Cynosure uttered no sound and initiated no activity.
Worrisome. The idol should autonomously dampen irregular cycles that threatened to break into chaotic, unmodulated activity. The Well was displaying a classic pattern of stochastic feedback in the boundary layer.
She glanced at her amulet. Its emblazoned blue symbol was deepening, becoming dark as a starless night.
'Cynosure! Barrier layer modulation!'
Delphe leaned forward. She couldn't risk waiting for the disconcertingly silent construct. She shouted syllables of sealing and calming. More than merely audible, her words poured forth like a stream of blue smoke. Energy crystallized from her enunciation and strictures. The secret of the Keeper's wizardry relied on a lingua arcana older than contemporary wizardry, a language whose roots lay beyond the creation of the world itself. Her benediction became a sheen of silver-blue light that fell down the hollow Well. It fell upon the barrier layer like rain upon water, dotting the shining margin with hundreds of expanding circular ripples.
The bubbling, sunlike frenzy beneath the ectoplasmic film sizzled and spit in the silver mist, spiking in sudden frenzy as if in realization that if it didn't succeed now, its chance was spent.
The fury at the interface was inexorably smothered in Delphe's chant of silver-blue assuagement.
A few moments later, the prominences were completely gone.
The abjurer blew out a breath of relief.
'Cynosure-'
'Delphe!' the construct's voice suddenly blared out. 'Instability detected at the boundary. . hold. . hold. .'
Pain tweaked her jaw. She had involuntarily clenched it at the sudden re-emergence of the construct's voice. She consciously relaxed her muscles. Was something wrong with the idol?
'I've managed the surge, Cynosure,' she said. Was the construct seeing something new, or was its attention somehow delayed? Had it just now noticed the breach attempt she'd had to damp out? She glanced down. Yes, the instability was absent. The boundary layer was again as placid as she had ever seen it.
'But what about you, Cynosure? Why didn't you respond when I called? More importantly, why didn't you notice the disequilibrium before it grew into a problem?'
If the warden construct upon which all of Stardeep relied was becoming erratic. . she didn't want to imagine it. The construct was too intimately wound through the structure, the fail-safes, and the Well itself. She waited, hoping for an answer she could believe.
After a pause, it replied. 'Delphe, please accept my most heartfelt apologies. You were correct. The prominences you observed earlier were not merely an unusual mixture of incompatible protective wards. The light heralded an escape attempt. The Traitor does not sleep.'
Dread blossomed in her stomach. What evil must live in the Traitor's heart, what power, that even a thousand years after his internment he still plotted novel escape tactics? Tactics so devious they were able to surprise captors well-schooled in the art of safekeeping?
If only he could be killed instead of kept. But with all his other options and original grandiose plans closed to him, death was exactly what the Traitor most desired. His personal martyrdom, he believed, would propel his spirit into the depths of Faer?n. His essence would become a necromantic signal burrowing through the rock of ages until it discovered an ancient cyst-a cyst where aboleths of the most ancient lineage slept away the eras in a city sealed outside time. They waited only for the proper signal to once more attempt to establish a realm of madness across all Faer?n as they had tried in the dawn era.
'I did not initially answer,' explained Cynosure, 'because I engaged the layer moments before you noticed the cascade. My counter-attack required the concentration of my entire sensorium-I could not reply verbally. I am happy to report that below the boundary layer, I deployed a protective enchantment that dazed the Traitor and concluded his bid for freedom.'
'Thank the stars! When you didn't answer I wondered …'
'Again, I ask your pardon. But take heart-the ruse just attempted by the Traitor is now known to me. I have journaled the elements of this strategy and will recognize its tell-tales going forward.'
'You had the situation in hand, then?'
'Yes, but your response was also required. Your ward kept the Traitor's attention the vital few moments necessary for me to finish my abjurative task.'
Delphe chose to believe the construct.
After all, Cynosure was old. Who wouldn't expect a few hiccups after a few thousand years of constant awareness?
But, on second thought. . hiccups in the mind of the warden idol could lead to disaster.
She probed further. 'Cynosure, you did finally reply to my query-after the threat was past. Your response appeared out of sync with events.'
The voice paused a heartbeat, then, 'True. You noticed a side effect of my total concentration. You know that my 'mind,' such as it is, is widely distributed around Stardeep. The concentration of all my faculties in the Well led to some disarray in the weave that holds 'me' together. But I assure you my consciousness is functioning at peak performance.'
'You would tell me if you noticed a change in yourself? I mean, you would warn me if you suspected your ability to watch over the dungeon and the Well were in any way compromised, correct?'
'You would be first to know if any of those parameters were even close to being met. They are not. Do not worry yourself over this, Delphe.'
Delphe frowned, looking at her amulet.
The field around the tree remained coal black. The blue faded whenever the Traitor stirred, but she had quelled his latest activity.
Why, then, did it remain dark?
CHAPTER TWO
Stardeep, Epoch Chamber
Telarian saw what protruded from the thunderhead's belly. It was not alive-not quite. A glyph-scribed obelisk wrapped in eternal storm soared above the world. A writhing frieze was carved on the age-worn exterior depicting thousands of interconnected pictures. The inscriptions constantly shifted and changed, as if unseen carvers swarmed across the stone face, engraving atrocities to the beat of a mad drummer. The full meaning of the evolving image invoked a concept too ghastly for a mortal mind to comprehend and remain sane. Telarian jerked his gaze away, but felt understanding bridge the gap anyway.
Slime-crusted creatures crept within the obelisk's hollow interior. The vast object was inhabited, a primeval city regurgitated into the world that had forgotten its existence.
A squalid miasma altered reality in its vicinity, unfettering vast creatures of the deeps, giving them mastery of the sky as they before hunted the sunless seas. Tentacles slithered and crawled in cold rookeries encrusting the vast object's sheer sides.
But these were mere servitors, children compared to the sinful, gelatinous carapaces of those creatures within. Their minds churned with philosophies inimical to all beasts not part of their ancient Sovereignty. They waited for the call of mortal priests who perverted their souls and hollowed their minds to serve abominations.
Roused from the drowned depths, the fabled city was fable no more.
Telarian screamed and opened his eyes.
He lay on the floor in the center of a divinatory circle. The circle's periphery was decorated with skulls, hourglasses, butterfly wings, and unidentifiable sigils. A twelve-pointed star was inscribed inside the curved pattern. Smudgy lines of burning incense rose from each of the twelve corners. .
. . which meant the circle hadn't been broken. Telarian wished he could sigh in relief; instead, he wanted to scream again. If the pattern had been breached, he might have been able to convince himself he'd experienced a false foretelling. But his view into the far future, as chancy and unreliable as such arts were, remained accurate,
