Chapter 69
Fess blinked, surrounded by the monarchs of the north. Runners flooded into and out of the square. In the eastern sky the first hint of the coming dawn marked the horizon. “Cesla is close,” he yelled at Rymark. “We need to attack.”
The king of Owmead shook his head. “The best we can do is hold until sunrise. I don’t have the men for a counterattack.”
Fess grabbed the king’s arm, desperate to make him understand. “He’s too strong. If we can’t get to Cesla and distract him, it won’t matter.”
Rymark spun, knocking his hand away. “The walls are falling! I don’t have the men!”
Fess searched the square. Willet stood, surrounded by Pellin and the rest of the Vigil, their hands still on his head. Ringed around them were the monarchs, waiting for their opportunity to call the Fayit, an opportunity growing less likely by the second. Outside the ring stood their guards, the most physically gifted of each kingdom, waiting, the last line of defense. Standing to one side in the shadows, Lelwin waited with the remnants of the force she’d taken outside the walls.
“I don’t need your men,” Fess said to Rymark. “Wag!”
The sentinel came running out of the shadows covering Lelwin. Fess put his hand on his head. The man who stole your litter mate is here in the city, Fess said. Can you find him?
His smell is everywhere, Master. The scents of him and the forest are all over the city.
Is there a direction where it’s stronger than any other?
The sentinel broke contact to trot around the boundaries of the square, stopping at each alley or street that led away to raise his muzzle and test the air. He came back and put his head beneath Fess’s hand, staring. The wind is swirling, but it’s strongest from there, Master.
Guide us as quickly as you can, Wag. We must find Cesla before sunrise. He raised his hand, pointing at Lelwin. “If you want vengeance that matters, then you and your men will come with me.”
They ran through the darkened streets toward the west wall. As they turned the last corner, the sounds of battle swept over them. Soldiers screamed in pain and fury, fighting to contain men from the Darkwater who moved among them, darting shadows who left death in their wake. Light blazed and died in pockets as the defenders fought for advantage.
“Where is he, Wag?” Fess yelled above the clamor of steel and butchery.
Wag scented the air for a moment before going on point toward a shadow of a building where the torchlight failed to penetrate. Fess grabbed Lelwin’s arm and pointed. “There!”
She barked an order and a hundred of her veiled soldiers nocked and fired into the shadows.
Screams of pain and rage shattered the air.
Threads erupted from darkness, coming from the walls, coming from everywhere. Pellin slashed, but already the black snakes had wrapped around Mirren and more were coming. Dura pulled himself to his feet like a man being forced to his own execution, but the edge of his gift cut through the threads and tentacles that threatened them. The severed ends dispersed into greasy smoke that thickened around them until they were lost to sight.
When the smoke cleared, Dura lay on his face like a dead man, but the rest of them stood. A solitary thread, no bigger around then his wrist, came for Pellin out of the darkness, but he destroyed it with a thought. Stillness settled on Dura’s vault.
“Is it over, Eldest?” Mirren asked.
Pellin shook his head. “No. We must clear the walls.”
“Why?” Toria asked. “The writing is beyond us.”
He held his answer, fearing the evil that lurked in the darkness of Dura’s vault would hear. Instead he turned from the center to face the nearest wall. “Guard me. If you need help, summon Lord Dura.”
“If he can be summoned,” Mirren said.
“He’s alive,” Pellin said. “Everything here ends if he dies.” Raising hands that trembled with exhaustion, he cut at the mass of black that covered the wall. Perhaps it was because Dura’s vault was older than Elieve’s. Possibly, the disease in Dura’s mind ran far deeper than any of them could guess, but the vines shrugged off his attacks, and he feared exhaustion would take him before he was halfway done. One by one the other members of the Vigil turned to help him, but the threads refused to give ground.
“If we cannot uncover the walls before dawn,” Pellin said, “the light will destroy his vault and the information within it. We must not fail in this.”
But their progress was too slow. Even as their gift reckoned time, they would never clear the walls of Atol Bealu’s malice before sunrise. “Willet,” Pellin cried. “Stand and fight!”
Dura groaned, gasping in pain as he struggled to rise. “Cesla,” he panted. “The key.”
“What do you mean?” Pellin asked. “How is Cesla the key?”
Dura doubled over in pain as he reduced another attack to wisps of smoke. “He didn’t want us to know who he was.” He ducked his head. “Why? Why would it matter?”
Pellin’s mind raced. “Atol is torturing him.”
Dura, curled almost in two, shook his head as he gasped in pain. “They wouldn’t care.”
A memory of Elieve came to Pellin, on the ground and shaking as she tried to reconcile memories that didn’t match her body or spirit. Intuition burst in his mind like a flash of phos-fire. “They needed his mind to make his body work.”
Dura nodded. “He’s still there, trapped.”
Pellin whirled, but there was no sign of Cesla now, only the attacks that came from Dura’s vault. “Cesla!” he screamed. “Fight with us. We need you.” He turned, searching. “I always loved you. I know you’re tired. Help us!”
Toria stumbled, falling to one knee. “Was it so difficult with Elieve?” she gasped.
Pellin shook his head. “No, but Igesia was powerful beyond reckoning. He used himself without regard.” He thought about that for a moment. “No,” he amended. “Even before his final apotheosis, Igesia’s attacks were far
