The stone itself gave off light, a pale gleam like the phosphorescence of foam and weed on the waters of Osna Sound. And the stars shone unnaturally bright. Indeed, some few of the constellations he knew—taught to him by his father who, as a merchant, needed to also be a navigator—glittered with an eerie brilliance, as if some unseen power called brighter fires up from their depths.
More shadows played among the ruins than ought to. Distinct shadows covered the ground at strange angles impossible to trace to any of the fallen walls. The air stirred, shivering, a faint noise….
He froze, terrified. A silent shape winged across the ruins, and he relaxed. It was only an owl.
He stood there for a long time, balanced precariously on a block of fallen stone, just looking. It was not a good night to walk inside these ruins. He knew that now. And yet, he had to see the altar house, to see if he felt a link there, a calling of blood to blood. He lit the lantern, and as its light flared, he had to blink and look away. With its glow the shadows along the ground and walls shifted as he took a step forward.
He realized what he was seeing.
He was seeing the shadows of what had been, not the shadows of the ruins lying there now. The lantern’s pale light and the gleam of stone illuminated the shadows of the buildings as if they still stood, complete, unfallen. This filigree of arches and columns and proud walls stretching out as impossible shadows along the ground was the shade of the old fort, come alive on Midsummer’s Eve. There were four buildings: one at the west, one at the south, one at the east, and one at the north, and a circular building in the center; arcaded avenues linked them.
A branch snapped in the woods behind him. He flattened himself against the stone and looked back. Nothing, no one, appeared at the clearing’s edge. But something stranger still: The shadow of the outer wall, next to the trees, was the shadow of the wall in its ruined state—its shadow as it stood now, this night, worn down by time and the Lord’s and Lady’s Hands. The enchantment, if enchantment it was, only lived within the ruin itself.
He slipped down and slowly walked forward into the ancient fort. Stepping around shadows of stones that did not exist, he saw at once that the stonework in here was as far superior to the stonework on the outer wall as the count’s fine charger was to the old donkey he and Lackling hitched to the pony cart to haul manure out to the fields.
Grass grew from between cracks in the paving. He knelt and ran his fingers over a stone surface too smooth to be man’s work, even old and broken as it was now. The wall of the nearest building stood only as high as his waist. It was built of black stone, as black as pitch. He held the lantern close to it and by this light examined it. Faint pictures had been carved into the stone, stiff figures of creatures with the bodies of women and the heads of hawks and snakes and wolves; their eyes glowed like lit jewels. Beyond, at the end of the avenue, the central building gleamed with a startling iridescence. Its white stone seemed to reach into the heavens, touching the sovereign constellations—the Sword, the Staff, the Cup, and the Queen herself, whose Bow was aimed at the Dragon—and drawing their light by invisible threads down into itself, casting it back as luminescence.
Round and white. That building was the altar house.
A shadow moved, detaching itself from a far wall. Alain jumped to his feet, then shuddered, suddenly unable to move. It was not Withi.
It walked with a man’s form, moving toward the altar house.
Yet it was not a man’s form. Tall and slender he was, yes, but indefinably different in the subtle grace with which he walked and in the strange cut of his garments. The figure halted at the shaded entrance to the altar house and slowly turned, surveying the ruins. At first pass his gaze traveled right over Alain, as if he could not perceive him at all.
He had a wonderful, disturbing consistency to him, partly shade and partly real. He was very dark, but Alain could still see his features clearly. A thin face, more bronze than northern pale, and deep, old eyes under a shock of black hair.
Black hair. Like Alain’s black hair. The man was clean-shaven or else beardless, although how any man could truly be called a man unless he wore a beard Alain did not know. Unless he was no true man. He wore a fine metal cuirass decorated with intertwined beasts whose twining points led down onto the leather fringe that ended halfway to his knees. Under it he wore a plain linen tunic, and he held a white cloak draped over his left arm. He was looking for someone. Or meeting someone.
Alain heard the whisper of a tentative footstep. Over to his right, through a gap in the stone, he saw the opaque shape of a girl appear. But she had a leaden, earthy heaviness to her that marked her instantly in Alain’s eyes as a mortal, like himself. She stared around, looking straight at the shade without appearing to see it, and then caught sight of Alain. Or at least, of his lantern.