to where the stars and moons should have been, to where the mysterious, incomprehensible thing was instead. If that monstrosity did come down to crush the mound, she realized, she wouldn’t be able to get out from underneath it in time; it filled the entire sky above her, a gently-glowing immensity she still could not bring into focus.
But then the descent stopped, and something protruded from the hovering mass, reaching down toward the mound of people. Something shimmered, and something moved, and she sensed thumping and rustling — sensed it more than heard it, though she realized that her hearing was beginning to adjust to the overwhelming presence of the Response. She stepped back — and even as she did, she marveled that she could step back, away from the source of the Calling.
She knew she should be terrified, should be mad with terror, being here and seeing these things — that gigantic thing in the sky, the huge pile of what could only be Called warlocks that were neither alive nor dead, these displays of magic completely outside human understanding — but somehow she was not. The Response, even though it was very clearly not directed at anything human, was so reassuring that it calmed her and let her watch everything with a certain detachment.
Then the first body rolled down the mound and thumped onto the ground a few feet away.
She started, and turned to find a middle-aged man lying on his back in the grass, looking dazed. She turned to help him. “Are you all right?” she asked, as she reached for his hand.
His gaze was fixed on the thing in the sky, and he did not take her hand. She was unsure he had even heard her. “What is that?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Can you sit up?”
He finally turned his head enough to see her, and her outstretched hand. “Am I dead?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Sensella replied. “But if you don’t move, that may not last.”
“But I —”
He was interrupted by the thump of another body hitting the ground.
“Come on,” Sensella said. “I don’t think we should stay here!”
He finally took her hand and allowed her to help him to his feet, just as an elderly woman fell to the ground a dozen feet away.
“What’s going on?” the man demanded. “Where are we?”
“We’re in Aldagmor,” Sensella told him. “But I don’t know what’s happening.”
“That thing,” the man said. “Who is it talking to?”
Sensella glanced up. “Then you hear it, too?”
“Of course I do! How could I not? It’s deafening!” He turned and looked at the mound. “And…the Calling? I answered the Call?”
“So did I,” Sensella said. “I think they all did.”
“Was I in there?” The expression on his face worried Sensella; it seemed not so much the apprehension or revulsion she would have expected, but eager longing.
More people were tumbling down the sides of the mound, falling onto the grass; a few cried out in pain and surprise as they hit the ground. Then one of them, a woman Sensella thought looked about thirty, caught herself halfway down and flew to one side.
As if that reminded the others that they were warlocks, several people took to the air; suddenly curious, Sensella did the same, lifting herself up, leaving the confused man behind.
Her magic worked as well as ever — better, in fact. She shot upward with astonishing ease and had to catch herself before she slammed into the underside of the gigantic glowing object.
Once airborne, she had a clearer view of what was going on. A long, thin, grayish-white projection of some sort, vaguely tubular, was reaching down from the hovering thing and pushing down into the mound of people, pulling some of them out and heaving them aside, where they tumbled down to the ground — or if they reacted in time, caught themselves before they fell that far. Some of them, Sensella saw, then flung themselves back against the mound, trying to get back into it. She couldn’t tell whether any of them succeeded.
Most of them, though, were able to resist the Calling, as Sensella could, now that the Response had come. They were flying about the scene in a cloud of warlocks, like gnats around a lantern, looking at the mound and at the thing blotting out the sky.
“It was Called, too!” someone exclaimed, pointing up.
“Listen to it,” someone else replied. “That’s what was being Called all along! Whatever’s down there didn’t want us, it wanted that!”
“We just got caught up by accident?”
“But what is it?”
Dozens of people were talking at once now, in a dozen languages, and Sensella could no longer follow it all. She ignored the other warlocks and tried to understand what was happening.
The pile, she knew, was made up of warlocks who had answered the Call, and the only reason she had not plunged right into it and become part of it, trapped in whatever spell held it together, was that the Response, as she thought of it — the voiceless message of comfort that came from that gargantuan flying thing that had come down out of the sky — had drowned out the Calling and let her think again.
The Calling came from beneath the pile of warlocks, she was sure, and whatever was down there was protected by a spell of some kind, a spell that had frozen the warlocks when they got too close, a spell that had made them imperceptible to her own magic. It was probably a defensive spell, a magical barrier, guarding the Call’s source until the thing it was Calling came for it.
But now the Response had come, more than thirty years after the Calling began, and it was digging through the trapped warlocks to get at whatever was down there.
It had been Calling warlocks for all those years; that was a lot of warlocks. Thousands of them, surely! Already, dozens of people were flying around, and most of the mound was still untouched.
But it couldn’t be all the Called warlocks, could it? Could there be people who had been trapped in there since the Night of Madness, back in 5202? That was thirty-four years ago! Sensella herself had been a baker’s apprentice, fifteen years old, the night she woke up screaming, hanging in mid-air above her bed, suddenly aware of every motion in the room around her, her mind filled with images of fire and falling. Hundreds of people, maybe thousands, had vanished that night — they had flown off to Aldagmor, never to return. Ever since then any warlock who grew careless, who used too much magic and made himself too receptive to the Calling, had eventually been drawn away — just as she had herself, less than a day ago.
“Aunt Kallia?”
Sensella turned to see a man she judged to be in his late thirties staring at a young woman. Both were flying above the mound, and their almost random flight had brought them near one another, and near Sensella as well.
The woman turned to look at the man. “Do I know you?” she asked.
“I’m Chanden! Your nephew Chanden! Luralla’s son!”
The woman blinked at him. “But Chanden’s just a boy!”
“I
