The Masks of Sentinel

  
          On the uppermost quarter of the Tower of Masks, the sculpted faces became true gargoyles; but jetting light instead of rainwater.
          Almost all in the wasted garden turned to look. Wounded men struggled to see. Blinded men inclined their faces instinctively, protesting at the sudden, frightening silence. Only Ulainn, transfixed by her mirror, did not move.
          Auroral spikes pulsed at random from the citron stone; the light was white and silver, shot with atoms of unearthly colour.
          Kaihima whispered, "What's happening?"
          Falk replied, "If I knew that, my lady, I'd probably be running rather than watching."
          The brilliant rays lengthened, thickened, interflowed. A vast globe evolved, filmed with opalescence. The summit of the Tower of Masks was completely obscured. It was as though the tall building had been transformed into a giant firework, burning with a cold, steady glow.
          A trail of smoke from the burning pitch spiralled close to the luminous sphere, then appeared to bend away from its shimmering edge.
          A terrified archer fired an arrow straight up from the base of the tower. The shaft slowed as it neared the mysterious globe, stopped moving completely as though held in an invisible hand, then fell feather- gentle back to earth.
          For many who watched, the coming of the light-sphere set a seal upon the day. It was the final sign. Erastor had fallen. War had decimated the castle's forces. Those remaining were demoralised. They had seen the wielding of incomprehensible weapons: an eagle-ship that flew, sunset rays like titanic swords, the doomspore, the black tears that burned .... Now, it seemed, even Erastor's twilight days had gone, like ashes in the wind.
          Only Kaihima had hope for the future. As the new, undisputed ruler, she had no other choice. The years to come would be filled with difficulties; but she knew that she would overcome them. Briefly, she glanced at the tumult in the sky, where the starsea pushed back the flames of the dying day.
          "One thing's certain," she said. "These are interesting times."
          Falk smiled. "Understatement can be overdone."
          Livid threads appeared in the surface of the sphere. Black veins sprang out. Darkness spread, fast as fire. But even though the light failed, the edge of the circle held, containing the night.
          Ulainn screamed: a low, muffled sound; but Falk heard it and turned to look.
          She stood exactly as he had last seen her: a lonely figure in the prow of the eagle, staring blindly into her mirror. Then, something struggled out from the surface of the speculum. It was a face. It was as though the glass itself had taken on sudden, plastic life, and strained to be released from its frame. Falk saw Ulainn bend forward. The two faces - one dark, haloed with flaxen hair, the other like melting silver - briefly touched.
          Falk heard a cracking sound, like ice, thawing. The spectral visage froze, shattered. A handful of jagged shards flew sparkling through the air. Ulainn's head snapped back, rebuffed by some unseen force. And she fell ... and Falk knew that she was dead.
          "At least there'll be no challenge to your rule," he muttered, turning back.
          Kaihima had experienced too much that day to question these words.
          A black disk, featureless as an eclipse, now crowned the summit of the Tower of Masks. Tentatively, Hawk flew near the darkness .... Blasts of extreme cold pushed it back.
          Even on the ground, memories of winter touched the watching crowd.
          Falk struggled to fathom the black circle.
          It was like trying to penetrate beneath the surface of a well sunk into the stuff of a night sky - though not Sentinel's.
          At first, all he was aware of was space, infinitely deep, vague, ambiguous; then constellations, widely sundered, burning with half- remembered meaning. In rapid succession, three mental images superimposed themselves upon this alien firmament: Tarush's compass, its needle wildly spinning; the silver astrolabe, flashing in the sun; and the pentacle, a diagram of shining gold, with a tenebrific star at each point and intersection.
          Am I the compass needle, not knowing my true direction? Was the astrolabe the key to my past? Or does the pentacle contain the answer to all mysteries?
          Then, stranding Falk on a revelational knife-edge, the disk of sidereal darkness shivered, broke like a film of oil, swirled away, vanished slow as smoke.
          Clean as a blade-sliced candle, the Tower of Masks now rose to three-quarters of its original height. Later investigation would reveal that a whole floor had been cut in half horizontally. Of the false king of Erastor, of Starkad Frostmane, of the Skarnyr warriors, there was no trace.
          Kaihima turned to Falk. "I pray that the course of my reign will prove less momentous than its beginnings."
          Falk, his mind still glutted with stars and symbols, murmured: "The chessplayers depart. A new game begins. May you play it wisely and well, my lady."
          As he walked away, winding among the dead in the dead garden, Wolf moved closer to his side, and Hawk flew to his waiting fist.

Forward