"Nothing's changed," Alec replied, holding it up for him to see.
"Most curious indeed," mused Nysander, unruly eyebrows beetling. "The problem must lie in the markings of Seregil's scar."
Seregil studied them in a hand mirror. "The side of the wooden disk that burned Alec was smooth, no carving at all. But these of mine are getting clearer instead of fainter. Don't you sense any magic at all around it?"
"None," Nysander answered. "So it must somehow be the configuration of the characters themselves, whatever they are."
Seregil looked up. "And you truly don't know what they are?"
"I recognize the sigla, as I have said. What lies beneath it is as much a mystery to me as to you. You have my word on that."
"Then we're right back where we began," Alec exclaimed in exasperation.
"Perhaps not," Nysander said softly, touching Seregil's scar a last time, then casting another obscuration over it. "It reappeared after Seregil changed bodies with Thero, and again when he changed back from the owl form. There must be some significance to that, though I do not yet know what it means."
"It means I'm going to spend the rest of my life trotting back to you to get it covered up again," grumbled Seregil, pulling on his shirt. "I bet Valerius could get it off."
"You must not do that. Not yet, at least. To destroy it before we understand it could prove most unwise. Bear with it awhile longer, dear boy. Perhaps we may yet solve its riddle. In the meantime, it appears to be doing you no harm."
"It's done enough of that already!" Seregil scowled. "Take care, Nysander. We'll be close by if you want us."
Nysander retired to his sitting room after they'd gone. Sinking wearily into an armchair, he rested his head against its back and summoned up the impressions he'd gotten from the scar—the star, the sea sounds, the flash of blue, the hint of a face—
His head ached. He'd had no rest since the raid and he was exhausted—too exhausted to delve further into the matter. A quick nap here in his chair was called for, he decided. Later, after making the proper preparations, he would meditate further on the matter.
The quiet of the room enfolded him like a thick, comfortable blanket. The warmth of the fire was like summer sunshine on the side of his face—so pleasant, so soft, like the touch of a woman's lips. As he sank deeper into the welcome languor, he seemed to feel Seregil's chest beneath his hand again, the tiny ridges of the scar brushing his palm. But now Seregil's skin was cold, cold as a marble statue—
Nysander stirred uneasily in his chair. A vision is coming, he thought in vague dismay. I am too wearyfor visions.
But it came anyway.
He was standing in the Orлska's central atrium. Bright sunshine streamed down through the greatdome overhead, warming him deliriously. Other wizards passed by without looking at him. Apprentices and servants hurried past at their daily tasks.
But then the Voice spoke and all the people around him turned into marble statues.
The Voice came from somewhere beneath him, a faint, sinister chuckle vibrating up from the depths below the stone floor. He could feel it in the soles of his feet. Looking down, he noticed for the first time that the mortar of the mosaic had crumbled. Large sections of the design, the proud Dragon of lllior, had been loosened and dislodged, the brilliant tiles trampled to powder.
The Voice came again and he turned, striding through the motionless throng to the museum.Across the shadowed room, beyond the ranks of display cases, the door of the antechamber leading to the vaults stood slightly ajar.
As he approached it, he heard something scuttle away into the darkness ahead. It was a scrabbling, clicking noise utterly unlike rats. Something crackled beneath his foot, a fragment of wood. The case that had held the hands of Tikбrie Megraesh was empty; a splintered, fist-sized hole had been clawed through the bottom.
Summoning a gleaming sphere of light in his left palm, he continued on. As he neared the door itflew open with such force that it split from top to bottom and hung shattered on its hinges.
"Come, old man," a sibilant whisper beckoned. "Old man. Old man. Old, old man."
Skin prickling with revulsion, he obeyed.
The antechamber was as it should be, but the plain stone stairway beyond was gone. Instead, a terrible black chasm yawned before him, devoid of bridge or pathway. Summoning a second light in his right hand, he spread his arms and launched himself into the fathomless darkness, plummeting like an osprey.
He could not tell how long he fell; it seemed like a very long time. There was no wind, no feelingof passage, only the knowledge that he was descending until at last, in the way of dreams, he came to a gentle landing on uneven stone. In front of him, an archway led into the familiar brick-paved corridor of the Orлska's deepest vault.
The low passage branched out into a warren of corridors and storage chambers. He'd made his solitary way here countless times, passing this corner, turning at the next to make certain that thePlace, the unmarked, unremarkable span of mortared wall and all that lay behind it, was as it should be.
But this sojourn, he knew, was not to be a solitary one. The Voice was ahead of him and loudernow, shouting to him from the Place.
"Come, old man! Come, Guardian!" The bellowed challenge echoed coldly through the dampstone corridors. "Come and view the first fruits of your sacred vigil!"
Rounding the final corner, he found himself face-to-face with the dyrmagnos, Tikбrie Megraesh.Bright eyes, moist and alive, looked out from the desiccated black face. The hands that he himself—then a young wizard new to his robes—had cut off had found their way back to their owner's arms, visible below the sleeves of the hideous creature's festival robe.
"Pass, O most noble Guardian!" Tikdrie bade him, stepping aside with a slight bow. "The Beautiful One awaits. Pass and join the feast." The voice of the dyrmagnos, like his eyes, had retained a terrible humanity.
Passing his ancient enemy, he found the passage blocked by a huge pile of naked corpses.
Creatures in colorful rags crawled and scuttled over the dead and he could hear the greedysounds of their feeding.
Some were human, and among these he recognized many long-vanquished foes, returned now tohaunt his dreams.
Others were twisted, monstrous creatures of revolting form beneath their robes.
And all were feasting on the dead. Swarming across the limp bodies, they hunched like jackalsover their victims, tearing chunks of flesh out with teeth and talons, crunching through bone.
A tall figure emerged from the shadows, its dark cloak revealing nothing of its form.
"Join the feast," it commanded in a voice like wind groaning down the chimney of an abandoned house. Stretching an impossibly long arm into the heap, it tugged a body loose and cast it at his feet.
It was Seregil.
Half of his face had been cruelly gnawed. Both hands were gone and the skin had been flayedfrom his chest.
A moan rose in Nysander's throat as grief paralyzed him.
"Devour him," the specter invited, reaching again into the pile.
Micum was next, chest torn open, both strong arms gone at the shoulder.
Then Alec, robbed of hands and eyes. Blood streaked his face like tears, and matted his softyellow hair.