in the earth, but he could no more have used its power to open the Void than he could have washed a tent in a thimble. On the night of the solstice, he thought, the power would be there, maybe. But there had better be one hell of a lot of power concentrated at the other end.
He took a deep breath, pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, and, kneeling, took chalk and Sara’s clasp knife from his pocket. In the darkness he drew a Circle close to the charged sun-cross on the floor, its edge touching that of the Well itself, and cut open the vein near his right elbow, where it wouldn’t show, to mark the signs of Power in his own blood. He had no sense of power in doing this—he never had, in this universe—but he followed the rites meticulously, making himself believe that the faint strength of the ley-path seeped up into the chalked lines, drawing the figures of air as precisely as if they were actually visible, glowing as they would be in his own world. Trying not to think about whether anyone over there was listening.
It had been almost three months. Of course someone would be listening. Jaldis’ loft was the only place they could hear, unless Shavus had used the old man’s notes to open another Well elsewhere. This close to the solstice, knowing it was the only time when enough power would be available to them here, of course he’d be listening for them...
But Shavus had disappeared the day before his and Jaldis’ crossing—arrested, murdered, banished... he did not know.
Maybe no one knew.
We can think of neither the future that we go to, nor the past that we leave behind...
Don’t do this to yourself, he commanded, feeling his resolve drain like the faint weakness and shock of opening his vein. They may not hear you if you shout for help, but they CERTAINLY won’t hear you if you don’t.
Only the long disciplines of his training made him turn his mind from the sweet quicksand of despair—of not having to try because it would do no good—and calm his thoughts, quiet his breathing, even out his heart rate again. He sank into meditation, not knowing how long it would take to raise the energies, gathering all his strength into his hands. Though the room was cold, sweat stood out on his face. Clear and hard, he focused his mind on the Dark Well, willing it to open, willing the glowing channel across the endless abyss of color without color to whisper into life.
Nothing happened. The Well did not seem to change.
Deepening his concentration, he started again from the beginning. Marking the floor, the walls; weaving signs in the air cleanly and precisely, willing himself to know that he was making them correctly—willing himself not to doubt. Willing himself not to think about Jaldis; about Tally; about his own world on the other side of the Void; about that naïve young man who’d come stumbling out of the livid darkness ten weeks ago and into the arms of the SS. Willing himself to believe that it worked.
There was still no change in the appearance of the Dark Well, but he sensed—or imagined—a minute drop in the temperature of the room, a resurgence of the queer ozoneous smell. Rising, legs weak, he stepped to the three lines of chalk, blood, and ash that circled the inner core of darkness—a darkness barely distinguishable from the darkness surrounding it—and stood, his stockinged toes just touching the outermost ring, his arms outspread.
“Shavus,” he whispered desperately, clinging to the image of the big old scar-faced Archmage, “Shavus, help me. Shavus, I’m in trouble, help me, please. Get me out of here. I’m alone here, Jaldis is dead.”
He was tired now and queasy from loss of blood; his head was beginning to throb, but he conjured in his mind the images of the stones on Witches Hill. Between the ancient magic of sacrifice glowing deep in the dolomite’s fabric and the dim silvery limmerance of the ley, enough power clung to the Stones to serve as a beacon, if Shavus knew what to look for. At that point, provided the Spiracle would hold the Void’s magic-provided he didn’t kill himself charging it—he could probably collect enough energy at the turn of the solstice-tide to open the Void and jump.
“I’ll be there,” he whispered, perhaps aloud, perhaps only in the dark at the bottom of his mind. “At Sunstead I’ll