Beside him, the ripples intensified as Eriale and Baillegh bounded through. The hound crouched and whined, hiding her head as she splayed her feet, trying to keep her balance. Eriale reeled awkwardly to one knee, her mouth gaping open in horror as she grappled with her surroundings.
"Aeron!" she cried. "What is happening? What is this?"
He staggered over to her and caught her arm. "It's worse than I thought!" he shouted, barely able to make himself heard. "I shouldn't have brought you here!"
Eriale looked up into his face, her eyes wide with fear. "Where's the stone?"
"In the center of the pyramid's foundation. Come on." He turned and led her to the dark, gaping arch that marked the only entrance to the structure.
"Surely, Aeron, you can't be in that much of a hurry to rush to your doom." Before them, stepping out of the doorway, stood Dalrioc Corynian. Unlike Sarim, he hadn't changed much. There was a feral gleam in his eyes, but his noble features and proud bearing still marked him as a man of power and influence. He wore the red robes of a Master of Conjuration over the exquisitely tailored finery he'd always preferred. "You should have been more careful in making your entrance to Telemachon's chambers. I've had a mark on that door of my own for years now, just in case someone decided to poke around in there."
"Dalrioc," spat Aeron. "I'm surprised you're still here. I would have thought that your city had need of you."
"And I'm surprised you came back. Master Sarim was to see to it that you remained in your forest fastness." Dalrioc stepped out of the doorway, an arrogant smile on his face. "What brings you back to our college, Aeron? Still thirsty for knowledge after all these years?"
"What do we do, Aeron?" Eriale asked quietly. She had an arrow aimed at Dalrioc's heart. By her side, Baillegh bared her teeth, growling.
"We have to get by him," he replied softly. To the prince he said, "Dalrioc, stand aside. I mean to bring this to an end. You have no idea what harm you are wreaking."
"On the contrary, I know exactly what our work entails." The Soorenaran halted two paces from Aeron and extended an arm toward the pyramid, a gesture of invitation. "Come and see. I'll not gainsay the Storm Walker."
Aeron was certain that the prince harbored no good intentions toward him. Everything was wrong-the confidence, the mocking refusal to confront him, the revelation that he'd been watched. Dalrioc Corynian was not this subtle ... but Lord Oriseus was. He would have to assume that events were orchestrated to suit the new Sceptanar's desires.
"Walk ahead of me, then," Aeron said, scowling. "I don't trust you at my back. And do not attempt any spell, or we'll see whether your sarcasm is justified or not."
Dalrioc laughed. "Fine. Where am I taking you?"
"Where do you think?" Aeron retorted. "To the Shadow Stone."
Eighteen
All around Aeron, the stones of the pyramid reverberated with power, mere chords responding to the presence of something beyond his knowledge or experience. As he followed Dalrioc Corynian through the labyrinthine corridors of dark, featureless masonry, he realized that in five years the Shadow Stone's dire potency had been sharpened, honed into a weapon of unearthly capacity, imbued with purpose and malice. At even intervals, the coursing energy caused everything around him to ripple and slide like the coarse fabric of a shirt wrapped around the torso of a giant, stretching and slacking to the titanic heartbeat. It took all of his determination to ignore the sickening sensation and drive himself to follow.
Eriale stayed an arm's length behind him, watching the blank passageways behind them. Beads of sweat trickled down her face despite the clammy chill in the air; she too had to steel herself against the structure's influence.
"Aeron," she said quietly, "What are we doing?"
Ahead of them, Dalrioc strode along, oblivious to the enemies at his back. Either he was supremely foolish, or utterly confident, and Aeron was fairly certain that Dalrioc, while arrogant and overbearing, was not a complete fool. "Let's see how this plays out," he decided.
Dalrioc led them down one last corridor and stopped at a large, heavy door. Aeron had the curious impression that he'd burn his hand if he touched the bare iron plating. The Soorenaran prince turned, leaning against the wall, his arms folded. "Well? Here we are," he said. "What now?"
"Open it," Aeron instructed.
The prince's eyes flashed, but he forced a wry grin onto his features. "And so I am reduced to holding doors for peasants." As if they weren't there, he caught the latch and pushed the door wide, leading them inside.
The chamber was much as Aeron remembered it, a room of stone with a groined ceiling and gallery surrounding a crucible-like floor. The Shadow Stone stood girdled by its iron frame, a sliver of living darkness that made his eyes ache. Fierce black radiance pulsated in the gem's gleaming jet facets, illuminating the room with a hellish glow. Instantly Aeron was embroiled in a struggle to maintain his distance as the sinister artifact seemed to focus his energy on him, demanding that he approach and abase himself. His hand stretched forward, almost of its own accord.
Aeron swore silently and wrenched his gaze away from the thing. He'd forgotten the sheer allure of the power, the half-imagined whispering and beckoning, urging him to become a part of it. It was stronger now than it ever had been, but he found the will to resist. He'd tasted its power once, just for an instant, and it had poisoned him. Now it could not possess him, not unless he allowed it to.
He was distracted by a motion at his side. Eriale drifted forward, her face blank. "Don't look right at it, Eriale," he snapped, pulling her arm sharply to break her stupor. The archer blinked and shook her head.
Ahead of him, Dalrioc moved forward and stood over the tripod, reaching out to caress the smooth surface like the face of a lover. The stone acknowledged him, a trail of phosphorescence following the path of his hand. "I brought him, as you asked," he said over his shoulder.
"Excellent." The flickering shadows of the gallery roiled like silk, and a tall man stepped through. He wore archaic black robes and a drape or chasuble of rune-marked cloth of gold, and he carried a long rod of jet and silver only a foot shorter than his own considerable height. The garments seemed familiar to Aeron, and after a moment he placed them-the ceremonial dress of the ancient Imaskari sorcerers. He shifted his attention to the man's face, but it was hidden by the ornate cowl he wore. "You may leave us, Dalrioc," the man said evenly, his voice flat and reasonable.
The Soorenaran prince spread his hands in a shallow bow and withdrew, stepping into the impenetrable shadows that waited in the arched gallery. Again Aeron sensed some rippling motion in the darkness, a disturbance. "You have changed, Aeron," said the robed man. "When last I saw you, the fire for knowledge burned fiercely in your heart, and nothing could deter you from the pursuit of power."
"I've learned patience, Oriseus," Aeron said. "That's a lesson you taught me, whether you meant to or not."
The sorcerer raised his hands and pushed back his hood. If Aeron had not already known whom he was dealing with, he never would have mistaken him for Oriseus. The trimmed beard and oiled locks were shaved down to gleaming scalp and a bare, angular jaw. Even more startling than Oriseus's change in grooming was the severity of his bearing, the way he carried himself. The capering, self-deprecating exaggeration was gone, replaced by a regal aura. The old Oriseus had disarmed his foes with insincerity and biting humor; this man radiated confidence and capability.