“And I woke up.” Dhamon looked down the hallway in the other direction. “Do you know how to get out of here?”
A nod.
“Let’s…” He stared past the sivak. The hair prickled at the back of his neck. “Let’s investigate just a bit more.” He found himself thinking of Palin Majere. It was many long months since the two of them had worked against the great dragons. He remembered that Palin favored the higher levels of the Tower of Wayreth.
“Sorcerers build towers, I think, because they put themselves above the common man. They look down on the world from the top. The sage was a Black Robe sorcerer, so she might be found as high as she could climb.”
Dhamon hurried toward the staircase, Ragh following him, quietly objecting. “You said the healer could not possibly be here.”
The stairs were confining, the slate steps worn. Dhamon had to tuck his shoulders in and put his head down to make his way up them. Ragh had much more difficulty, with his nine-foot frame. He scraped his scaly skin against the stone and left a stripe of blood on each side of the stairwell. The steps wound upwards for more than thirty feet, emerging onto to a small landing made of chips of volcanic glass, and branching into an equally narrow corridor with a high ceiling. Straight ahead was a thin wooden door, its black paint chipped and faded.
“At least we will not have to worry about spawn up here,” Ragh said. His shoulders were bleeding from rubbing against the stone. “The stairwell was made for imps and faeries.”
“And sorcerers,” Dhamon said. Sorcerers tended to be on the slight side, he thought with grim amusement.
The sivak stared down both directions of the hallway, which, though high-ceilinged, was practically as narrow as the stairwell. “Smells like nothing has been up here for years. Maybe a child could traverse these halls.”
Dhamon shut out the sivak’s comments and strained his ears, listening. The only sound he heard was a steady drip-drip, this coming from where the roof was leaking. Water had pooled on the floor, making it look even more shiny, a black mirror in which he could see his haggard reflection. There were no torches, yet there was light. Dhamon noticed a trio of thick black candles set in a sconce several yards down on the wall on either side. The wicks burned steadily, yet there was no smoke and no trace of wax running.
“Magic,” he said in a hushed voice.
There were no windows, nor had he noted any when he viewed the building from the outside, but the air here smelled fresh, it must be flowing in from somewhere. He glanced up at the ceiling and guessed it to be twenty feet high. There were marks in the center of the ceiling, perhaps what was left of a painting or mosaic. Dhamon could make out a few images of men in dark robes, but the paint was so faded he could not tell what the figures were supposed to be doing.
“What do we want with this place?” the sivak asked. “Your healer can’t be—”
“I don’t know what I want,” Dhamon told him. “We’re here, so we’ll look around. I’ve a feeling there’s something to this place.” He drew his sword as a precaution and headed down the hall to his right. The sivak pressed itself against the wall as Dhamon squeezed past. Dhamon passed by a narrow wooden door and continued to follow the hallway. He passed two more doors, both oddly narrow, both dangling from their rusted hinges. He swore he’d seen the end of the hallway from the landing, but when he reached that spot, the hall snaked abruptly to his left and turned sharply again as if doubling back on itself.
Finally Dhamon came to an impressive bronze and ebonwood door, the trim of which gleamed in the light of more black candles. He reached for the latch but stopped himself, turning and sidling toward a narrow door with cracked paint that looked like patches of black scales.
“Someone is in here,” he whispered. “I can smell them.”
Dhamon reached for the latch, his fingers trembling slightly. Nerves. Behind him, Ragh flexed his claws. The two stood for several moments, both of them listening and hearing only the sounds of each other breathing.
After several moments, Dhamon tightened his hand on the latch and swung it open. He raised the long sword high and was greeted with a blackness as intense as a starless sky. Even his acute vision could discern nothing. He heard Ragh back away, spawn claws clicking softly against the floor. A moment later the sivak returned with one of the candles and passed it to Dhamon. It cut the darkness only a little. Dhamon stepped inside. The sivak stood in the doorway, alternately glancing down the hall and into the room.
It felt colder than in the hall, and the air was fresher still, carrying with it the scent of spring wildflowers. There were other odors, too, a mustiness of old clothes, human waste, and the unmistakable smell of strong spirits. Dhamon sniffed. Animals too? Mice or rats, he decided.
“Do not be shy, young man. Come in. Come in. My sister and I have not had visitors in quite some time. Certainly not since… was it yesterday?”
The voice startled Dhamon. It was velvety and rich, as though the speaker was exotic or a little inebriated, or perhaps both.
“Who are you?” Dhamon ventured. He wanted to add and what and where are you?
“Not your enemy.”
Dhamon sheathed the sword. At the same time he took a few steps forward. “I can’t see…” he began.
He heard flint struck. A moment later an oil lamp glowed on a small pedestal and chased away the shadows.
“Is that better?”
Dhamon nodded.
The woman was tiny, a wizened old thing with rounded shoulders, head thrust forward, looking like a turtle because of the moth-eaten cloak that swelled away from her back. She was seated on a wooden stool, which made her look smaller still. Diminutive slippered feet hung several inches above the floor. Dhamon guessed she was little more than four feet tall. The myriad of deep creases across her face suggested great age. Her ice-blue eyes hinted she might be even older. The room seemed large because of its sparse furnishings. There was a bed with several chamber pots beneath it, the pedestal with the lamp at her side, a bench that contained a half dozen jugs of the alcohol Dhamon smelled, and a large cage full of mice. The walls were covered with mosaics made of black and gray stone, except for one spot where a thin beveled mirror hung, reflecting the old woman.
Dhamon tried to blow out his candle, but the light refused to even flicker. The woman cackled and gestured with her fingers to douse it.
“My sister and I wonder, what brings you to our castle? The servants didn’t announce you. Perhaps it is late, and they are in bed. Or perhaps they are lazy, and we will need to replace them. Again.”
She glanced at the mirror and nodded. “What’s that you say, sister? Oh, sorry. She tells me I have forgotten my manners.”
The old woman extended a crooked hand to Dhamon. It was skeletal, skin stretched tight over bones, so pale and thin that the blue veins stood out beneath it. The joints were knobby, especially at her wrist. He spotted a curving black tattoo beginning just past her wrist and extending up her sleeve, but he couldn’t see enough of it to determine what it was. This close to her, he could smell the alcohol heavy on her breath. Her hand was cold, and he held it for only a moment.
“My sister points out that I have been rude again. She is right. She always is. My name is Maab.”
She added another cackle and a smile, her eyes shining. There were no whites to her eyes, and no pupils that Dhamon could see, just solid ice-blue. She made an attempt to straighten her back.
“I am Lady Maab of High Elkhorn, mistress of this castle. And you are…?”
“Dhamon Grimwulf,” he answered, bowing his head. “My companion is called Ragh.”