She crossed the room through the raging of her thoughts, twisting down into herself like a coiled snake. The music of the wishsong became a venomous hiss. The room seemed to draw away from her, the walls receding back into shadow until there was nothing in all the world but the book. She climbed the steps of the dais and strode to where it lay closed upon the altar. It was old and worn, its bindings of copper tarnished to a greenish black and its leather covers cracked and soiled — a huge and monstrous tome that looked as if it might have seen the passing of all the ages of mankind that had ever been.
She hovered over it a moment, staring down expectantly, savoring the deep satisfaction she felt at having the book finally within her grasp.
Then she reached down and her hands closed about it.
— Dark child —
The voice whispered softly within her mind, and her fingers froze upon the tarnished bindings.
— Dark child —
The wishsong died into a whisper and was gone. Her throat constricted and sealed the music away, almost before she knew what it was that she had done. She stood in silence before the altar, hands still clasped tightly upon the book. Echoes of the voice lingered fitfully within her mind, tendrils that reached out and bound her so that she could not move.
— I have been waiting for you, dark child. I have been waiting since first you came into being, a baby from your mother’s womb, Elven magic’s child. Always we have been joined, you and I, by bonds stronger than blood ties, stronger than flesh. Many times we have touched spirit to spirit, and, though I never knew you nor knew your way, I knew always that one day you would come —
The voice was flat and toneless, belonging neither to man nor woman, but to something that was both, stripped of all emotion and all feeling, so that there was an emptiness to its whisper that was devoid of life. Brin listened to that voice and went cold to the bone. Deep within, the self that she still sheltered and kept hidden drew back in terror.
— Dark child —
She scanned the shadows of the chamber about her rapidly. Where was the speaker who called to her? What thing was it that held her so? Her eyes shifted in horror to the ancient tome she held. Her fingers were white with the grip they kept, and a burning spread from the leathered bindings.
— I am, dark child. Even as you. I have life. It has always been so. There have always been those who would give me life. There have always been those who would give me theirs —
Brin’s mouth opened, but no sound came forth. The burning sensation spread from her hands into her arms and began to climb.
— Know me. I am the Ildatch, the book of the dark magic, born of the age of faerie. I am older than the Elves — as old as the King of the Silver River, as ancient as the Word. Those who created me, those who gave me form, have long since passed from the land with the coming of the worlds of faerie and Man. Once I was but a part of the Word, hidden from sight and spoken only in darkness. I was but a gathering of secrets. Then the gathering took form, written and studied by those who would know my power. There have always been those who would know my power. Through all the ages, I have been there for them and have given my secrets to those who wished them shared. I have made creatures of magic and given power. But never has there been one such as you —
The words echoed in whispers filled with anticipation and promise, and the Valegirl felt them spin like blown leaves through her mind. The burning was all through her now, a tingling like the rush of heat from a furnace as its door is thrown open.
— There have been many before you. Of the Druids were born the Warlock Lord and the Bearers of the Skull. They found in me the secrets that they sought and became what they would. But I was the power. Of men outcast of the races were born the Mord Wraiths, seeds already sown. But again, I was the power. I am always the power. Each time, there is supreme vision of what must be with the world and with her creatures. Each time, that vision is given shape by the minds of those who would use the power locked within my pages. Each time, the vision proves inadequate and the shaper fails. Dark child, see now a glimpse of what it is that I can offer —
As if of their own volition, Brin’s hands carefully opened the book of the Ildatch, and its parchment leaves began to turn. Words whispered from a text in an alien script and language older than man, lifting from script to voice, soft and secretive. The Valegirl’s mind opened to them, and comprehension of the text came instantly to her. A touch here, a touch there, the secrets of power were revealed to her, dark and terrible.
Then, as quickly as the revelations had come, they were gone again, lingering on in teasing memories. The pages of the book slipped back again, and the bindings closed. Her hands, still fastened on the massive tome, began to shake.
— Only a whisper of what I am have I shown you. Power, dark child. Power that would dwarf that mastered by the Druid Brona and those who followed him. Power that would render meaningless that of the Mord Wraiths who come to me now. Feel that power rush through you. Feel its touch —
The burning flooded through her. She felt herself expand and grow with its rush.
— For a thousand years, I have been used in ways that would dictate the fate of you and yours. For a thousand years, the enemies of your family have called upon my power and sought to destroy what you would keep. All that has brought you to this place and time has been because of me. I am the maker of what you are; I am the shaper of your life. There is reason in all that happens, dark child, and there is reason in this. Do you sense what that reason is? Look within —
A whisper of warning called suddenly to her, and she seemed to remember a tall, black–robed figure with graying heir and piercing eyes speaking to her of that which would deceive and corrupt. She struggled momentarily with the memory, but no name would come and the vision was obscured by the burning that filled her and the lingering echo of the words of the Ildatch.
— Do you not see yourself? Do you not see what you are? Look within —
The voice was cold, flat, and emotionless still, yet there was an insistence to it that wrenched her thoughts away. Her vision blurred, and she seemed to see from without the thing that she had become through the magic of the wishsong.
— We are as one, dark child, just as you have wished. There was never any need for the Elven magic, for you are what you are and always have been. That is why we are joined. There are ties born of the magics that make us what we are, for we are no more than the magics that we harbor — you within your body of flesh and blood, I within mine of parchment and ink. We are lives joined, and what has gone before has brought us to now. It is for this that I have waited all these years —
Lies! The word flashed through Brin’s mind and was lost. Her thoughts spun in confusion, and her reason scattered. Her hands still gripped the Ildatch as if it held her life within, and she found the words spoken by its disembodied voice oddly persuasive. There were indeed ties that bound them; there was a joining. She was like the Ildatch, a part of it, kindred to it.
She called out the name of the Druid in her mind, struggling to find the memory she had now lost. The burning rose in a fierce rush to carry it away, and again the voice spoke:
— All these years I have waited for you, dark child. From — time out of time, you have come to me, and now I belong to you. See what must be done with me. Whisper it back to me —
The words came together in her mind, dark against the red haze of her vision. She sought to scream, but the sound constricted in her throat.
— Whisper what must be done with me —
No! No!
— Whisper what must be done with me —
Tears rose to her eyes and trickled slowly down her cheeks, I must use you, she answered.
Rone stalked from the Croagh in fury, wheeled, and came back again. Both hands gripped the ebony blade of his sword until the knuckles were white.
«Enough is enough — get that cat out of my way, Kimber!» he ordered, coming up next to her and slowing as Whisper’s massive head swung about to face him.
But again. the girl shook her head. «I cannot do that, Rone. He uses his own judgment in this.»
«I don’t care a whit about his judgment!» Rone exploded. «He’s only an animal and he can’t make a decision like this! I’m going past him whether he likes it or not! I’m not leaving Brin down in that pit alone!»
Sword lifting, he started for Whisper, but in that instant a deep shudder rippled through the mountain, rising
