her mother, Cabe was probably the only one who could have still sensed the remnants of his daughter’s passing. Unless they worked hard to mask it, spellcasters often left a trail of sorts, a hint of their distinctive magical signature. Fortunately, Valea had not decided to hide hers, likely because she knew that one or both of her parents would surely follow.
And why not? When Gwen had summoned him back, her mental call filled with anxiety, he had known that the news would be dire. His wife had refrained from telling him just what it was about, fearing the slight chance that some other spellcaster might be able to eavesdrop. The Dragon Kings were always monitoring their enemies, awaiting the chance to regain some of their lost power.
But what the enchantress had told her husband had stunned him beyond belief.
It should not have been. Darkhorse had witnessed what should have been the warlock’s final, absolute demise. Cabe and everyone else believed it so, especially after the most doubtful of them, the black stallion himself, had spent years fruitlessly searching for some sign that Shade had once again been resurrected. Eventually, even Darkhorse had admitted that the warlock was surely no more.
And now . . . and now they knew that they had been wrong.
Terrible enough were the events that Gwen had relayed upon his return concerning her encounter with not only the Storm Dragon, but a
With the vast knowledge and power available to them, the Bedlams had quickly followed her path-and found, to their dismay, that their daughter had journeyed to her grandfather’s citadel. Gwen and Aurim had wanted to go with then, but Cabe insisted that only he and Darkhorse make the trip. Someone had to remain behind in case the worst happened . . . and nothing could be worse than finding out that Valea had crossed into the otherworldly realm of the Lords of the Dead.
Both he and Darkhorse knew where to find the entrance to the infernal realm. It had been buried under tons of debris, but someone-not Valea from what Cabe sensed-had cleared it again.
The smell of decay and rotting flesh invaded his nostrils. Even Darkhorse snorted with distaste. The pit bubbled and oozed. What exactly the greenish gray muck was, Cabe neither knew nor wanted to know. In his mind, he could hear the calls and cries of the dead and a few of those voices were familiar to him. When last he had stood in this place, Cabe had even sensed Azran seeking him out, but, fortunately, that malignant spirit seemed not about.
Darkhorse had tried to explain to him that the realm into which Valea had traveled was not truly the afterlife, that the Lords of the Dead were nothing more than monstrous necromancers who managed to steal slices of dying souls. Their domain was a mockery of death. Even the spirit of Cabe’s father had only been a reflection of the true Azran.
On one level, the wizard understood and accepted the explanation. On a more base level, though, Cabe recalled what he had sensed when Azran’s evil had invaded his mind. Mere reflections of the dead the inhabitants of the foul realm might be, but they had varying strength, depending upon their wills.
But his daughter, however foolishly, had dared enter and so Cabe would, too, even if he had to face the combined might of the ageless spellcasters.
And according to Darkhorse, they very likely would.
“But why here?” he asked. “Why to this place of all places?” This was the last spot that they would have expected any search for Shade to end. If there were those who hated the warlock more than anyone, it was the Lords of the Dead.
“They are his kin, his blood,” Darkhorse muttered in a surprisingly subdued manner for his boisterous self. “They are, in fact, his cousins . . .”
Such a statement sounded so ludicrous when speaking of either Shade or the legendary necromancers and yet it also made terrible sense. It somewhat explained the power that both the hooded figure and the dread lords wielded.
Of the same blood . . . and willing to spill one another’s gladly. Cabe understood that all too well.
“How do we enter?”
The stallion prodded the muck with one hoof, snorting again. “We dive in, of course.”
“I was afraid you’d say just that.”
“The entrance is not guarded, Cabe.”
The wizard nodded. “Either they want us to come in or someone’s forcibly removed the gate keeper.” The macabre creature, a grotesque compilation of countless dead beasts, had served its masters since time immemorial. To find it absent boded ill. “I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
Darkhorse nodded. “Shall I, then?”
Gritting his teeth and holding tight to his mount, Cabe nodded. “Do it.”
Without hesitation, the magical steed leapt up over the huge, bubbling mass-then dropped like a stone into it.
Cabe held his breath, expecting a massive wave to engulf both of them. Instead, the pit seemed to part and he and Darkhorse suddenly plummeted through a gray emptiness. Voices assailed the wizard, the words of centuries of the dead repeating endlessly the stories of their lives. Shadowy forms appeared in the corner of his eye, but when Cabe sought to focus on them, they were no longer there.
Their descent slowed, then halted. The two drifted in a hazy limbo.
Then, without warning . . . a dour landscape formed around them.
It was muted, silent. Cabe felt a slight chill, but not the kind one experienced from moist or cold weather. Rather, it resembled the unsettling sensation that had touched him when first entering the ruins. Here was a place of the dead, but dead who were not completely at rest.
“Where do you think she headed?” Only Darkhorse had any inkling of what existed in this realm where even color seemed to die.
In fact, even the ice-blue orbs of the stallion looked faded. Darkhorse peered around warily, then replied, “There is a castle . . . so he told me once. If you can still follow her trail, I suspect it will lead there.”
Shutting his eyes, Cabe concentrated on Valea. Her trace was fainter, almost invisible, but he managed to get just enough of a grasp on it to point ahead. “Go that way.”
The shadow steed trotted along. Both remained wary of their surroundings. The Lords of the Dead had to be watching, plotting. No one entered their domain without their knowledge.
Which meant that they had long ago noted Valea.
Time was an immaterial concept here, but still it seemed as if every step took an hour. The bleak sameness of the landscape added to that effect. Cabe quickly felt his impatience growing and sensed Darkhorse reacting much the same. It was dangerous, though, to fall victim to the emotion; even the smallest distraction could leave them open to an attack.
“I like this not,” the stallion finally remarked. “They know we are here. They would not wish us here. Why do they not make some challenge?”
The wizard opened his mouth to answer, but another responded before him.
“Because they await me.”
Darkhorse reared and Cabe’s left hand flared with a ready spell.
But the hooded figure with the blurred face took their reactions in stride, simply repeating his words.
“Because they await me,” Shade said without the slightest care. “Because my cousins have been waiting for me to take the bait.”
The eleven stood in the pattern of the pentagram, each knowing his place, each maintaining the power that made them masters of their realm. Ten stood so as to form the design with the final one, the focus, directly in the center. Through him was all cast, through him was all sensed.
“He is coming . . .” rasped the focus. “He is here . . .”
“At last,” murmured another voice, nearly identical to his own. Others repeated the response, they also sounding almost like copies of the first. For so long they had worked in sync with one another until they were as if
