stairs plunged down into the unthinkable darkness. Araevin hesitated a moment, staring down at the steps, and he began to descend.
The stone steps were cut into a sloping notch or crease hewn out of the abyss’s wall. The staircase was about eight or nine feet in width, the steps about a foot tall and a foot deep. They were noticeably worn in the center, each step seeming to sag beneath the wear of the countless feet that must have passed that way-though who or what could have walked the dizzying path so frequently, Araevin could not say. He quickly realized that the simple act of descending the stairs required all of his attention. One careless step could result in an unimaginable fall. And it was more than a little physically demanding, so that not long after they started Araevin’s thighs and calves burned with the effort of the descent.
“The question that occurs to me,” Nesterin said softly as they shuffled and picked their way ever lower, “is how long it will take us to climb back up these stairs when we wish to leave. That is something I am not looking forward to.”
“Speak for yourself,” Maresa told him. “If climbing these damned stairs means leaving this place behind us, I think I’ll find a way to manage it.”
After a seemingly interminable descent, they came to a landing or switchback of a sort. Two more of the squared-off pillars marked the spot, each covered with more of the mysterious runes. The small company rested for a time at the landing, but it was bitterly cold, and their exertions had rendered them all too susceptible to the creeping numbness of the frigid stone and air. And worse yet, they were absolutely entombed in the dark-blackness above, blackness below, blackness all around them-with only a tiny little circle of cold and cheerless rock revealed by their inadequate lights. Araevin found himself entertaining the curious delusion that the world simply ended beyond their dim little sphere, and that the endless stairs were nothing more than an invention of the dark that faded back into nothingness once they had passed by. It was not a thought he cared for at all.
They tried to make a small meal of the rations they carried, but no one was very hungry. The weight of the abyss around them pressed close. Implacably silent, the stillness was like some awakened glacier of pure night. There was a conscious malevolence to the place that encouraged the mind to wander into despondency. After a time Araevin realized that the company had fallen still and silent again, straining to hear the sound of the darkness. Somehow he shook himself to motion again, and roused the rest.
“Come, my friends,” he said. “I think it is not good to stay here too long.”
“What did the gnome call this place? The Maddening Dark?” Jorin said. “I can see how it earned its name.”
They started down the next great turn of the stairs, and dropped farther and farther from the level of the road’s ledge. Each step jarred the legs until it seemed that the whole body dreaded the next footfall, but still they pressed on, winding deeper and deeper into the dark. Finally, when Araevin began to despair of seeing anything other than the few steps ahead and the few steps behind, the stairs reached a sort of broad ledge or shelf in the side of the abyss. It was impossible to see the full extent of the place, but strange old stone buildings brooded here in the darkness, guarding another switchback leading even farther down. Like the pillars above, the buildings were squat and square, with carefully worked geometric reliefs cut into the stones from which they were built.
“Some sort of guardhouse?” Donnor wondered aloud. “A watchpost to keep enemies from descending any deeper?”
“Whatever it is, it will have to serve as a campsite,” Araevin decided. “We’ve been descending for too long, and this is the only shelter we’ve come across. I think we should rest before we attempt the next turn of the stair.”
Nesterin studied the silent ruins looming up out of the lightlessness around them. “It seems an ill-omened place to me, Araevin.”
“I know, but I don’t want to be forced to make camp in the middle of the stairs. This will have to do.” Araevin chose a structure that backed against the wall of the abyss, as opposed to one that stood on the open side of the ledge, and carefully peered into the square doorway. The chamber within was empty and cheerless, but at least the floor was level and it did not offer the opportunity to miss a step and plummet to one’s death. “We’ll sleep here, and press on when we’re more rested.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
5 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms
Lord Miklos Selkirk sent for Ilsevele early in the morning of their third day in Tegal’s Mark. A finely dressed Sembian officer delivered the news, requesting Lady Miritar and her retainers to follow him to the Sharburg-the town’s small keep-after they had breakfasted and dressed. Ilsevele accepted the invitation with a gracious nod, and saw the courier to the suite’s door.
After he withdrew, she turned to Fflar and said, “Well, it seems that Lord Selkirk has returned.”
“I was beginning to wonder if the Sembians wanted to talk with us or not,” he answered. In fact, he had found himself wondering whether the Sembians intended to hear them out at all.
“I trust there has been a good reason for the delay. Until I know otherwise, I choose to believe that our host has been absent.” Ilsevele withdrew to her bedchamber to change, while Fflar found a handsome blue cloak to throw over his own tunic. Ilsevele soon emerged from her room, attired in a beautiful gold-embroidered dress of deep green over a chemise of sheer pale gray silk. Her long red hair was free to her shoulders, wavy and alluring, and she wore a slim tiara on her brow. The dress went well with her eyes, Fflar decided. Very well indeed. He couldn’t recall ever having seen Ilsevele dressed up, and the effect was stunning.
She noticed his gaze and smiled awkwardly, smoothing her dress. “Is something wrong?”
“Not a thing,” he admitted. “Lord Selkirk doesn’t stand a chance.”
She looked down and blushed. “Thank you, Starbrow,” she murmured. “I simply want to let the Sembians know that I take them seriously.”
They went down to the inn’s common room, where the Sembian messenger waited, along with a small escort of half a dozen human guards. The Sembians had arranged for several carriages, even though the Sharburg was not much of a walk from the Markhouse. In a matter of minutes they rolled into the broad dusty courtyard of Tasseldale’s chief castle, which had been crowned by the pennants of Sembia.
I wonder what the mairshars think of that? Fflar asked himself. The Sharburg was the stronghold of Tasseldale’s constables, guards, and lawkeepers… but it seemed that the Sembian lords had evicted them when they chose the Sharburg for their headquarters.
“If you get the chance,” he said to Ilsevele, “I think you should press the Sembians about their occupation of this dale. Don’t let them think that you don’t care that this town belongs to Tasseldale.”
“I will not forget the citizens of Tasseldale, Starbrow,” Ilsevele replied. She looked up at the pennants floating overhead, and drew a deep breath. Then the carriage door opened, and a coachman extended a hand to assist Ilsevele from the carriage.
A small party of Sembians waited for them in the courtyard, surrounded by a number of vigilant guards. At their head stood a tall, dark-haired man who wore lace at the cuff and collar. His hair was carefully arranged in tight ringlets, and his goatee was trimmed to an exacting point just a little below his chin, but Fflar could see at once that the man was more than a dandy. The rapier at his belt was a fine piece of steel with a well-worn hilt, and the set of his shoulders and easy confidence of his black eyes marked him as a man who knew his own strength.
“Good morning, my lady Miritar,” the Sembian lord said, and swept off his hat in a gracious bow. “I am Miklos Selkirk, of House Selkirk. I am sorry that I could not meet you before now, but events in these troubled lands kept me away until a short time ago.”
“I understand, Lord Selkirk,” Ilsevele said. “It is those same troubles that led my father to bring his Crusade here.”
She’s very good at this, Fflar decided. Ilsevele possessed a natural poise that few elves could match, let alone humans, but at the same time she was sincere and direct. It made for a disarming combination. He quietly studied the Sembians observing her. They stood mute and unmoving, eyes wide, rapt. If they’d had suspicions about her, or duplicity in their hearts, those things were forgotten for the moment.
Ilsevele exchanged a few simple pleasantries with the Sembian lord, and Selkirk bowed and led them into the
