Soon they were free of the riverside bazaar and back into the streets. Here the way was less crowded. The lurker had to keep a greater distance.
Meric frowned at the fellow’s persistence. He was clearly not an ordinary cutpurse; victims were easier to target in the tumult of the bazaar. So what did this fellow want? Meric touched his own magick, drawing energy from the winds flowing up the river channel. He lowered a hand casually to the sword on his hip and prepared to act with the speed of an elv’in if necessary.
Nee’lahn flicked her eyes to his sword. “Perhaps rather than waiting for an attack, we should spring the trap first.”
Meric glanced to her. “Do you have the strength?” The trek through the ruined woods around Moon Lake had taxed the nyphai woman. But once back in healthy forest, she had slowly revived.
She nodded, swinging her lute from her shoulder. “Though this town is cut from the Western Reaches, it is but a ship atop a sea. Under the land here, the forest persists in the flow of roots and the richness of loam.”
Meric noticed how she grew more beautiful as she touched her own magick. It was a subtle change: a sharper cast to her violet eyes, a deeper honey to her hair, a richer glow to her skin. “Then let us indeed lay our own snare.”
“Follow me,” Nee’lahn said, and ducked into a narrow side street. Here there were only a few people on the rutted road. She increased her pace, searching for something.
“What are you—?”
“Here!” she whispered, tugging him toward an alehouse window. Inside, a few patrons sat around plank tables, gripping flagons of mead as if their lives depended on each drop.
“The alley,” Nee’lahn whispered. “On my word.”
Meric noticed the shadowy space between the alehouse and a neighboring blacksmith. The sound of hammers and the hissing roar of forges echoed to the streets.
“Here he comes,” Nee’lahn whispered, nodding to the reflection in the window. “Quickly.”
She led him into the alley. They hurried toward a pile of empty barrels stacked near a side door to the alehouse. The yeasty reek of stale hops filled the space.
“We’ll wait for him here,” she said as Meric shrugged out of his bags and hid their supplies by the barrels. “Be ready with your blade, but let me act first.” Nee’lahn slid the cloth covering from her lute. She ran her fingers along the strings and grew even more lovely as her magick swelled inside her. She now shone with an inner warmth and richness that ached his heart. “He comes,” she whispered, drawing him back to their plight and pushing him farther into their hiding place.
Between the stacked barrels, Meric and Nee’lahn spied as the lurker stepped to the mouth of the alley. He glanced up and down the street. His very posture was a frown. Slowly he slipped into the shadows between the alehouse and the blacksmith.
Meric felt Nee’lahn tense beside him.
The attacker glanced back to the street. He waved. A second and a third man entered the alley. They were similarly clad in cloaks and slouched hats.
Meric flinched. There wasn’t just one thief. He glanced back; the alley ended a few steps behind them at a brick wall. The only other way out was the side door to the alehouse. But even if it was unlocked, it lay on the far side of the barrels.
Nee’lahn squeezed his hand, silently warning him to be ready. Then her hands moved to her lute.
Meric tightened his grip on his sword. There were only three, and the two of them had the advantage of surprise. Then Meric startled as another two cloaked figures entered the alley.
The odds had just worsened, and now Meric wasn’t sure who had the advantage of surprise. Yet another figure entered the alley, making it a total of six attackers.
Nee’lahn remained where she stood, calm and shining. Meric was surprised the others in the alley did not spot her beacon.
From his vantage, Meric watched the first lurker edge toward the piled barrels. The fellow waved one of his cohorts to test the alehouse door. The man whisked to obey.
Meric tensed. The banging of hammer on anvil from the neighboring smithy seemed to echo Meric’s own heartbeat, thudding loud in his ears. The cloaked figure tested the door. It was indeed locked or barred.
In the alley, all eyes swung to the stack of barrels.
So much for the advantage of surprise.
The hammering continued, seeming much louder. Then one bright note cut through the noise: a single plucked lute string.
Everyone froze in the alley.
Nee’lahn strummed down the remaining strings, building a complex chord that rang through the alley.
The first lurker pointed, but before anyone could move, a tangle of roots shot out of the ground, tangling up like a net. Three men were captured. The remaining three bolted away.
“Run!” Nee’lahn cried. But before they could take two steps, the root-captured figures underwent a strange transformation.
Meric grabbed Nee’lahn and pulled her away.
All three melted down out of their cloaks and slithered snakelike from their root cages, a flow of living flesh. Once beyond the bindings, each formed a different forest creature: a woodland cat, a giant eagle, and a white wolf. The transformed beasts took flight on wings and paws.
But at the mouth of the alley, the wolf stopped. This beast had been the first lurker. Meric now sensed it was a female—a she-wolf. Her pelt shone snow-white in the sunlight of the street. She glanced to them, her eyes burning amber with fury. Then she was gone.
“Shape-shifters,” Nee’lahn gasped.
Joach sat in a chair across from Greshym. The inn window was thrown open, allowing the sounds of the town to echo up to their second-floor room: the shouts of merchants, the babble of common folk, and somewhere nearby a lone babe wailed. They were all the sounds of life—and before him, trussed in ropes, sat the very figure of such vitality.
The darkmage smiled at him from an unlined face, his hair a rich brown. His shoulders were square, his back straight. Joach could not remember ever being so hale. Yet he knew he must have once been, for staring him in the face was his own youth, stolen by a spell.
Joach leaned on his staff, his cheek resting against the petrified wood. The afternoon heat threatened to lull him into a drowse, but he fought against it. The trek here had worn his joints sore and ached his heart. But worse than the hard leagues was his proximity to Greshym. For the past winter, Joach had plotted revenge, planned ways to reclaim his stolen youth. Now his enemy had been dropped at his feet, bound and impotent.
And he could do nothing about it.
His grip tightened on his staff. He frowned at the Blood Diary resting atop a table in the room, the source of his consternation.
Greshym noted his attention. “Destroy the book and we can have at it, my boy.”
Joach straightened in his seat, wincing with pain. “As much as I might wish it, that will never happen. But don’t worry. There will come a time when we will settle our old scores.” These last words were as much a promise to himself as to the darkmage.
Greshym’s smile became bitter. “Then spend your last winters dreaming of youth, because that’s all you’ll ever have.” The darkmage glared over to the Diary.
The magickal tome bound Greshym here much more than the ropes with which Er’ril had secured the man. Cho had cast a spell upon the darkmage in her fury, drawing a bit of his spirit into the Void and tying it there. Thus bound, any magick Greshym collected would be drawn immediately into the Void. The spell effectively stripped the darkmage of his powers.
Unfortunately, it also stymied any of Joach’s spells; any magick—dream or dark—cast upon Greshym was simply sucked into the Void, too.
Neither of them could act. It was a stalemate of wills and power.
Days ago, upon capturing Greshym, Er’ril had wanted to slice the mage’s throat, but Elena argued against such rash action. They faced a great battle at Blackhall, and any knowledge of the volcanic peak’s secret defenses or forces could prove crucial. Also Gre
shym had intimate experience of the Black Heart and his lieutenant Shorkan, details that could mean the difference between victory and defeat in the days ahead. So the darkmage was allowed to live, a prisoner amongst them.
Greshym sighed. “There is so much I can teach you, Joach, so little you understand of your full potential.” These words sounded both tired and oddly honest.
Joach squinted at his adversary. “There’s nothing you can teach me that I’d want to learn.” But even to his own ears, these words rang hollow.
Greshym shrugged. “You’re too raw to your talent to know what you dismiss so readily.”
Joach’s eye twitched. He knew he was rising to bait but he couldn’t help it. “Like what?”
“You’re a dream sculptor. Such a one as you hasn’t been born in countless generations. If I bore such a gift . . .” His words trailed off. The tip of his tongue moistened his lip. “I could stand against the Black Heart himself.”
Again Joach sensed the honesty behind these words. True or not, Greshym believed it. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Greshym’s eyes focused back on Joach. “All I will tell you is that the line between dream and reality is not as firmly drawn as most imagine. If you believe in a dream solidly enough, sculpt it with enough of your heart and spirit, it can cross over into reality.”
Joach swallowed hard. Had not Shaman Parthus hinted at such a blurring of the line between reality and dream?
Greshym spoke softly. “I know what you want, Joach.”
“You know nothing.”
Young eyes stared, and a young mouth spoke one word. “Kesla.”
Anger filled those spaces inside Joach that were hollow and empty. His voice boiled over with this fury. “Never speak her name again, mage. Elena’s wish or not, I’ll take a dagger to you.”
Greshym shrugged at the threat. “Death is also a blurry line when one is granted life by the Black Heart.”
Joach scowled, but he knew he could never kill the mage, not until he regained his youth and learned this hinted secret: a way to make dreams real. He pictured a girl with golden hair and violet eyes, and the weary ache in his heart threatened to overwhelm him.
Oblivious to Joach’s pain, Greshym continued, leaning back in his chair, “We are not unalike, my boy.”
Joach scoffed.
“Do we not both crave the youth robbed from us? Is this not so?” His voice dropped to a sly level. “Must we always be enemies? Couldn’t we share what we both desire?”
Joach frowned. “Share?”
“I give you back half the years stolen, and I keep the other half. Each will be a bit older, but neither will be decrepit.”
“Why should I do that?”
“To learn what I might teach you.”
Joach ran his fingers down this staff. The ripe dream energies trapped there flowed like his own blood. Over these past winters, he had grown in his power, but he was far from a master. Could Kesla indeed be made real? “What would be the cost for such a lesson?”
“Mere trifles. My freedom, my life.”
“So you can betray us again?”
Greshym rolled his eyes. “You place too much importance on your own significance to me. In truth, I had hope never to see the lot of you again.”
Joach looked doubtful.
“There is no love lost between Shorkan and myself, as you well know. I’ve betrayed the Black Heart for my own desires. Do you truly think I want any dealings with them?”
“Why? What is this difference between you and Shorkan? Why is he so unfailing in his allegiance and you so fickle?”
“Ah . . .” Greshym leaned back as much as the ropes would allow. “Before the book was forged, Shorkan was always more . . . well, dedicated to his causes. To him, everything in the world was divided along clearly defined lines: black and white, right and wrong. I had a more pragmatic view of life. To me the world was a tad more gray. So when the Blood Diary was forged and the spell attempted to split the good from the bad, it had a harder time with me. I carried many shades of gray, so the division was not as crisp and clear. I suspect it was one reason the spell left me so disfigured: immortal but aging of body.”
“So you’re saying Shorkan is more loyal because it was easier to draw off all that was good in him, leaving only the black for the Dark Lord.”
Greshym sighed. “While I’m still laced with shades of gray.”
Joach stared at the figure before him, wondering at this revelation.
“So free me,” Greshym continued, “and I’ll leave you to your little war. You’ll be free to join such a battle, a younger self, ripe with dream magicks the likes of which you’ve never—dare I say—dreamed!”
Joach listened, uncertain. He knew Greshym could never be trusted. But perhaps with enough safeguards in place . . .
The door to the room banged open, startling Joach. He twisted around, earning another painful twinge from his aching back.
Meric burst into the room, out of breath, followed by Nee’lahn. “Are Elena and Er’ril not back yet?”
Greshym frowned and nodded to the room’s cot. “They’re hiding under the bed.”
Meric was so shaken he even glanced there.
“They’re still rounding up horses and tack,” Joach said. “What’s wrong?”
Nee’lahn answered, clearly the calmer of the two. “Si’lura,” she said. “We were followed through the market.”
“Shape-shifters?” Joach pulled himself to his feet. “Why were they following you?”
Meric found his tongue. “Maybe they were common brigands.” He tossed the purchased supplies atop the bed. “Laden as we were, we may have been simple targets.”
Greshym spoke from his chair. “Si’lura have little need for dried peaches and kettle pots. They are forest creatures, half wild. I’d suggest you think deeper upon this encounter. I doubt it was chance that they are here.”
“I agree,” Nee’lahn said to Meric. “That she-wolf seemed more than a mere thief.”
His reply was cut off when a commotion erupted from the inn courtyard: shouts and the clatter of hooves, followed by a sharp whinny and a crash of pottery.
A voice cut through the excitement. “Step away!”
Meric hurried to the open window. “It’s Er’ril.”
“I’ll lead the black!” the plainsman yelled. “Stable the others!”
“You’ll pay for those pots!” another man cried. Joach recognized the innkeeper’s voice.
“This should settle our accounts,” Er’ril said.
A short pause. “Gold! Break all the pots you want, good sir!”
Joach and Nee’lahn joined Meric at the window. Below was chaos. Ten horses jostled about in the cramped courtyard, churning up dust and dirt. Most wore saddles and packs. He spotted Harlequin darting toward the kitchen door of the inn, attempting to avoid being trampled. Elena rode a sleek brown mare, while Er’ril led a monstrous black stallion toward the stables.
Meric stiffened beside Nee’lahn. “Isn’t that Kral’s mount?”
“Rorshaf,” Nee’lahn agreed, and frowned. “What strangeness is this?”
“We should help settle the horses,” Meric suggested. “And tell about the shape-shifters.”
Nee’lahn nodded, and the pair headed out the door.
Joach returned to his chair and his guard duty. The darkmage’s eyes followed him.
“This next leg of the journey should prove most interesting,” Greshym mumbled. “Shape-shifters . . . strange reunions . . .”
“So?”
“After having lived for so many centuries, I’ve learned one thing.” Greshym’s eyes bore into Joach. “Never trust chance encounters.”
12
Er’ril rode Rorshaf down the rutted path. Since they had left Woodbine three days ago, the forest road had dwindled to this narrow, crooked trail that followed the Mirror River. All day long, their party had not come across a single fellow traveler. And with the sun setting, the trail stretched
empty ahead of them. It seemed the world had shrunk down to just their small group and the endless forest beyond.
Still, empty trail or not, Er’ril maintained his vigilance. Entire armies could lurk in this dark wood and keep themselves hidden. A deep green gloom settled with the waning sunlight. In the distance, nesting birds sang and argued, but otherwise the forest remained silent. The quiet pressed down upon their group. Everyone spoke in hushed whispers. Even the horses seemed to tread softly, their hooves muffled by the carpet of pine needles and thick loam.
With night falling, Er’ril searched for a campsite. He wanted somewhere near the river but high enough to offer an advantage if they were attacked.
As he studied the terrain, Elena shuffled her brown mare forward to join him. He glanced over to her. She wore a green riding cloak over brown leggings and a gray shirt. Her face was worn and tired, but some of the despair in her eyes had faded since leaving the sorry streets of Woodbine. The plight of the many hundreds displaced by the magickal explosion had affected her deeply. But here in the woods, free of the constant reminder, she slowly regained her center, her strength.
“We’ve had word from A’loa Glen,” she said.
Er’ril twisted in his saddle and spotted Joach pocketing the large black pearl that connected him to the zo’ol shaman, Xin, back at the castle. Beyond Joach, the others rode in a line, including Greshym. The darkmage had been lashed to the saddle, his horse tethered to Meric’s gelding. Greshym caught his eye. He wore an amused smile and gave a nod in Er’ril’s direction. The pair shared a history that extended back centuries.
Er’ril tore his gaze back to Elena. “How fare the preparations for the siege of Blackhall?”
Elena walked her mare beside the larger stallion. “Xin relayed a message from Prince Tyrus. He leads his pirate brigade in advance of the other fleets. They are a fortnight out from the Bay of T’lek.”
Er’ril nodded. The icy northern bay surrounded the volcanic eruption that was Blackhall. “They’re making good headway.”
“He anticipates the assault will be ready to strike with the next moon.”
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