She raised her voice a little to address those gathered closest. “This is the kind of thing you should be looking for, a small trinket that has particular meaning for you and yours.”
Guinalle’s confident tone wavered just a little as her gaze fell on the oldest child. She looked around and Temar saw a mute appeal in her eyes. He stepped forward to kneel beside the boy, a lithe lad with coppery blond hair and wide eyes, blue as a spring sky, with a sprinkling of freckles over his snub nose.
“Would you like this, so the lady can work her enchantment over you?” Temar unbelted his tunic and wrapped the leather strap twice around the skinny waist as the boy nodded silently, eyes huge in his pale face. “Now, you concentrate on this buckle,” he commanded. “This is an heirloom of the House D’Alsennin. If you can do this, take care of it for me, when you wake up I’ll make you my page and you can keep it. Do you agree?”
The lad nodded again, a faint smile on his lips, and Temar looked up at the mother. “You see, we can easily find something if we all help each other out. After all, it’s only something to center the Artifice upon.”
“The children are so tired, I think it would only be right to let them sleep as soon as possible,” Guinalle led the feebly protesting woman toward Avila. “Let the demoiselle help you settle them.”
Temar caught Guinalle’s hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze, which won a faint smile from her to warm his heart. “The trick to success here is going to be getting it done fast,” she said with determination.
“Then let’s get started,” replied Temar, setting his face to the daunting task.
He settled the boy between his two little sisters and wrapped all three children securely together in a warm woollen cloak. “Lie back now,” he instructed them softly, tucking a coarse blanket around them with gentle hands.
“All you have to do is close your eyes and think about your special thing.” Guinalle knelt beside the children with an encouraging smile. “Do you all have something to hold on to?”
The children nodded, wide eyed, and the smallest girl wriggled one hand free to solemnly proffer an enamelled silver flower on a silken cord.
“That’s very pretty.” Guinalle stroked closed the eyes of the little lass with one hand, doing the same for her sister with the other. At her nod, Temar tousled the lad’s hair before similarly shutting that beseeching gaze.
Guinalle softly chanted the complex words of the Artifice. Her low tones were echoed from points all around the vast cavern as Temar watched the Adepts begin the lengthy process of settling the colonists to this frozen rest. He looked back to the children, now motionless, not in the relaxation of sleep but stiff in the grip of the enchantment, no hint of breath to be seen, the color fled from their cheeks to leave them waxen-faced.
Temar trembled at a sudden memory of childhood horror. It had been the morning he had finally summoned up the courage to return to the playroom, in those dreadful days when he had wandered the house, confused and alone, unable to comprehend how his father, his brothers and sisters had all been taken from him. Opening the door, the blank, painted faces of his sisters’ dolls had confronted him, silent, still, never again to be brought to life by happy hands and bright imagination.
“I can’t—” Temar choked on his words, but as he raised his head he caught Avila’s piercing stare as she carefully laid down the children’s motionless mother. The warning and contempt mingled in her eyes cut him to the quick. Temar held out his hand to help Guinalle to her feet. “Who is to be next?”
In the event it went more quickly than he might have imagined. Temar stood looking across the great cavern as the last of the daylight hung around the alcove at the entrance. He could see rows of motionless bodies lost in the shadows, neatly laid out, hands clasped at their chests like—no, they were not bodies, not like corpses—they were sleeping, taking a respite from the horror that had befallen them, sojourning in the Otherworld by Arimelin’s grace, to recover and restore themselves.
“Will I dream?” Temar turned to Guinalle as she lifted her hands from Avila’s forehead, the older woman now frozen in the grip of Artifice, her hands clasped around a richly ornamented cloak pin. She was the last of the Adepts to lay herself down, all now exhausted by their efforts.
“What?” Guinalle looked at Temar with eyes barely focusing on him.
“Never mind.” Temar caught Guinalle to him, feeling her trembling uncontrollably with fatigue. “Are you sure you can do this? Do you want a rest before you go on?” Part of him desperately wanted to delay being locked into sleep only to be buried beneath the earth.
Guinalle was breathing with some difficulty, a pulse in her throat fluttering. “I think we had better go as fast as we can.” she stammered. “There’s something interfering with the Artifice, everything’s going awry. I don’t know how much longer I can hold the enchantment together before I have to submit myself to it, otherwise it will all unravel.”
“She knows what she’s doing, Temar. Come on, you’re the last to take your rest.”
Temar looked around to see Vahil standing behind them, his face grim and drawn, dressed in old leather for the grueling trip through the caves. The small band going with him were busy packing the miscellany of possessions, safeguarding the unknowing, unconscious minds of the colonists, into a series of leather packs.
“What will you focus on?” asked Guinalle, her voice stronger now.
Temar unbuckled his sword. “This.” He looked at the blade, at the engraving, rammed it home into the scabbard and gripped the hilt to quell the trembling in his hands.
“Lie down then.” Guinalle knelt beside the pile of cloaks prepared for him and Temar forced himself to comply, gritting his teeth but unable to prevent himself starting at the touch of Guinalle’s icy hands on his forehead.
“I’ll see you soon, Temar,” Vahil’s voice seemed to come from somewhere far distant as insidious tendrils of sleep began to coil themselves around Temar’s waking mind.
“Don’t fight it, my dearest,” he heard Guinalle murmur, her words distorted as all sensation of the rocks beneath him was lost in a giddying feeling of falling, spinning, his breath coming rapidly, panic burning in his throat, numbness seizing his legs, his chest, his arms, his head, choking him, stifling him.
The hidden island city of Hadrumal,
30th of For-Summer
I was dying. I was suffocating; pressure tight as an iron hand was crushing my chest. As I struggled in a futile effort to draw a last breath, eyes blind, my hearing somehow still clinging to life, I struggled to make sense of the words echoing over my head.
“Push some air into him, Otrick, curse you. ’Sar, warm his blood before we lose him completely.”
The constriction slackened a little and the spiraling dizziness abated somewhat, just enough for me to feel a damp, shaking hand on my forehead. I tried to toss it off, but found I could not move my head. Worse, I could not move my arms or legs; any effort dissolved in confusion. I tried to speak, to swear at these people, whoever they might be, but I could not even raise a groan. At least I could hear; that had to mean I wasn’t dead yet, didn’t it?
“Planir, I think we have it now, let me—”
A jumble of nonsense words in another voice that I vaguely registered as unfamiliar rang inside my head, scattering the unremembered nightmares that were trying to shred my sanity. Just as I realized this, I managed to move my hand, although with no more control than a day-old babe. Exhaustion overwhelmed me and I let myself drift into the welcoming embrace of helpless stupor.
“No! Don’t let him go, don’t let him go!”
Some bastard stuck something sharp into my hand and I managed a feeble moan of protest, only wanting all this confusion to go away, to sleep and to sleep again, more deeply.