Read Online Vengeance of the Hunter by Angela Highland - Free Book Online Page A

to look over her shoulder, for she had no doubt Deglis would keep up behind her. Through the catacombs she led him, past coffins of quiet stone to one of the many ornate mosaics that decorated the walls of the place. There she raised her hands to two spots in the patterned glass, one high, one low—but before she pressed her fingertips to the squares, she heard herself murmur, “I don’t want to do this.”
    “I know, Majesty. But it’s time.”
    Ealasaid drew in a steadying breath. Stone. She must be as the unshakeable bedrock of mountains, or else Adalonia would fall. “Then let us do the deed.”
    With that, she pressed in upon the wall.
    No noise signaled the activation of the mechanism behind the mosaic, for layers of granite and limestone muffled any telltale creaking of gears. Slowly, ponderously, a section of wall slid aside, revealing unremitting darkness beyond.
    For this, too, Ealasaid was prepared. Just inside the revealed doorway, in a niche set into the wall, a candle and tinderbox were kept. She brushed the dust from these, checked the contents of the tinderbox to make sure they were dry, and lit the candle. Then she proceeded in through the door, leading Deglis down a narrow staircase. In silence they descended, following the spiral of ancient steps deep into the bowels of the palace. There were no other landings, no other doorways where this stairwell might have connected with other portions of the royal residence. There were only the endless walls of rock that flanked steps meant for she who sat upon the throne and he who led the Church, and no others.
    In the passage at the bottom of the stairs they reached a massive door of oak reinforced with bands of steel, scarred by centuries, immutable as a fortress. This Ealasaid opened with an iron key. Deglis carefully laid down his burden, and then, with an effort that bunched his shoulders beneath his fine robe and brought out beads of sweat along his brow, he pushed the great door open. Light crept into the passage, wan and sickly starlight festering in the depths of night. Ealasaid steeled herself against flinching from the sight of the ghostly figure within the opened cell, hovering in chains a foot off the floor.
    “Hail the Blessed Voice of the Four Gods,” Deglis intoned, the words resounding with a weight beyond his mortal presence, echoing off the imprisoning walls. Power crackled through the heavy air, lancing into the Anreulag’s wasted frame and forcing up Her head.
    “By Mother and Father, by Daughter and Son, the Voice speaks,” She replied, hollow and blasted. “ Arach shae. ”
    “By Mother and Father, by Daughter and Son, we know where You have walked. Tell us now why You were called,” commanded the priest.
    She writhed within Her chains, Her skeletal features contorting with strain. For long moments She struggled against the compulsion, while light twisted along Her limbs and then pulsed out to crash against the walls. Her head sagged; Her wild white mane fell down to hide Her face. Then She raised Her head once more, staring forward with empty eyes. Her lips forced out a stream of broken syllables, words that should flow like purest water, ravaged remnants of music.
    “ Ràe elari enno sul ve carya...enno Amathilàen korthiali ràe... ”
    Ealasaid stepped forward, beckoning to Deglis to retrieve Padraig’s unmoving form and bring him in beside her for the captive to behold. “By this flesh and blood and bone of the line that binds You, speak to us of where You have been, and speak to us in the tongue of Your masters!”
    Terror roiled through the Anreulag’s eyes, and Her writhing grew frenzied within the chains. Surging into a panicked keening, Her Elvish words gained desperate strength. The light of Her leashed power flared. The walls of Her prison shook.
    White-faced, the Bhandreid gave a single nod to the High Priest at her side. And Deglis moved, first to pull forth from a sheath beneath his robes the blessed dagger