Free Citadels of the Lost by Tracy Hickman

Mala remembered, it was occasionally prudent to ask the strange woman who she was and then hope to navigate the conversation based on whatever story she was reenacting that day. Mala decided on a different approach. “I mean . . . excuse me, can you help me?”
    The Lyric turned, barely discernible in the darkness. “Yes, Mala,” she said in a deep, warm voice. “I can help you.”
    Lightning flared above the fissure.
    The statue towered over them, brilliant in the flash. It was a woman carved from marble, but her face was staring directly at Mala. It was a face more beautiful than she had ever seen, the form of her body so exquisitely perfect that it filled Mala with wonder just to look upon it. Her arms were outstretched toward Mala. There was pleading in her eyes.
    The vision faded with the light.
    Mala had to remind herself to breathe again. She had to force herself to look away from where the statue stood and back toward the Lyric. “I want . . . excuse me, but if you want to help me, you need to come with me back . . .”
    The Lyric was silhouetted against the dim flashes of distant lightning. She shook her head and spoke, though, through some trick of the hall, Mala thought, the voice seemed to be coming from everywhere at once.
    â€œNo, Mala, there is no going back.”
    â€œBut they are waiting for us,” Mala insisted, reaching out for the Lyric. “It isn’t safe here. Those creatures—the hunters—from the forest could be anywhere in these . . .”
    â€œThe drakonet will not bother us here,” the voice replied. It seemed to be coming from the Lyric, but Mala could not be certain. The Lyric was moving her lips yet the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once. “They know that this place is mine and that I do not approve of them wandering my halls.”
    â€œAs you say,” Mala responded carefully. She was uncertain of her own sanity and quite certain that the Lyric had none. “Then we should get back to the others. They will be looking for us . . .”
    The lightning flashed again.
    The statue struck Mala as appearing differently than she had first supposed. The face of the beautiful woman now seemed stern and resolute, looking not at Mala as she had first supposed but into the distance. Her hands were still outstretched but now appeared not to be inviting but defiant and expectant of a struggle.
    The flash faded and the statue fell into night’s shadow once more.
    â€œYes,” came the deep and sad reply, “They are gathering and they look for your return. Warriors and hunters rise up against them. The might of many against the will of the few, and who shall save them? In whom will they trust when trust is forgotten and betrayal at hand?”
    Mala took a step back from the Lyric and stumbled, nearly falling over a stone bench. The Lyric stepped toward her, grasping her by the shoulders.
    â€œYou think you are lost,” the deep voice echoed through the hall. All Mala could see was the silhouette of the Lyric against the dim pulsing illumination of the great statue beyond her. “You think that everyone hates you because you hate yourself more than any of them. Who will love you when you are so undeserving of love? Who will gather you home, Mala Timuran? When the truth is known and the fallen citadels rise again . . . who will bring you home?
    The Lyric gripped Mala’s shoulders with incredible strength. “I know your heart, Mala Timuran. You are lost and do not know your own way.”
    Mala shivered. “I just want to go home.”
    â€œHome? What do you know of home?” the voice gently mocked her. “Home to you is a forgetful nothing, a blind eye and a deaf ear. Home is a dream from which you never awaken while sleeping in a bed of devouring roaches. You know nothing of home.”
    A quick flash illuminated disdain on the statue’s face.
    â€œBut there is a place within you that