The Sad One was not in the cavern, but the baby lay on the floor, swaddled in blankets. George knelt beside him, holding the candle so he could see his face. The infant's eyes were closed, and he was very still, but George could see his tiny chest rise and fall and his tiny nostrils flare.
The ranger set the candle down on the floor. As he slipped his good hand beneath the baby, he sensed something was wrong. He didn't need to unwrap the blankets to confirm his suspicion, but he did anyway. Both of the infant's legs were twisted stumps, as useless as George's right hand.
George gritted his teeth. There was not time to dwell on this problem now. Somehow, after he'd rescued the infant, he'd find a way to heal it, but the rescue came first. George wriggled the baby into the space between his own chest and his leather jerkin.
He was reaching out to retrieve his candle when he heard the Sad One whisper," Return my child or die." She hovered on the far side of the cavern. In her arms she clutched a spider the size of a house cat. She dropped the creature, and it skittered off into the darkness.
George leapt to his feet and drew out his long sword with his good hand. It wasn't his stronger arm, but he had practice using it. This time he had the sword out and brandished in front of him before the drow could close on him and touch him again.
"Do you think that I fear your weapon, Jozell?" the Sad One sneered. She lunged for George, impaling herself on the ranger's blade. Shrieking, she drew back from the weapon, but did not fall. Bits of white vapor dripped from the blade and drifted back toward her. Her form grew hazier, and the candlelight shone through her.
Finally, George understood what he was facing. The powers great and dark, beyond his ken, had not preserved the Sad One from death, they'd preserved only her spirit. And the undead spirit of a female drow became a banshee. If his weapon had not been enchanted, the Sad One would have gone right through it, uninjured, and inflicted her deadly touch on him again.
George felt a surge of certainty. If the banshee could not touch him, her only other weapon was her banshee wail, which could do him no harm while the sun shone in the sky. She might be undead, but he knew how to deal with the undead. He lunged forward and slashed through the spirit, tearing the misty form into shreds that hung in the air all about them.
The banshee drifted backward. She opened her mouth and let out a keen that pierced through George's heart like an ice blade. The sun's presence outside did nothing to lessen the paralyzing fear that gripped George — fear, not of dying here, but of what would follow his escape.
Even if Soldest's wife could cherish the child of her husband's mistress, she would not love the baby, as deformed as it had been made. She would abandon it to the rubbish, or Soldest would drown or strangle it. Maybe Soldest's wife would let it live, but come to hate it and abuse it far more than it had been abused these past five days. Then she might abandon it. There were abandoned children all over Darkon, wandering the streets, hungry and fearful, despised and unloved, without comfort anywhere. Those who survived to maturity led lives without joy, save for the few savage ones rumored to have joined the ranks of the Kargat, Darkon's secret police. He could rescue the baby, only to bring it more misery.
George felt his left hand go numb, and his sword clattered to the cavern floor. He: the baby is a he, he thought, not an it. And if no one else wants him to grow up happy, I do. He'll be mine.
George shook off the fears ripping into his heart just in time to see the Sad One flying toward him with her arms outstretched. He leapt clear just in time. Before the banshee could turn, he pulled a vial out of the emergency pocket of his backpack and unstoppered it with his teeth. As the drow spirit swooped toward him yet again, he splashed her with the contents of the vial.
The banshee howled as the holy water seared into her being. Mist rose from her form and dissipated into the darkness. George scrambled for his long sword and slashed again through the undead form.
The Sad One drifted up out of the ranger's reach. "You'll not escape my kingdom, Jozell. You will die here. When the darkness comes, I will destroy you." Then she floated off, leaving George alone in the cavern with her treasure, the baby.
Forced to abandon his candle in order to keep his sword at the ready, George followed the twine back through the darkness by winding it up on his maimed hand.
The sun still shone bright when he finally climbed over the edge of the mine shaft. Eager to flee as far as possible before nightfall, George abandoned his rope and dashed down the mountain's slope, sliding in the rubble and ignoring the prickles of the thistles and briars. He didn't stop until he came upon Perseus. The horse neighed with recognition of its master and nearly bowled him over as it nuzzled him with joy.
"Yes, I'm back. You tried to warn me about this place, didn't you?" George whispered to the beast. "You've more sense than I, don't you? Well, we're leaving now."
George mounted awkwardly and steered the beast toward the forest path down which he had tracked the Vistana last night. He slipped his hand inside his jerkin and stroked the baby's arm. He could feel the child breathing, but it remained disturbingly silent. Possibly, he realized, the infant was paralyzed with fear by the banshee's wail, as he had nearly been. The ranger wondered uncomfortably if the child might not retain some memory of the past few horrible days, stored in some dark recess to be released only when dreams stole upon him. He shook off his fears and urged Perseus into a trot.
Less than a mile down the trail, the horse halted abruptly and lowered its head. "What is it, Perseus?" George whispered. Then he felt the wind. It started as a breeze and within moments grew into a gale. Flying bits of dirt and twigs stung at his face. There was no moving forward in such a wind. George cursed and allowed the horse to turn around.
Perseus took three steps toward the road, but reared up and neighed in terror. Then the horse stood still, quivering with fear.
"You see, Jozell, you cannot escape," a voice shrieked overhead.
George looked up. The Sad One hovered at the top of the trees, the light from the setting sun piercing through her. "My winds will keep you here, Jozell, until nightfall. Then I shall destroy you."
Annoyance pushed aside George's fear of the banshee's powers. "I'm not Jozell," he declared.
The banshee said nothing. The wind continued to howl at his back. "I'll bet I don't even look anything like this Jozell, whoever he is."
"Jozell murdered my baby," the Sad One moaned.
"But I'm not him," the ranger insisted.
"You've stolen my baby," the Sad One argued. The wind howled louder. "This baby is not yours. "George unbuttoned the top of his jerkin so the baby's face peeked out. "He's not drow. He doesn't look anything like you."
"He's mine. The Vistana left him for me."
"Well, I'm not giving him to you. You'll only murder him like all the others."
"I never harmed them. They just died."
"They just died?" George asked, disbelieving, but then he understood. "You're undead. You can't nurture some-, thing alive. You can't give the baby what he needs."
"As long as he lives, he is mine," the banshee wailed, and the wind wailed with her.
"I am not giving him to you so that he can starve to death," George snapped.
"Come nightfall, my keen will destroy you," the banshee cried.