroundings. How long, he wondered, would it be before she vanished completely in the mists of forgetfulness? How long did he have left, before he lost even his own sense of identity—and what would become of him then? As Forral waited—for what, he could not say—it took every shred of courage in the warrior’s heart not to give way to despair.

The swordsman sat on the silvery hillside, brooding upon his unhappy thoughts.—Recently, a whole stream of people had passed through the door, singly or in groups of two or three—about a dozen altogether. What was going on? Some catastrophe had struck, he was sure, to bring so many through at once—and what was worse, he felt certain that he ought to recognize some of the faces, but the memories lurked tauntingly just out of his reach. Am I losing my mind? he thought despairingly—and if I do, what will remain of me? Will my spirit cease to exist completely? Forral shook his head. Perhaps Death had been right all along. He should have listened to the Specter. Maybe he should find him, admit defeat, and consent to be reborn before it was too late... .

Forral sensed that the Door Between the Worlds was opening once more. He could feel it, like a stirring of the tides of energy within his incorporeal form, like the subtle, almost imperceptible change of atmosphere between a worldly night and morning. Even as he cursed himself for a fool, the swordsman leapt to his feet and ran, as he had run so many times before, racing down the valley in a fruitless attempt to beat the Specter of Death to the already-widening portal.

As always, he was too late. Before he had reached the mouth of the valley, Forral could feel the change within him as the Door closed again upon the mundane world. Still he kept going, fighting his disappointment, anxious to catch a glimpse of the new arrival in the Reaper’s realm, and hoping that for once—just this once—he might be perceived. The ground mist swept aside from the valley’s dark mouth, to reveal the familiar sight of two figures, the bewildered newcomer led by the spectral figure of the old hermit with the lamp.

Memory struck Forral like a physical blow. Grief and a raging sense of injustice swept through the swordsman like an inferno as he beheld the familiar, stocky figure that followed in Death’s wake. He started forward eagerly. “Vannor! Vannor, old fox!”

“What? Who is that?” the merchant peered through the yswirling mist. For the first time that Forral could remember, his old friend looked confused and uncertain. Well, it was hardly surprising, was it? he chided himself. Suddenly he realized that Vannor probably would not understand, as yet, what happened to him. I had better tread very carefully, the swordsman thought—but it was already too late.

“Forral?” Vannor’s voice, usually so gruff, rose in an unsteady squeak. His eyes wide with horror, he began to back away through the mist. “It—it can’t be you,” he stammered. “Forral is dead”

The swordsman sighed. Clearly, there would be no gentle way to do this. He strode after the retreating figure. “So are you, Vannor old friend,” he said bluntly. “Why else would I be here?”

“You are here because you are recalcitrant and foolish.” Forral and Vannor swung round with a gasp. They had forgotten the presence of Death. The Specter was wearing the hooded guise of the old hermit who conducted those who had passed through the Door to their final rest. He beckoned to Vannor. “Come, Mortal. Pay no attention to this renegade—he will do your own cause no good whatsoever. You must accompany me to the Well of Souls, and be reborn.”

Vannor scowled. “Now just a minute,” he protested. “This renegade, as you call him, happens to be a friend of mine. I’m not going anywhere until I find out what is going on here.” His frown grew deeper. “What in the bloody blazes happened to me, anyway? I don’t remember how I got to be here. How is it that I’m dead?”

Death sighed. “If it matters at all, you were poisoned, as were most of your household.”

“What?” Vannor yelled. “Who did this? Who else was poisoned? All of them? Was Dulsina killed? What about Antor, my son?”

Your son has already passed this way.” Death shrugged. “The one you call Dulsina—no. It may be that her time is yet to come. As for the murderer’s identity—well, this is not the first occasion that your enemy has made a good deal of work for me.” He smiled grimly. “I look forward to the day I welcome that one into my realm.”

“Who?” Both men spoke simultaneously.

“The Magewoman Eliseth.” Death shrugged.

“She’s back?” Vannor gasped. “But—”

Forral wondered at his friend’s shocked response, but Death held up his hand, forestalling any further questions. “The manner of your coming here is of little import. You must come with me now, Vannor—and try, if you can, to persuade your friend to join you, for he refuses to listen to reason. Too long has he lingered Between the Worlds.”

Vannor gave the Specter a hard look. “I’ll accompany you if Forral will, but if he wants to stay here, I won’t leave him. He’s my friend.”

Forral felt relief wash over him in a flood of warmth. He had never realized just how desperately he had missed a friend in this dismal place. “Vannor, what about Aurian? I know she must be alive, because she hasn’t passed this way, but is she well? Is she safe? Is Anvar taking care of her? What about our child?” So anxious was he that the questions poured out of him, tumbling over one another without waiting for an answer.

A chill went through Forral when he saw the grave expression on the merchant’s face. “I’m sorry, Forral—I can’t answer you.” Vannor sighed. “About seven years ago, she and Anvar were attacked by Eliseth in the Vale. Aurian had found the Sword of Flame, but Eliseth stole it from her. Then the three of them disappeared—they literally vanished into nothingness.” He shook his head.

“I wish I ...” Suddenly an odd expression swept across his face. To the swordsman, it looked like stark fear. Forral blinked, and rubbed his eyes.—Light was deceptive in this place, but it looked to him as though Vannor was fading....

“Forral—help me,” the merchant cried. “I feel strange—there’s something pulling at me. . . . Oh Gods, I can’t see you. . . .” His voice diminished to a despairing wail that was drowned out by a roar from Death. “Stop! This soul is mine.”

Forral was brushed aside as the Specter lurched forward—but it was too late.—Vannor was gone.