Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [105]
The specter dispersed like mist in a sudden wind. A mournful cry faded to nothing, and the unbearable cold went with it.
The light faded, and the exhilaration leaked away, leaving him feeling almost empty.
“Nice job, Demascus,” said Riltana.
He merely nodded. “Everyone all right?”
“Thanks to what you just did,” she replied. “So … When you summon that kind of glow, it almost seems divine, like something Carmenere might manage. Which god did you call for aid?”
Chant glanced over, his eyebrows high with interest.
Demascus glanced around, noting the location of each broken urn and gravestone. The immediate threat seemed over, so he sheathed his sword. Finally, he answered Riltana, “No god in particular. More like … all of them, I guess. Or whichever one is paying attention.” He felt vaguely embarrassed as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
“Hmm. That’s scarily disturbing,” she replied. “Still … I like it better when you call the light. When you shroud yourself in shadows, you seem almost like a specter yourself.”
“Oh.” He didn’t have a response. He didn’t want to tell her that he wasn’t necessarily consciously choosing which abilities to employ. It was more like the abilities were choosing him.
He wondered if using light more than shadow, or the other way around, could be setting him up for some kind of consequence he didn’t know enough to avoid. Another reason to recover his sword: maybe it would give him the context to judge his actual situation, and put an end to the guesses.
They continued down the lane, until they came to a plaza. Black iron rails fenced off the surrounding graves-cape, though great rents made the barrier meaningless. The leaning tombstones surrounding them almost looked like stalking beasts in the ambiguous light, curled and ready to spring the moment no one was looking.
A hole plunged into darkness at the plaza’s exact center.
Chant examined the edges of the shaft, running his finger along the lip. He nodded to himself. “See these scratches? Someone went over the side and climbed down here. Someone with, um, claws, it looks like.”
Demascus peered downward. It wasn’t completely dark as he’d first thought: a glimmer of reddish light shone somewhere below, perhaps a reflection off a pool of liquid. He wrinkled his nose. Stagnant water, by the smell of it.
“Does anything seem at all familiar?” asked Riltana.
“If this leads down to Demascus’s tomb, he’s not likely to remember it,” said Chant, as he uncoiled a length of rope from his pack.
Demascus said, “Chant’s right. I don’t even know where this cavern is in relation to Airspur.”
Chant glanced at the distant shore where they’d arrived, then said, his voice raised, “I’ve been assuming we could return the way we came in. If we’re lost down here, you’re going to see a grown man throw a fit. I promise you, it’ll be like nothing you’ve experienced in any of your incarnations.”
Demascus said, “I’m sure there’s a way out. Either way … now you’ve got me curious, what kind of fit does a grown man throw?”
Chant burst out laughing.
“Shush!” said Riltana. “You’ll warn anyone below we’re here.”
“It’s not pretty,” said Chant, still grinning.
Demascus chuckled. He decided that, if he lived through whatever was waiting for him in his tomb, he would laugh more.
Chant tied rope to the iron fence, and dropped the rest of the coil into the well. He said to Demascus, “Do you know how to go down a rope?”
“Uh … just shimmy down?”
“Hmm. In a pinch, but, here …” Chant showed him a clever method of wrapping the rope so that he sat into it, which allowed the rope to support his weight even as it played out. He leaned back and jump-walked down the shaft.
The hole magnified the sound of his boots against the curved wall. The rope rasped on his palm and fingers, making him grateful he didn’t have farther to descend.
The shaft dropped him into a mausoleum tiled in black stone. The light came from flames burning from iron candelabra in each corner.