Stalking Darkness

partner, Micum Cavish, had come upon a similar scene nearly a thousand miles away, in the Fens below Blackwater Lake. But there some of the bodies had been newly killed. These had been here for decades, perhaps centuries. Putting this together with Nysander’s veiled threats and secrecy, Seregil felt a twinge of genuine fear.
    The singing whine in his ears was much worse here. Kneeling there at the mouth of the chamber, Seregil suddenly envisioned what the victims’ last moments must have been.
    Waiting to be dragged into the killing chamber.
    Listening to the screams.
    The steam rising from torn bodies—
    He could almost catch the sound of those tortured voices echoing back faintly over the years.
    Shaking such fancies off uneasily, he climbed in to examine the mysterious slab.
    The rough-hewn block of ice was half as long as he was tall, and nearly four feet thick. The aura of the place was worse here; a nasty prickling sensation played over his skin, like ants beneath his clothes. His head pounded. The ringing in his ears swelled like a chorus of voices wailing an octave beyond the scope of pain.
    More disturbing still was the sudden flair of pain around the scar on his chest. It burned like a fresh wound, driving a deep spike of pain at his heart.
    Working swiftly, Seregil took the two flasks from the box, unwrapped them, and poured out the dark contents of the first in a circle on top of the ice. With his dagger, he scratched the symbols of the Four inside the circle: a lemniscate for Dalna; Illior’s simple crescent; the stylized ripple of a wave for Astellus; the flame triangle of Sakor. They formed the four points of a square when he had finished.
    Unnatural flames licked up as the liquid ate into the ice and asoft, answering glow sprang up in the center of the slab, revealing the outline of a circular object embedded there.
    A fresh blast of pain tightened Seregil’s breath in his throat. He reached into his coat and felt wetness there. Tearing open the neck of his coat and shirt with bloodied fingers, he found that his skin had opened around the edges of the scar.
    There were voices all around him now, whispering, sighing, keening. His hands shook as he quickly emptied the second vial onto the ice. More flames licked up, guttering in the faint, unnatural breeze rising around him. Invisible fingers brushed his face, plucked at his clothing, stroked his hair.
    A first translucent point of crystal protruded from the shrinking ice, quickly followed by seven more in a slanting ring.
    The singing, at once tortured and exultant, rose to fill the cramped chamber. Seregil pressed his hands to his ears as he crouched, waiting.
    The magical liquid burned and boiled away until eight bladelike crystal spikes were revealed, set in a circlet of some sort.
    Seregil bent to pull it free and a drop of blood fell from his chest onto the ice within the circlet. He paused, strangely fascinated, as another followed, and another. A stone shard had grazed the back of his hand and this, too, was oozing blood. A rivulet of it ran down between his fingers onto the point he was grasping, streaking it like ruby as it trickled to the little pool gathering in the center of the crown.
    The singing was clearer now, suddenly sweet and soothing and somehow familiar. Seregil’s throat strained to capture the impossible notes as the blood dripped down from his chest.
    Not yet
, the voices crooned. Unseen hands stroked him, supporting him as he stooped over the crown.
Watch! See the loveliness being wrought
.
    The gathering blood sank into the ice as an answering rubescent blush spread slowly up through each crystal point.
    Oh, yes!
he thought.
How beautiful!
    Their sides were sharp. They cut into his palms as he gripped them. More blood trickled down and the crystal blushed a darker red.
    But a new voice was intruding from a distance, rough and discordant.
    Nothing
, sang the voices.
It is nothing. There is only our music here. Join us, lovely one, join our song, the only song. For the Beautiful One, the Eater of Death—
    It was distracting, this ugly new tone. But as he bowed his head, straining against this raw new voice he found that it, too, was familiar.
    He’d almost succeeded in blocking it out when all at once he recognized it—the sound of his own hoarse screams.
    The beautiful illusions shattered as searing bolts of pain slammed up his arms, seeking his heart.
    “Aura!”
he cried out, wrenching the crown free with the last