Who are you? Raim’s mind screamed out the question.
And the thing seemed to hear him. “I am Pluto,” it said. A voice of infinite resonance, depth, power.
What do you want with me?
“You play well, Raim.”
What do you want? Raim refused to drop his sword, still poised ready for a strike, a defensive maneuver.
“Your music is sweet, as once was Marise.”
The mention of his long-dead wife pierced him like a sword’s point. His arms fell to his side as he was swept up in a rush of memories: a petite, dark-eyed woman; a voice like a nightingale’s; the quick fluttering gestures and movements of a fragile bird; the mirror-image of Raim’s coarse ways; the perfect complement to him. He had loved her so fiercely that no woman had ever touched his heart since her terrible death so many years ago.
But how could this thing know of Marise?
He thought of his young bride and the attack upon the Maaradin; of how the secondary keep had been temporarily overrun and she had been trapped in the sweep of the invaders; of the moment when he found her broken, lifeless body in the dusty ruins of the battle; and of how he had then thrown himself at her killers, hoping only to join her in death.
“I know of Marise, musician. I am her keeper. . . .”
Raim shuddered as he stared into the folds of the figure’s hood, straining to see the hint of features hidden in the shadows. This could not be Death he encountered. There was no such thing, no such animation, except in the minds of men.
“I am quite real. And I offer you your Marise.”
Marise! Marise! The thought of seeing her again filled him with a raw, irrational flood of feelings. It was a blend of panic and unrestrainable joy. All judgment, reason, fleeing under this storm of emotion.
“You may have her. You may lead her from this Underworld of death and eternal darkness. . . .”
How? Tell me what I must do! Where is she!
“You will follow the St. Elmo’s fire,” said the thing, and an iridescent ball of swampfire danced in front of the figure. “And you will play your instrument as you have never played it.”
What?
“To enter the world of the dead, you must charm the guardians and dwellers there, or you yourself shall not return. You shall follow the swampfire until you find her, playing all the time.”
I will do it! I will do anything you say! His heart pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer, almost bursting in his chest. In his mindless desire, he felt like a stag in a burning forest, compelled to rush: onward.
“There is more. You must continue playing. You cannot speak to her until you have returned here, until you are out of my world. One more thing: you must not look back to her, once you have begun your journey from the Underworld. You must not look back until you have returned here. Understood?”
Raim nodded, watching the swampfire as it glided off down a dark, steel corridor which now appeared as a glazed-wall cavern in ancient rock. His hands were slippery as he brought the arthis to his lips.
The passage led into utter darkness. The cowled figure had vanished like the smoke he appeared to be. The corridors of the Citadel transformed into a bleak, downward-sloping tunnel which looked in the faint glow of the swampfire like the infinite maw of some great beast. Raim’s music, a beautiful intruder, echoed through the place, assaulting the silence.
He came upon a raging creature, which appeared to be a wolf, its thickly sinewed body held to a rock by a massive chain. From its neck stretched three heads, all facing him; three pairs of eyes burning into him; the three-fanged mouths drooling in anticipation of tearing him to ribbons. But remembering the words of the one called Pluto, Raim continued to play, and the three-headed beast then ceased its savagings of the air, fell to its knees, and composed itself as if drugged by the lyrical music.
Raim was barely aware of the music, so amazed was he by the effects of its playing. He passed by the watchdog, for that was what it must have been, and entered a vast chamber, where he saw a man pushing a giant boulder up an impossible grade. The man paused to listen to Raim’s music, as did likewise a man tied to a great wheel, and a hoard of others, all of whom were suffering torturous indignities of horrible devise. Raim continued to follow the swampfire, coming finally to a black river where throngs of people stood transfixed by his music on the far shore. He stood playing until he saw a boatman, a gondolier, approaching him in a flat-bottomed skiff.
Seated in the rear of the boat sat a small, dark-haired woman. Marise!
So shocked to see her, Raim almost paused in his playing, but fearfully remembered the words of the hooded one. With the greatest effort, he piped on as the boatman, a reed-thin, scrofulous fellow, assisted Raim’s beloved wife from the boat. She moved with the familiar grace and facility which he had remembered, and his heart soared in his chest, giving rise to even more poignant, more beautiful music.
Looking quickly away, following the swampfire, Raim walked hesitantly back along the first path. He strained to hear Marise’s footsteps behind him and could hear them in the odd moments when there was a natural pause in his melody, or in that breath of time when his own steps were not echoing off the cold walls of the cavern.
They passed the place of tortures and again everyone paused to watch their flight from the darkness. As Raim moved along, following the swampfire and playing his arthis, he watched the cavern walls grow lighter, changing ever so slowly, once again becoming the corridors of the Citadel. He passed the three-headed wolf, still chained to its rock, still soothed by the music.
They
