Zahreen stood before the table of
age-worn
wood, his gaze fixed upon the
ancient
parchment. He drew a breath that
seemed
to stir the very shadows of the cave, and
then began to murmur incantations in a tongue of old.
The air about him thickened, charged with a sudden potency. With every word he uttered, the runes carven into the map began to kindle, glowing with a pale, ethereal azure. Yet, the work was unfinished; the light flickered as a candle in a draft, for some vital spark was wanting.
Zahreen ceased his chanting and turned his eyes upon Laila. His voice was low, weighted with gravity.
"We have need of a few drops of your blood," he said.
Laila's eyes started, and her heart hammered against her ribs like a captive bird. "What? To what end?"
Zahreen stepped toward her, his movements slow and deliberate, as one might approach a frightened creature of the wild.
"This map is no mere guide of ink and skin," he declared. "It is fast-shut by a sorcery of the Elder Days, a seal that can be broken by none save those who share the blood of the mage who first laid these lines. And you, Laila, are the sole heir to that ancient kin."
Laila recoiled a pace, searching his eyes for the shadow of deceit, yet she found therein only a daunting sincerity. Despite this, a cold tremor seized her limbs.
"How can you be so certain of my lineage?" she whispered.
"Because there dwells about you a golden nimbus, a fey light visible to Raven and myself," Zahreen replied. "To the eyes of common Men, it is hidden—but it was by a stroke of fate that we found you first. Had others of a darker mind discovered this light, they would have sought your end."
"The price shall be small, and the pain fleeting," Zahreen added softly. He gestured to Raven, who drew from his belt a slender bodkin of polished silver. The blade gleamed with an unnatural keenness, yet it seemed less a weapon of war than a tool of high craft.
Zahreen reached out his hand. "Three drops only."
Laila swallowed hard, her throat dry as dust, before slowly extending her hand. Zahreen took her wrist in a gentle grasp; his skin felt strangely cool, like stone washed by a mountain stream. With a swift, light touch, he drew the silver edge across her finger. Three crimson drops fell, marring the surface of the parchment.
No sooner had the blood touched the leaf than the very air trembled. The runes upon the map erupted into a transparent blue flame, and the landmarks began to shift and reveal themselves, as if a veil were being drawn back from the face of the world.
Five hidden fastnesses appeared before them, places long forgotten by the songs of Men and shielded by enchantments. They beheld a tower of grey stone amidst a black and pathless forest; a ruined temple where phantom lights danced in the gloom; a cavernous deep holding a secret untouched for centuries; a shattered fortress drowning in eternal mists; and a barren plain where a lone, colossal statue stood sentinel over the wastes.
Zahreen and Raven stood transfixed, watching the visions that rose from the map. Then, as if moved by a single thought, they closed their eyes, etching the forbidden lore into their memories before the magic should fade.
After a silence fraught with meaning, Zahreen unveiled his eyes. He raised a hand and made a sign in the air. Forth from the deeper shadows of the cave stepped a third figure—a man of tall stature and sharp, hawklike features, his eyes as cold as a winter pool.
The newcomer inclined his head in a deep obeisance and spoke in a hushed tone. "What is your will, my Prince?"
Laila's breath caught in her throat. "Prince?..." she breathed to herself.
Zahreen looked upon the messenger with a steady, commanding eye. "Make all things ready. At the first light of dawn, we set forth."
The servant bowed once more and vanished into the gloom of the delved chamber, leaving Laila and her companions to face a truth from which there was no longer any path of retreat.