“Mine too,” the boy said next to her.
For a moment Simon truly did not understand.
“And Lissa and I bred a baby once for Vivian,” the boy added, looking at his sister. “It didn’t turn out good. Vivian already used it up. Now she’s going to use us up.”
Simon backed away from them, one step. It was as far as he could move. Father. Daughter. Baby. To himself he mumbled words that he was unable to understand.
His body pressed against steel, and he turned. Outside the jailbars of the cave, in the light of the ringed torches hissing in the rain a guardian power stalked, a jailor with a crooked walk. Simon could recognize old Grandfather Littlewood, from the portrait—no, it was only something in old Littlewood’s shape. At close range he could see how the thing was wearing old Littlewood’s human likeness like a mask He could see everything, and it did him no good at all. On its shoulder the creature bore what appeared to be a giant cleaver, stained with blood.
“Prepare,” ordered a disembodied voice, Vivian’s voice, out of the nearby air. And the Littlewood-figure came to the jail door and somehow pulled it open. It seized Simon by one arm when he tried to run, and held him paralyzed.
Somewhere in the distance, down inside the secret tunnel, an awesome procession was approaching. There were sounds, a muttering of many voices that were not all human. There was reflected light, beginning to be faintly visible to the physical eye. The colors of it were sickly. Falerin the Master was approaching. Evil wafted ahead of him, like the stench of his wagonloads of corpses.
And now, along the path that led through woods to the grotto, came Vivian and her supporting crew. There came Gregory, right after her, and there was Arnaud. Around them, a score or more of wraith-figures slouched or capered. Two at least dragged captives with them. Simon didn’t want to look.
Abruptly there was a sound of purely human movement inside the secret passage. Saul climbed up out of it, carrying his wife Hildy in his arms. She was alive, and her eyes were open, but they no longer saw, or perhaps no longer wished to see. Behind them the inhuman muttering grew a little louder, became distinguishable as some kind of a chant.
“Quickly!” ordered Vivian, stopping her own advance near the altar.
Hildy was borne there by her husband, and put down, as he might have carried her and given her to a doctor for an X-ray examination. Relieved of the weight, Saul stood back and rubbed his eyes. Somehow, Simon realized irrelevantly, he tended to think of Saul as wearing glasses.
Thoughts about Saul vanished. Vivian was looking straight at Simon himself. “Find the Sword for me,” she commanded him.
“I won’t.” Whether it was a benefit of actual physical imprisonment, or something else, Simon found himself at least momentarily free of fear. He could at least try to defy her now.
Vivian nodded to the executioner.
“Slow bleeding, Lady?” the thing that wore old Littlewood’s shape inquired of her from over the sightless staring Hildy.
“Quick death. We have no time tonight for squeezing the fine essences, or playing tricks with what’s left afterwards.”
Simon beheld the cleaver rise; he heard but did not watch it fall.
Now Vivian was looking at Saul. “Now you are not needed any longer. But we require your blood and death.”
Saul looked about him, in his usual abstracted, business-like way. “I thought it might have worked out differently,” he said to no one in particular. He rubbed his eyes, and again Simon had the impression of an accountant’s or bookkeeper’s eyeglasses being handled. “I thought—”
One of the wraith-figures pushed Saul violently from behind. He went face down on the stone altar. The cleaver swung, and this time Simon was not quick enough looking away. He saw the flying blood.
With each violent death, the presence of Falerin came closer through the tunnel, his music a notch louder, even the sickening smell became a little harder to deny.
Suddenly Simon noticed Marge, in the background behind Vivian, being brought closer to the altar by the figure that held her. Her eyes were on Simon, but not as if she expected anything from him or even saw him. Beside Marge, another creature was holding Sylvia, who appeared to be in no better shape.
At the mouth of the cave, the boy-twin was being pried from his sister’s almost catatonic grip. He was dragged helplessly out and thrown upon the altar.
“Flesh of your flesh, Simon.” Vivian’s voice bored at him relentlessly. “Now will you find the Sword for me? Then we’ll need no more sacrifices. Or, a few more deaths, a bit more blood, and my powers will be strong enough to force the passage despite the Sword. Which way is it to be?”
Simon saw that the hope Vivian offered him was a lie, as was her confidence of being able to overcome the hidden Sword. And he saw much more than that.
He spoke his discovery aloud. “I see now where it is… no, where it was for a long time. It’s not there any longer.” Before Vivian could interrupt, he raised an arm, pointing uphill to where the towering keep was shrouded in night and mist. “In the great hall. There’s an oak beam right above the fireplace. Open it.”
There was a swirl of rapid movement among Vivian’s inhuman followers. Only seconds later, muffled crashing noises sounded from inside the castle. And very quickly after that, two of the powers were back, bearing ten feet of torn-out beam between them.
At once Vivian commanded: “Break it!”
In the grip of those hands it crumbled as if it were termite-eaten. Amid a cloud of dust there came to light a carven, sword-shaped nest. One creature
