5
Forewarned
"Isla was sleepwalking again, Iain. I found her in the garden, staring up at the sky. The poor thing was half-frozen by the time I got her inside, and white as a ghost. Her dear hands were like ice. I think she might have been standing there for hours. And when I got her back inside, I very nearly fell over Iona, because she was lying on the floor, burning up with another of her fevers and thrashing about. I couldn't rouse her. Only when Isla touched her did she quiet, and then of course they were both sound asleep just like that, curled up together on the floor. It's getting worse. It has to stop, Iain, I'm frightened. Even a locked door—a locked and BARRED door, Iain!—hasn't stopped Isla from going out of the house. It's as though she's walking through the walls... Iona is always ill for days after Isla goes out, and not at all herself, as you know. She's…somber. Like Isla. What could make a child so young somber? And do you know what I found under the bed? A whole nest of blankets. Our children are sleeping under their bed, not in it.
"I've made up my mind. I'm going to the greenwitch today, and I'm getting to the bottom of this. I know our other debts need paying, but by the High Heavens, Iain, I will put on a strumpet's gown and twirl on a diddler's lap if it will get our daughters to someone who can understand them. Because we, my poor, sweet husband, cannot. This is beyond us."
- Neila, a candle-maker's wife
Iona fell. As she rocketed downward through the crater, she caught handholds and footholds here and there to slow her progress, leaping from one craggy side to the other in a sort of zigzagging pattern, her cloak flapping behind her like a pair of great dark wings. At last, her feet hit solid ground. She looked around herself in wonder. The building far above her was only a mask. A façade. This was the true Cathedral, the monastery of the Horadrim. She recognized the architecture from one of Isla's old books. It was here—when Iona was only a babe in swaddling clothes—that the crimson soulstone containing the essence of Diablo, Lord of Terror, had rested, its Horadric guardians lost to antiquity.
She traced the intricate etchings on the wall with a gloved finger for a moment, then let her hand fall away. The majestic place was merely a hollow shell; she could feel the presence of demonic energy all around her, like an oil slick on the surface of a cold, clear lake. However glorious it had once been, the cathedral was cursed, now.
Iona followed a trail of bodies down the corridor. Militia men, she noted, bending to examine one of them. They're not infected...the risen dead were not responsible for this. One man's head had been cloven in two. The huntress' eyes narrowed. There were orange flakes in a small cleft in the wall just above him. She rubbed some of it between her fingers and brought it to her nose. Rust. Bad iron. The soldiers had been attacked with edged weapons in varying states of decay…though it was clear enough that something had taken several bites of them. No trace of blood ran out of the parts of the flesh that bore teeth marks. That was a comforting thought. At least they had been dead already when the eating had begun. Iona rose again and readied her crossbows, continuing silently down the great hall.
After a time, she came to an enormous room which must once have been very lavish, indeed. The blue light of the Star was here, as well, shining through a new hole in the floor. Its path was…strange. It was as though it had changed course multiple times while it fell. Iona gazed down into the bright crater, her heart pounding with anticipation. Her quarry was near. At long last, she would understand Li Xia's design for her. To find the Star was to find Truth. Li Xia had said it.
Another memory surged to the front of her mind as she looked into the blue maw.
Isla. She had always gazed so intently at the night sky whenever she walked in her sleep. Iona remembered lying with her sister in their little bed, curled together just as they had been in their mother's womb.
"That Star," Isla murmured, absently braiding her black hair into Iona's. "He's putting himself back together in Pandi-moan-ee-um. Sometimes I even see him falling down here...he will, you know, when we're grown-ups. I feel him a little. Do you?"
Iona did not. She was trembling, her face pale and drawn. "Isla, I had bad dreams again. Can we put our blankets and everything under the bed and sleep there from now on? I'm so scared…"
"Yes," Isla agreed, squeezing her twin sister's hands. The braid they shared loosened slightly, but did not unravel. "We shouldn't sleep in plain sight. Not anymore."
"What about Mum and Dad?"
"They would never do anything like that," Isla said miserably. "They don't believe us. And…and M-mum is afraid of me."
"But they'll die!" Iona cried in a shrill whisper, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I dreamed about it! The monsters will see them! They'll eat them!"
"Yes, they will."
They had.
One night, as Iona and Isla lay huddled together beneath their bed in a tangle of blankets and coltish limbs, demons had poured into the little cottage. Iona could still remember the screams of her parents, prolonged and anguished. It hadn't been enough simply to kill them. The demons had wanted them to suffer. She and Isla had held each other so tightly that they could barely breathe, their faces pressed into each other's shoulders to keep silent.
Iona shook her head, banishing the memory, shoving it back down into the black vault that held every poisonous thing she had ever carried in her mind. One day, she knew, it would burst and infect the rest of her. One day, she would follow Isla into madness and death.
But not today.
As she tore herself away from the light of the Star, she heard footsteps echoing off stone. She dropped swiftly and silently into a crouch within a small alcove, weapons readied, muscles taut, anticipating the kill.
"Back, foul minions!" a weak voice commanded, and an elderly man hobbled out of the gloom. But the floor was weak beneath his feet. The Star had destroyed the foundation there on its way down into the earth.
He noticed. "May this ledge hold…" he prayed, rushing across it as quickly as he could. The stones fell away as his feet left them, but he made it to Iona's side of the chamber. A dark presence filled the huntress' mind like a noxious gas, and her eyes snapped to the broken ledge. The skeleton of an impossibly large man hung in the air, its empty sockets fixed on the old man. An unholy aura drifted hazily around him. Iona felt her blood beginning to boil. This kind of monster was more suited to her tastes than shambling corpses and eels. Here, at last, was real opponent.
"The power of the Star awakened me," it snarled. "Now all will suffer, as I have suffered! Guards! Bring me his bones!"
The old man had to be Leah's uncle, Deckard Cain. Iona stepped out of the shadows just as a swarm of skeletal creatures surrounded him, rusty swords and axes raised. Their leader departed, infuriatingly out of reach now that the floor had collapsed between them. She cursed and dashed toward the fray. She would have to settle for weaker prey.
"Cain! I'm here to rescue you!" Iona shouted, sternly reminding herself of her purpose here and raising her weapons. She always rode the edge of the trigger whenever she fought with handbows, acutely aware of exactly how much pressure was necessary to fire off a shot and never sparing more than that. Now she set the bows for rapid fire. "Get down!"
Cain knelt at once with his skinny arms held protectively over his head. Iona's fingers twitched. A spray of bolts fizzed into the skeletons like a swarm of angry bees. Dry bones splintered and withered ligaments snapped. They collapsed in heaps, hissing furiously, and Iona darted forward and swept the old man into her arms.
"Come, we must go now," she said urgently, hauling him to his feet. "We've made a great deal of noise; you are not safe."
"Yes, of course," he wheezed, hobbling toward a rotting bookcase. He tugged at one of the swollen, molding books, and to Iona's astonishment, the bookcase slid to one side, and fresh air filled the room. Cain smiled at her. "I found this passage in a collection of old maps. Please, follow me. The Skeleton King cannot leave the catacombs. He will not chase us."
She climbed out after him and found herself in the cemetery again. But I fell so far… Her thoughts trailed off into nothingness as she gazed up the side of a cliff to her right. The cemetery was so large that it spanned multiple levels of land. The graves here at the base of the cliff were older; she could barely make out their inscriptions.
Cain wiped sweat from his brow and ran his fingers shakily through his disheveled white beard. "Thank you for rescuing me, young Miss. But I must ask…why did you risk yourself for me?"
"Your niece, Leah, was worried for your safety. We should leave quickly. The cemetery is no place for you, now. The dead have been rising since the Star fell on the Cathedral. I dispatched their mothers, but there may be more wandering around."
She eyed him dubiously as she spoke. He had turned his ankle when she commanded him to duck. It could take hours to reach Tristram, now, unless she carried him. Iona was very strong, but only for her size. Like a willow wand, her mother had once scolded. You really must eat more, dear. In addition, she still had not slept, and she had not eaten. She was not certain she could carry him all the way back without exhausting her strength completely. If they were attacked…
"Leah! Oh, it is so good to hear that she is well," Cain sighed, relieved. "I agree with you completely on the matter of leaving as quickly as we can. I can tell you more about this Star, if you wish. Come with me to Tristram."
He closed his eyes and waved his hand slowly in a sweeping motion over the ground. To Iona's astonishment, a bright circle of light appeared, encompassing a collection of strange runes. Cain opened his eyes and chuckled at her expression. "You have never seen a Waypoint, I see. They are quite useful, and they have saved my life more times than I would care to count. Would you like me to show you how to conjure them, yourself, young Miss?"
"My name is Iona. And I am afraid I have no talent for conjuring."
He peered at her for a long moment, humming tunelessly to himself under his breath. "You will, Iona—after a fashion. You have more talent than you know, child." He waved the Waypoint away. "Come, at least allow me this opportunity to repay you for saving a foolish old man's life. Mm?"
Despite her impatience, Iona could not help herself. Cain had a certain subtle charm, a way of smiling that completely disarmed her. She holstered her weapons and walked to his side.
"Very good," he murmured approvingly. "The most important virtue of any good student is the willingness to learn. Now, Iona, hold out your hand, palm-down, and think of New Tristram. Close your eyes, if that helps. You cannot create a Waypoint to a place you have never seen, of course, but I assume that if you met my niece, you have been to New Tristram. The sight alone is not enough, however. You must capture the essence of the place. Think of its sounds, its smells, its people, its history if you know it, and even the feel of the ground beneath your feet in the town square. Hold those things in your mind, and when you believe you have them, move your hand over the ground and your desire to travel there will create the Waypoint. Take your time."
Iona closed her eyes, remembering the stench of burning bodies, the lights in the windows of the inn, the barricade, Captain Rumford, the Mayor…and Leah. I must complete my promise to Leah, she thought with deep conviction. I take Deckard Cain to New Tristram.
The Waypoint appeared, blazing in the grass at her feet, and she stepped back in shock. "How…?"
Cain smiled warmly, gazing up at her from beneath bushy eyebrows. "Don't you know? You are special, my child. In time, you will understand, and I will help you to the best of my abilities. Shall we go?"
Iona nodded. Together, they stepped into the circle, and vanished.