Janina. She called him again and for a moment she was in the tent and this time it was he who beckoned her to his bed. She would not come. She held out her arms and stood looking at him and the tent filled with her radiance. Then she vanished.
Blade groaned and got off the pallet. No more. Not now. Janina sapped his will and his strength and he had need of both this night. He began to make his preparations. It did not take long. He stripped naked and buckled his swordbelt on. He wore high-laced buskins. He donned a plumed helmet and slid his left arm into the straps of a small circular shield with a boss of sleek metal. Nothing else. He was ready. But for the ball of twine.
He hefted the twine in his hand. Stout enough. He smiled to himself. Casta would let him into the maze-he had no doubt of it, for the High Priest was sure of himself. And Blade, with the aid of the twine, would let himself out.
Chapter 15
An hour before moonrise, Blade was at the east entrance to the towering monolith that was the Izmir's tomb. The night was dark and windless, and all about on the plain the campfires blazed, but no torches burned over the arched door and no black priests guarded it. Casta knew he was coming. He was making it easy for him.
For a moment he lingered in the arch. A glow of torches filtered up the ramp from the central rotunda. Nothing moved. No sound. Blade drew his sword and went down the ramp.
The great central chamber brooded in dim, guttering light. The stink of the torches filled it. Blade watched the dark gates that opened from the chamber like wheelspokes. Nothing in there. Nothing he could see.
He went to the third door from the left, thinking back. He had made a point of remembering it. It was through this door that the priest had conducted him on his first and only visit to Casta. Blade moved on. Not this time.
He paused at each entrance, stood silent and sniffed the air. He was near to completing the circle when he found it. The foul odor. It came faint but unmistakable-the stink of dead meat and ordure and something else that he could not identify. Blade moved into the passage.
On a last thought he had attached a dagger to his belt. And carried a second in his hand. He drove the spare dagger into a crack between stones and secured the end of his twine to it, testing both dagger and twine. Firm. He began to explore along the passage, sword thrust before him, unreeling the twine as he went. Ahead of him a torch glinted in a sconce.
He went a little beyond the torch and peered into the dark. No more torches. He went back and lifted the torch from its iron ring and now had to sheathe his sword again for lack of a third hand. He stepped on briskly, holding the torch high and letting the twine out behind him.
Light flashed overhead and then was gone. Gone before he could raise his eyes. A panel in the stone ceiling had been opened and closed. They knew where he was.
The sound behind him was a minor avalanche. Stone crashed down. Blade tugged at his line. It came easily to him, lax and supple. Useless. He reeled it in until he held the frayed end in his hand. So much for that. He cast the ball of twine away and drew his sword. With torch in left hand, held high, and the sword ready in his right, he proceeded.
A wind began to sweep through the narrow passage. A hot wind with the cry of tortured souls behind it. The wind rose and gusted at him, not now, a scalding wind rising in fury. It bore small particles of somethings-and? — that scoured his face and body and threatened his eyes. Blade bent his head and plodded on into the wind. It howled at him and buffeted him and then, in an instant, died away. Somewhere off down the passage a baby cried piteously and a wolf moaned. His skin crawled. He went on.
The passage began to circle, to twist around and around in ever narrowing spirals. Blade began to feel dizzy, a vertigo near overwhelmed him and he lay on the cold floor, pressing his face against it.
There was a jetting sound from all around him, high on the walls. A hissing as something was spurted into the passage. The foul odor vanished to be replaced by the sweetest smell he had ever known. It lulled him and soothed his senses. He felt the need of sleep. And he must breathe deep-he must.
Blade cursed and jabbed the swordpoint into his leg.
Again and yet again. The pain gave him strength to hurry on.
The corridor ceased to twist. It straightened and ran far into darkness. And ended. Stopped. Blade approached the edge and peered down into the darkness. Nothing to see. He thrust the torch into the void and shadows mocked him. He retreated from the edge and considered.
Ten feet beyond the pit the passage continued. For some thirty feet it ran, then ended in a short transverse corridor. Three doors opened off the corridor and over each gleamed a torch. The doors were high and narrow, of metal, with a ringbolt set into each. They seemed to wait, the doors, gleaming and reflecting the torchlight in their shiny surfaces.
Blade looked at the pit again. Ten feet. Easy enough. He drew back a little into the passage and did knee bends to limber his muscles. On second thought he went to the edge again and threw his torch across. It lay sparking and smoking on the far side. Blade went back and took a deep breath and ran.
As he began to run he saw the torch move. It lay on the far edge and it was moving! The ledge there was retreating.
Too late to stop. Blade ran and leaped with all his pent-up anger to lend him strength. The ledge slid away from him. He reached it with his toes, struggled desperately for balance and fell forward with a sobbing cry. Another inch or two and he would have failed the leap.
The door moved beneath him as the ledge slid back to its original position. Blade lay and caught his breath and considered that Casta had never needed Thane. He had master builders of his own. Or had Thane known of this? Had Thane built it? And, had he lived, would he have warned Blade of it, explained the perils and how to thwart them? Blade would never know.
He approached the three doors.
They were shiny and smooth and bore no inscripture. In these imperfect mirrors he saw himself and it gave him pause. This naked, brawny giant, scowling, with sword in hand and shield on arm, was not like any of the Blades he had ever known or had ever thought to become. This image was of a savage, a barbarian, a shrewd and cunning warrior no better than the men he sought to kill. He snarled at the man in the door and the man in the door snarled back.
Blade began to laugh. Loud, harsh laughter. He smote his sword on the shield and brayed with laughter. It echoed down the passage and from the abyss behind him.
The laughter ended. Blade approached the middle door. He put out a hand and touched the burnished surface. The door moved easily. Opened. Into nothing.
Blade looked down. Blood-colored fire burned far below, and there was no smoke and only a sound of weeping. No heat. These were cold fires. Zero fires. And the weeping, as he listened and knew, was the sound of centuries of grief and stupidity, of mistakes and cruelty, of death triumphant over life, of loss of hope, of desolation beyond desolation.
Tears blinded him and he rubbed them away and jerked his head to clear it. He closed the door. Illusions, yes, but how done and how skilled he could only marvel at and admit ignorance. And something else-he had been careful not to underestimate Casta, and yet he might have done so. He had not bargained for all this. Blade knew then, really knew, that this could be his death. He went to the left door and opened it.
Thunder blasted his ears and lightning forked livid over a far vista. Black rain sluiced down, and in the rain marched column after column of skeletons, wending their worm-like way through witch trees. There was a great mound of skulls. The black rain turned red. Blood. Blade set his jaw and pushed a little way into the room, holding his hand out to the scarlet rain. Nothing. His hand was dry, unstained. He retreated and closed the door. Illusion. But how? He was near ready to believe.