“What in hoolies is that?”
Del shook her head.
I scowled blackly. “I thought you knew Northern magic.”
“I know about Northern magic … but I don’t know what that is.”
“That” was a curtain of flame. A lurid carnelian flame that stretched from floor to ceiling across the width of the cavern. It resembled nothing so much as a curtain hung for privacy, dividing room from room. Opaque, yet oddly vibrant, it shimmered against the blackness. Sparks burned bright, then died, pulsing against a net.
But it wasn’t hot. It was cold.
Suspicion bloomed. “You know,” I said lightly, “what that reminds me of—what that reminds me of a lot—is the light from Bor—from your sword.” I caught myself in time.
Del flicked me a narrowed glance; I was not forgiven. “I don’t think it’s the same thing.”
“How do you know? You yourself said you don’t know what that is. For all you know, it could be exactly the same.”
“But not from the same source.” Del edged closer. Red light shirred off her blade, altering its color. Salmon-silver was dyed amber-bronze.
I looked at my own sword. It had not, up till now, shown any inclination to take on a particular color. The phenomenon was familiar—I’d seen numerous jivatmas keyed, and all displayed a signature color, but mine never had. It was bright and shining silver, but so was every other sword save those born of Northern magic.
Which left me wondering suddenly if perhaps mine wasn’t blooded. Wasn’t really quenched.
And yet it had to be. It showed too many symptoms. Displayed too much of its power. Even the hounds knew it.
Del frowned at the curtain. “Maybe some kind of ward? Something to keep people out?”
“But why? What is there to hide? Why would wards be here?”
Del abruptly smiled. “Chosa Dei,” she answered. “It’s Chosa Dei’s prison.”
“Oh, right. Of course; I was forgetting.” I squinted against the brilliance of the curtain, looking around, searching for some clue. “I don’t suppose there’s some way around this thing … some tunnel or passageway.”
Del shrugged, saying nothing. Like me, she examined the chamber.
I heard the dragon rumble. Swung and stared as the curtain rippled. The glow intensified, and then the curtain parted. Hot smoke belched out.
Del and I, of course, ducked; flame—or whatever—licked toward us both. The curtain wavered in the wind, then shredded on a roar as the smoke was sucked out of the chamber into the tunnel beyond.
The stench drove me to my knees. I forgot all about flaming curtains or passageways and concentrated on holding my breath so I wouldn’t lose my belly. Del, half-shrouded by smoke, sounded no better off; she hacked and gagged and swore, though only briefly, in her twisty Northern tongue. I helped out with Southron, with a dash of Desert thrown in.
Then wished I hadn’t; swearing made me suck air.
“Agh, gods—” I spat. “This is enough to make a man sick.”
“Coal,” Del said intently. “I know it now: coal … and something else. Something more. Something that smells—”
“—like rotting bodies; I told you before.” The curtain sealed itself as smoke died away. For the moment the dragon slept, or else merely held its breath. I stood up, wished for aqivi to wash away the foul aftertaste, yanked my now-filthy tunics back into place. And clutched my sword in one hand. “What’s this ‘coal’ you mentioned?”
Del got up, brushed gritty dark dust from her no-longer-pristine white clothing, scowled at the curtain. “Coal,” she repeated. “It’s a fuel. It’s sort of like rock, but it burns. We lived in the downlands, where wood is plentiful; I saw coal only once. It comes from high in the mountains, in the uplands above the timberline.”
“Well, if it smells this bad, I don’t see how anyone uses it.”
“I told you, there’s something more—”
The curtain flowed briefly aside and emitted another belch. Smoky wind rushed through the chamber on its way to the dragon’s throat. I swore, waving madly, and tried to peer through the rent in the flame.
In shock, I sucked a breath. “Hoolies, I saw people!”
Del looked at me sharply; no need for her to ask.
“I did,” I declared. “Through the curtain—I swear, I saw people. Men, I think, doing something around a fire. A real fire, bascha—not this magical curtain.” I strode to the “flame,” tried to peer through it again. “When the smoke comes through, it thins. You can see right through it. All we have to do is wait—”