Again Ivar stood. Cold gnawed him.
Should I turn right around and run?
Where could I run to?
And Erannath— That decided him. What other friend remained to the free Aeneans? If the Ythrian was alive.
He stalked on. A pair of doorways gaped along his path. He flashed light into them, but saw just empty chambers of curious shape.
Then the floor slanted sharply downward, and he rounded a curve, and from an arch ahead of him in the right wall there came a wan yellow glow.
He gave himself no chance to grow daunted, snapped off his beam and glided to the spot. Poised for a leap, he peered around the edge.
Another cell, this one hexagonal and high-domed, reached seven meters into the rock. Shadows hung in it as heavy, chill, and stagnant as the air. They were cast by a ponderous steel table to which were welded a lightglobe, a portable sanitary facility, and a meter-length chain. Free on its top stood a plastic tumbler and water pitcher, free on the floor lay a mattress, the single relief from iridescent hardness.
“Erannath!” Ivar cried.
The Ythrian hunched on the pad. His feathers were dull and draggled, his head gone skull-gaunt. The chain ended in a manacle that circled his left wrist.
Ivar entered. The Ythrian struggled out of dreams and knew him. The crest erected, the yellow eyes came ablaze. “Hyaa-aa,” he breathed.
Ivar knelt to embrace him. “What’ve they done?” the man cried. “Why? My God, those bastards—”
Erannath shook himself. His voice came hoarse, but strength rang into it “No time for sentiment. What brought you here? Were you followed?”
“I g-g-got suspicious.” Ivar hunkered back on his heels, hugged his knees, mastered his shock. The prisoner was all too aware of urgency; that stood forth from every quivering plume. And who could better know what dangers dwelt in this tomb? Never before had Ivar’s mind run swifter.
“No,” he said, “I don’t think they suspect me in turn. I made excuse to flit off alone, came back and landed under cover of dust storm, found nobody around when I entered. What got me wonderin’ was letter today from my girl. She’d learned of Merseian secret agent at large on Aeneas, telepath of some powerful kind. His description answers to Jaan’s of Caruith. Right away, I thought maybe cruel trick was bein’ played. Jaan should’ve had less respect for my feelin’s and examined—I didn’t show anybody letter, and kept well away from Arena as much as possible, before returnin’ to look for myself.”
“You did well.” Erannath stroked talons across Ivar’s head; and the man knew it for an accolade. “Beware. Aycharaych is near. We must hope he sleeps, and will sleep till you have gone.”
“Till we have.”
Erannath chuckled. His chain clinked. He did not bother to ask, How do you propose to cut this?
“I’ll go fetch tools,” Ivar said.
“No. Too chancy. You must escape with the word. At that, if you do get clear, I probably will be released unharmed. Aycharaych is not vindictive. I believe him when he says he sorrows at having to torture me.”
Torture? No marks. . . . Of course. Keep sky king chained, buried alive, day after night away from sun, stars, wind. It’d be less cruel to stretch him over slow fire. Ivar gagged on rage.
Erannath saw, and warned: “You cannot afford indignation either. Listen. Aycharaych has talked freely to me. I think he must be lonely, shut away down here with nothing but his machinations and the occasional string he pulls on his puppet prophet. Or is his reason that, in talking, he brings associations into my consciousness, and thus reads more of what I know? This is why I have been kept alive. He wants to drain me of data.”
“What is he?” Ivar whispered.
“A native of a planet he calls Chereion, somewhere in the Merseian Roidhunate. Its civilization is old, old— formerly wide-faring and mighty—yes, he says the Chereionites were the Builders, the Ancients. He will not tell me what made them withdraw. He confesses that now they are few, and what power they wield comes wholly from their brains.”