by Ulff Lehmann
Not much of the happiness Bright-Eyes fondly remembered could be felt in the overgrown garden; its small pond was choked by grass and scum, and the mosaic pattern of stepping stones and flowerbeds hidden by a tangle of bushes, vines, and layer upon layer of leaves. This used to be his home, but it certainly didn’t feel like home anymore.
Still, it was the place where he would find what he needed to get in touch with his friend.
CHAPTER 19
Twelfth of Chill, 1475 K.C.
She felt her power and blood waning, as it had done so many times before. Her lifeblood was not enough to feed the magic needed to force into motion events that had been brewing for centuries. With the little red-brownish fellow, Bright-Eyes, she would, hopefully, stir up enough trouble with the elves that the creatures would send some of theirs to take care of some very old mistakes.
Lightbringer’s consciousness slipped back into her body, and with a few uttered words she claimed the last remnant of magic to heal the cut on her wrist.
She needed more. Blood was power, and she wished that she could apply magic the way elves and humans did. Although the way was well known to her, channeling magic, instead of forcing it, was something she had never been able to accomplish; too deep was the way of her people ingrained into her body and mind. There was nothing else she could do, and so she sent out the call.
With this final sacrifice she had gathered enough power to set her plans in motion. The lives of a few were taken to ensure the safety of many.
How she hated herself. How she hated her heritage. Part of her was glad that her kind had left eons ago, another part regretted being unable to kill them all when she had been powerful enough. Magic was life, and vice versa, but her people had taken that literally. To work grand spells, lives had to be taken. A grim price for power.
“They should have called me Deathbringer,” the woman known as Lightbringer to some and Warbringer to others muttered, as she closed the eyes of the last innocent child.
Gently Lightbringer placed the young girl’s bloodless corpse next to those of the others. “I pray you understand, little ones. Please forgive me.”
With a wave of her hand she summoned flames to burn away the bodies. “May the gods guide you home,” she whispered, bowing her head.
When the fire had burned its way and nothing was left of the dozen corpses, she shed her cloak and lowered herself into the shallow pool of the children’s lifeblood in the stone bowl in the middle of her cave. A wave of disgust mixed with the tingling pleasure of power coursed through her, but she was unable to hide her revulsion and grief.
“It had to be done!” she wailed.
As she immersed herself in the blood her last words emerged as her mouth filled. “Time to move some pieces.”
Colors pounded in on her. Magic, the world’s lifeblood, surrounded her and she stretched out her senses to find those who had the strength and the determination to do what had to be done.
Years and years ago she had watched from afar when the Phoenix Wizards had annihilated each other. She had done nothing, had seen that this cropping was necessary for humanity to learn their fallibility in and respect for the use of magic. The price of their arrogance had been high, but it had been a necessary sacrifice, just like the children whose blood now surrounded her body.
If mankind was to use magic responsibly they had to learn wisdom, trust, and humility. Lightbringer’s own people had been unable to ascend beyond their own pride and the elves had followed the path their slavers had walked before.
It was time to find those who did care.
In the north, beyond the old elven kingdom, she again sensed the small well of will and power. The person was asleep, had been asleep well beyond her lifetime. Lightbringer pushed into the sleeping conscious and hesitated, surprised.
This was not what she had expected.
Her tentative first probe was repelled, and as she pushed harder, she could feel the blood surrounding her body feeding her magic. A quick mental gesture, a few thought words, and she had slipped past the barriers the Phoenix Wizardess had erected around her dormant mind.
“Curious,” she whispered, blood filling her mouth.
In her lifetime she had been inside many a human’s mind and this, albeit sleeping, soul posed no great obstacle to her. In a heartbeat she knew who this woman was and what had gone wrong. Waking her would be easy…
A gasp, followed by a cough, was the first sound to fill the dark room. She could taste dust on her tongue. Her eyes flickered open, and shut immediately as dust trickled in. Muscles that hadn’t moved for a while responded slowly.
Something hadn’t worked as it should have.
She felt the tears welling up, pushing dirt out of her eyes. Even her nose clogged with dust the moment she inhaled. The sneeze that followed wracked her entire body. Her eyes flew open.
Instinctively her hands moved through the motions of a minor spell and when the last gesture was done she felt a soft breeze freeing her of the dust. Blinking, she looked around.
Slowly her memory returned.
“This test you have to take, Ealisaid. When you wake after two weeks you will have gone beyond merely being a pupil. You will be one of us.”
Her surroundings didn’t look like she had only been asleep for a mere two weeks. Dust covered her bed, desk, everything!
The windowpanes were closed, quite unlike the way she had left them. She liked to rise with the sun.
Something had definitely gone wrong.
She tried to stand, but her muscles, weakened from lack of use, gave in the moment she pushed against the floor.
How long had she been in hibernation?
Her throat felt parched and she couldn’t tell whether saliva remained within her. She went through the motions of another minor spell; its casting ended with a flask of water appearing in her hand. At first, she sipped carefully, but in a few moments, she began to gulp with more intensity, draining the flask.
A cursory glance showed the state her dress was in. Another spell renewed its bleached-out colors, washed her skin and hair, applied perfume, and painted her nails. Now, feeling more secure and comfortable about her body, she relaxed, and began tentatively to move her legs to shake off the numb feeling. After several long moments of bending and stretching, she thought it safe to rise. When she reached the window, Ealisaid already felt blood pumping strongly through her veins. Another moment later, her rising dizziness faded.
With deft, determined hands she opened the window, then leant forward, unlatched the shutters and pushed. The wood didn’t move. She pushed, again. Nothing. Frustrated, she gave the shutters a heavy shove. Wood creaked, but didn’t give.
She growled in anger.
How long had it been?
Her anger fueled her muscles where her will had been insufficient. She rushed out her bedroom to the adjacent living room and to one of its windows.
The shutters here remained closed as well. In a fit of anger Ealisaid summoned magical force and sent it smashing into the wooden barricade. At once the shields sped away, torn from their metal holdings. They smashed into a nearby wall. She gasped, utterly confused.
“That’s my garden,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from lack of use.
She leaned out, and stared at a dim, littered alley. Opposite her house stood a stout, quarry-stone building and it must have been there for quite some time. The weathered surface looked like the foundation of her parents’ house back in Thionnaig, and her great-grandparents had built that.
Up and down the alley she saw other structures that showed the same marks of wear. The unbearable stench that assaulted her senses made her gag, and she recoiled from the window; a flick of her hand closed it.
“What is going on here?” she shrieked, slamming door after door behind her, as she rushed through her house.
When she reached her laboratory, the tantrum-flung door caused several jars and beakers to jump on their shelves. Ealisaid ignored the ringing sound a
nd headed straight for the small chest that held her talking-crystal. Someone in Phoenix Citadel better explain this prank. Despite being in familiar surroundings, with countless scents filling the air, she saw dust had settled here also. She detected the faint stink of garbage mingling with the familiar aroma of spices and herbs.
A new fit of rage gripped her and without thinking, she cast a spell to thrust open both window and shutters. Wooden frames, glass, and shields tore through the air, ripped free of their hinges.
The flight of the missiles lasted a few heartbeats before they smashed through a window across a street Ealisaid could not remember being there. She heard frightened screams from the house’s inhabitants.
“Masterful illusion!” she hissed, rushed over to her workbench and flung away the lid of the box that shielded the talking-crystal.
In an instant the crystal’s smooth surface illuminated from within. Ealisaid pulled over a stool and sat, staring intently at the crystal.
“Phoenix Citadel,” she said with a quavering voice.
For several heartbeats the crystal’s illumination wavered, then dimmed and finally vanished, leaving a darkness that enveloped the gem’s smooth surface. Ealisaid leaned forward and gazed into the trinket, fear rising. Usually when she contacted her order in the Shadowpeaks, one of her fellow students would immediately be available to fetch a master. Now the space where the other wizard’s face usually appeared remained black.
“Can anyone hear me?” she said, her voice quavering with dread and anticipation.
There was no reply.
“Anyone?” she pleaded, her hands cupping the stone. “Please, talk to me,” Ealisaid whispered as she brought the stone closer to her face. “I need to speak to master…” her voice trailed off. She couldn’t remember the name of the illusion instructor.
She tried again, this time her fear was evident. “Ealisaid Brandagh wishing to speak with the High Master.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “I need to talk to him. I need to talk to High Master Kalaith.” She bowed her head, touching the crystal to her forehead. “Is there anyone? Please, please, hear me.”
“Lady, are you all right?”
At the sound of the voice her head snapped up and she once more gazed into the stone.
It remained as it had been: dark, uncaring.
Ealisaid whirled around to face the window. A young lass, no older than twelve summers, looked at her through the shattered opening, a curious frown creased her freckled face. Behind the girl Ealisaid could see other children gawking at her. She realized there was quite a crowd gathering in the alley behind her house.
Where her garden would have been.
“Lady?”
She glared at the girl. “What kind of jest is this?”
“Jest, madam?” The lass looked confused.
“Oh, this is a good illusion,” Ealisaid snarled, as she jumped to her feet. “Be gone! You are not real!”
The girl-image appeared frightened and confused just as she felt herself. “This is the most lifelike mirage I’ve ever beheld. Now stop this nonsense, at once!”
To support her demand, Ealisaid called on the powers of magic directly, something her instructors had always chided her for, although it bore the most remarkable effects.
The force she summoned tore out of her outstretched fingers, demolished her laboratory’s wall, and blasted into the childlike illusions and through the images of the walls opposite her house, bringing the entire structure down. The effect was all Ealisaid had hoped for, and more. What she hadn’t expected were the tormented screams of children and adults mixed with the bursting and shattering of stones.
“No more games!” she hollered, leaving her house through the newly created exit into the alley. “Damned illusionist pranks! Stop it this instant!”
Despite the rising noise around her, she refused to believe the buildings surrounding her were real. This was a mirage. It had to be. Again, she called forth a destructive wave of force that tore down another building.
The screams of pain and alarm doubled. Somewhere off to her left a horn was bleating, and she heard armored footsteps approaching.
Maybe this was no illusion.
CHAPTER 20
“Please tell me again why you brought this corpse here?” Cumaill Duasonh’s frown deepened as his look wandered from the man’s mutilated body to the Chosen and Nerran.
Kildanor had expected his friend and lord to be angry, especially in the aftermath of Jathain’s rebellion, but this was something both he and Nerran had been willing to accept. He took a deep breath, readying his reply, when Nerran cut in.
“This chap deserves a warrior’s burial, Cumaill.”
“And why? He looks like any other corpse, maybe worse.”
“He’s a follower of Lesganagh,” Nerran said, counting down on his fingers. “He was one of the best men I’ve ever seen on any one battlefield. And he was said to be blessed by Lesganagh himself.”
Kildanor nodded. “If this is true, he deserves all the proper rites. To refuse him this honor would be to refuse Lesganagh himself, and with the Chanastardhians loose in our territory we can't afford angering the Lord of Sun and War.” He regarded the mutilated corpse. “They slaughtered him, Cumaill. No man deserves such a death.”
“What happened?”
Kildanor let Nerran do the talking while he began the ritual prayer that started the weeklong mourning period prior to the Lesganaghist burial ceremony. It was all too familiar to him. The words came out in the same raspy song priests had used ever since elves had shown men the ways of the gods.
While he intoned words so ancient that even the elves couldn’t say who had written them, he retrieved a cloth and a bowl, filled it with water, and began to clean Drangar Ralgon’s wounds. Each swipe of the cloth was accompanied by a nuanced word or phrase that depended on the length of the patch of body the now blood-soaked piece of cotton touched.
The original composers had given detailed instructions regarding which body part had to be cleaned with a specific line of the hymn. And there were many lines to sing.
The door slammed open.
“What blasphemy is this?”
Kildanor continued the rite, unwilling to let Braigh’s outrage disturb the ceremony. He moved the cloth to Ralgon’s left arm and cleaned the man’s fingers.
“Cumaill!” the priest hissed. “Why do you allow this heretic ritual?”
Kildanor sang on, although he paid attention to what went on around him. The man’s left hand was as callused as his right, witnesses to a life of hard work.
“He is giving this man the proper burial,” Duasonh replied. “A warrior deserves this honor.”
“These songs were banned, and it doesn’t matter that this one is for blessing and mourning the dead.”
Nerran chuckled. “I’m surprised, Caretaker.”
Kildanor heard Braigh’s sharp intake of breath. “And what is it that astonishes you?” he stuttered.
“That you’re familiar with this hymn, it last was sung before you were born.”
The Chosen dipped the cloth into the water and continued with the lower arm. Several scars crisscrossed Ralgon’s skin. Most of them were fairly old; sword cuts most likely. Two recent ones—twin straight lines across the wrist—piqued his curiosity, for they were more recent.
“I … I,” Braigh stuttered.
“You what?” Nerran snapped.
“When my grandmother was buried I was to sing this hymn at her burial.”
Hearing this, Kildanor almost stopped the song. He regained his focus and went on. There were more scars, all over the body. The man reminded him of the soil left ravaged in wake of the Heir War.
“You actually performed the Rite of Light?” Nerran sounded very astonished.
“Yes.”
“Splendid,” Cumaill Duasonh intervened.
Kildanor rinsed the cloth again and resumed cleaning.
“Why is that, lord?” All of a sudden Braigh sounded both curious
and suspicious.
“Alas, I need Kildanor up and about with Nerran, salvaging whatever we can of our fortresses,” Duasonh said. “And since you apparently know hymn and ritual, you will finish what he started.”
“But, milord,” Braigh pleaded, consternation plain in his voice. “I must not do this. It’s blasphemy!”
“You are aware that your church and any other in this city are here at my sufferance, are you not?”
“Aye, sir.”
“It’s settled then, I command, you obey,” Duasonh said. “Now get to work.”
Kildanor sang on, waiting for the moment Braigh joined in. After a few moments the Caretaker’s deep voice added to his, and the two sang the next few phrases in unison, while Kildanor kept cleaning the fingers. Braigh moved to his side, put fingers alongside his on the bloodied cloth.
It astonished Kildanor that Braigh, a man he had always perceived as an enemy of his beliefs, was so familiar with the ritual. Maybe later, when the time availed itself, he would have a long talk with the priest.
When Braigh’s motions matched his own, he let go of the cloth and joined Cumaill Duasonh. The Baron looked as surprised as he felt, but a heartbeat later that expression changed to the determined frown he had worn the past few days.
“Shall we?” the Baron asked as he turned toward the door.
Wordlessly, Kildanor followed his friends as they left the small chamber. They headed for the audience hall; it was again time for supplicants to beg for attention. Kildanor thought it unfortunate that despite Duasonh’s generous and just nature far too few villeins and freeborn came to ask for the Baron’s help. Always the same faces, always the same shouts and demands.
When they neared the audience hall a profound sigh escaped Duasonh’s lips. “They never give up, even with the bloodshed.”
Nerran snorted. “This is the only thing most of them can do. They never think for themselves.” Kildanor found he agreed with him.
“Those who do aren’t here,” Duasonh added with a nod.
