Dalamar nodded. "Don't you?"
Regene sopped more blood from her arm. "What about the avatar?"
Swift came the bitter memory of a forest on fire, the corpse of a good man at his feet, and the hulk of red armor in which nothing lay but dust. "Gone," Dalamar said. "Someone will sweep up a pile of dust somewhere in the Tower and never know it was him.
"Listen," he said, turning. "You don't have to go farther if you don't want to."
He looked at her long, and they both knew he didn't speak from any concern for a woman who had for two nights lain in his bed. He was not, Regene had learned, a sentimental lover. He was not a man who invested much in the sweet dances of the night. Neither did he act for the sake of one who had led him through a wandering wood to the Tower of High Sorcery. He wondered whether she were strong enough to go on, whether the nearness of such evil as filled that citadel would still her, stop her, render her afraid and useless to him. Dalamar Nightson, she knew, would act ever and always for his own sake.
And she would act for hers.
Chill wind blew in off the sea. Gulls cried. The waves rushed in and ran out again while Regene ripped the hem of her gown and wrapped it, one-handed, round her arm. Clenching one end with her teeth and the other with her good hand, she tugged the bandage tight, wincing only a little against the pain. Face pale, she climbed to her feet, wiping bloody hands down the sides of her robe.
"Now, how do we do this? Just go up to the gate and demand admittance?"
Dalamar smiled then, but not warmly. "I don't think it will take that much effort. Look." He pointed to the sky where the shivering air became like gathering darkness.
Regene took a swift sharp breath. The darkness deepened, and it spread like a bruise on the bright blue of the day, flowing down the sky. It seemed now that it was not a thing imposed upon the light, but that light itself leaked out of the sky, out of the world, and into the dark wound. The wound in the sky opened wide, sucking the breath right out of Dalamar's lungs. He felt only one thing before he fell into senselessness: Regene's hand on his arm, gripping hard as though her fingers were talons.
Chapter 20
Regene's fingers dug hard into Dalamar's arm. Sharp lines of pain shot up from his forearm to his shoulder. In the enveloping darkness, pain was all he felt, radiating out from that hard grip, and he did not disdain to feel it. Just then, it was the only sensation.
After long moments, hearing returned. Dalamar heard the whistle of his own breath forced from his lungs and a sudden bark of laughter in the very moment he knew that he could not draw in more air. He took a step to see if he could. Light burst upon him in wild leaping colors, like the auroras that waver over the northmost part of the world. The light did not blind him. It hit him hard, like a fist in the chest, staggering him. Still gasping, Dalamar fell to one knee, reeling away from the force. He felt stone beneath his hands, hard and cold, stone beneath his knee, and no air in his lungs.
Laughter resounded, hard and booming, and breath rushed into his lungs with gasping force.
"Get up," said a voice. "Get up now, mageling."
Anger shot through Dalamar, anger like fire and ice. He stood, he breathed, and breathing, he was able to see. Before him rose a wall of shimmering light, red and blue and green and yellow, all the colors restlessly moving and shifting so that no color stayed the same but blended with others in change. The light made a small chamber, bounded on three sides by the rainbow glow and on the fourth by a thick stone wall into which lines had been scored to suggest a door, though no means of opening the door was seen. Beyond the wall of light, within the chamber, Regene stood, looking around. She saw Dalamar and, face white as her bloody robe should have been, she took a step toward him.
"Don't move!" Dalamar snapped. "Don't touch the light, Regene."
She stood still, warned.
Softly, behind him, Dalamar heard a step, and then a swift in-taking of breath. He turned, his hand already moving to shape an enchantment. Mid-gesture, he stopped. Before him stood a dwarf mage, dark-robed, red of beard and hair. Among dwarves he would be considered handsome: thick-chested, broad in the shoulders, with strong features and fiery eyes.
"It is you," Dalamar said, keeping his voice low and steady despite the aching of his lungs. He would show this mage nothing but a calm, considered mien.
The dwarf inclined his head in acknowledgment. "It is I, Tramd of Thorbardin, who is sometimes known as-"
"Tramd o' the Dark. Yes, I have heard."
The morning sun shone in through the window behind the dwarf, laying gold on the stone floor. A study, Dalamar thought. Shelves of books lined the three walls beyond the rippling rainbow light, and blocky chairs that seemed hewn from whole slabs of stone stood near the window. Thick cushions and pillows eased the hard surfaces and edges of those chairs, and banks of candles sat on tables near to hand. This was the chamber of one who read and wrote long into the night. To the left of the dwarf stood an oaken desk, and on that were stacks of parchment, pots of ebony ink, and newly made pens. Amidst all of this, pages were carelessly scattered-plans of some kind, design schematics and sheaves of notes. From where he stood, Dalamar could not see what shape those plans took. He gained only the swift impression of a fortress or castle of some kind.
Dalamar took his glance from the plans. "Tramd o' the Dark," he said. "Yes, and I remember you."
Tramd moved out of the sunlight, away from the window. "I imagine you would." His eyes narrowed. "I had forgotten you, until lately."
The dwarf gestured to Regene as one who wishes to show a guest some interesting object. Dalamar turned, and he saw that the scoring in the stone wall had changed, grown deeper, as though it did, indeed, mark a passage of some kind-one that was being opened from the inside, beyond the stone. Regene stood very still, facing the door and barely breathing.
"It's a pretty wall, don't you think? Look how the colors shine all over her."
Spilling down her robe, running on her flesh, it was as though the light were water running.
"It has some interesting properties, that light." Tramd stepped closer to the shimmering wall. Regene saw him and glared at him, lifting a hand. "Oh, no," he said, his voice filled with false concern. "No, girl, don't think to charm your way out of there or to send any magic through. What you do will turn on you, each force you extend will rebound back. I'd stand still and keep my hands to myself, were I you."
Unsure, but unwillingly to test it, Regene stood still.
"There are," said Tramd, turning from her to Dalamar, "some interesting creatures living beneath the mountains of Karthay. Some say there is a lost race of dwarves." He shrugged. "But that is outlander foolishness. Hill dwarves, mountain dwarves, gully dwarves-we know all about each other, and if we chose not to congregate, well, that does not mean we are lost."
The stone door moved, scraping on the floor. Regene gasped a swift prayer as she backed away, hasty steps that took her right to the wall of light. She touched that light with the hem of her sleeve and staggered back. Shaking, the woman took no more steps, watching the door open a small push at a time.
Tramd smiled again, expansively. "As I say, some interesting creatures live beneath the mountains here. What stands beyond that door is no kin of mine. Shall we see what is there?"
Dalamar looked at the dwarf through narrowed eyes. "What is it you want that you think you will gain by threatening the White Robe?"
The door moved again, ever inward. Regene shifted from one foot to another, trapped. She looked over her shoulder at Dalamar, her sapphire eyes filling with fear. Her lips moved in prayer. Solinari shield me…
The god hadn't shielded her well when the dragon snatched her. It didn't look like he would now. The wall of light shivered and shifted, colors blending and changing. Sunlight moved on the floor, touching the far edge of the light wall. Rainbows splashed around the chamber, painting the walls and even the oaken desk.
"Ah," said Tramd, crossing to the desk. He ruffled a few of
the pages there, turning one so Dalamar could see it. "Look you, mageling. Isn't this interesting?"
Dalamar stood where he was, narrow-eyed, wary.
"Oh, come closer. I'm not going to hurt you, elf. Look, for it's something worth seeing."
Curious, Dalamar did go closer, and Tramd spread out his design on the table. The page he saw bore a scribe's notation indicating this was not an original but a working copy. The drawing showed a fortress, many-towered, filled with all the corridors and chambers, armories and meeting halls one would expect to find in a place of defense. Oddly drawn, though, Dalamar thought, turning one page and then another. Most renderings of new structures are shown in some kind of context, the fortress in a natural setting- upon a cliff-top, in a forest, guarding a mountain pass. That way the size of it is shown to best effect. This rendering, however, simply showed the fortress sitting in empty space, a dark drawing on the creamy white page.
And that was interesting, but not so fascinating as the writing, the thick lines of columns running down the right-hand side of the page. They were runes, Dalamar knew that much, and very old. Eyes narrowed, he went closer. Dwarven runes, and not the kind one usually sees on the work of dwarf craftsmen.
"A magical script," Tramd said. He flipped a page, and then another. "I have heard you have some skill with runes. What do these tell you?"
Rainbow light ran and shivered. Stone scraped on stone.
"They tell me," Dalamar said, "that you know a rune script I do not."
Tramd laughed, a dry, hard sound like coughing. "They tell more than that. They are runes that will one day enspell a fortress of this design-more than one. And those fortresses," he said, tracing the outline of the structure, "they will be flying citadels. From one of these an army does not defend. From here an army attacks, and attacks wherever it wants to."
Fear ran cold in Dalamar's belly. Ladonna had been right to say that the Blue Lady would win the next war. And when she won, all the nations who had forged the Whitestone Treaty and compelled the dragonarmies to sign would be hers to rule. There would be no light. No god but Takhisis would receive worship. She, the Dark Queen, the Mother of Dragons, would at last achieve what she had attempted in the War of the Lance. She would be the Dark Queen in the hearts of all who lived, and their souls would be hers to devour, to torment, to hoard as a miser hoards his treasure.
"You see," said the dwarf with the rainbow light shining on him. "You see what can be. What will be." He laughed. "It is inevitable."
He looked up from his pages, right into Dalamar's eyes. So clear those eyes, so bright with cunning, that Dalamar had to remind himself he was not, after all, looking into the eyes of the dwarf Tramd. The real eyes of the dwarf were other, elsewhere, as was his body, the decaying hulk he had come to kill.
"Listen," said the dwarf, the avatar smiling. "You can be part of this, mageling. You can throw in your lot with the Dark Queen. Step to the side of power now, while you will be welcomed."
Step into the dark, away from the light. He had been doing that all his life. He had walked out from Silvanesti into the darkness of the world without and wandered in lightless ruins. He had sat upon the hills around Neraka and considered this very choice.
No, he had said then. No. And yet, if what must come must come, would he be a fool to turn aside from the darkness he had already embraced?
Dalamar glanced away from the dwarf and the drawings. In her prison of light, Regene stood watching him. He did not weigh her in any choice or say to himself, No, I must choose and try to save her life in the bargain. He had already told himself he would abandon her at need. It was not Regene he weighed or considered. He did, however, consider his mission.
Do you know, Ladonna had asked, what life would be like without balance?
He knew, he who had lived under the strictures of a culture that allowed only one kind of worship, one kind of magic. He knew, as only a dark elf can know, what it is like to need what no one will allow him to have. And yet, if the triumph of Her Dark Majesty were, indeed, inevitable, wouldn't he be a fool to turn from the winning side and embrace the side of those who would become her slaves?
"Listen well, dark elf," said Tramd, the voice of the avatar softening into the tones used between reasonable men in sensible discussion. "Join me and I will commend you to the Blue Lady herself. I will say to her, 'Here is a new Highlord for you,' and you will rule over whatever kingdom it pleases you to have."
Cold into his heart came the sudden memory of an image he'd seen in the platinum mirrors in the Chamber of Darkness. People bowed to him, and they named him Lord Dalamar. He was feared, and he was respected, even honored. For this? For what Tramd now offered? Would he walk in a world that trembled to see him and receive the salutations of lesser men as though he were, indeed, the lord his own people would never have allowed him to be? He would, so said the prophecy of the mirrors, and in that moment his heart yearned toward it, rising to the idea of lordship, of temporal power to match his magical power. The title "Lord Dalamar" rang in his most secret soul.
Tramd sighed, a small sound of satisfaction. "So, you see what I see for you, what Takhisis herself sees. You will be a man of great effect, a man whose smallest whim will change the fates of nations. Paladine and all his puny kin will go down before Her Dark Majesty. Nothing will stand before her, and we who are hers will rule as no lord or king has ruled in all the history of Krynn.
"All this is yours, dark elf, if you only tell me this one thing: Who is your master? Who sent you to kill me?"
Only turn from the mission, turn from his word, his honor. Only turn from the magic, the High Sorcery that would die when the balance between light and dark, good and evil, Paladine and Takhisis, is fallen in ruin.
"Dwarf," Dalamar said, "go lick the boots of your mistress in Sanction."
Anger, like a storm, darkened Tramd's face. He whispered a word, softly he said, "Enter."
The scraping of stone on stone sounded louder now, longer, and out the corner of his eye Dalamar saw one gray-skinned hand curve around the door in the wall, grasping. It was a big hand, broad and long with nails like talons. The stink of filth and a long-unwashed body drifted on the air.
"In the name of all the gods of Good, in your own dear name, Bright Solinari…"
Regene's prayer lifted up from her prison. She had no magic, and she had no weapon, only her little belt knife and her trustful prayer.
"And what," said Tramd, head high, sun gleaming on his red beard, "what does yon White Robe imagine her prayers will do for her?"
Baited, Dalamar said nothing. A deep growling came out from the darkness behind the door, and the stench grew stronger. Dalamar knew it for the reek of carrion or that of a carrion-eater. Sweat rolled down the sides of Regene's face. Her prayer grew louder, and the flesh of her knuckles whitened, so hard did she grip her little knife. Tramd turned his back on the enclosure as though what happened there was no matter to him. Crossing the room to a small table near the door into the corridor, he murmured a few words. From out of the air appeared a silver flagon and two gleaming silver cups. He poured the cups full of a wine so deeply red that it seemed almost black. From one he sipped, carefully, as though judging a vintage. Satisfied, he offered the other to Dalamar.
"Thank you," Dalamar said to the host from whose hand he would accept no gift, "but no."
Tramd shrugged and drank more deeply. "Your friend won't have to die, if you tell me what I want to know. Who sent you for me?"
Dalamar stood still as stone, watching Regene pray. He would not plead for her, and he would not bargain for her. She had made her choice to come here. In the cause of her own ambition, she had followed him from the Tower. In her cause she had come here, knowing he would serve only his cause.
Wild roaring filled the room as a beast-man, something with blind, cauled eyes, gray-scaled skin, and fangs for teeth burst out of the darkness beyond the stone door. Filthy black hair like a wild mane cascaded down the thing's back, and in its h
ands it held a broad-axe whose blade gleamed in the rainbow-light.
"It is a grimlock," Tramd said, "and a hungry one, too. It mostly eats rat flesh down in those caves, but it's always happy for a bit of human meat when it can get that."
Regene leaped back, hit the wall of light, and fell to her knees. Scrambling, she rose, her knife still in hand. "In the names of the gods of Good-" She ducked as the grimlock swung the broad-axe, fell again, and rolled away. She was no fighter, but she was quick on her feet.
"Tell me what I want to know, mageling," said Tramd, his tone not so reasonable as it had been, "and I will call off the grimlock."
Again, Dalamar turned away. "She's a White Robe. Why do you imagine I would care if she fattens some grimlock's larder?"
Regene slashed at the grimlock, swift with her little knife. The beast-man sprang, swinging down the blade of its axe. Regene cried out in pain, and blood sprang bright on the shoulder of her robe. The grimlock roared, furious that the blow hadn't struck true and severed the woman's arm. The broad axe whistled in the air, and Regene flung herself aside. Sparks leaped from the stone where the iron struck. Regene staggered back, hit the light again, and this time used the repelling force to her advantage, letting it fling her out from under another axe blow. The grimlock roared, turned swiftly, then stumbled, falling into the barrier of light. Flung, it staggered forward, the axe falling from its grip.
Regene dashed for the axe, bleeding from the shoulder wound made by the savage claws of the blue dragon. She snatched the weapon, swinging wide with it. She had not the least technique, not the first idea how to fight. She knew, though, that she must keep the staggered grimlock from her, and the best way to do that was to keep the axe in motion.
Dalamar did not move or even shudder. He kept his eyes on Regene. Her eyes alight, her teeth bared in a warrior's grin, she advanced, one step and then another, bleeding and swinging the axe. The grimlock retreated, stunned by the contact with the light barrier and compelled back toward it. Tramd's breath sounded harshly in Dalamar's ears, then seemed to stagger.
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