The Rise and Fall of a Dragonking - By Lynn Abbey Page 0,83

In the end, it had gone into the lava lake with Rajaat’s bones. retrospect, Hamanu marveled that any of them, mortal or immortal, could have been so foolish as to leave the Lens anywhere near Rajaat’s bones. There was a resonance between the Black and the Dark Lens, at least insofar as Rajaat was responsible for both of them and only he understood their secrets. And, of course, there was resonance between the first sorcerer’s essence and his substance. For five years—five uninterrupted, unobserved years—Rajaat had been exploring those resonances.

Hamanu had to find out what the War-Bringer had accomplished in that time.

The first part of Hamanu’s plan was simple, in concept, if not execution: a careful approach to the throbbing Black, along a line oblique enough to give him a glimpse of the Hollow while, at the same time, leaving him with enough speed and energy to escape its lethal attraction. The spell he’d cast moments ago in his workroom gave him a good chance for success. If he’d truly been Pavek, in the flesh or spirit, he might have evoked the Lion-King’s name. But Hamanu didn’t believe in his own power over fate and fortune:

A shadow sprouted around Hamanu, a Pavek-shaped shadow reaching through the Gray toward the Black where all shadows were born or died. Flecks of brilliant white, paradoxical and inexplicable, appeared in the Black, migrating, as Hamanu’s shadow lengthened, to the point where the shadow and the Black would meet. Hamanu struggled not to follow his shadow.

The normal silence of the Gray became deafening. Flares of dark ether appeared without warning and wound a tightening spiral around Hamanu’s attenuated shadow. Another moment—as Hamanu’s mind measured time in the netherworld—and he’d have pressed his luck too hard. He’d have to break away, if he could, without his precious glimpse of the Hollow.

There was no air in the Gray. A netherworld traveler didn’t breathe, yet Hamanu held his breath, and his shadow shrank. He risked everything to get a little lower, a little closer, and got his heart’s desire: a glimpse of a Hollow without substance or shadow, light or dark. The Hollow was nothing at all—except the War-Bringer’s essence.

Because Hamanu’s own spells, his own substance and essence, had helped to forge the Hollow thirteen ages ago, he knew it was not empty. He knew as well—and with no small horror—that it was riddled with cracks through which shadow, if not substance, could seep.

Without thought for the consequences, Hamanu cursed his complacency. Five years ago, he’d trusted Sadira because it was convenient, because they’d declared a truce on the shores of Ur Draxa’s lava lake, because he’d trusted that her hatred of him and the champions would be enough to insure her vigilance.

He’d been a fool then, and was twice a fool now: his thoughtless curse had broken his concentration.

His shadow expanded violently, touching both the Black and the dark, spiraling flares. Arms and legs extended like a cartwheel’s spokes, he tumbled wildly, gathering shadow with every turn. In panic, he clawed for the amulet case and the beads it contained. Shadow engulfed his hand.

He had a moment to contemplate his folly. Then a vaguely human-shaped figure manifested itself between him and the Black.

Rajaat, Hamanu thought and, anticipating a fate truly worse than death, got a firm hold on his courage and dignity. Though the figure grew larger, its silhouette did not devolve into Rajaat’s asymmetric deformities, and its aura was neither menacing nor vengeful. It simply broke the flow between the Black and Hamanu’s shadow.

When his limbs were free, Hamanu righted himself with no more effort than he expended in his rooftop bathing pool. He wasn’t out of danger. The Black continued to exert its attraction on him, and he continued to fall toward the ultimate shadow—and the waiting figure—despite his every effort to escape.

Once again, Hamanu prepared himself for death.

Not yet, the still-distant figure roared above the deafening silence.

Its outstretched right arm crossed its body and extended a finger toward a point beyond its left foot. Hamanu looked in the indicated direction and began tumbling again. This time, however, an attractive presence other than the Black, held him in its grip. Like any dying man, mortal or immortal, Hamanu grasped any opportunity, however unproven, to escape certain oblivion.

With bold and practiced strokes, Hamanu swam with this new current. Glancing over his shoulder as he passed beneath his savior’s foot, he glimpsed the Lion-King of Urik bestriding the Black. Hamanu had no time to ponder the extraordinary