First the avalanche and now—
" Alec! " The hoarse, panicky cry came from somewhere beyond the uptilted floor.
"Seregil! You didn't fall!"
"But I'm about to. Do something, anything!
Hurry!"
A sickening sense of futility engulfed Alec.
The upper corner of the platform was several feet beyond his reach. If he jumped at it, it would tilt back and crush him against the side of the shaft, probably shaking Seregil loose from whatever precarious hold he had managed on his side. If only he had a rope— something long enough to snag the upper corner and pull it down—
"Alec!"
Ripping off his cloak, Alec gathered the hem of it in one hand and tossed the other end at the upthrust corner, hoping to catch it with the hood. It fell mere inches short of the mark.
"Damn it to hell!" Alec could hear Seregil's labored breathing a few short, impossible yards away. Looking wildly around, his eye fell on the rusty sconce set into the wall above the lowermost step.
Without a second thought he grasped it with his right hand and leaned as far out over the pit as his reach allowed, cloak ready in his left for another cast.
He was already overbalanced beyond recovery when the sconce gave beneath his hand. He heard the evil grate of metal against stone as he lurched forward a few inches more over the edge.
He hung a moment, breath dead in his throat, waiting for the final pin or screw or brace to pull free.
It didn't.
It might, if he moved.
Or it might not. He wouldn't know until he tried.
His choices were pretty limited; make a move now or wait to fall when his grip gave out.
"Alec—?"
With sweat pouring down his face and sides, he willed himself to make one last, crucial try with the cloak. Tossing it up with his left hand, he caught the upper corner of the platform with the edge of the hood and felt it hold. Miraculously, the iron sconce held, too, at least for the moment.
Pulling down on the cloak, he dragged the corner of the platform down with every ounce of strength he could muster. Its weight, together with Seregil's-still clinging somehow to its other side—" almost more than he could manage, but slowly, slowly, it tilted back toward level. As it came down he managed to move his left hand up, gripping the fabric in his teeth as he transferred his hold. This process gave him enough leverage to gradually pull himself backward and out of the way of the descending edge. At last he was able to grasp the platform and push.
As the upper side of it came into view, he found Seregil huddled there, grasping the handle of his dagger with both hands. Somehow, even as he'd felt the floor go out from under him, he'd managed to drive the tip of the blade in far enough between two of the floorboards to hold his slight weight as he hung from it.
"Throw me the end of your cloak," he croaked, white and shaken. "It's bound to tip down when I come your way. Can you hang on to me if I drop again?"
"Wait a second." Holding the edge of the platform with one hand, Alec undid his belt with the other and worked the end of it back through the buckle.
Securing the loop around his wrist, he flapped the loose end out to Seregil. "Get a good hold on this. I can manage this better than the cloak."
Wedging the dagger more firmly, Seregil gripped the end of the belt and began inching his way toward Alec.
The platform tilted down ominously as he shifted his weight, but Alec hauled him quickly to safety on the stairs.
" Bilairy's Balls!" Seregil gasped, collapsing at his feet.
"And Guts!" Alec leaned shakily against the wall. "This candle thing I had hold of nearly came loose! I can't believe it didn't."
Upon closer inspection, however, he found that it hadn't come loose at all. It was still fixed solidly to a rod that ran back into the wall. When he pushed up, it slid smoothly back into place.
"Look at this," he exclaimed, perplexed.
Getting to his feet, Seregil examined the mechanism. Pushing the sconce upright, he drew his sword and pushed on the edge of the platform. It tilted with precipitous ease. When the sconce was pulled down, however, it remained solidly level. They soon discovered two heavy pins that slid in and out of the wall below the platform to hold it steady when the sconce was down.
"Ingenious," Seregil said with genuine admiration.
"When Kassarie comes down she pulls this and leaves it fixed. On the way back up she resets the trap. That loose board that fell out must have been some sort of brace that held it in place until I got halfway across. It's more dangerous that way, since there was no chance to jump back."
"How did you ever manage to get your knife set in time?" Alec asked wonderingly.
Seregil shook his head. "I don't even remember doing it."
Moving with redoubled care, they continued down. After a few more turns, the walls of the stairwell changed from masonry to solid stone and they knew they were below ground level. Reaching the bottom at last, they found a short, level corridor leading to a door.
Seregil bent to inspect the lock. "It looks safe enough. You better do it, though. My hands are still shaking!"
Alec knelt and took out his tools. Selecting a hook, he grinned up at Seregil. "After all this trouble, let's hope this isn't just the wine cellar!"
40 Flight
The door swung open whine of hinges. Thrusting in his lightstone, Alec tensed with a hiss of surprise.
"What is it?" whispered Seregil, grasping his sword hilt as he moved to look in.
The light was not bright enough to fully illuminate the room, but they could make out the figure of a person seated in an ornate chair against the far wall. There was no movement or outcry, and stepping closer, they saw that it was the withered corpse of a man.
He was nobly dressed in clothing of antique design. A heavy golden torque hung at his shrunken throat, and several rings glinted on the bony fingers resting on the arms of the chair. His thick, dark hair had retained its living gloss and hung in disconcerting contrast against the sunken cheeks.
"Uven ari nobis!"
Seregil exclaimed softly, bending close with his light.
Alec did not understand the words but recognized the reverent tone with which they were spoken. Fighting down his instinctive revulsion, he looked more closely at the corpse's face, noting the fine bones of the skull beneath their thin covering of desiccated skin, the high, prominent cheekbones, the large, sunken sockets where eyes had been.
"Illior's Light! Seregil, this can't be—"
"It is," Seregil replied grimly. "Or was. Lord Corruth, the lost consort of Idrilain the First. These rings prove it. See this?" He indicated the one on the corpse's right hand; it was set with a lozenge of banded carnelian deeply incised with the Dragon of Skala. "It's a Consort's Seal. And this other, the silver with the red stone? Finest Aurлnfaie work. This was Corruth i Glamien Yanari Meringil Bokthersa."
"Your kinsman."
"I never knew him, though I'd often hoped—"
Seregil touched one of the hands. "The skin's hard and hollow as the shell of a dried gourd. Someone took great care to preserve him."
"But why?" shuddered Alec.
Seregil shook his head angrily. "I suppose the bastards get some perverse pleasure out of having their enemy looking on as they plot to overthrow his descendants. Perhaps they swear oaths on him, I don't know. Factions like the Lerans don't persist for generations without a good leaven of fanaticism."
The chamber was about the size of Nysander's workroom, and the hand of a master mason was evident in every line; dry, sound, and square, its walls showed no moisture or moss. The ceiling overhead, though not high, was vaulted and ribbed to give the room a less oppressive feel. It was furnished with a round table, several chests, and a few cabinets against the walls. A low dais with a second thronelike chair stood against the left-hand wall. A broad shield hung on the wall behind it.