Douglas Niles - Goddess Worldweaver

After a hundred yards they met a crossing ravine, wider and straighter than this one as it extended to right and left. Miradel’s first thought was that it was a likely route to the throne of the Deathlord; her second reminded her that their only chance was to find some narrow passage where the gargoyle could not pursue. She charged forward, crossing into the continuation of their original passage.

Here the narrow path started to descend, and this lent wings to their speed. At the same time, the walls grew steeper, closing in so that the gargoyle, even with wings tucked against its back, scraped roughly against the walls. The monster roared in rage as the route became more restricted, and from the fading sounds Miradel could tell that, at last, they were drawing away. The women sprinted so quickly that momentum carried Miradel right into the side when the corridor made a sharp turn. She simply pushed off and kept going, ignoring the pain in her scuffed palms, grateful that the sounds of pursuit grew farther and farther away.

“Here!” hissed Shandira, suddenly darting to the side. She grabbed Miradel’s arm and pulled her after, drawing them both into a narrow niche beneath a flat, overhanging boulder. “Be quiet!” whispered the African woman.

They barely breathed as the gargoyle came loping after them. Miradel winced but made no sound as a taloned foot pounded the ground just a few inches from her own. In the next instant the creature was gone, growling and snapping as it hastened along the narrow track.

The druids waited for several minutes, until they were certain that the creature had continued on. Only then did they emerge, agreeing in a silent exchange of looks that they would return to the wide, crossing ravine and there seek a path to the throne of the Deathlord.

Natac awakened to a gentle nudge. His reflexes, honed on the battlefield, caused him to sit upward and reach for his sword.

Then he recognized Belynda. She was kneeling beside him. Dawn, the sun’s initial descent toward Lighten, had just commenced, to judge from the pale violet of the sky.

“Come with me,” whispered the sage-ambassador, “and I will show you Miradel.”

Instantly he was up, following her through the garden until she came to a secluded glade. He wondered why she had changed her mind but didn’t want to ask, not now. In the little clearing a small fountain spumed from a marble bowl, while an interlacing hedge of lilac screened them from observation in all directions. Natac’s eyes fell upon the familiar shape of Belynda’s Globe of Seeing, the crystal ball awaiting them on its velvet pillow, covered with a soft cloth.

The sage-ambassador sat on the stone bench and lifted the veil. Natac took a seat on the opposite side, his attention unwavering. He saw the darkness within the Globe slowly brighten until it was a pearly murk, still shadowy and indistinct but suggestive of someplace dark, dangerous, and forbidding.

“It is Lighten where Miradel is, just as it is Lighten here,” Belynda explained. “But she sees precious little brightness from the sun.”

Natac could make out the black gorge, the stone walls rising forbiddingly to both sides. Miradel was there, with Shandira, walking down the floor of this sheer-walled gorge. There was no sign of plant nor water on the barren ground.

“She has gone to Loamar, the land of death,” Natac declared dully, certain in that instant of his identification. He looked at Belynda accusingly. “You sent her there. Why?”

“She insisted,” Belynda said, not backing down from his gaze. “She thinks that the Deathlord may have a weakness, something that will allow us to battle him.”

“She will die there,” he replied, numb with despair.

“Perhaps,” Belynda acknowledged unhelpfully. “But there is a chance, a decent chance, that she will return. In any event, we have a plan, if she can find a swirl of water. And maybe she will learn something of great importance before she does.”

“Why did the goddess deny her?” Natac wondered.

“I don’t know. She told me that the Worldweaver did not want her to make this trip, said it was hopeless. But also, the goddess spoke in terms that made Miradel believe even she did not fully understand the nature of Karlath-Fayd. So she has gone to find out for herself. She has survived this far, and she draws closer to the Deathlord’s citadel with every step.”

“Strange… what can the Worldweaver fear?”

“I don’t know, but that is why I decided I must show you and tell you. Since her goddess has apparently turned her back on her, you and I are all Miradel has.”

“Indeed, she is not dead, not yet,” said Natac, an agony of despair hushing his voice, “but she may as well be.”

“Do not despair. I will watch her as much as I can. If there is something you can do, I will send for you. Beyond that, we can only try to do our jobs.”

“I have been thinking,” Regillix Avatar said, his voice sonorous and immensely dignified. He spoke to Natac and Belynda, to the sage-enchantress Quilene, and to Cillia and a score of fellow druids, including the ancient scholar Socrates who stood strangely intent, his wire-framed spectacles perched on his thin nose. To Natac, it seemed as though the elder druid was not really listening; nevertheless, his presence here indicated that the dragon had something rather thoughtful to say. The serpent cleared his throat and lowered his head so that he was looking at the humans and elves from very near their own level. “There is a place I could go for help in this war.”

“Where?” asked Natac, more curious than hopeful. After all, he had spent the better part of five decades working on that very problem and had not been able to come up with any dramatic ideas.

Full daylight found this group arrayed near the lakeside, at the edge of one of the few fields large enough for the great serpent to land and, more important, take off again. The temple was nearby, the silver spire striving toward the fully bright sun. As if to punctuate the dragon’s words, the goddess chose that moment to cast her threads. Humans, elves, and dragons waited patiently as the crackling ball of light slowly ascended the silver spire, finally exploding outward in a burst of lightning that blasted upward to vanish into the sky.

“A powerful storm of wild threads, today,” Cillia said. “That bodes ill for Earth.”

“These are days of ill tidings for many circles, including my homeland,” the dragon continued. “But I intend to go there, to the Sixth Circle, Arcati. There are many dragons there, and some mighty angels. All of them, I am certain, would be willing to aid us in our cause.”

“The Overworld?” Cillia sounded as surprised as Natac felt. “Even supposing you could get there, why would the dragons and angels go to war for Nayve?”

“The harpies have ever been the curse of our circle, hated by all creatures of knowledge and kindness. Dragons and angels both take a long view of existence and also of responsibility. When they learn that the harpies have come here, down the Worldfall, I believe they will want to pursue, to make war upon them in this place they do not belong. Furthermore, I understand more about the Deathlord than I ever knew before. As you druids have explained, this is a war not just to preserve Nayve, but to save all the cosmos. I believe this completely, and my fellow dragons will accept my word.”

“I believe you completely, in turn,” Natac said. “But that raises the far greater question: how can you return to a circle that lies on the other side of the sun?”

“That is the bigger problem, old friend of mine. I can only say what I am thinking about, not what I know.”

Natac waited expectantly, and the dragon lowered his crocodilian head in an almost sheepish gesture. “I shall try to fly there,” he explained.