The dragon purred, a low, rumbling sound that the lads and the sentries beyond mistook for thunder, for a rising storm out of the north.
This is a comedy of mirrors, the goddess thought, reclining in the warm, swirling night winds of the Abyss.
Around her lay darkness on darkness, darkness layering darkness until those places where light had fled entirely seemed hazy, almost luminous, compared to places darker still that surrounded them-a gloom not only of shadows but of spirit.
But Takhisis was laughing now, her low, melodious laugh echoing in the great surrounding void. A comedy of mirrors, when one character watches another, who in turn watches a third watching a fourth, and all of this observed by the audience itself, watching from beyond the play's little world of spies and intruders.
Ember certainly did not know she watched him as he crouched, flightless and stupid, in the high, foggy grasslands. Let him approach her temple; let him see what he would see.
She would win, regardless of what he discovered.
As for the lads, they knew her only fleetingly, when what they called "the Voice" came to them, and she told them dark, unimaginable things. One would be hers, twisted from his high bloodline to her desire and design.
There would be no room for the other.
Turning in the perpetual blackness, fluttering her pennons, she dropped straight down ten thousand fathoms, plummeting, falling, dreaming, until at length she floated amid a wild, universal hubbub of stunning sounds, of disembodied voices all confused, borne through the hollow dark. She laughed amidst the chaos of noise, and she thought of Laca.
His pedigreed line, aflourish since the Age of Light, would end in a traitorous son.
It would be the last drop of Huma's blood, she thought. With one of the two-whether Verminaard or Aglaca, she cared not which, though she had begun to suspect which one it would be-the line would end.
She thought of Huma and shivered. Thought of the bright lance exploding in her chest, the incandescent swirl of darkness and the crackle of the firmament as the lance thrust her into the negative plane of dark and chaos, of the Jiight winds that whirled about her, buoying and buffeting her, and of the continual whining and whirring of these voices at the edge of nothingness, the hysterical gnatsong of the damned.
She had destroyed him in their battle, but at the great cost of three thousand years of banishment. She had destroyed him, brotherless and heirless, and for centuries, she had dreamt, believing that his line had died against her in that final battle, there at the end of the Second Dragon War.
But there were the cousins, and the cousins had sons. Laca had been the last. Distant in descent and in blood, but Huma's kin nonetheless. And then there was Aglaca.
And along with Aglaca, there was the visit of Laca to Nidus, beneath the roof of his old friend Daeghrefn, with whose comely wife he forgot all loyalty, all honor and Oath and Measure, if for only a bright morning…
So with Aglaca, there was the child Verminaard, fair of hair and blue-eyed, the opposite of Daeghrefn, but the image of his real father.;
So Huma's line had branched again. Almost as though it had scattered to elude her, to distract her from her three-millennia search. But she had located them both-both of Laca's sons-and time, circumstance, and her own devices had brought them together at last.
And before she chose between them-or rather, before one of them chose her-there was the matter of the girl.
For a while, Takhisis had let the Nerakans hold the girl. Surely that softhearted wretch L'Indasha would reveal herself and come to the rescue-in a hostile country where the veils Paladine had cast over her whereabouts would no longer protect her.
But weeks had passed, and there had been no sign of the druidess. So she had turned to Laca's sons: They would bring her the girl-they and that scheming subordinate of hers, who fanned the fog unwittingly, veiling their movements to the Nerakan guards.
Once they had brought the girl to Nidus, the sounding would begin. Something in the girl's thoughts resisted all probing, and her dreams were opaque and unfathomable.
No doubt Paladine had veiled her as well.
But the girl would leave Nidus eventually, and her path would lead to L'Indasha Yman, to the secret of the blank rune. Then all the ingredients would fall into place-the mysterious Judyth of Solamnia, the immortal druidess, and the last of Huma's line.
The last of Huma's line. In whatever role he would play. She would sound him soon, try him in the darkness of her own choosing. Oh, yes. The ingredients were all there. It would all make sense when Takhisis gathered them. Of that she was sure.
The voices wailed and gibbered around her in a chaos of laments. The Queen of the Dragons extended her sable wings.
The time would come when the rune was blank no longer, but inscribed with its long-lost opposing symbols, and when the last rune was added to the others, their prophetic powers would be perfect. She would find the green keystone to the Temple then, for the restored runes would see through all-through centuries of stone and through the clouded chaos of history. The runes were knowledge, and with that knowledge, Takhisis could open the portals to the world. And return to govern it.
She spread her wings and turned in a hot, dry wind, rising to the lip of the Abyss, to the glazed and dividing firmament beyond which she could not travel. It looked forbidding, mysterious, like thick ice on a bottomless pool. There, in the heart of nothing, Takhisis banked and glided, aloft on the wafting current and her own dark strategies.
Chapter 9
As the Voice had told Verminaard, tbe Pen lay to the west, in an encampment amid a forest of green banners.
He crept closer, almost to the banners themselves, where he could hear the sniffling and coughing of a rheumy sentry. Aglaca followed gamely, crouching in the shadow of a large green pavilion, peering across the campground at the Nerakan stockade.
"I've never seen anything of this sort," Aglaca marveled. "The stockade is a living thing."
Verminaard gave the stockade a second look.
Sure enough, the Pen was alive and growing-a tight circle of small-boled trees, so close together that a mouse could barely pass between the trunks. Their branches spread and intertwined, forming a netted canopy that kept out the rain, no doubt, and most of the sunlight. Near the Pen's narrow entrance, the sentries paced, and the air seemed to bristle and crackle before them.
Aglaca smiled. "It's easier than I thought."
Verminaard shot him a puzzled look.
"Those are drasil trees," the young Solamnic explained. "Remember the ones above the cave in the mountains?"
Verminaard did not.
With a sigh, Aglaca continued, leaning back into the darkness. "Once again, they grow over caves. That's the point. This whole area must sit atop a cavern-perhaps a system of caverns. When we find an entrance, it will be simple. We'll come up under the Pen and burrow her out."
"Won't that be hard to do? To break through all that cavern rock?" Verminaard still did not understand.
"The trees have already done that for us," Aglaca replied delightedly. "The system of roots has broken it to gravelly soil, I'd wager. The two of us, at work for a couple of hours with sword and knife, could hack a hole big enough to draw out the girl-to draw out her entourage, if need be. Then it's back to where we left the horses, and on to Nidus before the Nerakans know they've been… undermined."
The caves were easy enough to find.
And Aglaca was right: The whole plateau was riddled with tunnels and fissures. The tunnels branched and burgeoned, forming an intricate network that spread roughly westward, toward the Nerakan walls, the center of town, and the temple itself.