Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  Lesganagh guide this fading soul

  Into your shining Halls

  “No one takes my hand. And no one grieves my death,” Drangar said with bitter finality.

  It was dark.

  It was cold.

  Bright-Eyes was furious. Now that he had regained his wits, it was difficult not to be angry. Lloreanthoran had abandoned him during the exodus of Honas Graigh. He remembered the slow decay of his wits; he could explain and understand why it had happened, but that knowledge was a weak balm. He knew he should have been more patient with his creator, and hoped his message had been understood. He knew how slow elves could be when it was time to decide something, knew they might share his lack of seeing the danger until the spirit-woman had informed him. The memory of how slow elves could be and how panicked they could become if things took a different turn was enough to bring forth all the bitter feelings he harbored against the wizard who had abandoned him. He also knew that he should activate the mirror once more and explain in full. Still, he was too proud to do just that.

  “Have you told him?” the voice rang inside his head.

  “I told him,” he replied, though he knew the being could probably see the half-truth shining in his mind.

  “I understand,” was her reply. “I’ll convince him.” With those words, Bright-Eyes was, once more, alone.

  “Might as well do something useful while the spirit talks to him,” he muttered and stashed the mirror away. The squirrel hopped down the ruined wall and headed back to Honas Graigh, unsure of what it was he wanted to do, yet still determined to prove, more to himself than anyone else, his anger was not all that was left of him.

  CHAPTER 23

  The Veil of Dreams she knew. After all it had been her kin who had studied all aspects of magic for millennia, until the elves had, with her help, risen against their masters. She had broken so many laws over the years that the sanctity of the elven realm beyond this Veil mattered little to her.

  There were many Veils in the world, some physical, like the Veil of Fire, some, like the Veil of Dreams, spiritual. To pass through either was an effort that took raw magical power.

  Lightbringer felt the blood around her sizzle away, consumed by the forces she fed into opening the corridor between realities. Her people had never understood that magic, like reality, was what you made of it: malleable, yet omniscient. One needn’t force it into any shape; it knew shapes before anyone else had ever conceived them.

  The elves had learned mage-craft from her, had learned from the mistakes she could not unlearn, so ingrained were her people’s teachings. Under the elven people magic flourished. Instead of forcing magic and reality into the shapes they wanted by using life force, the elves guided magic into forms and shapes that magic had known all along. Magic needed a nudge, a word or ten, and maybe a gesture, much like shooing crows. They had learned much from the mistakes of their enslavers, but ultimately, they chose a similar path.

  Lightbringer tore away the Veil of Dreams like gossamer silk. Blood evaporated around her like boiling water as she opened a gateway to the elven realm.

  Her spiritform floated into a land of beautifully shaped buildings lined by steeloaks and beeches. The walls, roofs, and even doors were gilded with gems that positively reeked of enchantments. Her heightened senses suffered none of the limitations that hampered man and elf, and she could tell that these jewels were the foci that maintained this dream world.

  She took in the vista, floated up to gain a higher vantage and was surprised to discover that the realm was flat. A hill here and there, but no curving of the plain, only a straight line from horizon to horizon.

  One sight, however, caught her attention: a small building, overgrown with clingferns and ivy. A steeloak of incredible size pierced it and in parts replaced the roof. In this controlled environment the small house was a marvel of nature’s chaos. Like a sore it stood apart from the others.

  Lightbringer had seen the glorious spires of Honas Graigh, old Gathran’s capital, and had traveled in those cities the elves had built after their enslavers had fled. The architecture here was reminiscent of those structures yet differed so much that Lightbringer wondered how similar the elves had become to their enslavers.

  The sky was devoid of any celestial body, only waning illumination heralded the coming of dusk. It came as a shock when, in the matter of a few heartbeats, the gloom of artificial twilight changed to complete darkness. Without lights in the countless houses she would have thought herself inside the Veil of Gloom.

  She began her search in the wild-walled house, feeling that the familiar’s master lived there. It was no use looking for someone malleable; she needed someone who would do out of necessity what she needed them to do.

  Lloreanthoran pushed the tome he was reading aside, irritated. Bright-Eyes. Long before he had seen the squirrel’s face in the mirror, he had already thought of home, of Gathran, of Honas Graigh, and although the memory made him also relive the pain, he felt more certain every day that leaving the world and living beyond the Veil of Dreams was wrong. Now, Bright-Eyes had reminded him of the hidden shame of his people

  A war worse than the Heir War?

  What had happened to the Aerant C’lain and the secrets stored within? A mindstorm. He had read about such phenomena long ago. What could have corrupted the souls?

  Back when they had abandoned Honas Graigh, none had thought of recovering the books hidden within this tomb of knowledge. He knew what had been buried, despite the tomb having been around for centuries before his birth. If there was truth in what Bright-Eyes had said, he needed to bring this news to the Council of Mages.

  Maybe something would change.

  Maybe facing this danger was the first step in taking the elves of Gathran back into the world. Why couldn’t his people see that this wasn’t life but an imitation, a fake? A glorious picture one could hang on a wall and marvel at, unreal like every dream. Were they living a dream, or reliving a nightmare? Sometimes it was a bit of both.

  The elven wizard leaned back in his chair, took a sip from his mug of tea, and called his apprentice. “Tell me, Kyrreandros, what is life for one such as you? Born and raised here in this world,” he asked when the younger elf entered.

  The wizard-in-training looked at his teacher, shrugged, and said, “It’s home.”

  It was maddening. How could the young, his hope for change, be so lethargic? The longer he lived here, the more he thirsted for a real sky, real rain, not this summoned water that sprinkled down from this blue canopy at the predetermined time.

  “Don’t you long to see the land of your ancestors?”

  “Why bother, it’s all overrun by humans, anyway.”

  This remark made Lloreanthoran sit straight. He wasn’t certain he had heard the lad correctly. “Pardon?”

  “The humans drove us away,” Kyrreandros explained patiently. “They started their petty war to drive us off and claim our lands for themselves.”

  “They did?” He fought against raising his voice. How much manure did parents feed their children?

  “The slaves rose against us and won.”

  “No.”

  “Master, how can you deny history?”

  “History!” Lloreanthoran spat. “You weren’t even born when human wizards fought each other!”

  “They wanted us…”

  “They didn’t care for us!” he snapped. “Bystanders. We were innocent bystanders, nothing more, nothing less.”

  “But they were our slaves,” protested the young elf.

  “They hadn’t been slaves of ours for a long time, and there was no rebellion, no uprising. They just grew up and we helped them along the way.”

  “And the destruction of Honas Graigh?”

  “An accident.”

  “How can the destruction of a city be an accident?”

  Lloreanthoran sighed, he had asked the same question over and over when Aureenal and Lilanthias had died, but had made his peace with those events
shortly after the creation of the realm of elves.

  This abomination of an elven realm.

  “The human wizards fought, spell by spell, and, when none of them could win supremacy over their kin, they summoned dragons…”

  “They pierced the Veil of Fire?”

  “Aye. And so, dragon fought dragon in the skies while wizard battled wizard on the ground. It was humans and us who put an end to it. We could abide their fighting no more; too many lives had already been lost. Most were human not elven.

  “But,” he leaned forward, “isn’t this something you should have been told by your parents?”

  “They told me the slaves revolted and forced us back. Others claim the same things you do, but they are of minor families and have no position.”

  “So only those of power tell the truth?”

  Kyrreandros frowned. “I don’t know,” he finally said.

  “When you do know your studies will continue, until then you are relieved.” With a wave of his hand he dismissed both student and tea-mug.

  The young elf stood and sulked out.

  “Damn them all!” the wizard cursed. “Lies and deception, it seems my race is only capable of such.”

  “And intrigue,” a voice added.

  Lloreanthoran jumped up and whirled around, scanning the room for intruders. His right hand blazed, ready with a spell of destruction. He saw no one. “Who are you? Show yourself!”

  “Dismiss the magic, I come in peace,” the unseen intruder said with a raspy voice.

  A mental command sent the summoned force away.

  “Splendid.” The shadows cast by the flickering mage-candles coalesced into a grey-tinted, female spiritform.

  For a moment Lloreanthoran frowned, fighting the urge to throw himself to the ground and supplicate the being. It passed. Instead, he felt a slight trickle down his legs as his bladder emptied itself.

  What was this creature, he wondered as he tried to hide his consternation and embarrassment.

  Another part of his mind was reeling in terror, begging for forgiveness of his mistress. “I am no slave!” he finally snarled.

  “Aye, you are not,” the spirit confirmed.

  Despite the being’s reassurance he felt weak, his urge to kneel unbroken. “What foul sorcery is this?”

  “I can't undo what my people did.”

  “You are one of the masters?” Lloreanthoran caught himself as he started to whimper like an ailing dog.

  “That and more, and I need your help.” The spirit sounded tired.

  “Who are you?”

  “I go by many names,” she smiled sadly. “Some called me Deceiving Whore. Your people called me Lainthraght.”

  “The Lightbringer!” Now Lloreanthoran fell to his knees.

  “Gods, I thought I had taken care of this supplication nonsense!” she howled in frustration. “Breeding between those whom I helped and the ones that your people freed didn’t suffice. No matter. Stand up! I need someone of action, not a yapping dog!”

  Confused, he rose and looked at the translucent figure standing before him. “What do you wish me to do?”

  “I need your help,” the female stated.

  “Doing what?”

  “To correct a mistake your people and I made.”

  His confusion only increased. “The Aerant C’lain?”

  “Aye, but hurry, time is running short. Seek me out in the world beyond.”

  Then she was gone, whisked away by whatever magic she had used to enter the realm of elves. Irritated, Lloreanthoran formed a spell to clean the urine off the floor and his garments. The minor spell, the slight touch of magic returned his focus.

  The Lightbringer. She had spoken to him. He remembered the legends, how she had gifted his people with freedom and taught them magic. Now she needed his help. For what, he could only guess.

  He sent his consciousness to the one person he knew would surely help him receive the permission to leave: Julathaen.

  He felt the brief resistance of the mage’s wards before they admitted him. The ancient mage sensed his presence immediately and turned to greet him.

  “Welcome, old friend,” Julathaen smiled warmly. “What brings you here at this late hour?”

  He could hardly contain his excitement. In brief sentences he told the council leader what had transpired. The ancient elf’s smile faded to a grim line of his lips. “So, she has come again,” Julathaen said.

  “Again? She came to us after our fight for freedom?”

  “Twice.” The council leader scratched his chin.

  “Why haven’t I ever heard of this?”

  Julathaen’s reply came fast, without a hint of the infamous elven deliberation. “We didn’t deem it wise. The second time she came during our greatest peril since the rebellion. It was she who closed what wasn’t meant to ever be opened again.”

  At this Lloreanthoran frowned. “She closed the gate?”

  “Indeed.”

  He thought he knew all about the greatest failure of his people, but this fact upset his entire view on their faults. “You couldn’t have done it without her?”

  “We hardly knew what we had done,” replied Julathaen. “Our lore seekers deciphered some formulae carved into an ancient temple wall we had found, and being curious they followed the instructions. Much blood flowed that day.”

  “You were there?”

  “Aye.”

  Lloreanthoran had always known the council leader to be old, but he, until now, had not known how old Julathaen really was. “I would like to hear more about this, later,” he said. “There are more pressing matters at hand.”

  “Such as?”

  “The Lightbringer wants me to return to the world we left behind. There I am to find out more.”

  “Has the old witch found a new pawn then?” Julathaen shook his head, a slight smirk distorting his features.

  “Pawn?”

  “Indeed, but no matter, you know that we need a good reason for the others to allow you to leave. To them the Lightbringer is a fiery tale. You need a more plausible reason, something the fools will accept.”

  He would have taken a step back, hearing his mentor and superior talk about their peers like this. “But, sir…” he began, only to be interrupted by Julathaen.

  “Ah, don’t give me that nonsense. You know as well as I do that the petty feuds our houses enjoyed while in a real world have increased tenfold since we built our little paradise. They spread lies and dissent whenever they can. And don’t look as if you don’t know what I’m talking about! You have seen it yourself. Yes, yes, I may have agreed to create this realm, I may have devised the spells that keep it standing, but do I like it? Horse manure!”

  Lloreanthoran was glad that his spiritform couldn’t show his excitement. Never before had he heard Julathaen swear.

  “You were there; what choice did we have? We who think it the epitome of silliness to run and hide from the world. We need a plan, a hook to dangle before the Council members who prefer our isolation. Even the dwarves in their mountains are more in touch with the world than we are!”

  “The Tomes of Darkness inside the Aerant C’lain,” Lloreanthoran said after a moment of thought.

  “You want to reclaim the books?” Despite his age, the old elf began to pace. “Good, good.”

  “Aye, but there is more: a mindstorm surrounds the tomb, Bright-Eyes told me.”

  “Mindstorm?” Julathaen frowned. “What could’ve possibly disturbed the tomb?”

  “I know not. Bright-Eyes also told me about a war that supposedly made the Wizard War look like child’s play.”

  At that, Julathaen stopped pacing. “By the gods,” he whispered, eyes wide. “Idiot humans! That changes things! I convene the Council, immediately.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Thirteenth of Chill, 1475 K.C.

  Kildanor wandered through the sleeping city. Nerran had left Dunthiochagh immediately upon learning the depth of Jathain’s betrayal, and the Chosen ha
d been anxious since Nerran’s departure. He had seen the older warrior and his Riders off even before the corpse of Drangar Ralgon had been taken to the small shrine Kildanor maintained inside the Palace. The young spy, Jesgar, rode with Nerran, as it was Duasonh’s hope the younger man could learn from the older.

  “I hope the geezer knows what he’s doing,” he muttered as he approached North Gate. Night had already taken the city in its icy hold and, to his surprise, the sturdy steeloak portals usually closed at dusk stood open, guardsmen milling about the entryway.

  He quickened his pace and arrived when the sentinels admitted a white, rider-less yet fully saddled horse. A moment later he saw the mutt that held the steed’s reins firmly in its mouth. At this Kildanor arched an eyebrow. The mount didn’t seem to mind being led by the canine, but shied away from a guard seeking to take hold of the bridle. The dog followed suit and growled at the offending man, while keeping the rein in its jaws.

  The warden of the guard saw his approach and saluted. “Sir,” he said.

  Kildanor nodded. “Report.”

  “Sir, we spotted horse and dog a few moments ago.”

  The Chosen glanced at the animals and frowned. “Where did they come from?”

  “The Shadowswamp by the look of it.” Both had dried mud on their legs.

  He left the warden behind and walked over to the two warriors who tried to calm the beasts. The pair had little success. The white horse eyed the guardsmen warily, while the mutt bared his teeth, growling at them. Aside from the other warriors who shifted their attention between the land beyond the city walls and the two curious animals, the commotion had attracted a score of onlookers.

  At the warden’s signal, two more guards left the gatehouse and held the gathering crowd back. Kildanor approved the man’s order with a brief nod, and then turned his attention to the animals. When the dog looked at him with thoughtful eyes, he took a step back.

  Take me to him.

  He heard the voice clearly, but it was apparent that no one else had. It seemed as if the dog had spoken. He shook his head. “Impossible.”

  The mutt didn’t take her eyes off of him.