fiddled with lenses on his desk. Glimmers of his thoughts came with the flow of memories.
A few minutes after the second hour, Bossgond abruptly quit his work and they went back to the ritual room, where they relaxed in lounge chairs. This was easier, as she didn’t have to struggle with the input from his mind as he worked.
Slowly, slowly, without the distraction of her studies or his, relaxing in the chair, Marian regained her equilibrium and could snatch bits of Bossgond’s knowledge, process it, understand it. Comprehension of the language came first, and she smiled faintly. Lladranan culture celebrated the Singer—a prophetess oracle—and the Song, what they called the Divine. It made sense that she “heard” the language in her blood, trickling to her brain, opening new paths.
Too aware of her own memories flowing to Bossgond, Marian let Bossgond’s most personal ones zoom past her. She knew he’d had two long-term lovers, that the relationships hadn’t been totally satisfying. He probably learned all about her mother—and Andrew. Perhaps he could help with Andrew. At least Bossgond now knew how much she loved her brother and why it was imperative for her to return to Earth.
Then Marian “saw” the northern boundary of Lladrana, the fence posts and magical forcefield boundary strung between them. The fence posts blackened and fell, the border gaped. Monsters invaded. Horrible, hideous, evil-looking things that brought nausea, so she pushed the thoughts away.
She experienced worms in the rain. Most died when they hit the ground, some tunneled into the earth. Frinks.
Some people opened mouths to the frinks, were consumed by them inside until they turned into monsters within a human skin. Mockers.
From a colorful whirl of views through the binoculars, Marian picked out Alexa—at a graduation, at a funeral, hiking up a mountain trail at night, walking through a silver arch.
Alexa choosing a baton. Alexa in battle—grisly images…Marian shook her head sharply, no! She didn’t want to see that. Not now, not yet.
A new fence post—Alexa grinning, holding a helmet under her arm.
Marian herself at her work-study job in the Engineering Department. On a date with Jack Wilse. Talking to her mother. Hugging Andrew.
She pulled her thoughts back to the here and now—to the shrouded room around her, the cupboards that held the globes of Amee and Earth she’d seen the night before. The clock showed three hours had passed and seemed to tick with her heartbeat.
Bossgond made a strangled noise. She glanced at him—a gray tinge had crept under his skin. His breath was ragged.
“I can’t bear it,” he mumbled. “Your world is too difficult to contemplate. Too harsh.”
Marian thought that being invaded by terrible monsters was worse than Denver traffic, which she’d been thinking of. But she reached for the linen strips that bound their arms together.
“No!” Bossgond cried, sitting straight up. “This needs a delicate touch.”
She understood him much better now, so she leaned back. As he began to chant over the bindings, her blood slowed and dizziness hit her. He carefully separated their arms. The tubes had dissolved. A hollow sigh of relief escaped him.
After a few more chanting words, his hard fingertip ran up her arm, sealing her wound and leaving cold fire in its wake. Bossgond wrapped one strip along her arm and sang a simple healing tune that made Marian smile. She was feeling sleepier and sleepier. Had Bossgond siphoned her own energy into himself, thinking it was his right as her master? She didn’t like that thought or the dark parade that followed. Maybe he’d been acting all day, and now she was about to become a sacrifice. Bad. Very bad. How could she have been so gullible?
Darkness swooped down on her.
Maps tucked under his arm, Jaquar followed Chalmon up his Tower stairs to his study. The other Sorcerer radiated irritation, probably still upset at Jaquar’s behavior in claiming Exotique Marian the day before. Or perhaps it was that Jaquar had gathered a circle of Sorcerers and Sorceresses to watch the Dark’s nest, and they were reporting to him.
Before Jaquar’s parents died, Chalmon had considered himself the leader of their generation of the Tower Community. Jaquar, like most, had gone his own way and done small tasks for Chalmon as requested, and if they cost little.
That had changed. Jaquar had never wanted to be a leader, barely had the patience to deal with the idiosyncrasies of a group of individuals, but he hungered for vengeance.
When they reached Chalmon’s tidy study, Venetria rose and came forward. Jaquar sensed she’d been with Chalmon since the debacle at the Marshalls’ Castle the day before.
“Salutations, Venetria.” He bowed and kissed her hand. “How did you two get here?”
Chalmon waved a hand as if impatient with the question, any small talk. “I bought a coach and Venetria bespelled it to fly. It will be a welcome addition to my household.”
Venetria frowned. “It’s my coach.”
“I bought it.” Chalmon scowled at his lover.
“But my flight spell is much more costly than the coach itself.”
“Why didn’t you settle this between the two of you before?” asked Jaquar.
Chalmon reddened. Venetria smiled in satisfaction. “Chalmon was in a hurry to get into the coach. All that Power compressed in that pentacle yesterday was so invigorating.”
Venetria heaved a sigh, which raised her chest. She did have beautiful breasts. Almost as beautiful as the Exotique’s, though Jaquar had no business thinking such thoughts.
He strode to the center of the room where a study table and several chairs sat, unrolled one of the large sheets of paper he’d brought with him and placed it on the table. “This is a diagram and map of Plane Eighteen. I’ve found it to be the best for observing the nest. The master and monsters don’t sense us because it is a few levels more spiritual—more good—than what they can achieve.”
“They are too destructive for Eighteen?” Venetria asked. “I don’t do well in any Plane lower than Twenty-four.” She slid Chalmon a glance. “Unless I’m angry at Chalmon.”
Jaquar’s mouth twisted. “I’ve reached upward to Eighty-two, as low as Eleven—which is the Plane the horrors use most often.”
Chalmon grunted. “Is that other roll level Eleven?”
“Yes.” Jaquar moved the first map to one side of the table and set the second down.
As he unrolled it, Chalmon placed a paperweight on each of the four corners and studied the musical notation at the bottom of the chart. His nose wrinkled as if smelling a bad odor.
“Foul,” Chalmon said. He tapped the music and a low, grating hum and clashing notes reverberated through the room. Venetria jumped and put her hands over her ears.
“You probably shouldn’t have done that,” Jaquar said mildly.
Greasy smoke hovered in the air. “You’re right.” Chalmon scowled. “Now they could become aware of me, might have a direct path here. I’ll have to do a Ritual Cleansing.” He glanced at Jaquar. “How do you make such maps without alerting the monsters, the Master, the Dark itself?”
“Very carefully.” He had no intention of revealing his secrets.
For an instant, Chalmon’s face lightened with humor, then he sobered again and nodded to chairs near the fireplace. They were simple and covered in royal blue, Chalmon’s color. He waited until Jaquar and Venetria were seated, then said, “I am not comfortable with your previous plan to train the new Exotique and use her to infiltrate the nest.”
Relief eased Jaquar’s tight muscles. Despite his lust for revenge, he’d had qualm, too, since he met Marian. Her personal Song was so lovely.
Chalmon