WHEN LUCKY slipped back into unconsciousness, he fell straight down to the battleground, and at first the horrible noise of it surrounded him as he unwillingly listened to a steady flow of pleading, commanding, explaining, and remonstrating. It came from his mother, the Lady Grace Liliana—or rather her shade. That’s what Lucky had decided to call her, a shade, though at least in part she resembled a ghost, or a zombie, or a figment of a very sick imagination.
But she wasn’t that. Not imagination. Whatever she was and wherever it was she took him, she sat atop her shade-horse in a glamour, trying to convince him that what she’d become was beautiful, and that she cared about him. She tried to convince him she wanted to make Ethra better. She wanted to bring about a new world, one where emotion would be quelled, magic would stay in the hands of the strong. They would rule, and those who did not would willingly serve, for that was their purpose.
“You are strong,” she said. “I can make you stronger still. Join your power to mine willingly and we can rule this new world together. You can have everything.”
The promise echoed what the Witch-Mortaine Isa had said, and he took his cue from that, as to how to respond. I am Luccan Elieth Perdhro, Mannatha, Suth Chiell, and I will not join you, he’d answered. Over and over she cajoled and convinced; again and again he refused. While she ranted, he considered whether she was now what Isa had been, but he decided that wasn’t the case. As terrible as Isa had been, she had been alive and in the physical world. Lucky wasn’t quite sure his mother was truly dead, but he knew she wasn’t alive. If he could escape this awful place she held him in, she could not follow him into the everyday world.
He had no idea how to do that, though, and the way her voice lashed him, and the cold invaded him, and the way he hurt everywhere even though he was at the same time numb, he thought it more likely he would eventually die here than that he would ever escape.
The clash of swords and screams of agony from the ongoing battle grew louder and louder, and his mother seemed to revel in it. When it reached what surely must have been maximum volume, with an exultant, expansive gesture, she swept everything up—all the ghost soldiers and their weapons, the living blue lights, the pools of blood, the ropes and pillars of black mist—she swept it all up into a whirlwind. Then the whole collection was blown apart and away like so much sand in a dust storm. The ground fell away beneath Luccan and he began descending, pulled down and down through an endless realm ever darker and colder and filled to the brim with misery. He felt pressure growing, like what he’d read about happening to deep-sea divers in Earth. With the pressure came new pain, and finally it got so bad, Lucky thought he could feel his bones crumbling in on themselves.
“Oh, you are truly in great pain, son, but look. I’m here with you and I feel no pain at all. It would be a simple thing for me to take your pain away. Simply touch your power to mine—”
“I am Luccan Elieth Perdhro, Mannatha, Suth Chiell, and I will not.”
She clicked her tongue and sighed in frustration and just for that instant, Lucky almost thought she was, after all, still his mother. But she said, “Oh, child. Let me assure you. You will. But perhaps you need another kind of convincing.”
Instantly, Lucky’s slow descent became freefall. He tumbled, loose-limbed and without any sense of up or down or direction. Pain lessened everywhere except around his chest, where a rope of black mist gripped him like an evil version of a bungee; there, pain blossomed. The substance seared his flesh like a brand. Dizzy did not begin to describe the way his head was spinning—or maybe everything else was spinning around him. Nausea came on worse than anything. He felt sicker than he ever could have imagined being, felt it everywhere, even in his skin. He thought he would vomit and wondered if he’d choke on it. There didn’t seem any point in worrying about it. If he died, he died. At least he would not have let this new form of evil—in the shape of his own mother—use him and twist his magic, which he’d been born with so he could do good things, into something horrific.
He came abruptly to a dead stop, the mist-rope yanking tight around him and pulling him up short.
“Son,” he heard his mother say, though he couldn’t see her now. “You don’t yet understand the joy in glory and might and setting the world to rights, but if you do not choose to join me, you will end up like the others. Look around. I’m offering you escape from the fate you see.”
What seemed like screens of sick blue light encircled him, and on them, like watching a security camera monitor, he saw children—many, many children. Mostly they were young, but some looked to be in their teens. Some lay unmoving in hospital-style beds hooked up to tubes and machines, while strangely misshapen people moved among them.
“Terrathians,” his mother said, laughing a little.
But other children, filthy and bloated from starvation, crouched in dark cages waiting to die. Still others worked, driven with whips and harsh voices. Liliana didn’t tell him anything about this place, but it didn’t matter. Lucky remembered it—he’d been there, in the caves under the mountain. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins because suddenly he understood: The bloody battleground might have represented something real—whether past or present or future—but this… this was real. It was happening somewhere, and it was happening now. And his mother—this cold, evil, undead version of the person who should have loved him—would let it happen to him if he did not join her awful cause.
“No,” she said, apparently able to read his thoughts, though she hadn’t had that ability in life. “I would not let it happen. But things are in motion, wheels turn, and a power such as yours will not be wasted, one way or another. I do love you, Luccan, and I would see you let go of the foolishness of the wizard and his god. I would have you join me. You do not have to die. Simply touch your power to mine. Then you will change; you will see the truth of the world.”
Overwhelmed all of a sudden with grief for what could have been if the mother he’d missed during his years in Earth had really existed, he felt tears course down his cheeks. But still… “I am Luccan Elieth Perdhro, Mannatha, Suth Chiell, and I will not.”
Abruptly, true darkness closed in, the absence of life and light. He felt, rather than saw, the mist-rope bindings wind around him, pinning him in nothingness.
“Think on it awhile,” his mother’s shade said, and then she left him there. Alone.
THURLOCK FOUGHT the urge to hold his breath as he felt solid ground beneath his feet. He had to talk himself into opening his eyes.
His recent Portal travels had gone awry every time, and he worried that it was somehow his fault. After so many years—centuries—of using the Portals of Naught without incident, he’d had a string of poor results. The list had appeared and posted itself in his mind during this Portal trip as if someone had tacked it up on a post in there with a nail.
Lost Luccan on the way.
Landed in collapsed Portal entrance with Luccan.
Ended up in a weird world where skinny-headed people torture children.
Landed in a strange place instead of the Sisterhold.
Attempted to use a Portal of Naught after clearing the entrance of dead things and strange smelly mists.
Now, the moment of truth. Let’s see how number five turned out, shall we? He opened his eyes and looked around.
“Yes!” he said, raising a fist in triumph, a habit he’d picked up from watching television during his stay in Earth. Unfortunately, it startled Lemon Martinez, who’d been resting quite contentedly in the crook of his other arm, and of course, the cat scratched. Unable to stop himself, he let out a very loud “ouch,” sending Lemon, hackles raised and yowling, out of the small Portal cave and off into the orchard.
The orchard. “Behl eth Dahn,” Thurlock said. He took two steps to stand outside the Portal cave, and—so happy was he to be home—he caught himself just before kneeling to kiss the blessed ground of the Sisterhold. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t want to kiss it, or that he thought it was beneath his dignity. He was just feeling rather stiff and tired and wasn’t sure he could get back up once he got down. He felt pretty sure Lemon would be fine on his own and would find his way to the Sisterhold—the cat far preferred cooked food and could hone in on it from a mile away—so he gathered what he sometimes thought of as his premier-wizardliness, and turned to welcome Henry and Maizie to the Sisterhold.
They weren’t there.
He closed his mouth, which had been open in readiness to speak, and stepped back inside the small cave that served as Portal entrance. Looking around, he made a note to thank the stoneworkers who’d fixed this place back up after he and Luccan somehow collapsed it last fall. They’d done a nice job of opening it back up and smoothing over the rough places. It had always been a small place, though, and now it was smaller than ever, so it didn’t take much looking around to determine it was empty. He stepped forward and peered into the Portal of Naught, then promptly rolled his eyes at his own behavior. It was ridiculous—one couldn’t see into the vortices.
He sighed wearily and prepared to turn back around, planning to sit in the sun and think about this kink in his progress. Before he could actually get his old bones to move, though, he was struck by two flying objects—Henry and Maizie to be precise. Henry apparently had some control of his… wings… yes, wings to fly out of the cave entrance. Thurlock, on the other hand, flew out under the driving force of a fast-moving ball of large dog. He landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him. Once he’d painfully recovered the ability to breathe, a quick self-inventory told him he wasn’t otherwise hurt, possibly due to the fact that he’d managed to retain his grip on his staff.
Maizie had rolled off, and also seemed unhurt, though she panted and whined a little, obviously having not enjoyed the ride. Thurlock rolled onto his side and found Henry about eight feet away, perched on a rock and making clicking and grunting noises that sounded like a stream of invective.
“If you’d be so kind as to resume human form, Henry, you could help me up.”
Henry hopped in a furious-looking circle, winged over to Thurlock’s side, stuck his head under Thurlock’s arm, and began flapping as if to pull him to a standing position that way.
“Wait,” Thurlock said, his voice calm though he felt grouchier than he had in a long time, and that was saying something. “I take it you are unable to change back, correct?”
Henry responded with a lot of clicking and head-bobbing and finally ducked his head under his wing, much the way, Thurlock thought, proverbial ostriches—though not real ostriches—hide their heads in the sand.
“Okay, okay. Don’t panic,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”
Thurlock rolled onto his stomach, then decided that while he was down there he might as well kiss the ground after all. Despite everything, he truly was quite happy to be home and thankful to have arrived in one piece. That done, he muttered some wizardly words to borrow strength from the sun and groaned and creaked into a standing position. “This way,” he said, pointing south, where the Orchard Road they were next to would take them to the East-West Way, for while it wasn’t the shortest route to the Sisterhold from there, it was the easiest, and easy sounded very appealing to Thurlock at that moment.
As he started on the way, both Maizie and Henry hung back.
“Don’t worry about Lemon Martinez,” he said. “He took a shortcut. I’m sure he’s already at the Sisterhold. Pilfering in the kitchen, no doubt.”
The summer day was fine, and the air felt good, and as they walked, Thurlock hummed a happy little tune he’d learned in Earth, “Good Day Sunshine.”
But when they came within sight of the East-West Way, he saw Zhevi. And when Zhevi saw Thurlock, he started running toward him, looking very troubled indeed.
OLANA’S GIFT energized Han, but it didn’t change his grim, purposeful mood. When he reached Luccan’s door, he almost crashed through it in a rush, but he reminded himself that the last he’d heard, Luccan was awake, and though he’d been confused and unable to converse with Zhevi, he might have improved over the last hour. It wouldn’t do to frighten him by bursting into his room like a madman. He held himself in check, calmly pushed the door open and entered slowly with Zhevi at his heels.
He’d thought he’d prepared himself for whatever he would find. He’d thought he could take in Luccan’s condition calmly and decide coolly what he needed to do, if anything.
He’d been wrong.
Luccan wasn’t awake. He wasn’t improved. He’d gone under again and the look of him terrified Han.
Aware of the fear rolling off the occupants of two chairs against the wall farthest from Luccan’s bed, Han felt a rush of pique. Surely Tahlina could have found someone to keep watch who actually cared about Luccan more than they feared what was happening to him. He squelched the emotion, though, sensing already that more hostility was the last thing Luccan needed around him.
He stepped over to the bed and sat on its edge. Cold emanated from Luccan, and Han’s breath misted visibly in the chill. Luccan’s chest moved with quick shallow breaths.
He is, at least, alive, Han reassured himself, though colder than any Night House corpse.
Everything about Luccan’s appearance was wrong, so much so that Han could have convinced himself this was another boy lying in his nephew’s bed. This person’s skin wasn’t exactly gray, nor exactly white, but it was pasty, or maybe waxy described it better. It certainly wasn’t Luccan’s usual red-brown complexion. And this boy looked far too gaunt to be Luccan, who after his long adventure had been lean but strong and healthy. And the person lying before Han smelled of rot and death. Everything about Luccan—his Luccan—sang of life.
Suddenly confronted by a wall in his own mind, a towering refusal to believe that his own beloved nephew had fallen into such a state, he roughly pulled back the blanket and Luccan’s shirt to see the proof.
And there it is.
Luccan bore a mark, the scar of a burn in the center of his chest. Golden in color, it had come, Thurlock said, from the moment in Isa’s tower when Luccan had chosen to own his power, had wielded it to save Thurlock and himself from the power of Mahl, the always-hungry god Isa had served. There was no mistaking its exploding sun pattern, and now it was more vivid than ever as if in opposition to the decay surrounding it.
Fear and loathing poured through Han in equal measure, replacing doubt with horror. He was reminded of a movie he and Thurlock had watched—much to their regret—while they were in Earth looking for Luccan. The Exorcist, it was called. He understood why the nurses sent to watch Luccan were so afraid that they sat riveted to their chairs. He could almost forgive it. The urge to run from this room was strong, even for him.
Regardless, he told himself, they’re doing no good here. Turning to them, he said in a hushed voice, “You two can leave. If you can control your tongues, I ask you to keep quiet about things you don’t understand.”
Not that he understood it a lot better. As with that devil-possessed child in the movie, whatever—or whoever—had taken and twisted Luccan, it was no physical being. And it was Luccan’s mind that was haunted. Wandering in anyone’s mind at any time was a risky proposition for a telepath like Han. But wandering in a haunted mind, or a possessed one—that promised to be far more dangerous. Nevertheless….
He knew that if he opened his mind without fully immersing himself, a natural reaction born of fear—very sensible fear—might spin him back out before he had a chance to reach Luccan or do anything to help him. He could prevent that by making physical contact at the same moment that he opened his mind—the connection then would be instantaneous and so strong it could be difficult for him to break even if he wanted to. His earlier fear of being trapped wasn’t unfounded.
Still, he resolved to do it. He would help Luccan, or he’d go down with him.
Before diving in, he gathered his mind and sent a thought with all the force and distance of an arrow from a long bow, aimed for Thurlock. “Wizard, if you can hear me, heed this. Don’t delay. The Sisterhold, the Sunlands, and the Suth Chiell need you. As do I.”
He turned to Zhevi, who had bravely entered the room with him and stood stalwartly, like the young warrior he was, a pace away from the foot of the bed. “Zhevi, I have an assignment for you. Seek out Rose or Lem, and whichever you find first, tell them to see to it that I’m not disturbed here by anyone but Thurlock. Make them understand it could be dangerous for anyone to be here, even a healer. Then gather yourself some provisions in case you miss a meal or two, and go stand watch at the crossroads of Orchard Road and the East-West Way. I’m….” He paused to double-check his intuition, then nodded. “I’m sure that’s the way Thurlock will approach. When you see him, tell him I beg his assistance here. Ask him to come as quickly as he can, no delays. Tell him the Suth Chiell’s life is in danger.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “And mine might also be.”
“But… sir?”
Han held up a hand. “Do you have the message? Understand your orders?”
“I… I do, sir.”
“Good. Then go. And Zhevi?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you for everything today. You’ve helped me more than you know.”
Han waited for the door to close behind Zhevi. “Behlishan,” he said, but he wasn’t much of one for prayers, and no more words came. Then he set his intention, laid his hands upon Luccan’s chest—upon the mark left there by Luccan’s own magic—and fully opened his mind.
LUCKY FELT Han’s entrance into what had become his cold, dark world like a jolt of electricity. It stirred some part of his mind he’d allowed to falter as he’d stood, bound and bitter cold, waiting for the return of his mother’s shade and focused solely on refusing her.
“I am Luccan Elieth Perdhro, Mannatha, Suth Chiell.” He’d repeated it so many times he no longer even heard the words, only a steady set of syllables and accents that meant, “you can’t have me.” He was rehearsing for when she came back, that was all.
But while he waited for her he’d become aware that he held something in his hand—in his real, living hand. He held the thing very tight. He knew it was important, essential even, although he wondered what the heck it was. It hurt to squeeze his fingers over it, burned, but that pain was welcome, because it told him that—in that other world where color and warmth waited—he was still alive. He decided to believe he would get back there, but only because he felt better if he thought that. Nothing about the place he was in and the things happening to him now suggested he’d ever leave. Especially not bound as he was by the burning-cold ropes of shadow, and held far, far down in this world where he, like his mother, was neither alive nor dead.
Neither alive nor dead. He’d accepted that he was simply made of pain, and if he died in this place, that’s what he would always be: pain.
But when Han came in, things changed. When Han touched him, lightning burned through him leaving a stigma of red-gold light on the backs of his eyelids in the shape of a winged dragon. That, he thought, is what Han looks like here. Han put a dragon hand on his shoulder and squeezed, which seemed to Lucky like more comfort than he’d ever been offered anywhere before. He thought he might cry in relief, but Han said, “Let’s go,” and tugged at him—his mind, or maybe his body, or both. Lucky didn’t know. For a moment they jetted upward together, pulled by the sheer strength of Han’s mind. But then they shot into a pillar of black mist, and the mist-ropes wound around them both, securing them in an icy, burning, thorny net.
Lucky couldn’t see his mother, but he heard her laughing. “Welcome, Han Shieth,” she taunted. “You’ll make a fine thrall, an obedient soldier in my army. Luccan will be at my side, and he too will command you. You are mine now, or you are nothing at all. I’ll let you choose.”
Han the red dragon answered. “I am Han Rha-Behl Ah’Shieth, and you will never command me.”
Lucky said, “I am Luccan Elieth Perdhro, Mannatha, Suth Chiell, and I will not be at your side.”
The evil ropes tightened around Lucky, tried to pull him away from Han, and though Han and he clung to each other, the mist had more strength here.
“Wake up, Luccan,” Han said.
Lucky decided he wanted that more than anything. Fighting the nets, they struggled to break their bonds and move upward again. The more they struggled the colder and sharper the mist-ropes got, and the more pain they inflicted. Lucky had thought the pain he endured earlier was the most he could bear, but this was worse, and then suddenly he could feel Han’s pain too. He would have fainted from it, he thought, if he hadn’t already been unconscious.
“Uncle Han,” he said. “Breathe fire. Cut the ropes with fire.”
“What?”
“You’re a dragon. Breathe fire.”
“I’m not…,” Han started, but then he looked at his arm, must have seen the scales and claws, and said, “Oh!” He narrowed his eyes, apparently concentrating, and gave an experimental hhaah! Flame shot weakly from his mouth… snout.
“I don’t want to burn you,” he said, “but I don’t think I’ll burn.” He burned through the ropes binding his own body.
The net fell away from both of them and Lucky cheered, but Han didn’t look so good—a little green around the eyes, shivering.
“Han!”
“I guess fire takes a lot out of a dragon,” he said. His wings flapped weakly. “I want to fly you up out of here, Luccan, but I can’t. You’ve got to help.”
Again, Lucky was taken back in memory to the fight in Isa’s tower. That’s what Thurlock had said: “you’ve got to help.” Lucky hadn’t believed he could do something a powerful wizard couldn’t manage, but in the end he’d used what he’d been given…. The Key of Behliseth… which… was what he now held in his hand!
Excited, he grabbed hold of Han’s long snout with his other hand and slung it over his shoulder, draping the small dragon that was his uncle over his back as in an odd version of a fireman’s carry, and held his free fist skyward.
“I’m Luccan Elieth Perdhro, Mannatha, Suth Chiell, and I’m outta here!”
For an instant, it was glorious. They shot upward fast and far, and Luccan could see a hole overhead, a round aperture in the darkness opening onto true daylight.
But then his mother’s voice thundered behind him. “No!”
A blast of cold hit them face-on, and once again the mists attacked them, holding them, dragging them back. A translucent membrane closed over the aperture above. Lucky realized they weren’t going to make it. Even the power of the Key wasn’t enough to keep all this at bay, and Han was all but unconscious now. If his mother had her way, she would keep them both in her death-trap world.
Lucky decided it wasn’t going to be that way. Maybe he couldn’t save himself, but he could, and he would, save Han Shieth. This awful place, the awful thing his mother had become, the horrid creatures she’d assembled for her war—they won’t have my uncle.
He began pushing upward, struggling free of the mist-ropes and swimming doggedly through nothingness toward the light above, though his strength was flagging. Suddenly, the haunting paused. No ghostly beings, no writhing shadows, no mother’s voice. It was as if the force of his will had pushed it all back, left it behind. But the membrane that blocked the opening remained in place.
His mother’s voice came again, still far below, but coming closer. “I will not let you go, Luccan.”
Lucky knew two things. One, he’d have to break that shield blocking the way—the task was his alone. Han couldn’t do it even if he came to and tried to help, because the only magic that would work belonged to Lucky. Two, Han might get out, but he, Lucky, wasn’t going to make it. That barrier was made to keep him in, not Han. His mother would get over losing Han as a thrall, but she wasn’t going to lose him.
So be it.
He breathed deep to gather his strength, focused his mind on the Key of Behliseth, took his dragon uncle by the tail and whirled him around like winding up for a softball pitch. With a yell that sounded in his own ears like a warrior’s battle cry, he let go of Han, raised the fist clenched around the Key of Behliseth to his chest, and wished with all his heart to send Han home. Golden light and a sweet bell sound burst from the Key. As Luccan watched, Han flew skyward, turning from dragon to man midflight. The beam of light from the Key of Behliseth struck the Mark of the Sun on Han’s shoulder, Han rocketed up and out, and then he was gone.
Lucky fell back, exhausted, the light of the Key extinguished, though some of its warmth remained. He hovered now near the surface, and though he heard his mother’s unwelcome pleading and scolding as well as the din of distant battle, and though he felt cold licking at his back and the occasional loathsome touch of the mists, and though the smell of death came faintly to his nostrils, he stayed afloat over it all.
He could still see the light through the aperture, and he thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on. Though the membrane had instantly mended itself after Han’s exit, separating Lucky from the light and its warmth, for that moment he basked content in the knowledge he’d saved his uncle. If he never had a chance to do another good thing before death claimed him, well, at least he’d done that.
He decided to sleep. Though he knew he might slip down into the horrid depths again if he did, he didn’t have the energy to fight it, and besides, he wasn’t really awake, anyway. Just before true sleep took him, he heard a voice he’d often been glad to hear: Thurlock!