And Alistair had more reason than any other living person to resent him.
Yet here he was, wandering in the half-light, realizing with every step he took that the gloom around him was far bigger, far broader than a subterranean cavern. It was a whole world.
A world peopled with its own inhabitants.
He could neither see nor hear them. But he felt them: lost souls, near and far at once, wandering all around him. Did they seek an escape back to the world above? Did they search for the Final Water and freedom from this tormented roving? He did not know. He could not understand them.
But he felt his heart breaking for them.
Alistair stopped suddenly when he realized that the Path he followed had leveled out under his feet. No more descent then. He had arrived in the very pit of the Netherworld.
“Blood calls to blood,” he whispered, and his voice sounded foreign in his own ears. He drew a long breath and felt the invisible wraiths around him drawing theirs as well. The air was cold down here. Then, shaking his head and telling himself he was fearless, he shouted:
“Chronicler! Are you here?”
The wraiths fled. His voice was too much for them, and he sensed their swift withdrawal to the hidden-most places of their realm. Alistair stood, breathless, and listened to his own voice being swallowed up as it chased after the frightened ghosts.
There was no answer.
Fear inched up his spine, willing him to give way. It whispered in his ear.
You haven’t forgotten your dream, have you?
With a crash of memory, images stormed his brain. Alistair nearly fell to his knees at the power of them. Images of the darkness, of the ravening dogs, and of death.
“Dreams aren’t real,” he muttered. “They’re only illusions.”
But only illusions can live here, his fear responded.
Alistair started walking. It was that or stand and listen, which he could not do. He had made his choice: He had descended the dark way, and he would let no whispers or half-truths misguide him now!
“Blood calls to blood,” he muttered. Well, he had called, hadn’t he? He’d called as loud as he could, and he felt even now that his voice continued to wing its way into every far corner of this realm. But it was useless. He could not find his cousin like this.
Suddenly he stopped again. “Fool that you are,” he growled, striking his temple with the heel of his hand. “Blood calls to blood! You know better than that.”
Then he bowed his head and closed his eyes and recalled as best he could that moment at the bedside of his dying uncle.
“Florien,” Earl Ferox had said.
“Florien,” Alistair whispered. Not Chronicler. Florien.
Cousin. Heir.
Kinsman.
The displaced young lord raised his chin and threw his shoulders back like a warrior ready to do battle with anything this realm might throw at him. And he called out once more in a loud voice:
“Florien! I’m coming for you!”
At first nothing happened. Alistair stood, breathing hard, listening to the fleeing echoes.
How long had that light been there?
Blinking, Alistair found he could not remember. He hadn’t noticed it until now. Yet it had been shining bright as a star in the night, always present if not always seen.
Like a sailor guided on wild oceans, Alistair pursued the glow. At first he thought it must be a great light indeed. But the closer he drew, the smaller he realized it was, until at last he found himself approaching a humble gravestone, atop which sat a small lantern of delicate silver-filigree work, rendered unnoticeable by the beauty of the pure light it contained.
Alistair knew it and named it without hesitation.
“Asha,” he said. “Gift of Akilun.”
Akilun, who had once descended into the Netherworld himself in pursuit of his brother. Blood calling to blood. Kinsman pursuing kinsman.
Even unto death.
Alistair reached out and took hold of Asha’s handle, lifting it from the gravestone.
13
I RETURNED TO ETALPALLI for the first time since my departure. And I saw my subjects, the Sky People, winging through the air while I myself remained earthbound, for the Dark Father had taken my wings.
I killed them all. Cren Cru himself could not have meted out the destruction I gave my own demesne. I killed the Sky People and I burned Etalpalli into blackened ruin.
So shall I burn all who oppose me.
Eanrin considered himself a cat of many talents. He could steal the attention of everyone in a crowded hall without raising his voice. He could entertain Faerie lords and ladies of any demesne beyond the Wood Between, and he charmed smiles from rocks and snakes if he felt the need.
But he was also remarkably good at lurking.
He lurked in the deepest crevices of the Citadel. Even as night fell and the priestesses gathered; even as he watched the Murderer, hands and limbs bound, brought to the center of the hall; even as the high priestess, Mouse standing in her shadow, rallied her slaves about her, Eanrin lurked and watched and waited.