her to break the deep and profound silence around them. He seemed to be listening for something, for he held his head slightly cocked to one side, and his gaze was intent on something she could not see.
Ahead, the torchlight gleamed on lighter rock at the edge of its luminosity. As they drew nearer, the light revealed a wall across their path. On the wall was a lintel carved from a pale stone into an arch of delicate grace and simple beauty, a lintel that framed a door of smooth stone. The door, if it was one, had no handle, no lock, and no sigh of any line, crack, or opening. It blocked the end of the tunnel as surely as the solid wall around it.
Unperturbed, Lord Bight handed his torch to Linsha and placed his right palm flat against the middle of the door. “There are magic wards inserted into the stone,” he explained to her. “They’re as old as the tunnel around you. Without the key words, nothing short of an earthquake would open this entrance.”
“And, of course, you know the words,” she muttered.
He made three sounds, almost like animal grunts and whistles, and the door moved beneath his hand. “Of course,” he said, giving the door a light push.
Before she had time to comment, Lord Bight plucked his torch out of her hand and ushered her through the doorway. There he stopped on the threshold and held his torch high. Linsha lifted hers as well and gasped in surprise. They were in a chamber, high and broad and divided by a natural formation of stone pillars created when the Lords of Doom were young. The pillars stretched from ceiling to floor and had been polished by loving hands so their colors of white, gray, and black glowed like smoked glass in the light of the torches. Large chunks of granite had been carved into benches and scattered around the cavern. A thin stream of water flowed from somewhere above and fell in a long, silvery ribbon to a clear pool below.
“It’s beautiful,” Linsha breathed.
“This is a shadowhall,” he said quietly.
Of course.
Like a sluice gate opening in a canal, the word “shadowhall” triggered a flood of long-forgotten memories in Linsha’s mind, memories of an elf woman, Laurana, a friend of her grandparents, sitting by a fire and telling stories of her brother.
“Gilthanas.” The name broke from her lips so softly she didn’t realize she had said it aloud. Gilthanas and his love, Silvara. They had been here, in these tunnels, so many years ago. They had seen the Dark Queen’s Temple of Luerkhisis on Mount Thunderhorn, with its sulfurous caves and its pillars of fire. They had found the hidden chambers and the stolen dragon eggs with the help of the elusive shadowpeople.
Lord Bight turned to her, his hand clenched around the torch, his face as hard as granite. “You know the story, then. You have heard of Takhisis’s foul experiments and the oath she broke to the Dragons of Good.”
Linsha’s words were steely. “I heard it. I also heard many shadowpeople were killed for helping the elves and the silver dragon.”
“They were,” he said, his voice grim and sad. “But not all. When I came down here for the first time to obliterate what was left of the Temple of Luerkhisis, I found a few survivors. We reached an agreement, they and I, and they stayed to rebuild their realm.”
“Where are they now?”
“Wait,” he said softly.
They started on their way again across the cavern, alert for any danger. They hadn’t gone far when a slight noise stopped them in their tracks. A scratching noise, like claws on stone, came from the darkness overhead, and a dark shadow moved across the ceiling of the chamber. It flitted sideways so quickly that Linsha almost missed it. Then another form, black and shapeless, darted behind a pillar not far ahead. Something growled menacingly.
The governor stopped Linsha with his arm and quickly said, “Don’t move. Don’t draw your weapons. They’re here.”
Chapter Twelve
Linsha’s eyes widened. To the surface dwellers of Krynn, the shadow-people were creatures of myth and legend. Shy and elusive, they lived below ground in subterranean communities rarely seen by other races. They were believed to be benevolent and deeply loving within their own clans, but they could be fierce defenders of their realm when threatened. She remembered, too, that the shadowpeople were capable of telepathic communication. Deliberately she moved her hand away from her sword and held both arms outstretched in a gesture of peace.
Three shapes separated from the darkness and moved slowly to stand at the farthest rim of the torchlight. Although they were manlike in shape, they were not tall by human standards, being nearly a head shorter than Linsha. Smooth fur, in shades of brown and grizzled black, covered their bodies, and a thick gliding membrane connected their arms to their legs. Their large heads had flat, upturned noses, wide flaring ears, and huge eyes that glowed with an eerie green luminescence.
One male, slightly larger than the other two, stepped farther into the light, and Linsha saw he had long claws on both his hands and feet and a pair of fangs that gleamed on the edge of his upper lip. He looked her over carefully before he hissed softly to his companions. The other two moved in behind him, and all three inclined their heads to Lord Bight in a sign of recognition.
He returned their gesture. “I ask your permission to pass through your caverns,” he said aloud. “I am in need of haste, and your paths would be most useful.”
The first male, a grizzled elder, spoke directly to the governor in the silent privacy of his mind.
The batlike creatures focused on Linsha for a disconcertingly long time, then they growled among themselves before responding.
“Thank you,” Lord Bight said out loud, but the shadow-people had already vanished between the thought and the spoken word.
“What was that all about?” demanded Linsha, who hadn’t been included in the telepathic conversation.
“They gave us permission to use their tunnels,” Lord Bight said, moving forward once more.
Linsha looked nervously around at the chamber of stone and everlasting night. “You do not govern down here?”
“Only through cooperation and respect. That is all they want, to dwell in this place in peace. They have been here since ancient times. They are as much a part of Sanction as the merchants who barter or the gully dwarves who help pick up refuse, and I am pleased to have them.”
A resonant tone in his voice caught Linsha’s attention, a tone of pride and attachment she had heard before in her grandfather’s voice when he talked about his inn or her father’s voice when he discussed his academy. “You truly are devoted to Sanction,” she murmured, intrigued by his unexpected sentiment.
“It fascinates me.” He halted in front of her so abruptly she had to slam to a stop and fling her arm aside to keep from hitting him with the torch. He loomed over her, his powerful form menacing in the flickering battle of shadow and light.
A low, rumbling laugh brought goose bumps to her arms. At once wary and alert, Linsha held still and regarded the governor inquiringly as he circled slowly around her and came to rest in front of her again, so close she could feel the heat of his body. It took all her hard-learned self-control to master the impulse to leap back and draw her dagger. Instead, she lifted her brows and tried to breathe normally.
“People fascinate me, too.” he spoke softly, like a whisper of steel. “I like to know who they are and why they do the things they do. Especially those I allow close to me.”
“It is a wise man who knows his friends and enemies,” Linsha quoted pontifically from a long-dead philosopher whose name she could never remember. She heard another low laugh that reminded her of the rumbling of a lion about to charge.
“Which will you prove to be when the time comes to decide?”
Linsha felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the air. She opened her mouth to protest,
