The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2) by Ian Irvine

like it at all.’
    That made little sense. ‘Then surely, with the vapours, you
would have had strange dreams every night?’
    ‘On warm nights, when there was no need for a fire, I lit
the vapours before retiring; I am no oracle and prefer my own dreams. But
during renewal, when Maelys was asleep, the fire flared as though vapour had
gushed forth, then died down and I heard a hissing beneath me. The mystical
vapours had found a new path up through the rock and it was then that I had the
dream – if it was a dream …’
    No one spoke, and Flydd went on. ‘I didn’t feel myself at
all; I felt like someone else. Her!’
    ‘But … you haven’t become a woman, inside , have you?’ Nish wasn’t sure he could deal with that.
    ‘You know I haven’t,’ said Flydd, ‘though it can happen. The
woman dressed in red was standing by the greater, abyssal flame, and though I could see her, I was also looking out
of her eyes.’
    ‘Do you mean that you were in her mind?’
    ‘It felt that way, though she could have been in mine.’
    ‘What was she doing?’
    ‘Trying to do something with the abyssal flame, but it
wasn’t working.’
    ‘Perhaps she was an amateur,’ said Colm. ‘Out of her depth.’
    Flydd chuckled at the unintended pun. ‘Not at all. She’s a
master of the Art; or once was.’
    ‘Where is the abyssal flame?’ said Nish.
    ‘Deep down. She had a stern, handsome face, from what I saw
of it,’ mused Flydd, all dreamy and distant. ‘And she was dressed in robes that
have not been worn since ancient times. I’m sure I’ve never seen her before,
yet I feel I know her.’ Clothing rustled against rock as he stood up. ‘Maelys
should have given the signal by now.’
    Nish came back to the present with a start. ‘She’s been
ages. Something must have gone wrong.’
    He felt tense all over; his muscles were as taut as cables.
Waiting here was like thumbing his nose at fortune; every minute Jal-Nish would
be tightening his cordon around the mountain, and sending his scouts creeping
further into its hidden passages, cutting off every way of escape save the one
Flydd could not get into – the shadow realm.
    ‘We’ll give her a bit longer,’ said Flydd.
    ‘What is the shadow realm, Xervish?’ said Nish. ‘I’d never
heard of it before you mentioned it the other day.’
    ‘It’s a nether world, a way station for spirits detached
from the body after death to rest until they finally fade into nothingness.
I’ve heard that it was benign once – though scary – but something
that did not belong was trapped there in ancient times, and has corrupted it.’
    ‘ What something?’
said Colm.
    ‘I don’t know. It’s now the home of dark shades called
revenants, and darker nightmares: it’s the ethereal realm where necromancers
delve to further their unpleasant Arts. In the later stages of the war, Chief
Scrutator Ghorr, a mancer who had mastered more of the Dark Arts than anyone,
set out to find the shadow realm, for he thought it might prove useful in the
war, or, if the worst happened, provide a final refuge for a select few.’
    ‘Your depraved council, no doubt,’ said Colm frigidly. ‘If
they hadn’t prolonged the war, I would never have lost my home, my family and
my inheritance.’
    Flydd ignored the bitterness. ‘Ghorr decided it was too
dangerous to use, so he sealed all known ways into the shadow realm.’
    ‘Forever?’ said Nish.
    ‘Well, nothing is forever. What one brilliant mancer can
lock, another will eventually unlock.’
    ‘When was this?’ asked Colm.
    ‘About fifteen years ago, but destruction of the nodes broke
the power that had been used to seal the entrances – that’s how I can
hope to get in.’
    Flydd was being careful with his words. The scrutators had
always been close-mouthed; they guarded their secrets with other people’s
lives.
    ‘I felt a tug on the rope!’ hissed Colm. ‘Two and two. It’s
the signal.’
    Nish could hear it rasping on rock and