“Why?” Toria pressed.
Pellin would have demurred, feigning ignorance, but his instinct told him differently. He knew. “Igesia had a capacity for love that surpassed me. In the few hours he knew Elieve, he loved her like a favored daughter.”
Already, Pellin’s mind accused him, throwing comparisons to Igesia at him, and he desired nothing more than to return to his fight rather than admit he was so much less than the Honored One who died for a girl he hardly knew. “His love gave him strength in the gift that astonished me.”
Toria lifted her head, calling with the longing of a child. “Cesla, I loved you. You never wanted this. Please!”
Turning to the wall, she raised her hands and attacked. Wherever her gaze landed, threads and tentacles withered and fell away. Writing appeared, strange glyphs comprising a language of vast complexity. Instinctively, Pellin realized the authors of the language would have to be immortal. The writing made his language appear crude and rushed by comparison.
Tears streamed down Toria’s face. He added his strength to hers. With slashes of their gift the vines parted from the walls, and each time they were slower to return. The attacks ceased and Mirren added her strength to theirs. Together they wielded domere with the grim efficiency of executioners.
Then it ended.
Dura lay on the floor of his vault, unmoving. Pellin turned to the others. Each of them would bear scars within their souls of the battle, and it would be turnings of the moon before any were strong again. Toria and Mirren sat, watchful of the darkness, untrusting of their victory. He couldn’t blame them. He turned a slow circle, his gaze taking in the glyphs of the Fayit language, memorizing it.
“Go,” Pellin said to Mirren. “See how the kings and queens fare. Time passes strangely in the delve and even more so in battle. Determine the hour and return.”
Pellin settled himself to wait. Even a few moments might feel like hours within Dura’s mind, but Mirren returned almost immediately. “Dawn is here. The sun is about to clear the horizon.”
He had only to wait for a second. Light flared in Dura’s mind.
Chapter 70
I opened my eyes to wan sunlight outside the counting house in Treflow. While Gael and the rest of the Vigil stared at me, I searched my mind. “It’s gone,” I held out my hands. They touched me, briefly, and I couldn’t help but notice the pain of fatigue that pinched their expressions. Even so little effort was beyond us. The thought of ever using my gift again made me want to weep.
The sun continued its rise off the horizon, its light strengthening as it changed from red to orange to yellow. I heard the sound of footsteps just before I saw Fess and Lelwin come into view from the west quarter of the city. The bodies of men and women were strewn everywhere.
Fess bowed to Pellin and the assembled kings and queens.
“Genuflections can wait for another time,” Rymark said. “What happened?”
Wonder lit Fess’s eyes, and he wore a smile. If it was less carefree than he would have worn months ago, I was still gratified to see it. “We were beat, Your Majesty,” he said. “They came pouring over the west wall, spending men and women until they took control. We fell back and fought house to house, slowing them with bow fire.” He looked at Lelwin. “Several times Cesla sought to withdraw and we pursued.”
“Just before dawn the enemy went crazy. They started attacking each other.” He gestured west at the bodies strewn everywhere. “I thought it was a trick at first, but they kept on. We put down as many as we could.”
“Is Cesla dead?”
Fess shook his head. “Just before dawn, he took the last of his men and fled back over the wall of the city.”
I turned to the rulers. “We have to hurry before he gets too far away.”
“You all need rest, Dura,” Rymark said. “And there are men and women who need whatever healing we can give them. This can wait.”
“No,” I said. “It can’t. They’re still trying to open the prison.”
“It’s daylight,” the king of Owmead said.
“Not in the Darkwater,” I said, looking at Pellin. “I remember.”
The sunlight did little to relieve his pallor, and tremors worked their way up and down his arms. Only Allta’s support kept the Eldest upright, but when he spoke his voice was clear. “Lord Dura is correct. We cannot wait.”
They formed the circle there in the light of the morning with Pellin and me inside. “I remember the names,” I said.
He nodded. “I have them as well, along with the writing on the wall.”
“The name of the Darkwater.”
“Aer willing.” His expression turned grave. “I can’t read it, Willet.”
Something too desperate to be called hope ran through me. “I think they can teach us.” I turned to face the Everwood, missing my friend, but unexpected lightness filled my heart as I lifted my voice. “Daelean Eriescu Allorianae Rihtmunuc, answer the call. According to the binding you placed upon Fayit, you are summoned.” I didn’t wait for him to cross whatever distance separated us before I continued. “Storan Midriashech Zelwaunil Rihtmunuc, come! As you have sworn and bound yourself, aid us.”
Within the circle they appeared, larger than men, overshadowing us all, but with their heads bowed in submission. “What is your command?” they intoned.
I pointed to myself, Pellin, and the rest of the Vigil as I replied. “Teach those of us in the Vigil the language of the Fayit,” I said. “Then abide until you are released.”
When they lifted their heads, the light in each gaze was fierce, jubilant. They passed among and through us, imparting the knowledge of their language, much as Custos had shown me how to read the ancient language of my own race.
When they finished, they returned to the circle where Pellin and I waited. Equipped with the knowledge of their language, I bowed my apologies. “Your pardon for pronouncing your names so poorly,”
