It was in my past, Randall, she explained, her voice tinged with regret, and I wished for it to remain there. Of all my memories, those of Mount Gamour weigh heaviest on my mind. They are a burden I would rid myself of if it was possible to do so.
“We can’t just ignore the past, Dani,” Randall growled.
I have asked you not to call me that, she bristled.
“Oh, let me get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness!” he snapped as he spurred Storm Chaser forward—which spurring saw the warhorse lurch ahead with almost enough force to unsaddle Randall entirely. “He took her memories, Dan’Moread,” Randall seethed, “and while you might want to have some of your memories removes, how can we know that she wanted the same?”
She was the White Blade’s Squire, Randall— Dan’Moread began.
“And that gives him the right to erase whatever bits and pieces of her that he chooses?!” he demanded, shaking his head angrily. “Whatever agreement she entered into with him, I can’t believe she would willingly submit to having her memories—which are everything she has ever been—put to flame like chaff in a field!”
Yaerilys is a valiant warrior in her own right, Dan’Moread riposted, I think you give her too little credit—
“Ravilich loved her!” Randall snapped. “He is completely heartbroken by what’s happened to her, but his love and devotion keep him from turning his back on her. You said that Rimidalv sacrificed the real Ser Cavulus beneath Mount Gamour, which means that Yaerilys—the White Blade’s Squire—became ‘Ser Cavulus’ shortly thereafter. What do you think that means for Ravilich?”
There was a pregnant pause, We cannot be certain that Rimidalv will enlist Ravilich as he did Yaerilys.
“Certain? No. But we know he’s done it once before,” Randall flared with righteous indignation. “How do we know this isn’t just how Rimidalv operates? How do you know that the man you saw die beneath Mount Gamour was the real Ser Cavulus?! For all we know, he was just another in a long line of Squires-turned-wielders who Rimidalv uses and disposes of as it suits him.”
Randall’s thoughts took a decidedly ugly turn as they silently plodded along the hard-packed road. The more he thought about it, the less he liked the scenario he had just envisioned, and eventually he gave voice to his concerns.
“How do we know this isn’t how all of the White Blades operate?” he asked, his query every bit as genuine as rhetorical.
When her mental voice returned, it was with a decidedly sorrowful note as she said, Perhaps now you understand something of the enmity which exists between Rimidalv and I. I could never abuse a wielder as he does, Randall. You must believe that! she pleaded.
“Honestly,” Randall said heavily, “I’m not sure what to believe any more.”
Eventually she asked, Where are we going?
“I had a dream about going upriver,” he said stiffly, “and it should only take a couple of days for us to reach the place I saw.”
A dream? she repeated with muted skepticism.
“Yes,” he grunted, “a dream. Would you prefer we go straight back to Greystone?”
No, she said coolly, but I think it would be best if I rested. My strength is still greatly diminished, and if our recent history is any indication then following one of your diversions is likely to call my abilities into play. It would be best if you avoided waking me for anything short of a true emergency.
Silence ensued, and his heart clenched as the surging emotions which had fueled his first genuine argument with Dan’Moread slowly receded, leaving that uniquely hollow feeling which only comes after an argument between friends.
17-1-6-659
Randall and Dan’Moread had not spoken for two days as Storm Chaser’s hooves carried them ever closer to the Binding Chain mountain range. The twin peaks which he had seen in his dream loomed as the sun began to darken overhead on the second day of their trek upriver, and he suspected it would be a matter of hours before they arrived at the narrow gap where his avian dream-self had been flying prior to the vision’s ending.
Randall felt badly about how he had spoken to Dan’Moread, who in spite of his angry accusations about not telling him about Mount Gamour had, in fact, been doing precisely that when the argument had begun.
He knew he had crossed a line or two in the argument, but that was nothing new. He had gotten into heated exchanges with Yordan and Lorie back in Three Rivers, though Ellie was far too soft and gentle to fuel the fires of such confrontations. But this was somehow different.
Unfortunately, solitude had done nothing to alleviate his anger with himself—or with Dan’Moread—regarding the whole Yaerilys-slash-Ser-Cavulus-slash-Rimidalv situation. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. The most obvious reason for his anger was that he only now understood the truth of the time he had spent with Yaerilys, while a welcome diversion and much-needed, albeit brief, intimacy with another person who understood some portion of his lot in life.
But for Yaerilys, it had been an attempt—probably an unconscious attempt since Ravilich had made clear she did not even remember her relationship with him—to recapture some measure of the happiness she had felt with Ravilich prior to becoming the White Knight. Her life had become hollow, dark, and lonely as the White Blade had slowly stripped away her memories, so for her Randall had been a final, fleeting embrace with the world Rimidalv demanded that she leave behind.
Even thinking about it two days later was enough to quicken his heart and raise his choler. The sun set high above his head, plunging the world into the dark of night, and he was so consumed with his anger and self-loathing that he almost failed to hear the faint snapping of twigs behind the tree-line running parallel to the riverbank.
His hand went instinctively to Dan’Moread’s hilt as he whispered, “Dan’Moread…wake up.”
What is it? she asked frostily.
“I think we’re being followed,” he whispered as he tightened his grip on the saddle’s left horn in preparation for spurring the warhorse to a gallop that might evade whoever it is that was stalking them.
When given a choice between fight or flight, he felt his body begin to tingle as the now-familiar jolt of Dan’Moread’s possession swept across him, you know where I stand.
“This is your department,” he muttered before a dark figure emerged from the trees ahead of them. Dan’Moread, using his arm, drew herself and assumed a defensive posture.
The dark figure slowly, but deliberately, made its way to the road and to Randall’s eyes it seemed that the figure moved with a grace and silence known only to those with Ghaevlian blood.
“It is true, then?” he heard a man’s melodious voice ask as the dark figure pulled back the cowl concealing his face. He had sharp, angular features, a perfectly bald head, and eyes which reminded Randall of no one so much as his great grandmother. “My sister tells of one who returned to us in Tavleros’ stead…and here he is. What is your business here?”
“Your sister?” Randall repeated blankly as a line of figures emerged from the tree-line. They moved with similar grace to the speaker, and numbered eight in all. “Wait…you mean Phinjo…you’re her brother?”
“A question deserves an answer before it must be returned in kind,” the man chided, his cold eyes reflecting the twinkling starlight as he moved closer to Storm Chaser. “That is the Old Way and, after this night, it shall be the only way known to these lands.”
He is a Twilight Walker, Dan’Moread said grimly.
“You know him?” Randall whispered as softly as he could
No, she said firmly, but I know of his kind…they are fearsome warriors who lurk in shade and silence, trained in the most ancient of Ghaevlian battle rites.
“Lucky that I heard them sneaking up on us then,” Randall breathed.
You only heard them because they wished to be heard, Randall, she scoffed. Twilight Walkers do not lightly reveal themselves…you would do well to answer his questions.
Randall cleared his throat
after receiving his sword’s appreciated—if condescending—advice, “I’m here acting on Phinjo’s request.”
“My sister sent you upriver?” the Ghaevlian man cocked his head ominously. “I think not.”
“Well…no,” Randall admitted, “she sent me to retrieve a certain…article,” he dissembled, “and after I finished doing that, I thought I would investigate the river.”
“Why?” the Twilight Walker pressed.
But now it was Randall’s turn to cock his head challengingly, “I thought the Old Way said a question must be returned in kind after it was answered.”
Soft snickers echoed through the rest of the Ghaevlians who had assembled around Storm Chaser, and the one which Randall assumed to be Phinjo’s brother narrowed his eyes, “So…you have nerve. Good. We will have need of it in the days to come. To answer your question: yes, Phinjo is my sister. Lazerindojatzingos is my name; what is yours?”
“My name is Randall,” he replied, feeling strangely confident while Dan’Moread controlled his body. She made no aggressive moves, but it was clear that she was ready to act in their mutual defense if these Ghaevlians moved against them. “What are you doing here?”
“The same as you,” Lazerindojatzingos said cryptically, “we have come to play our own small part in restoring this land to its former glory.”
“Restoring…?” Randall trailed off as the steely eyes of the Ghaevlian man gave him pause.
“I will ask you once more,” Lazerindojatzingos asked as he took a pair of menacing steps forward, “what is your business here?”
“I…” Randall began hesitantly.
Tell him the truth, Randall, Dan’Moread urged.
In spite of their recent schism, Randall still trusted Dan’Moread enough to take her advice. “I had a dream, and in it I saw that mountain pass,” he pointed to the Binding Chain mountains nearby to the north. “I wanted to investigate it before I returned to Greystone.”
“That is a surprisingly direct answer,” the Ghaevlian—who Randall dimly realized was his great-great-uncle—said approvingly. “In return I will be equally direct: there is nothing for you to the north. Turn around and return to Greystone; the roots of our uprising have already sunk too deep for you to linger in search of fruit.”
“Fruit?” Randall repeated in confusion.
I think we should do as he says, Randall, Dan’Moread warned. In a one-on-one battle with a Twilight Walker, I would perhaps hold a large enough advantage to ensure victory…but against more than one we would have no hope of survival, let alone victory. That he has warned us off conveys more mercy than he has likely shown to anyone else while carrying out his duties to the Nation.
Randall set his jaw. He had no desire to turn around, but he had to trust Dan’Moread’s judgment in this situation. He had no experience of ‘Twilight Walkers,’ but if they were fearsome enough to give Dan’Moread pause then he had no business tangling with them.
“Fine,” he grudged, tugging at Storm Chaser’s reins with his free, left hand as he turned the horse around.
“And Randall,” Lazerindojatzingos called after him as the black warhorse began to retrace its steps.
“What?” Randall turned the horse to see that, of all the Twilight Walkers who had previously surrounded the warhorse, only Lazerindojatzingos remained.
“Tell my sister,” the Ghaevlian man said as a cold fire entered his eyes, visible only due to the faint, crescent light of the Wanderer which drew ever nearer in its seemingly random journey across the sky, “that the waters will no longer be denied…and that soon not even a rushing torrent may quench the forest’s burning rage.”
“The forest’s burning rage…” Randall repeated as the imagery from his dream sprang into his mind’s eye. The branch had spontaneously combusted in his dream, but when the conch had issued its gushing waters they had drowned the fire before casting the blackened stick off the wall. “What about the bone?” he blurted unthinkingly.
Lazerindojatzingos’ eyes narrowed dangerously, “What did you ask?”
“The bone,” Randall repeated as Dan’Moread’s telepathic words were drowned out by his own voice, “if the water can’t quench the forest’s anger, will it also fail to cleanse and wash away the rotten bone?”
“How did you…” the Ghaevlian began, only to stop himself short as realization seemed to dawn in his eyes. “I see…it seems Tavleros’ heir is not as useless as I had feared.” He pulled his cowl up to conceal his face as he turned his back on Randall, Dan’Moread, and Storm Chaser, “Return to Greystone, Randall—and do so with all haste. Tell my sister what I have said, and tell her what you have seen—all of it,” he said before seeming to disappear into the night like a wisp of smoke on the wind.
We should go, Randall, Dan’Moread insisted.
Randall gave one last, resentful look to the mountain pass which he had meant to investigate before doing as she had suggested.
“Can he truly be gifted with the Sight?” asked Uleylio, a second generation Ghaevlian-human hybrid and Lazeros’ second in command. She was also, if he was honest with himself—which was rare in the extreme—the sole living object of what precious few affections he had ever felt.
“He may be,” he allowed as the jet black warhorse carried his great, great nephew back to where he belonged, “but that is not our concern.”
“No,” Uleylio agreed as she absently bound her hair into a tight topknot, “I suppose not.”
Lazeros looked back toward the mountain pass where, slowly and inexorably, the Forest That Walks unleashed its wrath in the only way that the forces of nature knew how: patiently and without a hint of mercy.
“How long, Lazeros?” she asked, following his gaze to the site of the first stone which, if he and Phinjo were right, would cause an avalanche that would wipe clean a goodly portion of the world. Like the waters which the abominable, human-built, fakestone dam held back, that avalanche would cleanse anything and everything it touched of the foul corruption which had stained every corner of the world which had once been home to the Ghaevlian Nation. In its wake would be a world worth living in—and, if need be, a world worth dying in.
“Two days,” Lazeros mused, “three at most.”
“And then it begins,” she said with conviction, placing a hand on his shoulder which somehow managed to stir the dying embers of passion buried deep within him.
“And then it begins,” he agreed, clasping her hand in his own and sharing a rare moment of intimacy—however brief and reserved—before they set off across the dry riverbed toward their next assignment.
Chapter VIII: False No More
Dawn, 19-1-6-659
“I’m sorry about before,” Randall said after he finished his morning calisthenics with Dan’Moread. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, and I let my temper get the worst of me.”
It is…understandable, Dan’Moread said neutrally.
“Honestly, all I want to do right now is lug this stupid stone back to Phinjo,” he said as he sheathed Dan’Moread and picked up the tablet so he could strap it to Storm Chaser’s back. “After that, I think you and I should head across that bridge and see what’s on the other side.”
The distance such a course would place between ourselves and the Federation—to say nothing of Greystone and its political machinations—would be a most welcome development, she agreed.
“Good,” he nodded as he finished tying the straps, “then it’s settled: once we’ve returned this stupid thing to Phinjo, we’ll set off for lands unknown and put as much ground between us and them as possible.” He hesitated as he placed Storm Chaser’s bit in the warhorse’s mouth, but decided to ask the question which had been bubbling in the back of his mind since the fight with the pale warrior, “What exactly did you do down there…how did you destroy the Grey Blade?”
I told you before, Randall, she said with a hint of pride, I am a sword breaker—it is my name, after all. I sundered her just as I sundered her the first time we battled
, except this time she was unable to escape total destruction. In fact…I was curious if you played some part in that?
“What do you mean?” he asked as he swing his leg up and over the saddle.
Your Flylrylioulen flashed brightly just before we turned the tide, she explained. I could not help but notice that her eye was closed after that flash; did you do something to her?
“I can’t imagine that I did,” he shook his head, “but I did try to use the foresight that Phinjo somehow…I don’t know the right word…’gave’ me back in Greystone?”
I have known several star children, Randall, she chided, some of them had faint gifts—and one, Tavleros, even had tremendous abilities which rivaled those of a True Ghaevlian—but none of those gifts could ever be ‘given’ by another. Whatever your gifts may be, they were no more given to you by your great grandmother than your blood was given to you by her. It is what one does with her unique gifts that determines her worth, not the measure of those gifts themselves; of what use is a sword breaker who does not break swords?
“You’ve got a point there,” he allowed. “Though I suppose a sword breaker could, in theory, till a field…”
I would pity the farmer who thought me best fit to till dirt, she said dryly, and I would weep for the family he left behind if he acted on such thoughts.
Randall laughed, “Me too.”
With the previous days’ animosity at least partly at their backs, Randall gave the False River one last look before turning east and following the road back to Greystone.
Dusk, 19-1-6-659
“We need to find Storm Chaser some water,” Randall said as he dismounted the muscular warhorse.
Indeed, she observed, the streams he previously drank from are empty or have gone stagnant.
“What we could use is a little rain,” he said, looking to the clouds which wreathed the Binding Chain mountains to the north. His gaze lowered to the forest which buttressed the mountains, and finally came to the rolling, brown, grassy fields between the road and that forest. “It looks like the grass could use it, too,” he said as he took out the last bundle of nuts and dried fruit. He still had beans and a few strips of dried meat that would tide him over until they returned to Greystone, but at this point after a week and a half on the road he was looking forward to a hot, proper meal when he returned to Greystone. “I should probably fetch some of that stagnant water we saw in the ditch back there and boil it up for him,” he sighed.
Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2) Page 8
