Pellin found himself on the inside of a sphere. Threads came for them, striking like vipers, but he and Dukasti slashed at them with their gift. They forged a path to the center and found Igesia.
The Honored One sat in repose, but fatigue had etched new furrows on his visage until he appeared on the point of death. His lungs worked to draw air, the tendons of his neck straining with effort. “Sit,” he groaned in time with his exhale. He and Dukasti positioned themselves on either side, and with the motion of a man trying to lift boulders, Igesia held out his hands.
Pellin and Dukasti reached out. On impulse, Pellin reached for Dukasti with his free hand and the three of them joined within the depth of Elieve’s mind.
Shocks buffeted him as Igesia’s and Dukasti’s thoughts flooded into his with the force of a tidal wave. He grappled with the waters, but the forces were too strong.
“Flow with them,” Igesia’s mind whispered into his.
Pellin’s mind rebelled, working to maintain his sense of self, fearful of losing his identity. But Igesia’s and Dukasti’s hands still held his. Letting go of his thoughts, he focused instead on the feeling of their mental touch. The tidal wave didn’t calm, but he swam with it instead of fighting it.
Presently, he found himself.
“Words within words,” Igesia said. “Help me, my brothers. I haven’t been able to see it all.” With the merest nod, Igesia indicated the walls of Elieve’s vault. Writing covered its interior, teasing Pellin with words he could almost understand, but threads formed and leapt from the surface.
Realization exploded in his mind. The evil in Elieve’s mind was attacking them to keep Igesia from seeing the writing. Even now, threads gathered to obscure their vision inside the vault.
Coordinating their gift, Pellin and Dukasti fought the threads that came for them while Igesia burned them from the surface. Slowly, sections appeared and though the script defied comprehension, Pellin committed each glimpse to memory.
Igesia moaned, his body shuddering.
“Honored One,” Dukasti yelled. “What’s wrong?”
“The evil of the forest,” Igesia panted. “It’s trying to withdraw.”
“Help him read the writing!” Pellin said. “I will fight the threads.”
Dukasti withdrew his defense. Pellin felt him drop away. Threads leapt at them from everywhere, working to overwhelm them as the evil sought to escape.
Pellin paused, expecting the unslaught to lessen, but attacks still came from the walls, striking to get past their defenses. Exhaustion ached within his mind, a burden he could neither shed nor shoulder. “We need to withdraw,” he begged.
“Yes,” Dukasti pleaded.
“A little more my brothers,” Igesia groaned. “Only a little more.”
They fought on as the attacks grew more desperate, more frantic. Dukasti pitched forward, his gift flaring and guttering until it ceased and his presence disappeared. Pellin redoubled his efforts, but his counterattacks were slowing.
A score of threads came for them. He would never be able to destroy them all.
Inches away they stopped.
Light flared within Elieve’s mind. Awareness ceased.
Chapter 42
Pellin woke to sunlight in his eyes and the grit of sand beneath his hands. Mark held Elieve, crooning to her, his words too soft to hear, his tone begging. Beside him, Igesia lay staring unblinking at the morning sun, a smile fixed on his face, but the rise and fall of his chest had ceased, and no pulse disturbed the withered flesh of his neck. Beyond him, Dukasti lay with his eyes closed, but after a moment, he shifted, drawing breath.
Then Pellin slept.
It was dark when he woke again. Someone had taken him back to Igesia’s house. Lamps burned all around. Allta sat by his bed, his sword naked in his lap.
“Dukasti?” Pellin asked. He knew better than to ask after Igesia. The memory was real. The Honored One had died.
“Sleeping, Eldest,” Allta said.
“It’s night,” Pellin said, then shook his head at the observation. “Brilliant,” he muttered.
“Yes, Eldest,” Allta said. “I would have bound Elieve to be safe, but there seems to be no need.” Something broke for the barest instant in Allta’s expression, an unmasking of the thoughts that lay behind it that Pellin had never seen before. “Eldest . . .” The word barely made it past his lips. “Eldest, she won’t wake up. Mark’s grief will break him. I asked him to give me his knives, but he refused.”
Pellin needed to sleep in a way he hadn’t felt in centuries, but Allta’s news placed demands on him he couldn’t ignore. “Take me to them,” he ordered.
“Eldest, I’ve never seen that depth of mourning,” Allta said.
He nodded. “Ordinarily I would tell you to let Mark’s grief run its course, but I have learned the value of impatience. Carry me if you have to.” He worked to get his hands beneath his chest and roll from the bed, but his arms might have been weighted with lead for all the success he had.
“Eldest?”
He struggled for a moment more. “I think you’ll have to.”
Allta set aside his sword, then bent to scoop him up and cradle him in his arms like a child. When he turned for the door, Pellin caught sight of Dukasti on a makeshift pallet, his skin pale. In the main room, with enough candles blazing to banish the specter of the desert, Mark sat like a statue, if a work of marble could have matched his hopeless expression—unmoving, uncaring of the heat, his gaze fixed on Elieve.
Allta set Pellin on an empty chair. When Pellin reached out, his guard grabbed his wrist. “Eldest, you cannot. You almost died.”
Pellin sighed. Even now he could feel his gift guttering like a candle in the wind, but he had to know. He pulled back his hand. “Bring me wine or spirits,” he said to Allta. “Anything you can find.”
As soon as his guard left the room, Pellin extended one trembling arm to brush Elieve with his fingertips. His gift took him, and he felt his mind begin to snap, cracking like a board under too much weight.
Then it passed,
