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| Chapter 59. Key and Door | |
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aeve watched Pendaran move slowly through the motions of setting the Celestial Sigil. His crystalline staff glistened icily in the frosty starlight as he moved to each of the eight points of the circle and traced the symbol carved into the stone by the dwarves. At the end of each invocation, a faint magenta glow emanated from the symbol and curled toward the circle’s center where the Celestial Sigil pulsed softly. They were both muffled in their heavy fur-lined coats against the bitter mountain night. Pendaran had not spoken to her since leaving the cottage and had taken a grim turn of mood shortly after she had helped him to don a silvery mask. Though blind, he strode over the circle confidently, finding each point without her assistance. When at last he invoked the eighth glyph, the circle blazed to life. The carefully laid stones hissed and cracked softly in the chill night air as Pendaran raised his arms and strode back to the center. His thin form channeled the raw ethereal energy, grounding it in the brightly glowing sigil. “It is done,” he said into her mind, effortlessly stepping past her mental defenses to do so. Granted, she had not been warding herself against him, but it was unnerving nevertheless. His eyeless mask gleamed harshly as he turned to face her. A faint tremor of weariness passed through his narrow frame and she moved instinctively toward him to brace him against collapse. He stepped back, avoiding her touch even as he leaned heavily upon the delicate staff. “Will you be able to open the way to Mog Ruith?” “Yes,” he replied evenly, “I lack my old strength, but still I sense you deceive me. I ask again, do your people know you seek to undertake this journey?” Now she did ward against him, angered that he would not take her at her word. Maeve knew her friends would try to stop her, but this was her last opportunity and she could not afford to waste time trying to make everyone understand. “They know. I have talked to them at length about it. Please do this thing for me with haste. For Mog’s sake.” “If you are lying, your friends will take me to task,” Pendaran replied bitterly. “There is no need to worry on my account. Long have they known I would depart in spring. I stand ready for whatever awaits me.” He was angry and exhausted as he placed the butt of the thin staff on the stones before him. “I do not like this,” he said, his words causing her gut to clench. She feared he had been having second thoughts during the long tense silence between them while he worked. “I swear before Lyssa that She shall bless you ten fold for every act of kindness. Now please, in the name of all that She holds sacred, open the way,” she pleaded. Precious time was slipping through her fingers. “I am weary,” he conceded, “but I will do as you ask.” Maeve sighed with relief and gathered up the haversack that she had prepared for this moment. As she slung it over her shoulders, Pendaran tugged off his thick gloves and tossed them outside of the circle. With a swift movement he ran his open palm over the jagged surface of the staff and hissed in pain as blood blossomed from his hand. Chanting softly he clenched his fist and let the droplets splatter to the icy ground. He called out a plea to Grenth to look away. A chill ran down her spine, for she realized Pendaran feared what might come through the door he was about to open, feared that in his exhaustion he might make a fatal mistake. “It will be alright,” she whispered, “Lyssa watches over you and the ethers are hers.” “Place your hands over mine,” he replied quietly, “Open yourself to Mog Ruith. Seek him.” Within the shimmering circle of the sigil, she clenched her hands over Pendaran’s while he held the staff between them, its glistening base firmly planted on the blood splattered stone. He threw back his head, blind to the world around him as he invoked Lyssa. The staff began to pulse with an eldritch light. A spreading pattern of blue ghost flame curled from its base and filled each crack with a milky luminosity. A coruscating whiteness flared before her eyes only to cast her into utter darkness. His being enfolded her, focusing upon her, taking her in until for a moment she feared she was naught but a dream in a stranger’s mind. “Take me to him,” Pendaran whispered beside her in the darkness, “Walk with me.” The darkness was rent by a vivid prism of light as if a door had opened and she walked through it. Her body was strange to her now, silvery and luminous, fragile as a soap bubble. She had brief impressions of the world beyond the formless mist: weathered stones cloaked with dust, a strange sweet odor, and the laughter of splashing water. “Focus,” Pendaran said beside her. She turned her head only to discover that she was alone. She panicked and the word around her warped, swallowed once more by formless silvery mist, “Find Mog. He is near. Focus.” “What if I get lost…” she murmured, her voice suddenly small and childish. “Tighten your grip. Do you feel my hands?” “Yes… but I can’t see them…” “Your body is here with me until you have found the door on the other side. Look for it. Focus on Mog.” The strange fog obscured everything once more. It churned softly, flowing and curling and eddying as she gazed upon it. Determined to find Mog, she visualized him, remembering the serious crook of his brows, the cornflower blue of his eyes. He was here, she reveled in the gentle warmth of his mental signature. Once more the veil of silvery mist revealed grayish silhouettes of wall and pillar. The chatter of falling water returned. Stonework spread out beneath her feet and she was standing over him. His legs were sprawled thoughtlessly before her; the soles of his ragged boots were worn thin. “Farewell,” said Pendaran, “Good luck.” She staggered as Pendaran released her. Maeve dropped to her knees, her flesh suddenly heavy and unwieldy as she collided with the ground. There was a shuddering boom. Maeve’s head snapped around to watch in bewilderment as the solid walls and high dome of the chamber momentarily rippled as if submerged. The shimmering glow of the fountain’s water was the only source of light, revealing the ghostly hints of pillars and stonework. She recognized the narrow pillar of the ether well and the intricate circle of stonework surrounding it. The eerily glowing water seeped and clattered down into the pool, somehow uniting this plane with the ethereal plane. Her eyes adjusted and gradually she made out Mog lying on the opposite side of the fountain. She rushed to be with him. He was absolutely still. His ragged beard and hollowed cheeks betrayed privation. His clothes were tattered and dirty. “Mog?” she whispered. Once she was beside him, she put aside her pack and fetched a flask of spring water from it. With infinite care she eased his head onto her lap, her hands trembling as she stroked the hair from his face and pressed the open vessel gently against his parched lips. Slowly she tipped the flask until the tiniest drop of water seeped into his mouth. His condition was worse than she had imagined. “My love, awaken, please. Let my journey not have been in vain.” He made no response. Her only reassurance was the faint shimmer of his mental imprint, unique and precious to her. Maeve placed her hands over his breast and focused upon one of the few spells of healing she had been taught during her training. Her pleas to Dwayna were heartfelt and desperate as she sought first to drive out poison and then called upon Lyssa to drive out afflictions of the mind and spirit. She worked hastily, hardly taking note of how he fared until her ministrations were completed. Maeve silently thanked the gods when he coughed and trembled. A faint sheen of sweat gleamed upon his brow. His eyelids flickered and she sensed the brightness of his intellect, clouded though it was by illness. “Goddess, forgive me,” he rasped, his eyes rheumy and unseeing as he gazed up into her face. “Be at peace, my love,” she whispered, his confusion and illness clashing against her resolve, “Drink this, it will help.” Maeve gently coaxed him to take several small swallows of water. He badly needed more but she was afraid it would make him nauseous and she did not want to risk making him vomit. Gods only knew how long he had been laying here like discarded rubbish. It was warm, at least, but enclosed and dark. An odd prison, she thought as she gazed up at the amethyst and ruby stained glass. Why would someone trap him inside the holiest center of a temple? “Goddess,” he breathed as she urged him to turn toward her so that she could hold him like a child. A murmur of grief issued from his lips as his cheek nestled against her breast. “My beloved, what has befallen you?” she whispered into his ear. She nuzzled him tenderly, wanting him to know she was there, that she would protect him and seize him back from Grenth’s threshold, “Who cast you here alone to starve?” “I serve you and only you,” he wept, overcome by exhaustion and the suffering of his body. She could sense he was incoherent and incapable of focusing, “I have sinned against you, O Goddess. I abandoned you. I abandoned hope.” “You did what you must to survive, Beloved,” she replied, kissing his brow softly, “I am only grateful to have found you again.” “How can you forgive me?” he continued, his grief palpable, “I was faithless and ungrateful. I gave my word to serve you but fled when you needed me most.” “That does not matter any more,” she said, hushing him. He needed to stay calm. He was weak and delirious. Maeve still had no clue why he was here. As far as she could tell there was not another living soul near him. Had be been abandoned here? Perhaps he had come here alone, drawn somehow to the ether well. “Forgive me,” he repeated, clinging to her. “Mog, where is this place? Why are you here?” “I sought you, Goddess; I opened the way into your sanctuary and sealed myself within. I drank of your wine and spurned your gifts by welcoming death.” He was mad with grief and her questions were only causing him more distress. Still, his words gave her pause. He had come here seeking the ethers. He must have drunk from the well, a very foolish and dangerous thing to do alone. Mog knew it could kill him and whatever had driven him to do such a thing must have made him feel desperate enough to be careless with his life. Maeve blinked back tears, at once horrified and relieved that she had found him when she did. For a long time she merely sat with him, holding him tenderly and offering small sips of water until he drifted into an uneasy sleep. Maeve eventually laid him on upon the dusty floor so that she could make a bed for him from the blankets in her pack. Once he was comfortable, she investigated the chamber, making a circuit of its round walls until she found the ornate arch and the gold tracery of the hallowed gate. As the earthly embodiment of Lyssa, her home temple had been her dominion and thus all magically sealed portals could not be barred against her. Maeve eyed the door for a moment, wondering if such blessings would apply here in this strange place. Mog’s survival was not guaranteed. He would need nourishment beyond what she had carried with her not to mention a safe place to rest. She did not like keeping him in proximity to the ethers, not while he was feverish and prone to visions and nightmares. The mind could shape the ethers and often what manifested there became reality. Gingerly she reached out a hand to touch the center seam and gasped as the stones moved obediently aside. She blinked in the twilight before dawn, the smell of moldering earth heavy and damp upon the still morning air. It was brighter by far than the dank confines of the ether well. There was a faint odor of wood smoke but as she scanned the broken walls and encroaching scrub and trees, she saw no sign of another living creature. Maeve gazed around at the ruins, imagining the hall that had lain outside of the hallowed gate. Pillars stood in long shattered rows grown over with moss and lichen where they had tumbled to the ground in a bygone conflict. She immediately thought of her own home dashed to rubble and dust and wondered what horror had befallen this one. Yet it was teeming with life, half-buried by the detritus of the trees whose roots and branches choked the once delicate halls and chambers. She stepped outside but the door remained agape as if awaiting her return. She wondered how long it had been sealed before Mog had stumbled upon it. How long had this place lain abandoned and shattered? Maeve followed the odor of smoke, imagining there was an encampment nearby. Someone or something had driven Mog to take refuge inside the sanctuary and she was mindful of this as she drew closer, seeing the shapes of tents clustered within the remains of a cloister. There were four: three smaller ones and a larger pavilion. A fire pit had been made within their circle and a lone figure sat on a log beside it watching an iron pot steam above the flames. She watched him for a time. He had dark hair carefully shaved from his crown to reveal the devotional tattoo of one of Dwayna’s champions. A short beard followed his jaw line but in the purple light of early morning she could not see the color of his skin. Maeve sought for him mentally, trying to sense the mood of the stranger and detecting nothing but faint irritation. “Greetings,” she said after a while, stepping out into the open. She had not wanted to startle him, but she was ready to run should he make a cry of alarm and seek to alert the others. The man jumped in surprise and stared up at her, “I am called Maeve.” “Ronan,” he said quickly, his dark gaze fixed upon her with a mixture of alarm and embarrassment, “Where are you from? How did you get here?” “I came to help Mog,” she said simply and saw by the look of shock on the man’s face that he knew who Mog was. “I should rouse the others…” “No, not yet. I am uncertain whether or not you mean harm.” “We lost him,” Ronan said quickly, “We tracked him to here but his trail vanished. We’re worried he was attacked and dragged off by animals but some of us think he locked himself inside the sanctuary.” “I see. Why would he flee from you?” “It is complicated…” “Who is this?” came a heavy voice. Maeve’s gut clenched for she had not sensed another wakeful mind in the camp. The tall figure strode out of the larger pavilion and stood behind Ronan, his thick arms crossed over his muscular breast. He was clad in flowing robes and his face was hidden beneath a shadowy hood. “Maziba, this is Maeve,” Ronan said calmly, introducing them although it was clear by the way his back stiffened that he was not on friendly terms with the man. “How did you come to be here?” Maziba demanded, “You bear not the soil of long travel, yet the nearest settlement is twenty leagues or more.” Maeve instantly took a dislike to the man. He was accustomed to having others at his command and thought nothing of expecting a perfect stranger to give him the same deference. Another figure emerged from the same tent, a Canthan woman whose short black hair was dissheveled from sleeping. She seemed oddly familiar to Maeve. “I came here to find Mog Ruith,” Maeve replied, looking the man in the eye. It was none of his business how she had arrived, but if they were indeed so far from civilization, she would need their help, “He is sick and requires help.” “Do you know where he is?” asked the woman evenly. Maeve could not read her intentions, “Is he alright?” She relaxed a little when she heard the concern in the woman’s voice. “Is this true?” Maziba asked, “His welfare is of great concern to us.” Maeve still did not trust them, but what choice did she have? She was in a strange wild place with very few resources and no knowledge of the land around her. Her first duty was to get Mog somewhere safe and get his needs attended to. Maeve nodded. “I will take you to him,” she said finally, “Come with me.” |
