“South of us,” the Dwarf continued, “the Saeren flows through its ravine, and beyond the river is Cathal, the Garden Country. There has been war with Shal-hassan’s people in my lifetime. The river is patrolled on both sides. North of Brennin is the Plain where the Dalrei dwell, the Riders. The tribes follow the eltor herds as the seasons change. You are unlikely to see any of the Dalrei. They dislike walls and cities.” Kim’s frown, Kevin saw, had deepened. “Over the mountains, eastward, the land grows wilder and very beautiful. That country is called Eridu now, though it had another name long ago. It breeds a people once brutal, though quiet of late. Little is known of doings in Eridu, for the mountains are a stern barrier.” Matt Sören’s voice roughened. “Among the Eriduns dwell the Dwarves, unseen for the most part, in their chambers and halls under the mountains of Banir Lok and Banir Tal, beside Calor Diman, the Crystal Lake. A place more fair than any in all the worlds.”
Kevin had questions again, but withheld them. He could see there was an old pain at work here.
“North and west of Brennin is Pendaran Wood. It runs for miles to the north, between the Plain and the Sea. Beyond the forest is Daniloth, the Shadowland.” The Dwarf stopped, as abruptly as he’d begun, and turned to adjust his pack and gear. There was a silence.
“Matt?” It was Kimberly. The Dwarf turned. “What about the mountain north of the Plain?”
Matt made a swift, convulsive gesture with one hand, and stared at the slight, brown-haired girl.
“So you were right, my friend, from the very first.”
Kevin wheeled. In the doorway leading from the bedroom stood the tall figure of Loren, in a long robe of shifting silver hues.
“What have you seen?” the mage asked Kim, very gently.
She, too, had twisted to face him. The grey eyes were strange—inward and troubled. She shook her head, as if to clear it. “Nothing, really. Just… that I do see a mountain.”
“And?” Loren pressed.
“And…” she closed her eyes. “A hunger. Inside, somehow… I can’t explain it.”
“It is written,” said Loren after a moment, “in our books of wisdom, that in each of the worlds there are those who have dreams or visions—one sage called them memories—of Fionavar, which is the First. Matt, who has gifts of his own, named you as one such yesterday.” He paused; Kim didn’t move. “It is known,” Loren went on, “that to bring people back in a crossing, such a person must be found to stand at the heart of the circle.”
“So that’s why you wanted us? Because of Kim?” It was Paul Schafer; the first words he’d spoken since arriving.
“Yes,” said the mage, simply.
“Damn!” tried Kevin softly. “And I thought it was my charm.”
No one laughed. Kim stared at Loren, as if seeking answers in the lines of his face, or the shifting patterns of his robe.
Finally she asked, “And the mountain?”
Loren’s voice was almost matter-of-fact. “One thousand years ago someone was imprisoned there. At the deepest root of Rangat, which is the mountain you have seen.”
Kim nodded, hesitated. “Someone… evil?” The word came awkwardly to her tongue.
They might have been alone in the room. “Yes,” said the mage.
“One thousand years ago?”
He nodded again.. In this moment of misdirection, of deceit, when everything stood in danger of falling apart, his eyes were more calm and compassionate than they had ever been.
With one hand Kim tugged at a strand of brown hair. She drew a breath. “All right,” she said. “All right, then. How do I help you cross?”
Dave was struggling to absorb all this when things began to move too quickly. He found himself part of a circle around Kim and the mage. He linked hands with Jennifer and Matt on either side. The Dwarf seemed to be concentrating very hard; his legs were wide apart, braced. Then Loren began to speak words in a tongue Dave didn’t know, his voice growing in power and resonance.
And was interrupted by Paul Schafer.
“Loren—is the person under that mountain dead?”
The mage gazed at the slim figure who’d asked the question he feared. “You, too?” he whispered. Then, “No,” he answered, telling the truth. “No, he isn’t.”
And resumed speaking in his strange language.
Dave wrestled with the refusal to seem afraid that had, in large part, brought him here, and with the genuine panic that was building within him. Paul had nodded once at Loren’s answer, but that was all. The mage’s words had become a complex rising chant. The aura of power began to shimmer visibly in the room. A low-pitched humming sound began.
“Hey!” Dave burst out. “I need a promise I’ll be back!” There was no reply. Matt Sören’s eyes were closed now. His grip on Dave’s wrist was firm.
The shimmer in the air increased, and then the humming began to rise in volume.
“No!” Dave shouted again. “No! I need a promise!” And on the words he violently pulled his hands free from those of Jennifer and the Dwarf.
Kimberly Ford screamed.
And in mat moment the room began to dissolve on them. Kevin, frozen, disbelieving, saw Kim reach out then, wildly, to clutch Dave’s arm and take Jen’s free hand even as he heard the cry torn from her throat.
Then the cold of the crossing and the darkness of the space between worlds came down and Kevin saw nothing more. In his mind, though, whether for an instant or an age, he thought he heard the sound of mocking laughter. There was a taste in his mouth, like ashes of grief. Dave, he thought, oh, Martyniuk, what have you done?
PART II—Rachel’s Song
Chapter 4
It was night when they came through, in a small, dimly lit room somewhere high up. There were two chairs, benches and an unlit fire. An intricately patterned carpet on the stone floor. Along one wall stretched a tapestry, but the room was too darkly shadowed, despite flickering wall torches, for them to make it out. The windows were open.
“So, Silvercloak, you’ve come back,” a reedy voice from the doorway said, without warmth. Kevin looked over quickly to see a bearded man leaning casually on a spear.
Loren ignored him. “Matt?” he said sharply. “Are you all right?” The Dwarf, visibly shaken by the crossing, managed a terse nod. He had slumped into one of the heavy chairs and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead. Kevin turned to check the others. All seemed to be fine, a little dazed, but fine, except—
Except that Dave Martyniuk wasn ‘t there.
“Oh, God!” he began, “Loren—”
And was stopped in mid-sentence by a beseeching look from the mage. Paul Schafer, standing beside Kevin, caught it as well, and Kevin saw him walk quietly over to the two women. Schafer spoke softly to them, and then nodded once, to Loren.
At which point the mage finally turned to the guard, who was still leaning indolently on his weapon. “Is it the evening before?” Loren asked.
“Why, yes,” the man replied. “But shouldn’t a great mage know that without the asking?”
Kevin saw Loren’s eyes flicker in the torchlight. “Go,” he said. “Go tell the King I have returned.” “It’s late. He’ll be sleeping.” “He will want to know this. Go now.” The guard moved with deliberate, insolent slowness. As he turned, though, there was a sudden thunk, and a thrown knife quivered in the panelling of the doorway, inches from his head.
“I know you, Vart,” a deep voice said, as the man whipped around, pale even by torchlight. “I have marked you. You will do what you have been told, and quickly, and you will speak to rank with deference—or my next dagger will not rest in wood.” Matt Sören was on his feet again, and danger bristled through him like a presence.