My head filled with the presence of another.
“You are mine, little one,” a voice said. Pain erupted in my thoughts as strand upon strand of black evil spun a web through my mind, attaching itself to every memory I owned. Not one remained free. “I have claimed you and sealed you to me with the power of my name.” Fire flared in my mind as though I’d been branded, marked to the depth of my soul. “Sealed with my name,” the voice said, “you are ever and always mine.”
“No,” a second voice whispered, for my ears only. “You are not, though your redemption will be incomplete and its cost beyond calculation.” A song ghosted through my mind as black strands snapped, freeing most of my memories, but not all. “We will meet again, Willet. I am Ealdor.”
“Return to your people,” the first voice said.
I rose from the water, relinquishing my touch. The man before me still strained, caught in his motionless struggle. I could do nothing for him or for the figures passing me, as I stumbled from the waters, on their way to damnation.
Light tore through the forest.
Chapter 68
Pellin slipped behind Dura’s eyes to be joined an instant later by Toria Deel, Fess, and Mirren. The river of memories and emotions that defined Dura flowed by—broad, swift, with the multicolored strands that indicated the strength and tenor of his past. A strand so dark that it ate the surrounding light floated near the surface. “That’s it,” Pellin said, reaching for it. “Be ready. The evil of the Darkwater will try to consume you when his vault opens. It will know we’re here. Focus your thoughts like a blade and slash any of the attacks that come for you. They may appear as thin as strands or as thick as vipers, and they’re quick.”
He grabbed the memory and entered Dura’s descent into the Darkwater, holding it so that Dura would experience the memory over and over.
Violence exploded with a soundless concussion. Threads darker than pitch came from everywhere, but the Vigil were ready. Slashing with their gift, they cut through the threads in midflight.
“We have to go to his vault,” Pellin said. Entering the stream that defined Dura, he sank below the river of recollection until he saw the black scroll. Sensing their presence, the vault no longer sent threads against them, but ropes as thick as Pellin’s arm. Fess and Mirren slashed with their gift, but they lacked the strength and focus that came with years of practice. Their strikes landed but failed to cut all the way through. Each rope that came for them required two or three cuts to sever.
And the ropes were coming faster.
Two attacked Fess simultaneously, one taking a high line as the other wrapped around his leg, pulling him from his feet. Toria and Mirren cut them away and Fess stood, but his strikes were weaker.
“We have to get inside,” Pellin said. He broke into a run, his gift slashing before him with Toria, Mirren, and Fess following, cutting their way through a hedge of evil. The sounds of whiplike strikes and snapping threads filled the cavern of Dura’s mind.
Dura’s vault loomed above them, larger, far larger than Elieve’s had been. Pellin searched for some snatch of prayer from the liturgy, but panic filled him. “Aer, help me,” he gasped. Thrusting forward with his gift, he tore a hole in its surface and stepped through.
And found the image of Willet Dura standing inside. Toria, Fess, and Mirren slipped in beside him and the tear closed behind them, trapping them. There would be no retreat—victory was their only hope.
Dura shook his head. “I was in the forest.”
Pellin gathered his strength and slashed, using his gift as a broadsword that cut through a swath of waving tentacles, but the effort left him gasping. “We’re inside your vault. Somehow, you’re here as well.” A rope shot out of the darkness, coming for Dura’s back like the bolt of a crossbow. Toria cut it from the air. “Help us,” Pellin said. “We have to read the writing on the inside of your vault and keep it open until dawn.”
Dura turned as a tentacle as thick as his leg came for him, and he slashed at it, severing it with one strike, but as the end fell, writhing, to disappear in a puff of oily smoke, he doubled in pain, clutching his belly. Agony twisted his face and put him on his hands and knees. A moment later, he pushed himself to his feet, his face deathly calm.
“I understand,” he said to no one.
A sinewy rope of purest black came out of the darkness, wrapped around Toria’s middle and lifted her from her feet. She screamed as it coiled, tightening. Fess leapt, catching her and hacking at it with his gift, but while his strokes injured it and thick smoke poured from it like ichor, it remained intact.
Dura stepped forward, his hands raised, and spun, cutting the air with his arms as his gift lashed out. The tentacle holding Toria parted like silk beneath a sword, and she fell. Dura curled in agony, screaming as though he’d been gutted. Mirren crouched by him, searching as he thrashed in pain.
She looked at Pellin. “There’s no wound.”
“Guard us,” Pellin said to the others and knelt by Dura’s side. “What, Dura? What do you understand?”
Tears streamed from him as he spoke through clenched teeth. “It’s not just the forest,” he said. “It’s me.” He clutched his midsection. “Oh, Aer, have mercy.”
Strands came at them for what felt like hours, numerous as threads in a spider’s web. Toria panted with each strike of her gift and Mirren tottered on her feet. Fess wore the look of a man who knew he would be used up long before the battle ended.
“Help me lift him,” Pellin cried. Ropes curled around his arms, pinning him.
Fess slashed at them, hacking desperately, but it was as
