Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [141]
The tunnel seemed to rise as she walked. To her surprise, the passage ended with a solid stone wall. Refusing to give in to discouragement, she lay one hand on the stone. A tingling sensation ran up her arm, and a sweet, wordless summons beckoned her in.
Bronwyn snatched her hand back, startled. Beset by a sudden sense of urgency, she again flattened her palm on the stone of the keep and again felt the compelling invitation. She followed her impulse before she could understand it and stepped through the stone wall into the keep. The passage through the solid stone sent an odd, tingling sensation through her entire body and left her feeling strangely chilled.
She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and took a look around. The interior was larger than it looked from the outside, dimly lit by candles thrust into wall sconces. The flickering light revealed stone walls festooned by cobweb drapery and a ceiling that vaulted up farther than her eye could follow.
“Welcome, daughter of Samular,” intoned a faint, rusty voice.
Bronwyn whirled, startled by the unearthly sound, and found herself looking straight into glowing red eyes, set into a skeletal face.
She swallowed a scream and fell back. At second glance, she understood what manner of being she faced. Ancient, rusty robes hung in tatters about the lank form. Where flesh once had been, there was only bone wrapped in papery gray. Lank strings of white hair straggled out from beneath the cowl of a once-white cape. Yet there was life, of a sort, in those glowing red eyes. This was a lich, an undead wizard, and one of the most feared and powerful beings known.
The creature advanced. “Daughter of Samular,” it repeated. “You have little need to fear me. I have waited long for this day and for one such as you. The Fenrisbane-its time has come? You have come for it, and for the third ring?”
Because it seemed the thing to do, and because she was not certain her voice would serve her, Bronwyn nodded.
The lich darted forward with a skittering rattle. It seized Bronwyn’s arms with bony fingers, and tears of dust and mold leaked from its glowing eyes. “At last you have come! The wonders we will know, and the glory! Wait here.”
Bronwyn was released so abruptly that she almost fell. She rubbed her arms where the lich’s touch had chilled her. She watched, bemused, as the creature hobbled up the stairs that wound around the inside wall of the tower. Several minutes dragged by, and she was considering attempting a retreat when the lich reappeared, a small box in its skeletal hand. “The third ring,” it said reverently, and handed her the box.
Bronwyn opened it and slipped the ring onto her left hand as her father had done. As with the other, this one magically sized itself to her finger.
“What of the Fenrisbane?” she asked, remembering the name the lich had spoken, and assuming that this was the much-sought artifact.
“It is not here, of course. I had the siege engine hidden away for safe keeping years ago, much as one would hide a tree in a forest,” the lich said slyly. “It is in the attic of a toy and curiosity shop, in a remote town not too far from the monastery.”
Siege engine. In a toy shop. Bronwyn was beginning to understand what part the rings might have in this. “Why did you do this?” she asked. “I would think the Fenrisbane would be safer here.”
A bony finger waggled in admonition. “There is danger in having the rings and the tower in the same place. The four artifacts should be reunited only when there is a force gathered sufficient to use and to protect the artifacts.” The lich paused, tilted his head, and leaned forward in a menacing gesture. “You don’t have the other rings with you, do you?”
“I know where they are, but I do not have them with me,” she assured the lich. “One is in the hands of another child of Sainular’s blood, a child who is protected by powerful magic. If threatened, she can magically flee within strong walls.”
Some instinct prompted her not to mention Blackstaff Tower.
“Good. That is good. Your forebears have prepared you to