Sara Douglass – The Serpent Bride – DarkGlass Mountain Book 1

intimately from birth and, under his father”s direction, Maximilian laid his hand to the handle of

the door and opened it.

A chamber lay directly inside, crowded with furniture that was overlaid with so many

objects Maximilian could only stand and stare.

“See here,” his father had said. “This blue and white plate as it sits on the table. It is the

first object you see, and it contains a memory. Pick it up, Maxel, and tell me what you see.”

Maximilian picked up the plate. As he did so, a stanza of verse filled his mind, and his

lips moved soundlessly as he rolled the words about his mouth.

“That is part of the great invocation meant to raise the gates of Elcho Falling,” said his

father. “The second stanza lies right next to it, the red glass ball. Pick that up now, and learn…”

Maximilian had not entered the Twisted Tower since his last lesson with his father, just

before his fourteenth birthday when he”d been abducted. That lesson had, fortuitously, been the

day his father had taken him into the final chamber at the very top of the Twisted Tower. Despite

it being well over twenty years since he”d last entered, Maximilian had no trouble in re-creating

in his mind the Twisted Tower, and traveled it now, examining every object in each successive

chamber and recalling their memories throughout the height of the tower.

As he rose, the chambers became increasingly empty.

It began at the thirty-sixth level chamber. This chamber was, as all the chambers below it,

crammed with furniture, which in turn was crammed with objects, each containing a memory.

But occasional empty places lay scattered about, marked by shapes in the dust, showing that

objects had once rested there.

Maximilian turned to his father. “Why are there empty spaces, Father?”

His father shifted uncomfortably. “The memories held within these objects have been

passed down for many thousands of years, Maxel. Sometimes mistakes have been made in the

passing, objects have been mislaid, memories forgotten. So much has been lost, son. I am sorry.”

“But what if we needed it, Father? What if we needed to resurrect Elcho Falling?”

His father had not answered that question, which had in itself been answer enough for

Maximilian.

Now Maximilian entered the final chamber at the very top of the tower.

It was utterly barren of any furniture or objects.

Everything it had once contained had been forgotten.

Maximilian stood there, turning about, thinking about how the chambers had become

progressively emptier as he”d climbed through the tower.

He was glad that he had remembered everything his father had taught him, and that he

could retrieve the memories intact as he took each object into his hands.

But, contrariwise, Maximilian was filled with despair at the thought that if, if, he was to

be the King of Escator who once again had to shoulder the ancient responsibilities of Elcho

Falling, he would need to do so with well over half of the memories, the rituals, and the

enchantments of Elcho Falling forgotten and lost for all time.

[ Part Two ]

CHAPTER ONE

Lake Juit, the Tyranny of Isembaard

Lake Juit, as old as the land itself, lay still and quiet in the dawn. The sun had barely

risen, and broad, rosy horizontal shafts of soft light illuminated the gently rippling expanse of the lake, and set the deep reed beds surrounding the lake into deep mauve-pocked shadow.

A man poled a punt out of the reed beds.

He was very tall, broad-shouldered, and handsomely muscled, with a head of magnificent

black tightly-braided hair that hung in a great sweep to a point midway down his back. He wore

a white linen hipwrap, its simplicity a foil to the magnificent collar of pure gold and bejeweled

links that draped over his shoulders and partway down his chest and back.

He was Isaiah, Tyrant of Isembaard, and the lake was surrounded by ten thousand of his

spearmen, while on the ramshackle wooden pier from where he”d set out waited his court

maniac, the elusively insane (but remarkably useful) Ba”al”uz.

Ba”al”uz narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he watched his tyrant. One did not expect

one”s normally completely predictable tyrant to suddenly decamp from his palace at Aqhat,

move ten thousand men and his maniac down to this humid and pest-ridden lake, saying nothing

about his motives, and then get everyone up well before dawn to watch their tyrant set off by

himself in a punt.

Ba”al”uz had no idea what Isaiah was about, and he did not like that at all.

Isaiah poled the punt slowly and steadily forward. He did not head out into the center of

the shallow lake, but kept close to the reed beds. Occasionally he smiled very slightly, as here

and there a frog peeked out from behind the reeds.

As Isaiah got deeper into the lake, he watched the dawn light carefully, waiting for the

precise moment.

He poled rhythmically, using the regular movements of his arms and body to concentrate

on the matter at hand. What he was about to do was so dangerous that if he allowed himself to

think about it he knew he would turn the punt back to the wharf and the watching Ba”al”uz.

But Isaiah could not afford to do that. He needed to concentrate—

At one with the water.

—and he needed to focus—

On the Song of the Frogs.

—and he needed to draw on all the power he contained within his body—

And allow it to ripple, to wash, and to run with the tide.

—and he needed today to be successful, because without that which he”d come for,

Isaiah knew the task of the Lord of Elcho Falling would be nigh to impossible, and the land itself

would fail.

Besides, he knew this would annoy Ba”al”uz, and annoying Ba”al”uz always brightened

Isaiah”s day.

Above all, Isaiah was here because he needed something from the lake very, very badly,

and he did not think the world would survive if he did not get that for which he”d come.

The sun was a little higher now, and nerves fluttered in Isaiah”s belly, threatening to

break his concentration. His hands tightened fractionally on the pole, and he forced himself to

focus.

The air, clear a few minutes ago, was now damp with mist seeping out from the reed

banks.

Frogs began to sing, a low, sweet melody, and one or two of them hopped onto the prow

of the punt.

Isaiah closed his eyes briefly, overcome with the sweetness of their song.

Then, hands tightened once more, eyes opening, he drew down on the deep well of power

within himself.

Isaiah spoke the words that were needed, and the moment the last one dropped from his

mouth the air about the entire lake exploded in sound and movement as millions of pink-and

scarlet-hued juit birds rose screaming into the dawn light.

On the wharf, Ba”al”uz crouched down, arms over his head, and shrieked together with

the birds.

About the lake, ten thousand men thrust their spears into the air, and screamed as one

with Ba”al”uz.

On the lake, Isaiah poled into the reed banks, into magic and mystery, and into the

strange borderland between worlds. Then, while the air still rang with the harsh cries of bird and

man, as the frogs screamed, and as the sun suddenly topped the horizon and flooded the lake and

reed beds with light, Isaiah dropped the pole, reached down into the water, and lifted a

struggling, naked man into the punt.

CHAPTER TWO

Baron Lixel’s Residence, Margalit

The journey to Margalit took almost three weeks, longer than expected. The winter was

closing in, and drifts of snow had forced Ishbel and her escort to spend long days idle in wayside

inns, waiting for the weather to improve enough that they might continue their journey.

Ishbel had spent most of the idle days praying that the weather would close in so greatly

she”d be forced to return to Serpent”s Nest. Of course it hadn”t happened. The snow had always

cleared in time for her to move forward, and, by the time they reached Margalit, she had

managed to convince herself that no matter the trials ahead, she would manage.

Ishbel hoped only that this Maximilian was tolerable, and that he would be kind to her,

and that the Great Serpent had not lied when he”d said that she would return to Serpent”s Nest,

and that it would be her home, always.

She would be strong, because she had to be.

And, damn it, she was the archpriestess of the Coil, no matter how much she might hide

that from Maximilian. She had courage and she had ability and she had pride, and she would

endure.

Despite her carefully constructed shell of determination, it was a black moment for Ishbel

when she first saw the smudge of Margalit in the distance. For an instant all the terrifying fear of