Touch of the Demon (Kara Gillian #5)

Touch of the Demon (Kara Gillian #5) Page 8

He stood. “Unless I say you are not to go somewhere, yes.”

Bath, food, and a sliver of freedom? My attitude was better already. Might as well find out everything I could before the end, right? I headed out to the hallway, looked up and down. “I’ve never been in a palace before.”

Safar patiently dogged me as I wandered the lower levels of the palace, but after what was probably an hour or so of examining paintings and statues and poking through empty rooms, I found myself in what I knew, with Elinor’s help, to be the main entry corridor. I stood near a set of double doors at the end of a broad arched corridor that ran at least twenty-five yards to a matching set of double doors. Judging by the distance, I figured it led to the other side of the palace. One of the doors stood half open, so I headed out to see the sights without bothering to ask Safar for permission. I figured he’d stop me soon enough if I went somewhere I wasn’t supposed to go.

The first thing that hit me when I reached the open air was the sense of spaciousness. I mean, I could look up and see sky like this at home, but it just felt bigger somehow, as if what I could see was only a small part of what was there.

I stood before the central section of the palace atop a set of three broad steps overlooking a large courtyard. To the left and right, wings of the structure angled out to frame the grounds, the far ends terminating in towers. Déjà vu whispered once again, but this time with a memory of watching the sun set from the tower to the left. Apparently that was west, or whatever the local equivalent was. The west tower rose gracefully above the roof line, but the one to the east was another story. It looked like it had literally melted to half its height, with stone in frozen flows around its base. What the hell could do something like that?

Walkways paved in dirt-stained white stone curved through ragged grass, sometimes lost in overgrowth. Tangles of weeds flourished in what might have been flowerbeds. In the distance I could see that the courtyard was bounded by what were once likely manicured bushes but were now shaggy lines of wild growth.

I sighed. Much like the interior of the palace, everything suffered from neglect. What a waste. I guess none of the other lords bother to take care of it with Szerain gone.

The center of the courtyard was graced by a raised circle of stone approximately twenty feet in diameter surrounded by eleven columns, in an eye-pleasing blend of honey-gold stone and wood, like much of the palace behind me. That was as good a destination as any, so I headed for it. The buzz of insects—or what I assumed were insects—mingled with an intermittent raucous cry that sounded like a cross between a crow and a bullfrog. Untamed vines dripping tiny scarlet flowers snaked up the nearest three columns. As I got closer, I identified them as the source of a pleasant tangy-sweet scent that laced the air.

Peering through the leaves, I saw that the columns bore subtle carvings that had to be sigils, though I didn’t recognize a single one of them. The whole place emanated a subtle potency that rippled in goosebumps up my legs, and I had the strange sense that it was asleep and…dreaming.

“Dak bah!” came a loud shout off to my left. I turned to see a reyza I didn’t know and the shadowy form of a zhurn near the wall of the west wing. They were heavily engaged in something that I could only describe as a fast and furious game of rock, paper, scissors, but with a lot more possibilities, and both hands were used. A few minutes of attentive focus taught me not much more, except that the reyza tended to favor a four-fingers-spread configuration, they were pretty damn serious about their fun, and that the kek tokens were passed back and forth periodically.

A rush of air warned me, and I looked up in time to see a syraza make a precise and graceful landing in the center of the pavilion, its subtly iridescent-pearl skin catching the sun.

For one brief, heart-stopping moment I thought it was Eilahn, my kickass demon bodyguard. She’d been killed on Earth, which meant that she would, hopefully, return here just as I’d returned to Earth after my death in this world. But even as my hope flared I realized that it wasn’t her. I’d only spent a few minutes with Eilahn in her natural form before she’d shifted into a human guise, but it didn’t matter. I knew this was a different demon. It just didn’t feel like Eilahn.

This demon stood a head taller than me, long of limb, with bird-like delicacy, paper thin wings, and a decidedly feminine cast to its—her?—features. I truly had no idea how gender worked with so many of the demons. Most of the time I simply used whatever pronoun seemed to fit the best. I had no doubt I’d been utterly wrong a time or three, but so far none had taken insult. At least I hoped not.

The syraza looked to me with huge violet eyes set in an almost human face, though broader of forehead and much more elongated. “I am Ilana. Fair greetings,” she said in a voice with overtones of delicate chimes and birdsong.

“I’m Kara Gillian,” I replied, doing my best to hide my disappointment that she wasn’t Eilahn. “Fair greetings. I don’t suppose you’re here to rescue me from all this?” I gestured to encompass the dingy palace and Safar as well. “Sorry, big guy,” I said to him. He merely snorted, but Ilana gave a chiming laugh that wasn’t mean or derisive in any way.

“I cannot take you from Mzatal’s custody, gentle one, but I would be honored if you would accept my company while you walk Szerain’s grounds.”

“I would be the one honored,” I replied.

She looked to Safar, and a heartbeat later he leaped into the air and winged his way to the central tower of the palace proper, high above the double doors.

The syraza parted her lips and curled them back a smidge in what I interpreted as a syraza smile. She headed for the double doors, and I was about to ask why seeing the grounds entailed going back in, but then decided to go with the flow. It wasn’t as if I had any sort of schedule or agenda. We walked the long corridor toward the set of double doors at the far end. Déjà vu familiarity hummed.

“You’re with Mzatal?” I asked as we walked. I’d almost asked if she served Mzatal, but somehow that didn’t seem quite right.

“I am his ptarl. His counselor,” she explained. “The lords bear much responsibility, and each has one of the Elder syraza as ptarl, though Rhyzkahl, Szerain, and Kadir are separated from theirs.”

Elder syraza. I noted the differences between Ilana and the only other two syraza I’d seen: Eilahn, and Marr, who I’d summoned to pass the eleventh level of summoning. Where the younger syrazas’ foreheads were smooth, Ilana’s had a subtle vertical ridge from high mid-forehead to the top of her head. She also had prominent ridges in her hide, on her back and lower torso, that were absent in the others. I made mental notes of it all. “How many lords are there?” I asked.

“There are eleven qaztahl…lords.”

Comprehension dawned. Eleven. Eleven walls. Eleven fissures. Eleven columns. These guys sure as hell put a lot of stock in themselves.

“Rhyzkahl, Szerain, and Mzatal you know,” she said, and I didn’t miss that she obviously knew about Ryan. “The others are Jesral, Amkir, Kadir, Vahl, Seretis and Rayst, Elofir, and Vrizaar.”

No way would I remember all of them, but my summoner training had required me to develop pretty good memorization skills that also proved useful in police work. I filed away what I could and figured I’d at least recognize a name if I heard it again.

As we approached a cross-corridor about halfway down, Ilana laid a long, three-fingered hand on my arm to stop me. “Anomaly,” she said, gesturing toward the passage ahead. I peered toward where she pointed and could barely see a flicker in the air, like a spark that cast light and sucked it right back in.

“A very minor one,” she noted. “Easily dealt with.” With astonishing speed, the syraza traced a series of sigils and sent them spinning around the tiny spark. A heartbeat later the sigils flashed and a crack echoed down the corridor, not unlike the sound made when I dismissed a demon. “And now it is sealed.”

“Um,” I said, displaying my amazing intelligence. “What was that?”

“A remnant of the cataclysm.” She tucked her arm through mine as if it was the most natural act in the world and strolled on. “Left unchecked, rifts in the dimensional fabric can cause much destabilization and damage. Best to seal them quickly, even the very small ones like that, and always the larger ones.”

I kept my arm looped through hers. Her touch held a deep comfort and reminded me of what I’d felt from Eilahn, though with Ilana it was much more palpable. Perhaps a syraza characteristic? “What if one of those happens way out in the wilderness where no one sees it forming?”

“Such rarely happens,” she said as we came up on the double doors. “And when it does, the demahnk, the Elders, feel it. They most often occur in or around the demesnes of the lords because those are the areas of the greatest arcane torsion.” Before I could ask even more stupid questions, she said, “Come, I will show you the grove.”

The reverence with which she said the word told me that this wasn’t going to be a stand of orange trees or anything like that. She opened one of the doors enough for us to slip through. We stepped out into open air again, confirming my déjà vu and observational suspicion that the corridor led from the courtyard all the way through the central palace. Off to the left—east—loomed the barren hills and jagged mountains I’d seen from the Cracks of Doom balcony. I felt as much as saw them, like festering splinters.

Before us, a swath of grass sprinkled with turquoise wildflowers sloped down into a shallow wooded valley with rolling hills that rose to low, forested mountains. Woods in the full leaf of summer dominated the view, but it was a particular stand of trees that captured my attention. Twice the height of the not insubstantial surrounding forest, they stood in a ring near the verge of grass. Two parallel lines of these giants leaned toward one another, forming an inviting, shadowy tunnel from the ring to the edge of the wood. Their leaves shimmered in sparkling amethyst and brilliant green against white trunks, and I had no doubt this was the grove. A stone-paved pathway ran from the tree tunnel to where we stood just below the tower that held the summoning chamber—a distance of perhaps a hundred yards.