Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [14]
He did not even dare call out to the emperor’s party ahead of them. Although he believed he and Elandra would be safer with numbers, he believed even more strongly that making too much noise was unwise.
A cobweb brushed its filmy strands across his face, making him flinch. He lengthened his stride, holding his breath without realizing it. Elsewhere in the gloom he could hear whispers of sounds, indistinguishable and somehow menacing. Sometimes, an unexpected breeze—cold, dank, and smelling of the grave—would blow into his face, then die away.
Nothing came near him. Still, this was the realm of shadow, and it was populated. His nostrils picked up a faint, musky, cloying scent like that of decayed flowers, and he drew in a sharp breath. A Haggai witch was nearby. When his feet crossed a patch of slickness, he knew he’d just walked over the slime trail of her passage.
He slowed down, every sense alert, his free hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He must be careful, every moment.
Yet the Haggai was gone.
After a time, her scent faded and he slowly relaxed. However, there were other scents, other indications that denizens of this place had recently been present. It was as though they had cleared the passageway for the emperor and his party.
If that were true, Caelan refused to think about the implications. The emperor’s involvement with the shadow gods had been made all too clear. He had passed this way before, and he commanded elements that no mortal man should even know about.
Caelan felt more beads of sweat trickling from his forehead. He longed for a drink of cool water, longed to rest. Instead, he quickened his pace again, breaking into a jog and urging the horse to trot beside him. Never mind his fatigue. Never mind that he had been fighting through half the night, or that his nerves were tight to the breaking point, or that his emotions were drained and weary. It was time to catch up with the others.
Yet no matter how fast he went, he could not close on them. Only an occasional flicker of torchlight in the far distance told him they were still ahead. But he never saw the men, never heard them or their horses. It was as though the darkness had swallowed them whole, and they were gone.
In his head, he marked off the distance, counting his strides, grimly determined not to be left behind.
When he had gone a league, he finally stumbled to a halt, breathing hard and trembling from exhaustion. His legs were burning; his wind was gone. The torchlight ahead vanished completely.
He heard no sounds from the emperor’s party. He and Elandra had been left behind.
“No,” he said aloud, his voice hoarse with panting. He leaned against the wall and wiped sweat from his face. Its pungent scent reminded him that he was alive, that he was of the world of life and light aboveground, that he did not belong down here in this hole, in this grave.
Yet, how long was the way to safety? Was there hope of getting out, or had Sien trapped them down here forever? ‘
Caelan no longer believed he could catch up with the others. He suspected that there was a reason why he and Elandra had been cut off from the others, and he did not like where that thought led.
Groaning a little, he pushed himself upright and strode forward again.
Time ceased to have meaning. As he walked, he grew numb and spent. Every inch of him ached, yet it was more than mere physical exhaustion. The fire of the warding keys that had united him with Kostimon and Elandra had used up his inner resources as well. Three forms of magic—Choven, Mahiran, and an indescribable mixture of forces from within the emperor—had blended momentarily. It was as though Caelan, Kostimon, and Elandra each carried some special power inside, kindred power that had linked from one warding key to another with exhilarating effect.
The demonic shryieas had been no match for it.
Even now, just remembering awakened in Caelan a faint, resonant hum of the soul. He craved another taste of that fiery power, longed to feel it course again through him. In those