CHAPTER
THIRTY

HOW WILL YOU KNOW WHEN IT’S DONE?” CONNOR looked around the ritual chamber at Mirdalur and shook his head.

No one would mistake the large underground chamber for anything but a mage’s lair. Torches in sconces along the walls lit the huge, windowless room. In the center of the open space, an elaborate labyrinth had been set into the rock, a twisting pathway that took up most of the area, leaving a narrow path along the outside.

The labyrinth had wider areas at intervals along its route: thirteen of them, Connor counted. The spaces would be just wide enough for a man to stand and a candle to burn. Along the walls of the chamber, sigils were marked into the stone, and Connor was certain that each marking had a match with one of the thirteen obsidian disks held by the Lords of the Blood.

“We can’t be completely certain until McFadden walks the path and attempts to call down the magic onto his chosen Lords of the Blood,” Dolan replied. “But the magic is no longer wild like what McFadden encountered on his first, unfortunate attempt.”

Connor had heard the details of that attempt, and knew how close Blaine and the others had come to dying. Whoever created the Mirdalur ritual chamber did not want interlopers.

“What is it you want of us?” Connor’s voice asked the question, but Dolan recognized the Wraith Lord’s presence.

“You were one of the thirteen Lords,” Dolan answered, meaning Kierken Vandholt, the man who became the Wraith Lord. “With Connor’s help, you will participate again. You’re the only one who has walked this labyrinth as a Lord of the Blood—other than McFadden—and the only survivor of the old ritual.” He paused. “I would ask you to walk to your place in the path—just walk—and tell me what you feel.”

The Wraith Lord chuckled. “Anxious to rid yourself of me, Dolan?”

Dolan looked aghast. “No, m’lord. And for safety’s sake, you’ll carry neither presence-crystal nor your disk. Our mages have walked the path and felt very little stirring of power. We fear we will only get one opportunity, and we have a minimum of information on which to draw.”

Are you willing? The Wraith Lord asked in Connor’s mind. Since I require your body to comply with the request.

So long as we don’t get burned to a cinder or blown apart, I’m willing, Connor replied. I didn’t come this far to let Blaine fail.

Connor had recovered from his battle wounds. As the Wraith Lord and Penhallow had promised him, his recovery was much faster than before Penhallow strengthened the kruvgaldur. Then again, the injuries were that much worse, because I was able to withstand them, Connor thought. Prudently, the Wraith Lord did not comment.

“What precautions have you taken?” Penhallow asked. He gave Connor a cautionary glance.

When Connor had staggered back after the battle, more dead than alive, Penhallow had just been rising from his crypt. He had looked on worriedly as the healers labored, but Connor had declined more of Penhallow’s blood since the wounds were serious but not mortal. Connor was still trying to decide whether, when the day eventually came that his injuries were beyond healing, he would accept Penhallow’s offer of immortality. So far, he had thought no, but he was well aware the decision might look different when the moment was finally upon him.

“We’ve worked with extreme caution,” Dolan assured him. “Mortal and talishte mages have warded the chamber inside and the structure outside. We have validated the translations of the manuscripts we seized from Quintrel, as well as those we took from the crypts beneath Quillarth Castle and the Citadel.”

Penhallow nodded. “Very well. What of the presence-crystals? We believe Quintrel has been affected by a corrupted artifact. Are you sure, Dolan, that none of that taint affects the crystals?” He looked toward the crystals, which lay in a row on a narrow worktable in the rear of the chamber. Even from this distance, Connor could see a faint, pulsing glow.

Dolan hesitated. “We’ve tested to the best of our ability,” he said. “But it’s worrisome that Quintrel acquired a divi just at the time the crystals came to light.”

“What’s a divi?” Connor asked, pushing himself to the forefront of his consciousness for a moment.

Penhallow frowned. “Talishte are not the only immortals—nor are we the most dangerous, no matter what you may think. Divis are old spirits, perhaps old enough to have walked this world when it was formless and barren.”

He seemed to carefully weigh his words before continuing. “They’re not evil… not the way you would mean the word. They just don’t care about anything that gets in their way. Power is what they crave. Valuing the lives of mortals—and even those of talishte—doesn’t factor into their thinking.” He met Connor’s gaze.

“When you go for a walk, do you intend to step on small insects, crush the life out of plants? Does that give you joy?” he asked.

“Of course not!” Connor retorted.

Penhallow nodded. “Now imagine being the insect. Your intent—the fact that you didn’t leave home looking forward to killing the insect and that you weren’t going to enjoy it—wouldn’t matter, would it?”

Connor took a moment to think about it, then shook his head. “No. I suppose not.”

“To the divis, we are the insects, the beetle accidentally trodden underfoot on the way to achieving control. No harm meant does not mean no harm done,” Penhallow replied.

“Is Quintrel strong enough to bind such a spirit?” Connor asked, eyes widening.

Penhallow gave a shrug, and even the Wraith Lord did not seem to know. “Doubtful,” Penhallow said. “More likely, the divi has bound Quintrel without him knowing it. I would not be surprised that the old Valshoans had knowledge of many things lost to us now.”

“They did,” Dolan said, breaking his silence. “And they dabbled in things mortals—and perhaps immortals—ought not to touch. I thought that my Knights had destroyed or hidden those things.” He grimaced. “Obviously, we did not succeed.”

Penhallow shook his head. “Don’t blame yourself. When a spirit such as a divi wishes to be found, it will arrange for it to happen. Divis are conscious and sentient, and the effects of their actions on ‘weaker’ creatures do not concern them.”

Connor shuddered. The thought that the divis were powerful enough to group talishte and mortals together in their view of ‘weak’ was something he did not want to dwell on.

“Could a divi mislead a mage of Dolan’s strength?” Connor asked.

Dolan gave a shrug. “It’s possible. It would be quite presumptuous to declare myself too experienced to be fooled. It’s certain that a divi misled Quintrel, because I doubt even he would give himself over to such a spirit if he knew the true cost.”

Connor felt a chill go down his back. “Which is?” he asked.

Dolan met his gaze. “Divis feed on the energy of a soul. They’re parasites. Quintrel is being consumed, little by little. No bargain is worth that.”

Connor agreed, but he wondered if Quintrel himself would consider any cost too high. “What does Quintrel get out of the deal?” he asked.

Dolan grimaced. “When we left Valshoa, Quintrel planned to have his mages put a geas on Rostivan to assure that he would do Quintrel’s bidding.”

“Which would give Quintrel his own army,” Penhallow replied. “And it appears to have worked.”

The Wraith Lord directed Connor’s attention to the presence-crystals. “Quintrel declared the crystals to be the solution to anchoring the magic,” he said, “but how?”

“The crystals are the ‘connection,’ so to speak, between the power that flows through the nodes and meridians in the ground and the ‘instructions’ to bind the power that’s contained in the disks,” Dolan replied, gesturing toward the crystals. “We believe that each time the power has been bound, other objects have formed that connection. Perhaps the ritual destroys the connecting objects; we don’t know what was used before.”

“Carved stone wands,” the Wraith Lord replied. “That’s what we carried four centuries ago when the working was done. I did not make the association with the crystals until now.”

The Wraith Lord directed Connor to point toward the labyrinth. “We each had a thick agate ‘wand’ with runes carved into it,” he recalled. “They cracked top to bottom when the magic was bound, and since they were no use after that, I assume they were discarded.”

Dolan nodded. “Thank you. That confirms what I suspected.”

Are you ready? the Wraith Lord asked Connor, who nodded. “Let’s take that walk into the labyrinth now,” he said to Dolan. “Since only McFadden and I are tied by bloodline to the prior workings, what say I return to the spot I filled the last time?”

For your safety, let me remain in control, the Wraith Lord warned Connor. I don’t trust Quintrel.

Neither do I.

The Wraith Lord chuckled. Then we are agreed.

The Wraith Lord walked to the opening of the labyrinth and paused. He took a deep breath, letting it steady Connor’s nerves. While the Wraith Lord might not have needed the breath, Connor certainly did. Carefully, the Wraith Lord entered the labyrinth, watching his steps so that he did not tread outside of the pathway.

I feel magic building, Connor thought.

Just a fraction of what will happen when the ritual is worked, the Wraith Lord replied. But dangerous, nonetheless.

He paused each time the path widened, and in those spots, Connor could see sigils etched into the rock. They matched the marking on the wall behind that spot, and he was certain there would be corresponding marks on each Lord’s obsidian disk.

With every step that took them deeper into the labyrinth, Connor felt magic like a heavy blanket around him. No chanting or drumming sounded, no candles burned along the pathway, no ritual was enacted, and yet power was undeniable. Connor was relieved when they halted halfway into the labyrinth.

“This is the spot,” the Wraith Lord said.

“Can you feel power rising?” Dolan asked. Nidhud and Dagur had joined Dolan.

“Yes. Don’t let more mages enter; I fear it would feed the energy,” the Wraith Lord cautioned. Dolan turned toward the door and shook his head. Connor guessed that other mages had gathered, hoping to see what transpired.

“Can you sense anything about the power?” Dolan questioned. “You’re the only eyewitness we’ve got.”

“It was a long time ago,” the Wraith Lord replied.

Dolan nodded. “Yes. But please think: Does the power ‘feel’ right to you?”

The Wraith Lord held Connor completely still, every mortal sense on alert as well as the Wraith Lord’s heightened talishte senses. Connor could hear his heart beating, and his breath seemed to echo in the stone chamber. Yet as he ‘listened’ to the power, as he focused his attention on it, he realized something was off.

“No,” the Wraith Lord said. “It doesn’t. I’m getting Connor out of here right now.”

Even from a distance, Connor could see that one of the crystals pulsed more quickly than the others as it lay on the worktable. Twelve of the crystals glowed a muted golden. One throbbed a crimson color that began the shade of fresh blood and was growing deeper by the instant.

Can’t we turn back? Connor asked, doing his best to remain calm.

That’s not how the labyrinth works, the Wraith Lord replied. Moving inward winds the power up. Moving outward releases the power. Even though this isn’t the real working, power has been called and power must be dispelled. Otherwise…

The Wraith Lord did not finish his sentence, but he didn’t have to. Connor understood that the outcome would not be to his liking.

On the way into the labyrinth, the path had not seemed narrow. Now that the Wraith Lord was trying to navigate it quickly and without error, Connor felt as if it had become almost heel-to-toe, though the stone had not changed. Connor gave himself over to the talishte reflexes and dexterity of the Wraith Lord. Even so, he moved with caution; faster than a mortal, but hardly at full talishte speed.

Connor felt magic tingle on his skin, raising the hair on his arms and prickling on the back of his neck. Even with the Wraith Lord’s presence, the farther into the labyrinth they went, the harder it was to walk, like trudging through hip-deep water. Connor labored to breathe, and his heart thudded in his throat. The temperature in the chamber plummeted, until Connor’s nose and fingertips were numb.

Hurry! he urged the Wraith Lord.

I am endeavoring to do so.

The area outside the labyrinth had become blurred, as if Connor were looking through fogged glass. Still, he could tell that Dolan and the other mages huddled around the presence-crystals.

One of the crystals has been corrupted, the Wraith Lord said.

Can a divi’s power extend this far? We’re nowhere close to Quintrel.

The divi only need be present once to do the damage, the Wraith Lord replied.

Blaine will need the crystals to anchor the magic. If even one is corrupted—

It will not be our problem if we don’t escape the maze. The Wraith Lord’s voice was clipped, and Connor fell silent.

Voices hummed all around them. At first, Connor took it for the worried conversation of Dagur, Nidhud, and Dolan, bending over the tainted crystal. Then he realized there were too many voices to belong to the mages. The voices echoed from all over the chamber, growing in number until the whispers and chants clamored in his head.

Can you hear them?

Only through your gift, the Wraith Lord said. Listen to them, Connor. They may be our salvation. What do they want?

Connor strained to hear the murmurs clearly. Some spoke in accents strange to him, choosing words Connor had seen only in old manuscripts. Ghosts, he thought. It’s not enough to be possessed by one spirit. Now the dead are coming out of the rocks to have a go at it!

Yet as Connor listened, the voices grew distinct, clearer. He did not fear them trying to seize his body. With the Wraith Lord in possession, that was not likely. The ghosts were calling to him, urging him on, leading him out of the labyrinth. As he reached the center and began the return leg of the maze, the voices grew stronger, and their forms began to take shape all along the outside of the labyrinth.

Power crackled in the air. Even with the Wraith Lord’s control, he nearly stumbled, feeling as if the maze pulled life and breath from him. Live mages had joined their ghostly counterparts, and Connor realized that they were fighting to dispel the miasma projected by the tainted crystal.

Only a bit more, the Wraith Lord said, and Connor could hear the strain in Vandholt’s voice.

If this had occurred to someone not possessed by a spirit of your strength—Connor began.

That person would be dead, the Wraith Lord finished.

Connor knew that the Wraith Lord’s strength was sustaining him. Breath burned in his lungs from cold and exertion. His legs cramped from straining against the invisible force that did not want them to escape the maze. Blood welled beneath his fingertips as he dug his nails into his palms, willing himself to move.

Yet with every step that wound them out of the labyrinth, Connor could breathe a little easier. Halfway out, and the air had grown a bit warmer, though it was still frigid even for a subterranean chamber. The voices of the ghosts were clearer and louder now, and the chants of the living mages seemed to cut a path for him through the force that wanted to trap him within the maze.

Step by labored step, they struggled to reach the end of the labyrinth. Just an arm’s length to go, and the vortex of power around the maze made one final surge to keep him captive. It took all of the Wraith Lord’s strength to hurl Connor across the threshold. Behind them, the ghosts closed ranks, sealing off the labyrinth’s exit.

For a moment, Connor lay panting on the cold stone. Then he realized that although he was out of the labyrinth, the power had not abated, nor had the freezing-cold air warmed. An answer impressed itself on him, spoken by ghostly whispers. Connor knew what he had to do.

Let the mages handle this, the Wraith Lord urged.

If they could, it would be handled by now, Connor snapped, unwilling to hesitate lest he lose his nerve.

You don’t know this will work.

You can’t say it won’t, Connor challenged.

Dagur, Dolan, and Nidhud looked at Connor with alarm as he approached the table where the presence-crystals lay. One of them flared red, and the others’ glow intensified, so that the twelve pulsed together in a different rhythm from that of the crimson crystal.

“The ghosts have a plan,” Connor said, pushing past the mages.

“We’ve tried to counter it with all the different skills of magic we have among us,” Dagur replied.

“Let an immortal handle this, Connor,” Dolan said, trying to block Connor’s path.

Connor moved around him. “I have the Wraith Lord with me. And the ghosts. They’re all immortal.”

Dolan grimaced. “You can still die.”

“So can Blaine—and that’s what will happen if we can’t cleanse the thirteenth crystal,” Connor said. “Now, move out of my way.”

To his surprise, Dolan yielded, stepping back from the table. The mages drew away as the ghosts rushed forward. Dozens had become hundreds, though where they came from or how they knew to gather, Connor had no idea. Penhallow stepped up behind him.

“I will do what I can to help,” Penhallow said. “Let’s hope your ghosts are strong enough.”

If the crystal is controlled by one spirit, let’s see whether a hundred ghosts can crowd it out, Connor thought grimly.

Afraid that the divi’s power would try to push him back as it had hampered him in the labyrinth, Connor made a dive for the red crystal. As his hands closed around its cool surface, he opened his mind to the ghosts.

Fill me, he said. Seize the stone.

Spirits too numerous to count washed over him, entering his consciousness, streaming past the Wraith Lord, and through Connor’s skin into the pulsing crystal. Never had he felt so much power flood his senses. Lifetimes blurred as the dead passed through his thoughts too quickly to grasp, leaving a shadow of themselves behind.

At the core of his being, Connor’s essence clung to the spirit of the Wraith Lord like a man awash in a flood tide. The divi was not fully present in the crystal, yet the shred of itself tainting the stone was more than mere memory or the remnant of a spell. Souls poured through Connor’s veins, seeped through his skin channeled by bone and sinew, through his hands into the glowing crystal. The divi howled in rage, and for a moment, Connor feared it would swell to its full power and retake the presence-crystal. Ghost after ghost crowded the stone, forcing out the divi’s power, and breath by breath, the crimson glare began to fade.

The rush of spirits pulled at Connor’s soul, and had the Wraith Lord not managed to anchor him, Connor was afraid he might have been hollowed, his essence drawn out from him, leaving his body an empty husk. Kierken Vandholt held on to him, like a man caught in the storm surge, clinging to Connor even when the pain grew unbearable and Connor begged for death.

Teeth pierced Connor’s arm, and as blood flowed, the kruvgaldur pushed to the forefront, binding Connor to his body and to his master. Joined by blood, Penhallow lent his strong, old spirit to the effort.

The divi shrieked in rage and pain one last time, and then was gone. Connor opened his eyes. Clutched in his hands so tightly he was not sure he could release his grip, the presence-crystal glowed with golden light. All around him, the ghosts poured from the crystal, relinquishing it now that their task was finished. Connor felt the kruvgaldur bond recede, though Penhallow remained as vivid a presence in his mind as the Wraith Lord.

Strong arms encircled Connor from behind as gentle hands pried his fingers away from the cleansed crystal.

“Let go, Bevin. You did well. It’s over. You won. Let go,” Penhallow murmured over his shoulder. Dolan worked to loosen Connor’s grip, and even his talishte strength was tested by the hold Connor had on the stone.

“I don’t want to break any fingers,” Dolan said. “It’s safe now. The divi’s gone, and from the look of it, the ghosts intend to stand watch. Let me take the crystal. You need to rest.”

Slowly, Connor willed himself to let go, although his fingers were cramped into claws and the muscles in his hands and arms ached when they released. He felt as if he had clung by his fingertips to a mountaintop in a raging storm. Dolan took the crystal from him and replaced it with the others. Only then did Connor feel the toll the night’s work had taken. Even the Wraith Lord seemed spent, and Connor would have collapsed had Penhallow not caught him.

Dolan looked up as one of Voss’s guards came to the chamber entrance. “Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got trouble,” the soldier said. “Hennoch’s back—and he’s bringing an army. It will arrive after daybreak.”