Stalking Darkness by Lynn Flewelling Page A

beneath horns of stone. Stone within ice within stone within ice,” the palimpsest had said.
    Seregil looked around, frowning. Well, I’m certainly beneath horns of stone. And to get here I’ve gone through the ice first, and then stone.
    That left stone within ice still to go, but where? Though obscure in method, the palimpsest had been quite specific in giving the necessary directions. If there was some secret way beyond this point, then logic suggested that the final clues leading to it were also concealed in that same document.
    Massaging his throbbing temples, he closed his eyes and recalled the details of the palimpsest’s various inscriptions. Could he and Nysander have missed something in the rambling prophecies? Or perhaps Nysander had been wrong in his assertion that only one side of the document concealed a palimpsest.
    Now there was an uncomfortable thought.
    He was startled from his reverie by a blast of cold air. Opening his eyes, he found himself lying in the snow outside the tunnel entrance with Turik and Shradin kneeling over him with obvious concern. Over Shradin’s shoulder he saw that the sun was already low behind the designated peak.
    “What happened?” Seregil gasped, sitting up.
    “We waited as long as we could,” Turik apologized. “The time came and went for you to return. When we went down, we found you in a spirit dream.”
    “There’s a storm coming,” added Shradin, frowning up at the clouds. “They come on fast this time of year. We need to get back to the village while there’s still light enough to go down safely. There’s no shelter here, and nothing for a fire.”
    Seregil looked around in sudden alarm. “My sword! And the box—Where are they?”
    “Here, beside you. We brought them out, too,” Turik assured him. “But tell us, did you speak to the spirit? Do you know the reason for its anger?”
    Still chagrined at having fallen so easily under the spell of the place, Seregil nodded slowly, buying time as he collected his thoughts.
    “It’s not your spirit who is angry, but another, an evil one,” he told them. “This evil one keeps the other prisoner. It’s a very strong spirit. I must rest and prepare myself to banish it.”
    Shradin looked up at the sky again. “You’ll have time, I think.”
    Taking up their packs and poles, the Dravnian guides led Seregil back to the village for another night of exhausting hospitality.
    As Shradin had predicted, a savage blizzard roared in through the teeth of the mountains during the night.
    People fought their way through the howling wind to drive their livestock up the ramps into their towers, then sealed their doors and settled down to wait out the storm.
    It raged steadily for two days. One house lost its felt roof, forcing the inhabitants to flee to a neighboring tower.
    At another, a woman gave birth to twins.
    Otherwise, the time was given over to eating, storytelling, and general husbandry. The Dravnians were philosophical about such conditions; what was the use of complaining about something that happened every winter? The blizzards were even beneficial. They piled snow around the house and helped keep the drafts out.
    One family in particular regarded this storm as a stroke of luck, for it kept the Aurenfaie guest in their house for two nights.
    Seregil was less complaisant about the-situation.
    Ekrid had nine children, six of them daughters. One girl was too young, another in the midst of her menses, but that still left four to contend with and he didn’t much like the competitive gleam in their eyes as they welcomed him.
    To further complicate matters, the lower level had been given over to Ekrid’s herd of goats and sheep, and their bleating and odor lent little to the general atmosphere. For two days, Seregil had to choose between evading the amorous advances of the girls or trying to walk three feet without treading in shit. His success was limited on both counts and his concentration on the problem at hand