“I cannot keep it here. Bartta checks on me regularly,” Mother warned her. “You must hide it from her.”

  “I will come for you, Mother,” Riane said, and she passed out of the Kell. “This I promise.” She Thripped back to the spherical Kell where, the night before, she had been exploring with Shima Vedda. Of course, the Kell was deserted. Shima Vedda was long gone, returned to the upper reaches of the abbey to doubtless receive her punishment for not taking care of Konara Bartta’s disciple.

  Materializing fully, Riane lighted one of the torches they had brought down with them and took a quick look around. She went immediately to the carved Ja-Gaar. The middle one was slightly larger than the two that flanked it. She put her hand inside its mouth, then quickly slid The Book of Recantation in to see if it would fit. It did. She took out the book, wondering how long she had before Bartta found her. Bartta did not have the Gift; therefore, she could not Thrip. That meant that she would have to find her way down here on foot. A half hour, perhaps a few minutes more. That was all the time she had left.

  She thought about Mother, imprisoned for nearly a century in that Kell, and shuddered. How could one Kundalan do that to another? And a Ramahan, at that! Mother was right. A profound and insidious evil had penetrated the Abbey of Floating White. Having taken root more than a hundred years go, it had flourished. And it was slowly and me­thodically rewriting the history, the very Scripture of Müna. It had made scapegoats of the Rappa, had daemonized the Ja-Gaar, and had left Mother for dead. Everything that had been sacred and holy in the abbey had by now been tainted by this evil. No wonder the Great Goddess had turned her back on her chosen ones. The Ramahan were spiritually ill. Touching the Ja-Gaar as reverently as if they were god­desses, she thought again of the vibrancy of the past, compared it with sorrow to the twilight of the present. Who better than I, she thought, pan V’ornn, part Kundalan, yet apart from both races to bear witness, to understand the dusk of Kundalan civilization. Is this, then, the task of the Dar Sala-at, to become the great archaeologist, to begin the process of res­urrection, to remember the past with such flaming intensity that it rekindles the here and now, gives form and substance to the future? How could any one person alone, even the Dar Sala-at, hope to effect such a Transforma­tion?

  With tears in her eyes, she put her back against the wall and slid down until she was sitting on the cold, black floor. She opened the Book of Recantation and stared at the runes. As Mother had told her, this was not written in Venca but in the Old Tongue. She saw similarities, but could make no immediate connections.

  “Riane,” she whispered. “Help me read this.”

  Venca is made up of a series of mathematical equations. So is the Old Tongue, Riane said in her mind. You can build the necessary equations from the letters you see.

  Once she saw that, the entire language fell into place. With a speed almost beyond imagining, Riane began to construct the Old Tongue word, phrases, sentences, paragraphs using Venca equations. Part of her—the Annon part—sat back and watched astonished at what this brain of hers could accomplish. In no time at all she commenced to read.

  Page after page floated before her vision. She wanted to read even faster, but feared that her comprehension would falter. Still, she read more swiftly than could be imagined. This, too, was part of her unique Gift. She came to an entire section of blank pages. But she knew they were not blank. They were being protected by a sorcerous spell. Mother said that she was the only one who might break the spell. But how?

  It did not matter now because she had run out of time.

  She heard Bartta’s approach in her mind like the tolling of a far-off bell. She had set up a perimeter of psychic sentries without even know­ing it. Quickly, she withdrew them, drew a veil in her mind across her Gift. She rose and slid the book into the mouth of the middle Ja-Gaar. She patted the top of its head, which somehow did not seem nearly as fearsome as it had before. She felt unaccountably protected here, as if she had come home.

  A last lingering touch, then she crossed to the well in the center of the floor. Luckily, Shima Vedda had left the lid to the well ajar. She had lacked the strength to close it on her own. Her only hope now was to give Bartta the impression that she had fallen down the well when Shima Vedda had not been looking. Knowing Bartta, this ruse might not work, but she could not think of another alternative. She had to present Bartta with a semblance of doubt about who stole. The Book of Recantation, about who left the Thrip trail.

  Taking one last look around this Kell, which she had inexplicably come to love, she blew out the torch. Engulfed in absolute darkness, she lowered herself into the well. She almost cried out as the frigid water closed around her, but she forced herself to continue her descent until she was all the way in. The cold sucked the breath from her. She had to force herself to breathe and to remain calm, to inure herself from the thought of the deadly chill. It was darker than night, darker than death in here. How deep did the well go? Where did it end? She had no idea, but something inside her felt that the depth was endless. In those first few moments, she struggled a little, beating back her panic, waiting for exhaustion to set in. The sides of the well were smooth and slippery. There were no hand- or footholds. She simply trod water and allowed her mind to wander.

  She was back in her previous life, hunting gimnopedes and ice-hares among stands of sysal trees… Side by side with Kurgan as he pulled one of his clever pranks… Hearts beating with Eleana in dappled sun­light, under the heartwood canopy, staring at the mystery of Annon’s face…

  . . . Perhaps she was hallucinating. Then it no longer mattered. The water had risen over her head. It was clear she was drowning.

  Bartta was led to the termination of the Thripped emanations like a reader to the period at the end of a sentence. She appeared in the black spherical chamber, and found it deserted. Unlike earlier that morning, she herself had not been here in many years, had supposed that it would never be seen again by Ramahan eyes. Accordingly, when Shima Vedda had reported back to her, she was more disturbed than irate. Not that she let the Shima see that, no, that would not do at all. Let the punishment fit the crime, that was one of her mottos known from one end of the abbey to the other.

  Bad enough that this stupid priestess had broken into an area of the abbey she should never have known about, but she had also managed to lose Riane. Her description of how the girl simply disappeared before her eyes had led Bartta to assume that she was either lying or insane. That was until Bartta had felt the peculiar emanations still ambient in the restoration room of the Library. Impossible as it appeared, someone had Thripped.

  Opening the Eye of Ajbal, she had followed the increasingly faint emanations down through the bowels of the abbey until she had arrived here. By the light of her lantern, she now saw what in her haste she must have missed before, that the unholy cenote was open.

  Müna protect me, she thought. Her first instinct was to push the lid back into place. Then she had the thought to look inside. To do so, she had to pass the three carved Ja-Gaar. She shuddered as she did so, averting her gaze as best she could. Ever since she had learned Kyofu, they had given her a profound sense of dread.

  Setting the lantern down beside the blankets she had brought in case she found Riane, she got down on her hands and knees, peering into the pitch-black water of the cenote. It took all her formidable will­power to do so, and she shuddered profoundly at the thought of what was waiting greedily at the bottom. She lifted her lantern over her head and immediately saw a body floating in the water.

  Reaching in, she got a grip under an armpit and hauled upward. Müna, but the water was frigid! Whoever had fallen in would have little chance of being alive. The head emerged from the water.

  Riane!

  Bartta dropped the lantern and grabbed her with both hands. Müna, the water made her heavy! Bartta spread her legs to get better traction, pulling upward with the muscles of her thighs, shoulders, and back as well as her arms. Slowly, agonizingly, she prised Riane from the watery grave.

  Gasping, she lay for a moment on the cold storte floor before rousing herself to pump the water out of Riane’s lungs. She jammed the heels of her hands against the girl’s diaphragm several times, then slapped her across the face.

  Riane coughed and began to choke. Bartta returned to her ministra­tions and, tense moments later, Riane vomited up all the water she had swallowed. Bartta scrambled over the wet floor and, using every form of power at her disposal, caused the lid to slide with a heavy grating sound back into place, sealing the cenote.

  She knelt with the girl’s head cradled in her lap, wrapping her stone-cold body in blankets, listening to her breathe while her heart ham­mered in her chest. She rocked the girl back and forth, murmuring prayers of healing. What would happen to her if the Dar Sala-at died? She shuddered, and wrapped Riane more tightly in the blankets. How quiet it is here, she thought, how utterly still Save for the disquieting gaze of the three Ja-Gaar she would not mind it at all, even though she was so far below ground, even though she was within spitting dis­tance of a cenote.

  If only she could sleep, as Riane slept now. Instead, she peered into opals she had bought from itinerant traders, looking for her lost youth. But all she ever discovered was the lorg she stoned to death, lying mute and bloody, accusing her of the deaths she had bartered for.

  Bartta shook her head. The Book of Recantation should never have been marked for restoration. She had not authorized it, and yet the precise annotation on the restorer’s tablet indicated that the shima had begun working on it. Whatever had possessed them? Now it was too late, for both of them. She turned her mind away from what had al­ready occurred. What concerned her at present was that the Sacred Book was missing. She herself had only found out about it through sheer happenstance, when years ago Giyan had told her how she had stumbled upon it.

  Was it possible that Riane had learned how to Thrip, that she had discovered what The Book of Recantation meant and had stolen it? How was it possible, who would have told her? Bartta was quite certain that Astar did not know the real meaning of the book. Neither did she have the facility to teach Riane how to Thrip.

  An idea struck her. She pressed her lips to the center of Riane’s forehead, feeling the circle of cold, the Sphere of Binding. She opened the Eye of Ajbal and peered into the depths of the spell she had cast on Riane. The Sphere of Binding linked one person to another. It linked Bartta with Mother. It also linked Riane with Mother. If Mother had somehow managed to make direct contact with Riane, the Sphere of Binding would show it.

  Bartta peered into the heart of the spell and cursed softly to herself. The Dar Sala-at had found Mother! At least Mother had not been able to detect the Sphere of Binding Bartta had cast on Riane. Night Blind­ness, the second Kyofu spell she had woven in, had done its work. That certainly gave her a measure of grim satisfaction.

  Bartta stared down at Riane, her thoughts racing. The revelation of Mother’s clandestine activities only led to more urgent questions that demanded immediate answers. She could not delay. Unmasking Astar had confirmed her long-held suspicion that a conspiracy against her had arisen inside the abbey. If the conspirators should get wind of who Riane really as, of how much power lay dormant inside her, they could use the girl against her. And Sphere of Binding or no, Mother would recognize Riane as the Dar Sala-at, of that Bartta had no doubt. This was something she could not allow. Riane was hers, and must remain hers, lifting her on the rising tide of power.

  Concentrating, she shifted the focus of the Eye of Ajbal. It took great mental effort. She held Riane’s fingers, peering at the pads through the lens of the sorcerous Eye. Her heart turned over. There was the un­mistakable residue of the sticky spell she had cast on the margins of the book’s pages, a sorcerous alarm to warn her if anyone had been reading it. Which was why she would never have authorized the res­toration. Here was her proof that Riane had stolen the book, that she had Thripped here. How? Mother! How many other conspirators had she recruited? Casting a remedy, she removed the residue of the sticky spell, so Riane would not go mad like the restorer had who had also touched the book’s pages.

  Riane moaned in pain, and Bartta cast a Cloud of Slumber to gentle her. Riane quieted. Bartta closed down the Eye.

  She rubbed her temples to stop the terrible throbbing. Every time she used the Eye pain threaded through her sinews like venom. In the universe—any universe—one principle at least was a constant: for every action there is a reaction. So the use of the Black Dreaming sorcery left behind a noxious residue, a sludge distilled from the fibrous rootstock of envy-hate-lust. This substance clung to her with the tenacity of tar. Only drugs gave her a measured amount of surcease. She massaged her temples, moaning a little. The sorcery had entwined itself through the very fibers of her being as dexterously, as insidiously as any jungle creeper. Now she could not survive without it. It was no different than the food she ate, the water she draflk, the air she breathed. She was it and it was she. There could be no turning back. It had changed her as surely, as irrevocably as if it had replaced her lungs with gills.

  She steeled herself for what she was about to do. It was so dangerous, but she dared not turn back. Her entire life depended on keeping the power, just as Konara Mossa had before her. The Dar Sala-at was al­ready too powerful, and it had happened right under Bartta’s nose. It was now clear to her that Riane was uncontrollable. What would hap­pen if she allowed Riane to continue to gain power? It would be the end for her. She would be cast out, disgraced and humiliated. All she had ever wanted was to lead the Ramahan. She had dedicated herself to that goal, had sacrificed everything for it, and now that she had it in her grasp, no one, nothing was going to make her give it up. What was the Dar Sala-at but a myth? Mother had come back from the dead, but did she have the sorcerous powers she was supposed to have? No. Had The Pearl protected Kundala from the V’ornn? No. Did Müna have the power to save her chosen people? No. So who was to say that this girl was what she said she was? Who was to say that she could save the Kundalan? Müna? On all these matters, Müna was silent, as she had been silent for more than a hundred years.

  No, if Bartta had learned anything on her way up to leading the Dea Cretan, it was that power was of the moment. She had no choice but to act and act now.

  Taking a series of ritual deep breaths, she wove a Skein of Serenity about herself. Her surroundings faded slightly, and with that their effect upon her. She made the most of this respite, carrying Riane out of the monstrous Kells, back to the familiar and comforting abbey—her abbey, where the late morning announced itself in thick golden shafts of sun­light within which dust motes danced in silent, twisting counterpoint.

  She encountered no one as she strode down the hallway. Iron hinges squealed in protest as the scarred heartwood door opened. Light streamed into the darkness, illuminating the way as she set Riane down in the ammonwood chair covered with runes that sat on the incised plinth in the middle of the room. Months ago, she had scrubbed the last dried patches of Astar’s blood off the stone floor.

  Having strapped Riane into the chair, she went briskly about the circumference of the chamber firing the reed torches until all was suf­fused in their hot orange glow. Then she went to the door and closed it quietly, almost reverently, her forehead damp against the ancient wood.

  Slowly and deliberately, she set up the had-atta, the scaffolding of the ancient implement rising in shadow along the opposite wall like a mythical narbuck. At length, she slid the flutelike crystal column be­tween Riane’s slackly opened lips. She used the Eye of Ajbal to keep her from thinking about what she was doing. One of the many benefits of the Black Dreaming sorcery was that it was an insulation against questionable or distasteful acts. She never regretted what had to be done, or second-guessed herself.

  All was in readiness.

  Lovingly stroking the had-atta, she woke Riane.

  Nemesis

  Giyan, discovering that a simple spell of paralysis had no ef­fect on Olnnn Rydddlin, had sunk deep into Ayame. There, she discovered the Avatar circling, guarding his essence, a gigantic brown-black insect with an armored thorax, veined wings, serrated mandibles, and faceted eyes. This was not like casting a spell that embedded itself in the recipient. Malistra had somehow pro­jected this emissary of her power over many -idlometers to keep Olnnn Rydddlin safe. Giyan knew of no other sorceress, including herself, who could accomplish this massive feat. The implications ter­rified her to the core. She did not dare attack the Avatar because she did not recognize it. Without recognition, she had no way of knowing either the nature or the extent of its power. She had read in the sec­tion of The Book of Recantation of Avatars of the Black Dreaming sor­cery that could drain your power, others that could actually take your power if you used it against them. She could not take the chance that this was one of those.

  She could feel in the physical realm a pain starting in her head and knew that the spider-mite was beginning to kill her. She was forming a plan, but it was very risky. She did not see a choice. Still in Ayame, she located first Rekkk, then Eleana. The pain was becoming intrusive; time was running out, a matter of seconds at most. She began.

  Eleana, watching Olnnn Rydddlin slowly killing Giyan, was sud­denly filled with a toxic rage. With a cry of fury, she rose up, twirling the ion mace. She ignored Rekkk’s shout of warning, cocked her arm back to throw the weapon directly at Olnnn Rydddlin’s un­protected face. It was their only chance; she knew it as surely as she knew her own name.

  She saw Olnnn Rydddlin’s right arm directed at her. A heartbeat later, she was knocked off her feet by the ion-cannon blast. Pain filled her to overflowing. She tried to cry out, but failed. She tried to move, but failed at that, too. She lay on her back, the light slowly leaking out of the world. Then, a starless night engulfed her, taking her far, far away.

  “You’ve killed her,” Rekkk said through gritted teeth. “First the girl, then the skcettta. One by one they fall.” There was a sly smile on Olnnn Rydddlin’s face. “Why should you care? They are Kundalan. A true Khagggun would rejoice at their demise.” He cocked his head. “But you are no longer Khagggun. Now I wonder whether you ever were.”

 

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