A sense of having come full circle overwhelmed Gemma as she stared intently at the Golden Door. Her companions waited restlessly at the mouth of the Black Corridor, and she pushed them out of her mind. It was just her and the door now. Only Gemma’s skill could get them through, so she would take her time.
Drawing a deep breath, she approached and laid her hands upon the door, just as she’d done the day Melnora died. It felt like years had passed since that moment, but it had only been little more than a week. She counted the shivers that ran through her, the little telltale pulses of mage work. She held her breath as the number rose higher, each tingle representing a trap that she alone could disarm. Twenty. Breathe your blessings upon me, Aegos. I’m going to need all the help I can get.
She started with the gem and mirror she had dealt with on her last trip. Sweat trickled down her back, and she longed for the custom-tailored, tight-fitting clothes that lay trapped inside Guildhouse as the hem of her ill-fitted shirt came untucked and hung loose. That’s one, she thought as she shoved the shirt back into her breeches.
She closed her eyes and listened. She ignored the shuffling of boot soles behind her and the brief rumble Wince made as he cleared his throat. There, the slightest rushing of air. Another deep breath and she followed the sound to the wall. It appeared to be a blank stretch of black stone, but as she ran her fingers along it, following the sound, she discovered a place where the wall was an illusion. Grinning, she guided her fingers into the hidden space and with infinitesimally careful movements, she felt along its insides.
It wasn’t deep—set only about six inches into the wall—but it was wide. Within, she discovered three tubes, each half an inch across. Set inside each of the tubes was a cylindrical shape with a sharp-edged tip. A spear of some sort. Air rushed past the spears from within the tubes, and if she disarmed them improperly, Gemma was sure she would quickly turn into a pincushion. Two pressure switches hung off the bottom of each of the tubes.
She held her breath once more and carefully ran a fingertip along the first switch without exerting any pressure. There was a mark on the switch, some sort of character, though the shape that her fingertip drew in her mind was not any mark she was familiar with. She touched the second switch and found another mark. As she touched it, she saw in her mind’s eye the Yigrisian character for the word disarm.
These spears were not among the traps she had deactivated when Melnora had brought her to the door. So far as she knew, these had never been armed. These were made for a special occasion—the sort of occasion when mage women only want Vagans to come calling.
Gemma resisted the urge to look over her shoulder at Devery. He couldn’t help her with this. This was the realm of the Queen of Under.
She stepped as far to the side as she could, drew a shuddering breath and pushed the lever that bore the character she did not recognize. There was a loud click, and then the air ceased to blow around that spear. She gripped the spear’s shaft in two trembling fingers and slid it from its tube.
As if from nowhere, she pulled two feet of hard steel from within the wall. The spear was tipped in a sharp point that was covered in mage marks.
“Aegos,” she heard Tollan mutter behind her, just as Wince said, “Balls! What the …” He grunted as someone hushed him.
She easily disarmed the other two, now that she knew what she was feeling for, and laid the spears down next to their brethren on the floor. That’s four.
She stepped to the center of the hallway once more and listened. There was still more air rushing. This time it seemed to be coming from the other side of the hallway.
With little effort she discovered another panel in the wall hiding another three spears. She disarmed them in the same manner. That’s seven. More than a third of the way done.
She stepped back to the center of the corridor and listened. No air. The stillness was eerie, as if she had fallen into the Void. Gemma rolled her neck and approached the door. If there was nothing to hear, then she’d have to use her other senses.
She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. The oil that lit the lamps was heavily scented, just as it had been every time she’d been here, but there was something odd about it this time—a sharp undercurrent to the fragrant smoke. It was faint, but something in the back of her mind cried out. It was a smell she knew.
“Oh, goddess,” she snapped, her eyes flying open. “Light a torch, now!” She moved to the first lamp and saw, to her horror, that she was correct. There, floating in the pot of oil, was a small purple stone. Farcastian spark stone. She began to unscrew the glass reservoir that held the oil as she tried to blow out the lamp. “Shit,” she grunted, as the stubborn flame simply danced before her breath.
Behind her, she could hear movement, but she had no time. The oil would be gone soon, and if the flame hit the spark stone, every one of them would die. She tried desperately to brush aside that image as she fumbled with the reservoir.
“Prick this,” she growled, releasing the glass bowl. She yanked off the leather vest she wore and quickly wrapped her hand and arm in it. She pressed the palm of her hand to the top of the lamp and felt the heat of the flame batter against the leather. The stink of the scorching vest was vile, but she smothered the flame almost immediately.
She moved down the row of lamps, horrified to see that each of them held a spark stone. She rushed, nearly choking on the rancid smoke of her vest as she extinguished the first seven lamps. At the eighth and final one, she watched as the spark stone trembled and rattled within the now dry glass bowl. She swallowed her terror and jammed the tattered remains of her vest atop the flame, throwing out a desperate plea to Aegos.
The rattling ceased half an instant after the corridor went nearly dark. Gemma collapsed as the rush of terror leaked out of her. She drew a trembling breath, then another slower one, commanding her watery limbs to steel themselves. She whispered a silent prayer of gratitude to the goddess and stared up at the dark ceiling of the corridor, which was now only illuminated by the trembling light of the torch someone had lit at the end of the hall.
Staring back at her was a pattern of circular dots that exuded a pale-yellow light. When the room was lit, they would have been impossible to see, but now in the darkness she could see four shapes made of light. They were shapes that made no sense to her though they bore the same curving lines that she associated with mage marks. “Bloody, prickling mage women and their goddess-damned marks!” she snapped.
Sighing, she reached into her pouch and pulled out a notebook and charcoal pencil. Quickly, she copied the shapes, then made her way with utmost care back to the mouth of the corridor. Devery was pacing. Elam sat against the wall, his head in his hands, and Tollan stood over him, watching helplessly. Isbit and Wince seemed to vacillate between being bored and annoyed.
Devery grabbed her and threw his arms around her. “I … oh, goddess, I can’t do this,” he groaned into her hair. “I can’t just stand here while you put yourself in danger and …”
“I do it all the time, love. You go off to kill someone, and I don’t have the slightest inkling what is happening until you get back. Sometimes it’s months. You can do this. I’m almost done.” She leaned in, kissing him long and soft on the mouth. “But I need your help.”
He looked into her eyes and chuckled. “Thank the goddess.”
She showed him the shapes, and he squinted at them, turning the notebook this way and that before his gaze met hers once more. There was a look of honest terror in his eyes as he said, “Elsha did this.” He pointed to the shape that was scrawled closest to the mouth of the corridor, “This one is the mage mark for blindness.”
Gemma nodded, her mind already whirling ahead.
“This one is the mage mark for fear, and this one is the mark for pain.” His gaze was hard and angry.