Kishpa went white. “I … I will look to your son,” he said, chastened.
“Thank you. Now, make way for Yeblidod and me. We are leaving Ankatavaka with our honor and our dignity. Let no one say otherwise!”
Confused and unwilling to look at faces she had known for more than one hundred and forty years, the dwarf’s wife took her husband’s arm and walked with him past Canpho, past Kishpa, past everyone, into self-exile.
The first thing Brandella did when she stepped through the door of her home was to rush to her loom. She lit one candle and feverishly went to work on the unfinished scarf she had planned to give Kishpa. It would be her farewell present. It had to be, for it was the very scarf that he had carried with him until his old age.
As she worked the loom, Brandella wept. Her tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto the fabric below. When the scarf was finished, it bore not only her craftsmanship but her love.
Tenderly, she laid the scarf down on her bed, leaning it against his side of the long, down-filled pillow. With shaking hands, she took a piece of parchment from her table and sat down to write. The words did not come easily:
Dearest to my heart—
I would never leave you if I had a choice. But Tanis has come for me, and I cannot refuse him. You see, he comes at your behest, through your own magic as an old man. This life that we live, he says, is not real. It is only as you remember it in your ancient days. In your old age, you think of me still. I love you for that—and for so much more. Just as you have not forgotten me, I promise that I will not forget you. And I will always love you. Believe that. Wear this scarf that I wove with my tears at our parting. But cry not for me because I will always be with you.
Forever,
Brandella
She thought of so many other things she might have said, so many memories she might have included to warm his soul, but she didn’t know where to begin or how to end. So she left it at that, hoping that her declaration of love, unfettered by other thoughts or remembrances, would tell him most clearly how she felt.
She left the note on top of the scarf and headed for the door—until a thought flew into her head. She looked up at the ceiling and stared at the picture she had drawn so long ago. There she saw the image of Tanis carrying her away. But the dream that she had painted did not tell her if Tanis succeeded in his quest. What if Tanis failed? What if he were unable to take her out of Kishpa’s memory? What if he escaped, but she did not; what would Tanis remember of her?
She rushed back to her table and wrote another note, this one for the half-elf. She read it over when she was finished and then closed her eyes to keep her emotions in check. One thing was certain: she knew Kishpa would not understand; he must not see it. She folded the note, put it in a metal box, and then remembered that she was to leave behind the writing instrument with which she had written both her letters. She placed the pen in the box with the note to Tanis, covered it with its lid, and then took the box with her as she rushed outside into the deepening twilight.
On her way to Ankatavaka’s east gate, Brandella stopped at the spot where Tanis slew the giant spider. A warrior remembers all his battlefields, she thought, so it was here that she buried the metal box. Later, she would speak of this to Tanis. If he survived and she did not, she wanted him to know that he should never feel adrift.
The breach in his friendship with Mertwig was painful enough, but to find out that Brandella had deserted him was more than Kishpa could bear. He stood alone, sobbing quietly to himself, clutching the brightly colored scarf in one hand and her note to him in the other.
His mind raced with a thousand rancid thoughts of betrayal. She spoke of love in her note. What did she know of love if she could leave him feeling this way? What did she know of love if she could so casually disappear with a stranger? And this nonsense of being imagined and remembered in his own mind when he was old—how had the half-elf convinced her of that? Why did Tanis fabricate such lies?
“I should have let him drown,” he shouted at the figures that Brandella had painted on the walls and ceiling. “I should have killed him a hundred times over for this crime he has committed in stealing away my Brandella. My Brandella! Not his! She might have been fooled by his cleverness, but she will learn of his deceit and come back to me more loving than ever. I shall get her back!” he vowed. “I must!”
But he did not move.
It still didn’t seem possible that she had gone. He stared once again at the scarf and the note in his hands. Suddenly, he screamed something unintelligible, crumpled the letter, and threw it and the scarf against the wall.
Even before they hit and fell to the floor below, he had scrambled after them, scooping them up quickly with the tenderness with which one might pick up a baby. They were all that he had of her. At least for the moment.
They stood at the east gate. Bloodstains still marred the ground where the enemy had been routed only hours before.
“I thought you had changed your mind,” Tanis admitted.
“I considered it many times,” Brandella replied uneasily. “If I were not used to Kishpa’s magic, I would have thought everything you said was the raving of a madman. Even now, I wonder if I’m putting my life in the hands of someone from whom I should flee.”
“My words of reassurance will mean nothing. Only when you see that you have been set free will you know that I have spoken the truth.”
She stood without pretension, her arms at her sides. In the battlefield beyond, a meadow bird called, then was silent. “I am waiting, then.”
The sun had set, and the only light shining on them came from a pair of torches that illuminated the east gate. Tanis took one of them in hand. “Follow me. There is a place we must go,” he announced with more confidence than he felt. “It is from there that Kishpa’s magic will deliver us.”
Tanis took her by the hand and led her out of Ankatavaka through the darkening night. The air was sweet, and the half-elf imagined himself taking his woman for a walk underneath the stars.
Look at her, he thought, glancing over his shoulder. She comes so willingly, so lovingly, to be with her man. What a contrast with Kitiara! The swordswoman had done as she pleased; if anything, Tanis had followed her bidding. But Brandella … Tanis scowled. If only this night belonged to him and not to Kishpa. But what were these thoughts that the half-elf was thinking? He had come to do an old man’s bidding and found himself contemplating ways to steal the mage’s memories for himself. Tanis, not Mertwig, should be the one on trial, the half-elf thought. But Brandella smiled at him with such tenderness. Her hand fit his so perfectly—
Tanis stumbled into a tree stump, nearly losing his balance.
“Are you all right?” Brandella moved closer, carrying with her a scent of wildflowers and cloves. The darkness deepened her forest-green blouse to black. Her eyes shone in her porcelain face.
“Uh, I guess so,” he said. To hide his embarrassment, Tanis waved his torch over the tree stump as if he were examining the cause of his misstep. A shadow crossed the top of the stump when the light passed near by. “Hollow,” said the half-elf. “It seems we are close. This is where Scowarr saved my life. That means I was standing over there when I first appeared in this place.” He pointed his torch toward the center of a grassy meadow.
For some reason—Tanis hoped it was Brandella’s desire to prolong their time together—the two of them walked very slowly in the direction he had indicated. He still held her hand.
Finally, he said, “I think this is the spot where I appeared.” He took a deep breath.
“Wait!”
There was no fear in her torchlit face. Something else stirred there, but he did not know what it meant. “What is it?” he asked.
Brandella spoke. “Should something go wrong—”
“Nothing will go wrong. Kishpa said—”
“Listen to me,” she ordered, drawing him close. “If you should return to your world without me … if I cannot leave Kishpa’s memory
… if I should disappear … then go to the spot where you killed the giant spider. I left something for you there, at the foot of the barricade, buried in a box. It is only for you. For you, Tanis. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he said. His mind, caught by her nearness, seemed to go blank. “It’s time,” he finally added. “Are you ready?”
She closed her eyes and nodded.
Holding her hand in his, Tanis called out into the darkness, “Kishpa! Bring us back! Brandella is yours again. Free her!”
Nothing happened.
“Kishpa!”
“I am here.” Kishpa’s voice answered.
Tanis felt a wave of relief. They would not be left to die in the mage’s memory, after all. But then Tanis’s body went rigid with shock. The voice was that of a young man, not an old mage lying near death. And Tanis felt the point of a knife held tightly against his back.
24
A Stitch in Time
“If you try to turn around,” said Kishpa in a voice as sharp as his knife, “I will plunge this blade so deep into your back that the tip will come out your stomach.”
Tanis did not move. Brandella whirled, however, and darted toward Kishpa. “You don’t understand,” she pleaded, reaching for her lover.
Kishpa pushed her away. “I understand enough,” he snarled. “The half-elf has filled your head with clever lies, and you were foolish enough to listen to them.”
“They’re not lies,” said Tanis, taking care not to move. “You’re standing in the way of your own last wish.”
“I think not,” Kishpa spat out. “I think there is no such ‘magic.’ Rather, my strange friend, you’re standing in the way of your own last breath!”
“No, Kishpa!” cried Brandella. She lunged for his arm.
Tanis immediately jumped away from the mage, and the blade jabbed into air. But Kishpa was quick on his feet, too. He pounced forward as Tanis spun around, and the half-elf saw the knife slash down at him.
Tanis’s right hand shot up to grab the wrist of the knife-wielding arm, and the two were momentarily locked in a test of strength.
It did not last long. Tanis was, by far, the stronger of the two, and he not only pushed the knife away, he sent the mage flying backward off his feet.
“I could kill you with my magic,” shouted Kishpa, scrambling upright, his face dark with rage, “but I would rather do it with my bare hands. You’re a traitor and a thief. You betrayed my trust, and you have stolen my woman.”
As Kishpa rushed Tanis with his knife outstretched, Brandella ran between the two of them, yelling, “Stop this!”
Kishpa did not stop. Tanis elbowed her out of the way, leaving himself wide open to the mage’s attack. Before Tanis could move, though, a small figure leaped out of the darkness, smashing into Kishpa’s shoulder, spinning him around, and sending him sprawling to the ground.
It was Scowarr.
The mage was more startled than stunned. He recovered quickly, scrambling back to his feet. Little Shoulders, however, did not fare so well. He hit the ground head-first and lay still, blood oozing from his nose.
Enraged, Kishpa lunged at Scowarr with the apparent intention of slicing Little Shoulders open like a melon.
Tanis drew his own blade, the broadsword gleaming red in the night. “Leave him be!” ordered the half-elf. “He is not your enemy. His only crime is that he is my friend.”
“That is crime enough!” declared Kishpa.
“Then you must kill me, too!” Brandella said defiantly. “I am his friend, as well. Just as you should be.” She stepped in front of Kishpa, blocking his path to the stalwart human who lay stunned on the forest clearing floor.
“This is madness,” shouted the mage. He turned away from Scowarr and advanced upon Tanis, sword waving menacingly in his hand. “Who sent you here?” demanded Kishpa. “What evil wizardry is behind all of this?”
“I tell you, there is nothing evil here,” insisted Tanis, keeping his enchanted sword at the ready. “It was you who sent me here!”
“Pah! I don’t believe it!”
With that, Kishpa whipped his knife in an arc toward Tanis’s head. The half-elf instinctively tried to lift his own sword to block the dagger. But he couldn’t. The red glow had disappeared, and the sword was too heavy to lift. At the last possible instant, Tanis jumped out of the way, his leather tunic slashed by Kishpa’s blade.
The mage laughed bitterly. “Your sword cannot be used against the one who enchanted it. You are going to die.”
Tanis dropped his blade but stood his ground. He would not run.
“He is defenseless,” shouted Brandella, darting before Kishpa. “You cannot kill an unarmed man. It is not your way. Can this be the Kishpa whom I have loved? Whom I still love?”
She reached for him, but he shook her off again. “Is this the Brandella who ran from me? Who betrayed me?” the mage cried.
With the grace of a cat, the weaver took long, purposeful strides to stand next to Tanis. She held the flaming torch in one hand, and with her other she took Tanis’s arm. Then she lifted her eyes to the starry sky and called out, “Kishpa! Wizard of wisdom and love, hear me now in your mind’s eye. Forgive yourself for your callow, jealous, youthful ways. I know you for the kind and generous man you have always been. And so shall I always remember you. Free me now to remember you as you have remembered me.”
No one moved. Not even Kishpa. They waited for thunder. For lightning. For a puff of smoke.
Nothing happened.
The mage came forward. “Let go of him,” he said quietly.
She began to loosen her grip, but Tanis would not let her hand go free. The air no longer carried the sweet scent of a woodland; it had no smell at all. The wind no longer caressed him; it had ceased to blow. The stars were no longer mysterious; they had vanished into a void of black. Something was happening …
Tanis started to speak, to warn them, but he didn’t get the chance. The world vanished. There was no light, no dark; there were no shades of gray. No warmth, no chill, no feeling at all. Nothing existed except the void … and the slow, irregular beating of a heart … and Brandella. She floated in this netherworld with him, holding his arm, yet seemingly miles away. It looked as if she were trying to say something, but he couldn’t understand her in the oppressive gloom. Despite his elvensight, he could barely see her. When he tried to pull her closer, he discovered that he couldn’t move his limbs. When he tried to call to her, he found that the sound of his voice was drowned out by the dull pounding of the unseen heart.
Then, without any warning, the heart began to beat faster. And stronger. The gloom slowly lifted. Colors, sounds, and familiar sights returned. But not the familiar sight of Kishpa in a jealous rage. The old wizard’s memory had shifted—perhaps intentionally, Tanis thought—and the half-elf now found himself walking with his head turned, looking at Brandella. She was about to speak to him when he stumbled into something and nearly lost his balance.
“Are you all right?”
“Uh … I guess so,” he said, swinging his torch over the object that had stood in his way. It was a tree stump.
“I didn’t mean that. I meant what happened when everything went dark … when Kishpa nearly”—her voice caught in her throat—“when he nearly … nearly died.”
“Were you frightened?” Tanis took her other hand.
“Not for myself,” she said. “For Kishpa. I sensed him, his closeness, in a way I have never experienced before. I spoke to him. He knew it was me, and I felt his joy. Did you hear his heart begin to pound? He wants so much to live!”
Tanis countered, “And he wants so much to help you live. Look!” The half-elf indicated the stump. “Don’t you see? He brought us back in time to where I tripped on this hollow tree trunk. He doesn’t want us to get caught by his younger self again. He’s given us a chance, and we’ve got to make the most of it.” His mind swirled with ideas. “Give me three long strips of cloth,” Tanis demanded.
“
What for?”
“There’s no time to explain. Just give me the cloth.”
She ripped the bottom of her hip-length blouse three times and handed him the strips of woven green cloth. “Now what?” she asked, her face serious.
Tanis took the pieces and said, “Climb inside the tree trunk, and take the torch with you.”
She looked uncertain. “What about you?”
“Just get down there!”
25
A Second Chance
A shaft of light shot up into the night sky from inside the hollow stump. Kishpa saw it and stealthily approached. He wondered if Tanis and Brandella had taken to the tunnels underneath the cliffs. That would explain the light. Clearly, he was not far behind them.
Kishpa’s magic had helped him follow them. His anger would do the rest. The mage drew his knife and moved toward the beacon of his rage.
Tanis crouched behind the tree stump, shrouded in the shadows thrown by Brandella’s torch. He heard Kishpa before he saw him. With his keen elvensight, he soon saw the mage, as well. He also saw the knife.
He didn’t want to hurt the mage, but he didn’t wish to get hurt—or killed—himself either. And he certainly didn’t want to kill the wizard, if for no other reason than that such an action might cause the mage to cease to exist in the future. In such an instance, killing the young Kishpa would be tantamount to killing himself and Brandella.
Why wouldn’t the dying old man bring them out of his memory? He’d had the chance, but he didn’t do it. Or maybe he couldn’t do it. Tanis shook his head. He refused to believe that.
Kishpa was getting close, and Tanis cursed himself for letting his mind wander. He had to time his actions perfectly, or the mage’s knife would be buried in his body right up to the hilt … and it was a long blade.
Tanis the Shadow Years Page 15
