Suddenly both of them jerked straight up in bed.
'What the devil?'
'I don't know,' Rosalind said, and clutched his hand.
They watched as the smoldering ashes in the fireplace suddenly ignited, as if fanned by an invisible hand. The flames roared upward, making a loud whooshing sound, as if all the air in the room were being sucked into it. The flames whipped up and out, and the sound of a high wind filled the room.
Nicholas cursed and grabbed her against him. He yelled, 'Don't let go of me, whatever you do, don't let go of me. Do you hear me?'
She nodded, unable to speak, only stare at the roaring flames. The sucking sound became even louder. The flames turned bright blue, then the blue deepened into a rich royal blue. They watched the big chair whip round and round until it disappeared into the whirling vortex. The gigantic flame seemed to swallow the chair. But how could that be? They'd watched the vortex actually suck the chair into the fireplace, but it was too large to fit, surely it was. Yet it didn't matter, the chair was gone. The blue flames roared, leapt upward as if trying to reach the sky, and the sound of it was like the cackle of a hundred mad witches.
Then the huge funnel turned itself on them. They felt the incredible pull, and despite themselves, it jerked them to their feet and pulled them toward the roaring flames that now had leapt out of the fireplace and formed a huge funnel that was twisting wildly, reaching to the ceiling, filling the bedchamber, twisting and circling fast, the noise unbelievable. But there was no smoke, no particular heat.
It was madness.
Nicholas instinctively grabbed the bedpost against the incredible pull of the vortex.
Rosalind said in a calm voice, 'No, Nicholas, it is all right. Let go.'
He released the bedpost and the vortex swooped them up, slapped them together, whirled them about so fast they couldn't see or hear anything except the deafening roar. She felt his hand squeeze hers as they were both spun into the huge column of blue flame that roared and shrieked around them. Her hair whipped into their faces, blinding them. And Rosalind thought to herself, It is the Cretan light. There was a tremendous crashing sound.
Then they heard nothing at all.
46
Rosalind slowly raised her head. Her brain was clear, her mouth dry, her hair tangled in her face, and she wasn't afraid. She was lying on top of Nicholas, who was now blinking his eyes, and he felt very good indeed.
His hand was on her cheek. 'What happened?'
'I think that vortex of flame somehow deposited us in the Pale. It was the Cretan light written of by Captain Jared. Remember?'
He said nothing, merely lifted her off him and set her next to him. 'It appears we're in some sort of cave. Look at the sandy floor, and the opening, just over there. I can't see the back of the cave-it's black as a pit back there. I wonder how big it is.'
Rosalind didn't care how big the cave was; she'd have to be forced at knifepoint to go exploring.
They rose slowly and walked to the opening and looked out. Three bloodred moons shone bright overhead.
'Oh, my, it is beautiful.'
Alien and unnatural was what it was, Nicholas thought, but the utter strangeness of it didn't concern him at the moment. He cursed, smacked his palm against his forehead. 'Blast me, I'm a fool. Here we are in cloaks and boots, ready for cold weather and a hike into the mountains, yet I forgot to bring a weapon.'
'Sarimund didn't say anything about needing one,' she said, and moved closer to his side, and wondered if somehow Nicholas had been blocked from thinking of a weapon.
'He didn't say anything about wearing cloaks either,' he said, and cursed again. 'Well, no hope for it. All right, I know we aren't to build a fire because that will bring the fire creatures in to devour it. Is that right?'
'Yes.'
'Then I'm wondering how anyone ever cooked anything if these fire creatures always flew by to kill the flame.'
'We will ask the red Lasis when we find it. We've got to make friends with it, so it will protect us from the Tiber. I hope Sarimund comes to us soon. Remember, he said he was waiting for me.'
He said, 'I cannot imagine meeting someone three hundred years dead. Well, yes, I can-Captain Jared. Do you think Sarimund will be only spirit and song?'
'I saw him across from the huge kettle he was stirring. He looked very real.'
Nicholas said, as he looked out over the land, 'Hopefully we are in the Vale of Augur and that is Mount Olyvan at the end of the plain beyond that skinny snake of river. If Sarimund doesn't come, if we can't find a Dragon of the Sallas Pond to fly us over it, then we will have to cross it. If I remember aright, we can't cross the river until the three bloodred moons are full, and rise together over Mount Olyvan. I wonder why that restriction? The river doesn't look deep at all, its surface appears calm, and over there, it doesn't appear to be more than fifteen feet wide.'
Rosalind said, 'If you stick even your toe in that river before the three bloodred moons are full, I shall kick you.'
He didn't know where it came from, but he grinned down at her. 'The moons aren't quite full, are they?' 'No. Tomorrow night.'
A black eyebrow shot up. 'You seem very sure about that.'
She looked momentarily surprised. 'Yes, I do, don't I?'
He eyed her a moment, then said, 'Perhaps there is another way to get to Blood Rock, besides crossing the river or finding a Dragon of the Sallas Pond to fly us there.'
She turned away from him suddenly and began to walk toward a single tree that stood on a small mound some twenty feet away. Nicholas called out, 'Rosalind, no, we must remain together. Come back here.'
She kept walking straight toward that tree, at least he thought it was a tree. Of all things, it was a bright yellow and had very long bare branches sticking out from the trunk, moving lazily about like thin waving arms. The only thing was, there wasn't any wind, not even a slight breeze to make those branches move and sway the way they did.
He yelled her name again, but still she didn't turn. Then he called out, 'Isabella! Come back here.'
She turned then and smiled at him, a mysterious smile.
He said, 'I want you to sing to me.'
He saw that her hair shined as violent a red as the three bloodred moons above her head, and her face was washed of color, not as white as the whiteness that had shrouded them and their bedchambers the previous night, but her pallor was marked. Had it only been last night? It seemed like eons ago. He stared at her as she walked toward him. The thing was, she was Rosalind, yet, somehow, she wasn't. He would swear red sparks flew outward from her head, forming a crimson halo-or a blood halo. Her cloak and gown were gone and in their place, a long white robe, a narrow golden rope at her waist. He felt a spurt of fear and quashed it. 'Please, Isabella, sing to me.'
She took another couple of steps toward him, the hem of her gown brushing against some spindly bushes that didn't appear to have any color to them at all. She sang:
She lowered her head and he heard her sigh, deep and broken, as if wrenched from her very soul. 'She wants to kill him, badly. He's only a little boy, no bad in him, none at all, yet she is afraid of him, afraid that when he reaches manhood he will smite her down and exile all the other wizards and witches to a place beyond death.'
He walked slowly to her. She didn't move. He reached her, but didn't touch her. 'What little boy?' His heart began to pound in hard, slow strokes.
