Reclaimer

by J. C. Staudt

“Do you know for a surety that Alynor has been captured?”

  “I don’t. I can only guess, since the Dathiri Pathfinders are some of the best trackers in the realms.”

  “There’s your answer,” Jeebo said, pointing toward the ceiling.

  Darion’s light cast a round shadow in the thatching, just above the place where one of the rafters met the sidewall. A long narrow space—a tunnel of sorts—was sculpted into the straw where an item, cylindrical in shape, must’ve been stored. The hollow was about the size of the scroll case, and invisible from most angles except the oblique. “So it’s gone. Someone has it.”

  “The question is who.”

  Then something on the floor caught Darion’s eye. He righted an overturned basket to find spools of yarn and several pairs of knitting needles inside. This was certainly my Alynor’s home, he thought with a somber smile. Beneath the spools lay a work in progress, a flat panel with none of the shape or dimension of the socks Alynor had made for their unborn child. There was something strange about the colors, though; only two, a green and blue so close it was hard to tell them apart.

  Darion held up the panel to study it in the light. Then it dawned on him. “Gods,” he breathed. “Jeebo, look at this.”

  Jeebo came over. He studied the panel and frowned. “That’s a curious pattern.”

  “This isn’t a pattern, Jeebo. It’s a spell.”

  “That explains why it makes no sense to me.”

  “These are the sigils of Sir Jalleth’s anti-magic ward. The one on the scroll.”

  “Why would she make a copy?”

  “Perhaps expecting the worst, knowing one day the Pathfinders would come for the scroll. Something to have for Sir Jalleth’s benefit in case the scroll fell into the wrong hands.”

  “Why do you suppose she left it behind, then?”

  “Either she didn’t get a chance to take it with her… or she left it here on purpose. She knew only an experienced caster would be able to decipher these devices as magical sigils. To everyone else, this would look like a poorly-knitted panel.”

  “As it did to me.”

  “Exactly. Which explains why this place was ransacked and no one gave her knitting a second look.”

  Jeebo was impressed. “She’s clever, I’ll give her that. If she’s escaped the Pathfinders, where do you suppose she’s headed?”

  “The night is early yet,” Darion said. “Perhaps we might find someone at the River’s Wend who can point us in the right direction.”

  Chapter 19

  The long northward trail slithered beneath the curve of the mountains ahead. As she walked, Alynor thought back to her years spent in the soft buttresses of wealth, riding in carriages with cushioned seats and servants who took her hand to keep her from falling as she stepped in and out of them. She felt as though she could fall at any moment, like a plant in new earth, stressed and wilting in the sun. Draithon began to complain of tiredness every few hours, so they would stop by the roadside to rest and sip water from their precious supply.

  Caelor had tried everything to keep Alynor from going north on her own. In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to heed his advice. Not only because it would’ve brought her closer to the Dathiri Pathfinders, but because Shandashkaleth’s threat was still at the forefront of her mind. Part of her, too, was worried about Kestrel and the others. She didn’t think they needed her help, but if they’d met with trouble in Westenreach, they might.

  After admitting he was no kidnapper, Caelor had confessed his only interest in keeping Alynor and Draithon with him was that he feared for their safety. She had thanked him—actually thanked him—for letting her go. There hadn’t been much food to spare, but he’d given her a full waterskin and a few scraps of bread and jerky. One of his men had mended Alynor’s split sandal, for which she was thankful. Yet now, even the most comfortable sandals in the world couldn’t make the long leagues feel any shorter.

  Days passed, and still the mountains lingered, casting shadows each morning and shining bright with snow caps after midday. Though as a girl Alynor had often studied the old maps hanging in her father’s solar, she could not say how far it would be to the mountains’ end, or how long it would take them to get to Westenreach after that.

  One thing she did know was that long before they came to Westenreach, they would pass within a short distance of Tenleague Deep. She had refrained from mentioning that to Caelor; he almost certainly would’ve been tempted to take her forcefully had she suggested she might attempt to brave its dangers with a child in tow. It was a vain thing to hope Kestrel and the others had entered the Deep before the outbreak in Westenreach; in truth, she hoped they had avoided Westenreach altogether.

  Late on the morning of the third day, Alynor’s questions were answered. She saw in the distance the final descent of the Towershields, the last of a thousand gray peaks sloping downward to vanish into the flatlands. Nestled along the interior of that ridge, she knew, lay the legendary chasm of horrors, its great gash an open wound upon the surface of the realms. Indeed, many evils were said to fester in that wound, either spilling forth or entrenching themselves within. A haven, though far from safe, Tenleague Deep was the bane of foolhardy adventurers everywhere.

  Alynor wanted to be foolhardy. She was not sure what it was that compelled her so. Nearing the limits of hunger and exhaustion, she thought how daring an experience it would be to stand upon the rim of the Deep, just to see how far down it went. Just to be there, so she could say later that she had been. And of course, there was the unlikely chance she might look over that perilous edge and see a friendly face somewhere below.

  The climb was not steep, but every step up the slope sent shots of pain up Alynor’s shins to gather in her aching knees like weights on a scale. By the time she and Draithon reached the top, their shadows were short with noontide. A bird of prey screeched on the wing, a sound which seemed to tear the very throat from the skies. As Alynor neared the ridgetop, it appeared as a single flat expanse of stone until she came close enough to see the break in the rock. It was narrower than she’d imagined; not so narrow as to be jumped, but narrow enough that with time and good rope, one might build a bridge to span the distance.

  No one had, though. Not on this lonely stretch of canyonside, at least. Scrub brush clung to patches of earth between the rocks like badly shorn whiskers, shuddering in a dire west wind. A feeling of despondent alarm gripped her as she scuffed closer to the edge, holding Draithon’s hand so hard he gave a little yelp of pain.

  “Hold on, baby. Mommy’s got you. Nothing to fear,” Alynor said, coming to stand within an arm’s length of that sudden yawning drop.

  It took all her willpower to lower her eyes. The sun’s position was a fortuitous thing, for with its advantage she could much better see what lay below. Where the sunlight dove to incredible depths lay a maze of ramps and ledges, the landscape of an age of nature’s work overlaid with a thousand years of sentient fabrication. The canyonsides meandered from close to distant, running for a league or more in either direction. Openings in the rock, some hinged with doors of every shape and kind, led to darkness, while crossings constructed of everything from single strands of rope to rotting planks spanned the gaps, so that the whole of the canyon lay scaffolded beneath scraps of wood and fiber and cobwebs sparkling with dew.

  Alynor took a gasping breath as the wind rushed over her; she grasped Draithon’s arm with her other hand and pulled him back from the edge. There were things moving deeper down, where the sunlight could not reach. Vile things that gleamed dully in the shadows. Her skin crawled, and she thought of Kestrel and the others having to face those things. She couldn’t bear to imagine having gone with them when they’d first asked.

  She scanned the rim of the canyon, looking all along its length as far as she could see. Kestrel and the others would’ve approached from the north, and as such they would’ve been standing on the opposite edge when they arrived. No one was there. Perhaps they were somewhere within
the labyrinth of caves and dungeons beneath her feet, or perhaps they were already at some tavern in Trebelow enjoying the spoils of their adventures. Looking for them in Westenreach seemed reckless, but so did staying here. She could always try Trebelow, though it was further away. Yet Kestrel had said they planned to be here in the Deep by now.

  Alynor stepped to the edge again, leaving Draithon behind this time. “Hello,” she called at the top of her lungs. “Kestrel. Triolyn. Axli.”

  No response.

  She kept her eyes from the things moving in the shadows. “Kestrel. Are you there?”

  All at once it struck her how improbable it was that she would run into them by chance in a place as big as Tenleague Deep. If only she knew a spell to locate them, or to communicate over distance. Sir Jalleth had taught her no such spell.

  With a sigh, Alynor stepped back from the edge and took Draithon to a nearby slab of rock for a sit-down. “What are we to do now?” she said, almost to herself.

  “This place is scary,” said Draithon.

  Yes, my darling, she thought. Mommy is a bit scared, too.

  Another screech tore the air, closer this time. From above came a rush of beating wings and peppered white feathers. The bird descended toward the flat area of ridgetop beside Alynor, bound by the feet and dragging a length of dark rope beneath. It fluttered to rest, dropping something that landed with a crack just before it did.

  “Ristocule,” Alynor said, astonished.

  The cylinder of a bone scroll case rolled to a stop against the toes of her sandals. She picked it up. “Where have you been?”

  When she undid the clasp and opened the case, the parchment within was damp. A sudden pang of dread washed over her. She unfurled the paper carefully.

  The damage was limited, but it was there: a band of rippled paper and washed-out ink where water had seeped in through the case’s hinge joints. Every few lines, the sigils were smeared and runny, rendering some of them illegible. Had Alynor not cast the spell dozens of times before, the scroll’s condition might’ve worried her more than it did.

  As for Ristocule, the bird was thin, and the braided leather cord fastened to straps around his ankles spoke of captivity. There was only one way to find out what Sir Jalleth had been through since they parted ways in the Wildwood. Looking at Draithon, Alynor realized the time for hiding magic from her son was at an end. She could take the bird behind a boulder or a stand of shrubs, but that would mean leaving her son alone. In a place like this, she refused to let him out of her sight.

  One thing she did have to consider was that Sir Jalleth would be naked after the transformation took place. There were no extra clothes to cover him with, and the only natural materials around were rocks, dirt, and arid plants. Although that wasn’t exactly true. Down in the chasm she’d seen scraps of fabric hanging from bridges and overhangs, tokens left by all manner of creatures who’d crossed them.

  “Sir Jalleth,” she said. “Eldrek. If you can hear me in there… I know it’s difficult for you sometimes. Before I turn you back—” she cast Draithon a glance, “—you must find something to cover yourself with. A scrap of cloth from the canyon, perhaps.”

  Ristocule screeched, but did not move.

  “We’ve a long way to walk, and we can’t have you unclothed for all the world to see. Now please, if you’ll oblige me…” Alynor had seen the old man in the nude more times than she wanted to think about, truth be told. As long as there was a chance they might come across other travelers, there was no reason to subject everyone else to it.

  The bird gave a squawk, then hopped a little closer and lowered his head to nip at the straps around his ankles. He did this twice more before Alynor figured out what he wanted.

  “Ah, yes. I imagine it would be hard to fly through a canyon covered in ropes and bridges while you’re trailing that behind you. Come here, then.” She bent to loosen the straps and help the animal slip out of them. “There we are.” No sooner had she finished than the bird flapped to the canyon’s edge and vanished over the side.

  It was a long time before he came back. When he did, he was carrying not one, but two small scraps of cloth, one burlap, the other a rough, grubby linen. He landed in front of Alynor, where he dropped them and awaited her appraisal.

  “There’s scarcely enough here for a loin cloth,” she said, picking them up.

  The bird squawked at her and flew into the canyon again. This time he came back with the bottom half of a trouser leg, frayed and spotted with blood.

  “I suppose it shall have to do. Too bad I don’t have a needle and thread, or I could patch all this together and make you a nice hat.”

  Ristocule shrilled impatiently.

  “Alright, hold still,” Alynor said, unfurling the scroll once more. “Go behind that stone over there. Draithon, sit here by Mommy.”

  “What are you doing?” Draithon asked.

  “I’ll explain when I’m through.” Alynor tossed the scraps of fabric behind the stone where Ristocule was standing, then cleared her throat and began to cast the lengthy spell, reading from the scroll with practiced efficiency. When she came to the places where the water had smudged the sigils, she found she knew most of them without looking. She was far from having the entire spell memorized, but repetition had bred confidence in her, as had her time knitting the panel for Darion. She completed the spell on her second try and took the newly-awakened mage-song in hand.

  With the ivory pendant gone, Alynor was left with no choice but to release the mage-song onto Ristocule himself. The pendant had been an apt tool for sparing Sir Jalleth pain while the spell wore off. Now he would have to endure the whole of its effects unless Alynor could keep him human by recasting it daily.

  Alynor touched the bird’s head. Sir Jalleth sprang from Ristocule’s body, feathers shrinking to skin, wings sprouting hands and elbows and fingers, talons fattening into toes. He stumbled on his feet and toppled over backwards, landing on his hindquarters with a thump. On the ground, he gathered the scraps of fabric and covered himself. “Oh, thank the gods,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you for days.”

  “Days?” Alynor said, incredulous. “It’s been over a week.”

  “Yes, well, I ran into a bit of a hiccup. I was captured.”

  “Those straps on your feet told me that much. By whom?”

  “A family of littlefolk. Two of the children set a snare for me. It was some time before I could escape. I’ve been circling these mountains ever since.”

  “How did you let them capture you?”

  “I was hunting. Not me, but the bird. Somehow their trap was impossible to resist.”

  “What were you doing hunting? You told me you’d find us as soon as you’d retrieved the scroll.”

  “As I’ve explained before… I do not know myself when I’m a bird. That is to say, oftentimes I haven’t the faintest memory of who I am at all. It is a constant struggle to overcome the animal… to deny its instincts.”

  “My assumption was that this time, given the severity of our situation, you might’ve… I don’t know… put forth some extra effort.”

  “Extra effort? How easy do you think it is, sharing body and soul with a wild animal? It’s not as if I disappear for days at a time of my own volition. Not every time, anyway. I’m always battling that blasted bird. Constraining my entire mind and soul within a form so small has had pernicious consequences.”

  Alynor knew this; she’d noticed him aging more rapidly each time he changed. “Never mind that. I ought not be so harsh. Draithon and I were captured, too. That is why we were so difficult to locate for a time.”

  Jalleth Highbridge sobered. “Gods… how dreadful. I’m only sorry I wasn’t there. What happened?”

  “Draithon and I were taken by goblins somewhere in the Wildwood. They brought us to their lair in the mountains.”

  “And you must’ve escaped. Tell me, did you use your spells?” The smile of a pleased teacher emerged on Sir Jalleth’s face.


  “Only one, I’m afraid.”

  “Which one was it?”

  “Candle.”

  “You escaped your captors with a candle spell?”

  “Not exactly. These goblins who found us are in thrall to a creature who is… difficult to describe.”

  “Go on.”

  “A great black dragon with rotting flesh and scales dulled with age. It was a strange sight, almost as if the creature were already dead. It was very old, in any case. Or so it claimed.”

  “It spoke to you?”

  Alynor nodded.

  “What did it say?”

  Alynor told Sir Jalleth of the periapt, and of the errand on which the dragon-creature had sent her.

  “And this… creature… did it have a name?”

  “Shandashkaleth, she called herself.”

  A crease formed on Sir Jalleth’s mouth, another on his brow.

  “You know that name,” Alynor said.

  He nodded. “She was a dragon… once.”

  “Poppy… why were you like a bird?”

  Sir Jalleth looked at Draithon, then at Alynor.

  She nodded.

  The old Warcaster fastened the fabric about his waist—a meager covering, but sufficient—and knelt before the boy. “I was a bird, Draithon. I have been for a long time. Long ago, there was a battle. Poppy was fighting many bad monsters; terrible creatures with evil things in mind. I needed to escape quickly, and there was only one way out. So I entered the body of a bird and flew away. I’ve been stuck this way ever since, until Mommy found something to change me back. It only works for a short time, though. That’s why Poppy has to go away so often.”

  Draithon was confused. “You’re a bird?”

  “One might say so, yes. Though I am also a man.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Where is what? The bird?”

  “That is a good question,” Alynor said. “Where does the bird go?”

  “Why, inside me, I should think,” said Sir Jalleth. “Just as the reverse is true when I change back. I seem to feel an influence of some sort. A pecking on my mind, if you’ll pardon the witticism. Only it’s weaker in this form than in the other.”