us.”
“He was describing my mother,” Cythera told him.
Croy shook his head. “Now that’s just silly-”
“My mother is a witch,” Cythera said. “As you know. Placing visions in the minds of lunatics is hardly stretching her powers. She must have sent him this vision the same day that we left Ness.”
“It’s blasphemy to impersonate the Lady,” Croy said. He thought of the witch, safe and comfortable in her lair in Ness, reaching across the world to cloud the minds of men, and he wanted to-well, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. Certainly rushing back to the city to slay his prospective mother-in-law didn’t feel like the kind of thing a noble knight would go in for. But surely there must be some retribution.
“She was only trying to protect us. She wanted someone to watch over us. And Herward can definitely be of help. For instance, we can’t very well take our horses inside the Vincularium. Someone needs to watch over them.”
“I had considered that,” Croy said. “I was hoping we could give you the task.”
Cythera sighed. She stopped her horse in the middle of the road. “I thought you might say that. I’m sure you’ve spent this entire journey trying to think of ways to keep me from entering the tomb with you.”
“It won’t be safe for a woman. There’s a demon in there.”
“Croy, I can take care of myself. I’m not some helpless damsel to be locked away in a tower.” She dismounted and rubbed her horse’s nose for a while, before dropping her reins to the ground. The palfrey was well trained, and knew that was the signal to stay put. She proceeded on foot, then, toward the massive gates of the Vincularium.
They were far more imposing from close up. The massive square pillars rose to dizzying heights above Croy’s head, and the chains between them proved so thick and solid that he could not begin to imagine how they had been forged. While rust pocked the surface of the iron, there was no doubt in his mind those chains would last another thousand years before they corroded away.
Behind the chains, recessed from the menhirs, stood a solid wall of enormous granite bricks, sealed with black mortar. The dwarven thorn rune-sign of death and destruction-had been carved deeply into each of the bricks, a warning to anyone who might try to unseal this massive portal.
Croy took a step closer and something crunched under his boot. He looked down and saw a scorched human skull staring up at him with empty eye sockets.
“Cythera, don’t look,” he said. The bones could only distress her. He glanced around his feet and saw more bones there, some shattered, some black with soot. He saw bits of cloth and metal amidst the bones, but no swords or armor. Were these the remains of past grave robbers? “And don’t come closer. In fact, get back on your horse and ride back to the others. This isn’t a good place.”
She was already walking past him, however. “These chains-what purpose do they serve?” she asked.
“What?” Croy replied. He was trying to kick broken shards of bone off his foot. “They held in the elves, of course.”
“No, they didn’t.” She was dangerously close to the entrance. “They attach to nothing but the columns. They do not brace the seal, or even touch it. They’re just strung across the gate, so that anyone trying to enter must duck underneath them. Yet that could hardly slow down an elfin warrior.”
“Wait,” Croy shouted as she ducked to look under the chains. “Don’t-”
He rushed toward her, but as he came close to the lowest chain he felt a sudden, searing pain in his head. Sweat burst across his back and he felt dizzy. The whole world started to spin. He reached out to steady himself, hand up to grab the chain above him, when he felt Cythera’s hands push against his chest and he went sprawling backward.
The heat and disorientation left him instantly, though he was already overbalanced and fell to clatter among the bones.
“They’re cursed,” Cythera said. “The chains are charged with magical power-Croy, get away, quickly. There are currents in the ether here, wild eddies, and I can feel the puissance growing-it’s going to discharge!”
Croy desperately wanted to get up and run. Yet he could never leave Cythera there, alone and defenseless. He struggled to his feet and lurched forward, intending to grab her. He saw terror streak across her face and was certain they were both about to die.
Then she reached up, with both hands, and grabbed a link of the chains.
Croy lacked the special senses that allowed witches and sorcerers to view the winds of magical energy that swept through the world. He could not feel the lethal power that flowed into Cythera then, nor the shockwave that burst outward from her body and swept across the land.
Yet he could see the painted flowers and vines that erupted across her face and hands, as if an invisible tattooist were working with demonic speed to cover every portion of her flesh. Vivid roses and tulips bloomed and withered on her cheeks and forehead. Creepers wrapped around her wrists and fingers, growing a thousand times faster than the plants they resembled. Her fair skin turned dark with the painted vegetation, until he could no longer make out her facial features at all.
“Cythera!” he shouted, because she was gasping in pain.
“I can’t contain it,” she moaned. “So much-so much power!”
This was the gift Coruth had given to her daughter. Cythera was immune to magic in all its forms, for rather than pervading her, arcane energies could only crawl upon her skin in the form of images. As Croy watched, the brambles on her neck thickened and sprouted long, vicious thorns. The flowers on her palms dripped with poison. Malevolent eyes peered out from behind the leaves that curled and dried up on her chest.
“I have to release it. Croy-get back!” she screamed.
The more magical energy she stored in her skin, the more likely Cythera was to release it inadvertently. She could only hold so much. If she touched Croy now, all that power would flow into his body, and he had no protection from its evil. He scuttled backward, all thoughts of saving her flown from his mind.
Moving with terrible slowness, careful not to release her burden before she was ready, Cythera climbed through the chains and made her way to the brick seal beyond. Then she thrust her palms against the stone blocks, and the painted flowers on her skin writhed and twisted as if they were being consumed in an inferno.
Under her hands the bricks shimmered and glowed. Light seeped out from between her fingers as the stone seethed and bubbled and flowed. A stream of red-hot molten rock oozed down the face of the seal, then rolled across the ground to lick at the scorched bones. Croy rushed back and got the horses clear before the burning stone could reach them.
In the cold air the molten rock cooled quickly, like candle wax on a table. Though still hot to the touch, it stopped glowing and lay still. When Croy was certain he would not be incinerated, he hurried forward to search for Cythera. He was very careful not to touch the chains, though this time he did not feel dizzy when he approached them. Cythera must have absorbed the magic that had previously coursed through them.
He found her by the seal. A broad fissure had been melted right through the bricks. At its base the fissure was wide enough for a man to crawl through. Beyond, past the seal, was only darkness.
Cythera sat on the ground near the opening, hugging her knees to her chest. She was weeping, but her skin was clear. There was not a single tattoo anywhere on her that he could see.
“It’s open,” she said. “We can go in now.”
Part III
Some Light Grave Robbing Required
Interlude
The keeper of the milehouse known as the Astrologer always thought he had been blessed with the perfect life. There was a steady trade on the road between Redweir and Helstrow, so he was not reliant for his income on the local farmers. He was close enough to the king’s fortress that bandits never raided his house. Having once been the son of a farmer, expected to follow in his father’s footsteps and work a tiny strip of land until he was bent
