“I will certainly be happy to ask him that, just as I will be more than happy to question these new additions on what they know about their bloodlines. In the meantime...in the meantime, I also came here wanting to ask you something in private, something I need you to keep between just the two of us. I would prefer neither Cabe nor Troia know about it, at least for now.”
The seriousness with which she asked made him not even hesitate. “If you feel it necessary, I promise. What is it?”
She glanced over her shoulder --- a curious action, the Gryphon decided --- then said to him, “Gryphon...how much do you actually recall of the Turning War? How much?”
“Too much. I remember the battles, the men dying, the betrayals...”
“I recall that, too, but think of certain details. Think about Cabe. Do you remember anything concerning his birth? Do you know exactly where I was at the time, for instance?”
The questions were simple enough, but when the lionbird considered them...he realized that there were several significant gaps in his memory. “You were...no...that isn’t possible...that couldn’t...I think...”
Gwen smiled ruefully. “You sound exactly like I felt when I first began to think carefully about things. I realized, for instance, my memories of the taking of Penacles from the Purple Dragon contradict with other memories, such as Lord Purple’s actual death and when it took place in regard to the collapse of the rebellion outside this kingdom.”
Here, the Gryphon, who had been a part of that epic battle, felt on absolutely safe ground. “Simple enough. We took Penacles at the same time we brought down Lord Purple. I was with Cabe and he...no...that part’s not right...I remember it happening at different times...but that’s...”
“Exactly.” The enchantress looked over her shoulder again.
His utter confusion over his own faulty memories gave way to curiosity concerning her repetitive action. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“I...do not know why. I only know that...that it began about the same time I started realizing that for all these years my memory has been playing tricks on me, that what I thought I remembered --- especially from the Turning War --- was not always what actually took place or, at the very least, did not take place in the order I remembered.”
Demion... Without warning, the Gryphon’s long-lost son came to the lionbird’s mind. At the same time, he felt an urge to look behind. The only reason he did not succumb to the urge was that if there had been something or someone there, Gwendolyn Bedlam surely would have warned him.
“You feel it, too,” the human murmured. “You feel like you’re not alone.”
“It only just started...”
Her eyes suddenly moistened. “Tell me, Gryph. Tell me who you think stands behind you. You can feel it. Tell me...though I think in your case I already know.”
He wanted to deny what he sensed --- what he knew she obviously sensed as well --- but finally whispered, “Demion...my son.”
The enchantress nodded. Her eyes remained damp. “I had no siblings, lost no children. My parents, I barely knew. Tica --- the witch who first taught me --- was kind enough, but always remained a little distant. I won’t even begin to speak of my apprenticeship to the Green Dragon. The only family I’ve ever truly had consists of my children...and my husband’s bloodline.”
Her peculiar choice of words at the end made him certain that he understood what actually meant. “Lady Gwen...you’re not saying...you think you’re being shadowed...by...by the memory of Nathan Bedlam...”
“No...but you are close. His son. His good son. Dayn.”
The lionbird could scarcely believe that they could be having such a bizarre conversation. Unable to resist any longer, he looked over his shoulder. Not at all to his surprise --- but somewhat to his disappointment --- he saw nothing. No Demion.
“I’ve looked over my shoulder more times than I can count, Gryphon. There’s never anything. Still...I cannot help keep looking...and hoping.” She sighed. “Dayn was like a brother to me. No...not ‘like’...he was a brother to me.”
“Lady Gwen...Dayn’s been dead for over two hundred years...by his own brother’s hand. By Azran’s foul hand.” But then again, the lord of Penacles thought wryly. What difference does a year or a century make to the deceased ---
He stiffened in dismay as a much-too-possible answer occurred to him.
Her gaze momentarily turned inward, the enchantress did not notice his reaction. “May Azran’s soul rot in the darkest depths for all he did. Praise be that he’s dead.” She looked up at the Gryphon again. “Praise be you put an end to his evil before it could claim Cabe as well!”
Suddenly, every shadowy cornered bothered the lionbird. He searched each and every one of them, but while there was no hint of what he sought there, the master of the City of Knowledge could still not shake the sensation that he was not far from the awful truth.
“Praise be, yes...” he replied absently. Then, something else quietly escaped his mouth --- not just words, but a title.
This time, his companion did not miss his reaction --- nor his words. “I was hoping...and dreading...you would come to the same conclusion.”
He blinked. “You thought about it as well?”
“I’ve had more time. Much too much time,” Gwen replied. “And it was a logical enough conclusion. This is all very likely tied to the Lords of the Dead.”
The Lords of the Dead. To most, the Lords had been the stuff of legend, of nightmare. Thought by many to be dark gods, they had been, so the Gryphon knew from painful experience, powerful, seemingly immortal necromancers who had stolen the souls --- or slices of souls --- from nearly anyone who had ever died.
“The Lords are no more, though,” he reminded her. “I think we can take Shade’s word on that...and if not his...your daughter’s, at least.”
To her credit, Gwen only nodded. The subject of Valea and her ties to the warlock was a sore point with the enchantress and her husband, even more of a sore point than their son’s relationship. “I take their word. To the best of their knowledge --- and ours --- the Lord are no more. But stop to think, Gryphon...what happened to all those souls once they were no longer tethered to the necromancers. Where did they go?”
“I assumed that they went to their rest.”
“So did I...until recently. Now, I think some of them may have...stayed...with those who need them most. Fanciful, I once thought, but if you, too, feel as if someone you cared for stands near, then maybe there’s more to it than I even imagined.”
Demion, the Gryphon thought again. If I could see you once, even hold you...or let your mother do so...
He knew then what they had to do. He also knew that the Lady Gwen had been hoping all this time that he would come to the same decision.
“I wonder...” she went on. “I wonder if that is also the reason we are suddenly finding that perhaps the legacy of the Dragon Masters is not quite so lost as we thought...I mean, the timing is curious...”
“Maybe the libraries can help us there, as well. That is what you want of me, isn’t it? To check the libraries to see of they can give us the truth?”
“When I knew I was coming here, it was the first thing I thought of. Do you think...do you think it’s worth a chance?”
The Gryphon did not have to think for long. All he had to do was envision his son as last he had seen him...bloody and dying. After all these years, he wanted a different, lasting memory...even if it meant briefly confronting a ghost.
Taking the enchantress by the arm, the Gryphon grimly replied, “Let’s go ask them right now, shall we?”
* * *
Cabe Bedlam yawned. The dark-haired wizard rubbed his chin and focused again on the swampy landscape before him. Each time he was forced to investigate the Storm Dragon’s abode, he left thinking it the most forsaken of all thirteen realms...and that included even the Northern Wastes.
The peculiar magical trace that he had sensed and that had forced his abrupt change in
plans could now not be located. What that meant, the blue-robed mage could not say. He only knew that the trace had been so unusual, so unlike anything he had come across, that there could be no other choice than to risk himself secretly surveying Wenslis as much as he could from his vantage point.
But three days of uncovering nothing was taking its toll. Cabe knew that he dared not relax his guard, yet, being human, he had his limits.
If not for the wide streak of silver in his hair, there would have been little to physically identify him as the most powerful wizard in the Dragonrealm. Under the thick head of hair could be found the unassuming face of someone who looked better suited to farming. Indeed, Cabe had never asked to be what he was. That was a legacy thrown on him by generations of Bedlams, ending with his grandfather, Nathan --- who had died trying to free humanity --- and his father, Azran --- who had lacked any trace of humanity.
Cabe adjusted his mental probe. Despite his location on the southwest edge of Wenslis, his power now reached to regions on the opposing border several days swift riding away. Through the probe, he saw the area there in two layers. Not only did Cabe see the landscape as any other person would have, but he also noted the lines of energy crisscrossing the land, the same lines that covered the entire world and provided much of the basis for a spellcaster’s power. Even the slightest use of magic would cause a shift in the lines, something he believed he should be able to notice.
Unfortunately, the results were the same as before. Nothing out of the ordinary. If anything, the Storm Dragon’s domain was even quieter than Cabe expected.
He wondered how his grandfather had handled such situations. Cabe had literally inherited part of his life and his power from Nathan’s sacrifice, something of which he always remained well aware. He liked to think of himself as following in his grandfather’s footsteps, if that was possible. Unfortunately, he had also inherited a lot more that he wished was not a part of him...that thanks to his father, who had only desired a son so that he could use the infant for his insidious plans.
Every man likes to see his son once or twice. I thought you died at birth. You have no idea how much your life means to me, son...
The wizard jolted as the voice from his darkest memories echoed in his head. He remembered those words too well, some of the first spoken to him after his capture by Azran. Cabe could see his father as he had been then --- barely looking any older than the younger Bedlam and dressed from head to toe in black and silver. Most jarring had been Azran’s hair and beard, divided perfectly with silver on one side and black on the other.
I saw your small, limp form...
Nathan Bedlam had tricked his son into believing Cabe had died shortly after birth. It had been the only thing that had saved Cabe at the time.
Now, however, I have you back...
With a gasp, Cabe leapt to his feet. He spun around, almost certain that he would find himself still a prisoner in Azran’s citadel. For once, the dreary swamp proved to be a welcome sight, if only for a moment.
I’ve been Wenslis much too long, the wizard finally decided. There were other, more personal reasons that he had spent so much time here alone, personal reasons having to do with his children. He had to come to some decision about both of them. Unlike Azran, Cabe loved his children. They had not been born to be used for his own gain.
Exhaling deeply, the mage gave Wenslis one last cursory study. Again finding nothing, he concentrated...and disappeared.
* * *
A light breeze swept over the area just as Cabe vanished, bending some of the nearest reeds toward the south. Yet, in one patch directly behind where the wizard had stood, the reeds failed to obey the breeze. Rather, for perhaps the space of a breath, they bent in the opposite direction.
And then they were still once more.
III
Talak
There had once been a time when Melicard’s soul had matched his ruined body, once a time when his name had been whispered fearfully by his subjects.
And then, from the western kingdom of Gordag-Ai, had come a young princess named Erini. A slim, blond figure physically no match for the towering, warlike king of Talak. Yet, she had seen through the horror that had been his face and found the man buried far beneath those marred features. Erini had brought him back from the brink ---
No... the lord of Talak thought with great bitterness. You brought me back from beyond the brink...and I swear that I will bring you back from the dead...
The chamber in which the greying monarch knelt had only one lamp, that purposely set in the ceiling over the focus of his attention. Although in appearance a mere oil lamp, it never needed relighting nor even refilling. The lamp was a legacy of his Erini, first used for their daughter’s bedroom when she had been a child with some fear of the dark. Now, it served a new, more real purpose for Melicard.
Gazing up, he stared at the calm face of his bride.
Thanks to Cabe Bedlam, Erini, her blond hair wrapped around her shoulders, looked as if she only slept. There was no hint of the mystical poison that had slain her, poison supposedly meant for Melicard.
The king’s fists clenched. His vengeance against the poisoners had been taken from him by another with older grudges against them. Still, even Melicard admitted to himself that the task of hunting down the perpetrators would have been a daunting one. The Lords of the Dead had been considered gods by many, demons by others. At the very least, they had been necromancers who had lived far longer than the human race.
And now they are gone, my Erini. So says Valea Bedlam, at least. Gone at the hands of the faceless one...
Melicard bared his teeth. He felt no gratitude toward Shade. Indeed, the accursed warlock had nearly cost the king Erini when first the princess had come to Talak. Erini had eventually made her peace with him, but not Melicard.
“You were always kinder than me,” the king murmured. Rising, he faced the sight that both awed and shook him. The amber shell looked natural, almost as if it grown normally around the still for of his bride. Erini, her hands placed gently over her bosom, appeared the picture of health and many, many years younger than her husband. Part of that had been because of some difference in age, but it had also had to do with the fact that his wife had been a very powerful enchantress in her own right...not that such power had protected her in the end.
At his behest, Cabe had purged all traces of the evil inflicted on Erini’s body. At that time, the mage had tried to explain again that doing so would not alter the fact that the queen was dead, but Melicard had refused to hear such. Somehow, he would reunite her spirit with her body.
“We have guests,” he whispered to her. “Lord Gryphon’s wife and sons. I know you would have them well taken care of and I have seen to it that they lack for nothing. Lynnette is entertaining them now ---” The king hesitated, then reluctantly added, “--- she already knows so much about court life you would have thought that she had been doing this for decades.”
Melicard’s head jerked. He looked to his side. For a moment, the king squinted at the darkness.
Rising, Melicard reached up to the left side of his face. Taking hold of the cheek, the lord of Talak removed nearly the entire side.
His desire to avenge his father, who had grown mad thanks to the drake lords, had left Melicard with only half a face. The rest was a scorched and scarred ruin, made so by magic wielded unwisely. Even Cabe Bedlam could not rebuild what the magic had destroyed. Instead, the king hid his deformity behind a partial mask of elfwood, a rare material that, with tremendous effort, could be shaped as desired. In Melicard’s case, he had used it to recreate his features. The desire to do so involved more than mere vanity; when attached to his face, the elfwood moved as his features did.
But it was not just the face he had replaced. Even the hand --- and the arm to which it was attached --- had been formed from elfwood. In nearly every way, both the face and arm were as real as what they mimicked...save that they did not feel. The false eye could not cry, no mat
ter how much Melicard wished that it could. Its magic did allow him to see, a miracle in itself since no other magic worked on him, but the eye could not cry.
And more than anything else at the moment, Melicard wished that it could.
He continued to stare at the darkness. Sometimes of late, when he was down here for a long time, he thought he heard...something. In his troubled mind, the king always imagined it to be Erini trying to come back to him, trying ---
A tentative knock on the iron door made him quickly thrust the mask back on. His anger rising swiftly, he strode to the door and flung it open.
The middle-aged figure standing in the corridor beyond was one of those who should have known better than to interrupt him at these times. Bern had lost all of his hair at an early age, but even though that at most times made him look older than the king, at the moment the seneschal looked more like the ten-year-old boy to whom Melicard had first been introduced years ago at court by Bern’s father, a count.
“Forgive me, your majesty! I would never dream to intrude upon you ---”
“Then, tell me why you dared!”
“It’s ---” Bern struggled to compose himself. A short but broad man, he was not weak, but against the king’s fury, even the strongest men paled. “It’s just that we have a visitor...”
“A visitor?”
“A --- an emissary. From the north.”
The last word was all Bern needed to quash Melicard’s fury. The north. There was only one realm to the north --- only one that still existed, that is.
Talak’s visitor --- this emissary --- could only be from the Dragon Emperor.
As difficult as it was to tear himself away from Erini, Melicard understood the significance of such an unannounced visitor. No servant of any Dragon King, especially the emperor, dared visit Talak without advance warning. Indeed, no servant of any Dragon King ever dared visit Talak at all. Melicard’s war against them might have been set aside for good reasons, but his hatred for most of them remained. Even Erini had never suspected just how strong those feelings still were.
The Dragon Throne_Knights of the Frost Pt. I Page 3
