Pilgrim. Sara Douglass

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      In time the creature stood before a blackened crust that lay on the forest floor in a small glade. Drago stopped, and looked about him. He could feel the faint resonance of Demons in this place. What had they done here? He looked down at the crust. The feathered lizard was snuffling about its edges, reaching out one claw to scrape hesitantly at the stuff. His talons came away encrusted in flaky red filth, and the lizard backed off, hissing.

      “What is it, my friend?” Drago said, squatting by the lizard and stroking its feathers. “What is this …”

      He dropped his hand to the crusty stuff, and made a sound of disgust as his fingers touched it. Dried blood! Drago screwed up his face and stood, rubbing his fingers free of the crumbling flakes.

      His fingers stilled, and he bent down again, scraped up a handful of the blood and dropped it into his sack.

      His other hand momentarily tightened about the rosewood staff, and without thinking, Drago lifted the staff forward and scraped away a part of the blood.

      He fell motionless, and looked awhile, and the lizard raised its eyes and studied Drago curiously.

      “I think,” Drago said tonelessly, “that we have reached our destination.”

      Underneath the dried blood was a trapdoor.

      Grimacing, Drago bent down and swept away as much of the blood as he could. Then he lifted the door, revealing a well of steps circling down into darkness.

      Much as, had Drago but known it, steps had once led from each of the Ancient Barrows into the Chamber of the Star Gate.

      “Well,” Drago began, speaking to the lizard, but he got no further, for the lizard had leapt into the stairwell and was already slithering and sliding his way down.

      Drago smiled, and stepped after him.

      He did not walk very far down the narrow, twisting staircase before it opened into a corridor that stretched some fifty paces, ending in a circular door. The lizard was snuffling about its hinges.

      Drago stepped onto the smooth, grey metallic floor of the corridor, and paused to study it. The floor was slightly levelled out, but only about the width of an arm, otherwise the passageway was completely circular, rising to a point about half an arm’s length above his head. The roof of the corridor was lit by gently-glowing circles, each a pace apart down its entire length. The walls were cool to the touch, but vibrated very gently.

      As if they were alive.

      A line of inscriptions ran at shoulder height down the walls. Drago stared at them, then lifted his staff and compared the inscriptions set there with those on the wall. They were the same, the strange black circles with feathered handles rising from their backs, running in a dancing, weaving line.

      “These ancients,” Drago said to the lizard, “had a strange script indeed.”

      Then he walked down to the door and inspected it.

      There was no handle, although one side had hinges. Obviously it opened. But how?

      Drago pushed, but with no success. He frowned, his fingers tapping gently against the door. On the wall by the door was a recessed rectangular section, filled with nine slightly raised knobs of the same cool, grey material as door and corridor.

      Drago stared at them, then slowly raised his hand and rested his fingers on the raised knobs.

      Instantly his mind flooded with an extraordinary vision.

      Two old men, one short and squat, the other tall and thin, had marched down this very corridor once.

      Drago’s frown deepened. Who? One of the men turned and spoke to his companion, and Drago recognised the voice instantly. They were the Sentinels, Ogden and Veremund, and this was the doorway by which they had accessed the Repository.

      He watched as the vision unwound itself.

      The Sentinels walked to the spot he now stood, and the tall one, Veremund, lifted his hand and placed it as Drago now had his placed.

      Then he had hummed a fragment of melody, and his fingers had danced accordingly.

      The memory faded, although the short melody lingered; it was a part of the same tune the Sentinels had taught him before he’d been dragged back through the Star Gate.

      Drago stood, almost as if in a trance, replaying the vision over and over. Then, in a flash of inspiration, Drago realised that Veremund had transferred the melody into a pattern, and had then transferred the pattern onto the raised knobs.

      Drago ran the tune through his head, translating it from melody to pattern almost without thought. He transferred the pattern onto the rows of knobs with his fingers.

      Instantly the door swung inwards with a soft hiss.

      The lizard gave a soft cry and scampered through.

      But Drago stood still, his head bowed, thinking. Something very, very important had just happened, and he struggled to understand it. He … he …

      “Damn it!” Drago whispered. “What did I just do?”

      He had used the pattern of melody to accomplish a purpose.

      Is that not what Icarii Enchanters did?

      And yet there was no Star Dance, no power, no magic. No enchantment left.

      Drago shuddered, and the grip of his left hand tightened about his staff. He had not only opened a door, he had also just been taught something.

      Ah! Frustrated, feeling that the answer danced just beyond the reaches of his mind, Drago put the problem to one side and stepped through the door.

      It swung shut behind him.

      Drago paid it no heed. Before him stretched yet another corridor, similar to the last with the pattern of feathered circles on the walls, but curving into a left-hand bend some twenty paces ahead.

      Beyond the bend the corridor branched into two. Drago took the left-hand fork without hesitation and then, when it again branched, took the right-hand fork. It led into a flight of steep steps leading to a higher level, and Drago grinned as he imagined how the two Sentinels would have grumbled about climbing them. Somehow, their presence was still very much here.

      There was a large rectangular room at the top of the steps. The walls were literally smothered with the feather-backed circles. Metallic racks stood in three ranks, almost empty, save for half a dozen glass jars.

      They were empty.

      Drago looked about. There were three doors, rectangular now, in the far wall, each of them open. Which one?

      From the door on the far right came the faint hum of vast power, but Drago understood he should not take that one.

      He walked through the middle doorway instead. Before him stretched yet another corridor, but very short, and ending in yet another doorway through which … through which Drago thought he could see stars.

      Stars?

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