Grandmother spoke the words of power, words as ancient as the roots of the empire itself, her voice a singsong, and a red glow seeped between Lala’s fingers.
Gubba, who was accustomed to the unpredictability of Blackveil’s etherea, chanted in counterpoint to buffer them from some devastating backlash.
When Grandmother finished, the glow captured in Lala’s hand flickered red against her face like firelight.
“You may release the seeker,” Grandmother said.
Lala carefully uncurled her fingers, the glow blooming, then coalescing into a redbird perched on her bloody palm. The remnant glow settled into its feathers as it preened.
The detail! Grandmother looked at it in awe. From its black face mask to its crest, it was every bit the real thing. The dear child had made more than a seeker—she’d taken the art to a higher level. The aesthetic alone revealed more sophistication than those so gifted showed in a lifetime. The art should not be just a tool, Grandmother thought. Too often she had used it as a means to an end, forgetting about its inherent beauty.
“Well done, child, well done.”
Everyone in camp paused to admire Lala’s creation. The redbird fluttered its wings as though impatient to be off. Without further prompting, Lala tossed the bird into the air. It stretched its wings and circled above their heads once before veering north. It would fly the quickest route to seek the one who sang.
As the bird disappeared into the misty night, Gubba clapped and chortled, and Grandmother turned her attention to tending Lala’s cut hand.
Despite all the groundmites provided for Grandmother and her people, the endless walking was wearying. Grandmother wished she had wings so she could fly like Lala’s redbird. Alas, she was confined to the Earth with all the other ground-dwelling creatures, forced to labor to reach a destination when birds easily flew over all obstacles. At least the ruins that appeared more frequently alongside the road lent more interest to their surroundings and indicated they were nearing their destination.
Most of the ruins were entangled in vines and roots. Trees grew through roofs. Ferns and brush shrouded entrances and facades. The forest was nothing if not resilient, obscuring even the pedigree of the architecture—was it Eletian or of the empire? They did not stop to investigate the ruins, but Gubba jabbered on beside Grandmother, pointing out this and that as if they were on a pleasure outing to see the sights. Grandmother understood none of it.
Instead, she ignored Gubba and thought of the task that lay ahead, when they reached their destination. How was she supposed to awaken the Sleepers? As much as she prayed on it, the answer never came to her. It was, she guessed, a test placed before her by God. Truly, up till now she’d been more worried about just surviving long enough to reach the grove of the Sleepers. The groundmites, with their help, had lifted much of that worry from her, leaving her more time to concern herself with the how of the task before her.
She did not understand the Eletians, or how they Slept as they did. All she knew was that it was going to take some powerful art to rouse them. Would she have the ability?
She’d been so deep in her own thoughts, ignoring Gubba and watching the road just ahead of her feet, that she was startled when she bumped into Sarat, who had stopped in the road. In fact, everyone else had stopped to gaze ahead, and she gasped when she saw why.
The forest fell away, revealing a black lake, tendrils of fog coiling just above its flat, oily surface. She thrilled to see that a statue of Mornhavon the Great stood in the center of the lake looking defiant and courageous, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and the other fisted as if to show whose realm this really was and by what means it was acquired. The details of his features were blurred and moss-draped. The lake level had risen at some point, and now lapped at his knees. To Grandmother he seemed to be rising from the water, not sinking. Around the edges of the lake were the roofs of drowned buildings, also attesting to the deepened water.
One of the great, black avians Grandmother had seen and heard signs of in the forest skimmed across the water, leaving ripples in its wake. The creature circled the statue, then landed on the head of Mornhavon. It loosed a screech that echoed right through her and swiveled its head around on its serpentine neck to gaze at its surroundings.
As magnificent as the statue was, it was the backdrop that she found truly arresting. Towers rose out of the forest into the sky, pale phantoms of what they must have once been, but still a powerful vision, their slender forms like graceful stems growing from the earth, their pinnacles lost to the ceiling of clouds that hung overhead. There was just enough grayness of day that the towers reflected on the lake.
“What is that place?” Min whispered in awe.
“Our destination,” Grandmother replied. “Castle Argenthyne.”
SPIRALS AND VOICES
Graelalea led the company mercilessly over rugged terrain until abruptly she stopped on the edge of a cliff where the forest opened up, revealing a lake below. To Karigan’s eyes it seemed shaped like a beech leaf or a spearhead. Clouds obscured the far shore.
“The Pool of Avrath,” Ealdaen said. “I thought never to gaze upon it again. But it is dark, defiled.”
“What do you see?” Yates whispered to Karigan.
“We’re looking down into a valley with a lake,” she replied.
“You must remember this for the journal.”
“I will.” To be honest, when they stopped for the night, she was so exhausted she knew she’d probably fall fast asleep before she could get to the journal.