The Rift War by Michelle L. Levigne Page B

without my having to ask." Mrillis stepped over to Emrillian's horse and offered
his hand to help her dismount. The somberness in his eyes made him a stranger for a
moment.
    Emrillian choked, swallowing a cry of protest. This was supposed to be a happy
moment. She would see her parents again, after sixteen years. Her last glimpse of her father had
been of a pale, emaciated man, wrapped in the dark haze of approaching death. Now, Athrar
would be strong and healthy. She wanted him to laugh and leap from the place where he had
slept for centuries, and snatch her up into the air like he had done when she was a child. She
wanted to watch him wake her mother with kisses and tickling, so they would laugh and battle
with pillows, just like when she had been a child. Then she would leap in among them and all
would be well with the world, just for a few short minutes.
    Mrillis offered her his hand. His touch communicated a chill to her blood and she fought
a need to weep. What did he fear? Would awakening Athrar bring about the destruction of the
Vale of Lanteer?
    "Do you think they will both be awake, when we reach them?" she whispered.
    "Knowing your mother... I would expect her to come running. I remember how your
grandfather, Efrin, used to scold Meghianna for growing up, when he wanted her to stay small. I
suppose your father will be upset that you can no longer ride on his shoulder. "
    Emrillian laughed a little, and choked on the sound.
    "Once we are finished in this place, no one will visit the Vale of Lanteer until prophecy
is fulfilled." The enchanter's voice trailed off. For a second, Emrillian thought his eyes grew dim,
his skin transparent with great age.
    "Grandfather, are you well?" she whispered, squeezing his arm. "We can rest here a
time, if you wish."
    "No, dear child." His voice grew stronger and he smiled at her. She linked her arm
through his and they took the first steps together, to cross the cavern that had once been the Vale
of Lanteer. Grego followed. Enchantment kept the horses quiet and still in the archway between
tunnel and Vale.
    The cavern narrowed a little, and sloped downward. The blue and green lights following
the three visitors cast multiple, queer shadows, from all angles, making it hard to judge shape
and distances. Emrillian counted her steps. When she reached twenty-three, more light blazed
around them. The blue-green bubbles of light halted. The shimmering, new light grew
stronger.
    Luminous pillars of muted rainbows spilled down from a hazy spot halfway to the
vaulted ceiling, enveloping two still figures stretched out on a simple pallet on a raised stone
platform, like a bier.
    "Who is that?" Grego whispered. He gestured toward a shadowy niche not far from the
bier. A tall, robed figure lay in the niche. The only distinguishing feature was that he had no
hair.
    "Ah, that is Graddon," Mrillis said without turning to look. "My old master. For whom
my Ceera named the Zygradon."
    "Will he ever awaken, Grandfather?" Emrillian asked.
    "Only the Estall knows."
    When they were halfway across the glass-smooth floor, a sound like a sudden, soft gasp
came from the two sleepers. The cloth covering their forms shifted slightly, and the sounds of
breathing grew stronger, louder, more steady in a few heartbeats. As her eyes grew accustomed
to the shifting haze of the light, Emrillian made out more details of the two people lying before
her.
    A man and a woman. Even with her fading memories of her last view of her parents,
Emrillian somehow expected them both to be robed and crowned as king and queen. The man
wore a plain, faded, dark blue tunic and shirt. The kind of clothes a convalescent would wear,
comfortable and warm, and easily laundered.
    He didn't wear a helmet or chain mail or armor. He didn't even hold an empty scabbard,
as the tales and ballads popular among the Archaics pictured Athrar Warhawk in his mystical
resting place. A quilt with a simple spiral pattern in blue and green covered him