And could he believe her words about his lover’s fate?
“She lives!” he said with determination that might have been nothing more than his will. Even so, it was real belief, and it compelled him to continue his search for an answer. He left the temple to cross the gardens of the Center, coming quickly to the great ivory halls of the College. Here he made his way to the apartments of the elfwoman he had known for more than three hundred years. He paused for only a second, then pounded on the door, surprising himself by the volume raised by his blows.
“Natac!” Belynda said, paling as she opened her door in response to his insistent knock. “It has been long since we have seen you in the city! How fares the battle?”
“Where’s Miradel?” he repeated, pushing through the door with an assertiveness that would not be denied. “Do you know what has happened to her?”
In the momentary guilt that flashed in her eye-elves were notoriously guileless-he knew that she did. But she quickly masked her expression and shook her head. “She is safe-for the time being, at least. But she has forbidden me to speak of this matter, especially to reveal her location.”
“Thank all gods that she lives!” Natac cried, relief overcoming his frustration-at least initially. “The goddess herself claimed she was dead, but I did not believe.”
“She told you that? I know that the Worldweaver does not approve of Miradel’s quest, so she is cold. But I am surprised that she would lie,” Belynda said. “You should know that Miradel strives for victory, serves bravely the cause of our war against the Deathlord.”
“I had no doubt about that.” He narrowed his eyes and confronted the sage-ambassador bluntly. “You have to tell me where she is, what she’s doing,” he urged. “Maybe I can help her. At least I deserve to know! She even deceived Cillia to go away, a fact I find hard to believe. Why?”
“She will tell you herself, when she returns,” Belynda said. “Until then, I must keep the faith I have made with her.”
Natac tried to change her mind, arguing, persuading, even threatening, but Belynda would not change her position. He was forced to leave her, eventually, when she pleaded that she would need to sleep before Lighten, and he realized that half the night had passed.
His mood was bleak as he made his way back to the gardens. He curled up under the great dragon’s wing to snatch a few hours of sleep, disdaining any of the hundreds of fine rooms that would have been offered to him in the Center’s environs.
He didn’t know what to think or where to go.
The call of the gargoyle echoed through the empty canyons, resonating until it seemed that the sound actively sought to drive Miradel mad. She clapped her hands to her ears, but even that did nothing to diminish the haunting refrain. Her stomach heaved, churning with raw fear, and for a second she had to clench her teeth against the urge to vomit.
“Are you all right?” Shandira asked, her dark brow furrowed with concern.
Miradel wanted to scream, How could anything possibly be all right? But she bit her tongue and forced herself to nod with some affectation of calm. “Yes-let’s keep going,” she urged.
After all, she reminded herself, the gargoyle had not yet discovered them. It had uttered its ghastly shriek several times during the night, but never had they so much as glimpsed it flying overhead. Instead, they had trekked for miles through the darkness, drawing-they hoped-ever closer to the vast throne of the Deathlord.
“Do you need to rest?” asked Miradel’s companion.
It was with a sense of surprise that she was able to answer truthfully, “No.” In fact, though they had carried their packs throughout the day and into the long night, she no longer felt the fatigue that had dragged her down upon her first tentative steps in this world of shadow and cold. Her shoulders were strong, her legs taut and supple, and even her lungs were in better shape; rarely during the last twenty hours had she even found herself out of breath.
“Let’s keep going,” she urged, and Shandira agreed.
“Just keep your eyes on the sky,” counseled the African woman, and Miradel nodded seriously.
It seemed that they had been playing this cat-and-mouse game for many hours, ever since the beast had first cried out during the twilight that passed for the middle of the day. The druid had been very conscious of that illumination, and at the Lighten Hour had watched overhead as most of the stars faded. So dark was this distant corner of the Fifth Circle, however, that some of the twinkling specks remained visible even during the day. Viewed from such a deep hole, the sky was a thick, purpled cosmos that seemed to extend to infinity, even in the midst of what was full daylight upon Nayve.
Dark as was the sky, the inky rock walls of this gorge were even blacker. The slopes were irregular and jagged, far too steep to climb. Fortunately, the floor of the chasm was smooth and relatively free of debris. No more than twenty or thirty feet wide, it nevertheless made for a good pathway, and the two druids had been following it for two days, working their way deeper into the labyrinthine citadel of the Deathlord.
Just before Lighten, they had even speculated that they were within a few hours of the great throne room- that valley in the mountain’s crest Miradel had observed through the Tapestry. That was before the gargoyle had screamed, however; since then, their efforts had been focused merely on survival.
“This way,” she said, indicating a wide passage that descended toward the direction that was neither metal nor wood. “We need to get lower, I think.”
The elder druid was in the lead, moving quickly, when Shandira screamed. The sound saved Miradel’s life. She threw herself onto the ground and crawled behind a rock as the air whooshed around her and a cold, gray shape winged past just a dozen feet overhead. The gargoyle uttered a cold, grating shriek, straining to climb, and the two druids scrambled to their feet, reversed direction, and sprinted along the floor of the winding ravine, desperately seeking something, anything, that would offer a hope of shelter.
A backward glance showed the monster rising into the sky, laboring to lift the heavy body with those slender wings. Soon it vanished from view beyond one of the lofty ridges that closed their upward view into such a narrow groove. The greatest advantage they had, Miradel realized, was the narrowness of the gorge floor. The gargoyle was simply too huge to fly down this low. But how long would that protection last?
“Here it comes again!” Shandira warned.
Those vast wings spread out like sinister arms, scraping the cliffs to either side of the gorge as the monster plunged downward. The two eyes blazed red, as if some infernal fire burned within the hideous skull, and when it roared again, it was close enough to leave the stink of foul breath lingering in the air.
The two druids ducked behind a large boulder where the slope met the floor. Miradel cringed downward as the monster flew overhead, watched as the wings scraped rocks from the rock walls, sending trickles of debris spattering downward.
This time, however, the gargoyle did not climb away. Instead, it landed with a thud on the ground just after it flew past, furling its wings to stand on a strapping pair of legs. The creature stood three or four times taller than a man, though-aside from the broad wings-its appearance was startlingly humanoid. It pivoted to face the druids, and Miradel was stunned by the blazing force of its eyes: like twin orbs of fire set into a stone framework. She saw the broad, muscular chest, and a sinewy neck supported a head that was bestial in visage but manly in shape. The belly sagged downward, swaying grotesquely as the creature shifted its weight from foot to foot. When it growled, the gargoyle revealed a mouth full of long, sharp fangs, and the twin horns rising from its forehead looked sharp and lethal. It reached with a handlike forepaw, fingers studded with dagger-sized claws.
Shandira pitched a rock that, unnoticed by Miradel, she had taken up. The missile bounced off the snarling snout, shattering into shards. Immediately the beast drew itself to its full height, threw back that awful head, and roared.
“Drop your pack-run!” cried Miradel, knowing that was their only chance of survival.
The two women instantly shucked their loads, spun around, and sprinted away, Shandira halting just long enough to push Miradel before her. They ran around the S-shaped bends in the ravine floor, hearing the roars of the monster, the pounding cadence of its steps coming right behind.
After a hundred yards they met a crossing ravine, wider and straighter than this one as it extended to right and left. Miradel’s first thought was that it was a likely route to the throne of the Deathlord; her second reminded her that their only chance was to find some narrow passage where the gargoyle could not pursue. She charged forward, crossing into the continuation of their original passage.
Here the narrow path started to descend, and this lent wings to their speed. At the same time, the walls
