The Citadel loomed closer. ‘As you can see it is still a formidable castle.
It could withstand a besieging enemy for some time. A few willing fighters, however, could enter the outer wall largely unnoticed.’
‘What of the Nadir shaman? Would he not see us coming?’
‘The Old Woman killed him last night. Burned him alive. He tried to jump to his death to avoid the pain, but she fixed him with a spell of holding. She is like Boranius. She lives to enjoy the suffering of others.
Now let us see the inside.’
For some while their spirits flowed through the Citadel, and Skilgannon mentally noted the rooms and halls, the corridors and exits. Finally they came to an upper room, small and cramped. ‘What is here?’ he asked, seeing only a shabby bed, and an old wooden closet.
‘Here is sadness and pain of the worst kind,’ she told him. They passed through the thin door of the closet and Skilgannon saw a small, blond-haired child, sitting against the closet wall. She was hugging her knees and swaying back and forth. ‘This is the child Druss seeks to rescue.’
Pulling back from the gloom of the closet they floated within the room beyond. ‘Look there,’ said Ustarte, ‘by the bed.’
He saw the blackened, rotting fingers, and the insects crawling across them. ‘Her mother’s fingers,’ said Ustarte. ‘Boranius cut them away before killing the woman. He gave them to the child as playthings.’
‘She will never recover from this,’ said Skilgannon. ‘He has destroyed her future.’
‘You may be right, but it is best not to be hasty in these judgements.
The child has fled in her terror. She needs to be found and comforted before the rescue. She needs to know that help is coming. She needs to feel that she is loved.’
‘How would that be possible?’
‘I can take you to her, Olek.’
‘I am not much of a comforter, Ustarte. It would be better if you went.’
‘If I did, do you know what she would see? A wolf woman, with bright golden eyes and sharp claws. She needs someone of her own species, Olek.’
‘She knows Druss. Let us go back. You can bring Druss to her.’
‘I wish that I could. What you say is true. The mere sight of Druss would lift her. It is not possible. Druss cannot be reached in this way. Last night as you all slept I flowed into your dreams. Jared is full of grief, and, though warm-hearted, could not bring the child what she needs. Druss’s mind is like a castle. He guards his inner privacy with great resolution. When I reached out to communicate I was met by a sudden wall of anger. I retreated instantly. Diagoras would have been my next choice. He is too fearful of me, and what he sees as my kind. He would not have trusted me as you did. At some point he would have panicked and tried to flee. He might even have succeeded, and his soul would have been lost. Then there was Garianne. I would not even try to enter the scream-filled labyrinths of her mind. In there I could have been lost. So there is only you.’
‘What must I do?’
‘I will take you to her. She will have built a world around herself that is familiar. You must reach her, and find a way through the elaborate — and perhaps dangerous — place she inhabits.’
‘Dangerous for her — or for me?’
‘For both of you. Do not give her false hope. It will seem helpful at the time, but will make the return impossible. Do not tell her that Orastes is alive. Be honest, but loving with her. That is all I can advise.’
‘I am not the man for this task, Ustarte.’
‘No, you are not. And you may fail, Olek. But you are the only one I can use.’
‘Take me to her,’ he said.
Skilgannon found himself standing before an immense thicket of thorns. He felt disoriented. The sky above shifted and swam with swirling colours, clouds of purple and green, shot with lightning streaks of yellow and crimson. The ground below his feet writhed with long roots, squirming up from the earth like questing snakes.
Moving back from the thorns he sought out firmer ground. Ustarte had told him that the world he now inhabited was entirely the creation of the eight-year-old Elanin. It existed only in the depths of her subconscious. ‘It is her last defence against the horrors of the real world,’
the priestess had said.
‘What can I do there?’
‘ Yow have no ability to change her world. Everything you do must be consistent with the world she has created. If there is a stream you can drink from it or bathe in it. If there is a lion you can run from it, or battle it. I cannot help you there, Olek. If you cannot find her, or you are in danger, merely speak my name and I will draw you clear.’
Moving back from the writhing roots he stared at the forest of thorns.
He felt the weight of his swords upon his back, and considered cutting his way through. It seemed the most logical course. Yet he did not.
Instead he looked around, and saw an area of flat stone. He walked to this and sat down, staring at the thorns. Some of the limbs of the forest were as thick as a man’s thigh, the thorns sprouting from them long and curved like Panthian daggers. He looked more closely. In fact they were daggers.
This was a quandary. The child had created the thorn barrier as a defence. Were he to slash and cut at them he would be attacking her, causing her even more fear. She needed to believe in her strength.
Swinging the scabbard from his back he laid it down on the stone. Then he removed his fringed jerkin and his shirt. Leaving the weapons behind he carefully picked his way through the writhing roots until he reached the first of the thorn limbs. These too were moving.
‘ I am a friend, Elanin,’ he said aloud. ‘I need to speak to you.’
A wind picked up. The thorns swayed and slashed. ‘I am coming through the thorns,’ he said.
With great care he eased himself past the first of the limbs. A thorn dagger slashed across the top of his shoulder, the wound burning like fire. ‘You are hurting me, Elanin,’ he said, keeping his voice soft. ‘My name is Brother Lantern. I am a priest from Skepthia. I mean you no harm.’
Pushing further into the thorns he struggled to stay calm. A dagger sliced across his thigh. Another embedded itself in his forearm. ‘I have come to help you. Please do not hurt me.’
Gripping the dagger thorn in his arm he prised it loose and moved on.
Pain roared through him, igniting his anger. Fighting to hold it back he stepped over a low limb. Searing agony shot through his back. Looking down he saw a long dagger thorn protruding from his belly. Panic touched him. This was a death wound. He was about to utter the name of Ustarte when he saw that the deep gouge on his arm had disappeared now. ‘Please take this thorn from me, Elanin,’ he said. ‘It hurts greatly.’
The dagger was ripped from him. He screamed in pain and fell to his knees. Looking up, he saw a narrow pathway between the thorns.
Touching his fingers to his belly he found no blood, nor any sign of a wound. Pushing himself to his feet he moved down the winding path. A savage roar made the ground tremble beneath his feet. He walked on.
The thorn wall ended. Before him was a clearing. At its centre stood a huge bear with slavering fangs. Skilgannon stepped to meet it — and saw that he once more held his swords in his hands.
‘ No!’ he shouted, hurling them from him. ‘I don’t want them!’
The beast charged. Skilgannon instinctively dived to his right, rolling on his shoulder and coming smoothly to his feet. ‘I will not hurt you, Elanin,’ he shouted. ‘I am here to help.’
The beast reared and moved towards him. Skilgannon stood very still.
‘I have come with Uncle Druss to find you,’ he said, scanning the undergrowth for signs of the child.
The bear loomed above him, and he looked up into its huge brown eyes.
