“When you channel forth a healing ritual or a blessing upon someone,” Lorace said. “You are doing the same thing Iris just did only you are drawing from the spirit of Lord Aran. What you just saw is the difference between the divine powers and the sorcerous. Aran is blessing you with a connection to the spirit of Vorallon, a connection that one who has been born to magic, or accepted the rigors of learning it, has already forged. This is the spirit of life. This is what you must use to fight undeath.”
Iris stood somewhat confused. “Is that what I am? Born to magic?”
Lorace drew her back to the chain with a tilt of his head. “You were not linked to my sight so you could not see. When you drew forth the energy for your spell, you were drawing on the spirit of Vorallon. Every time you cast a spell, you use a piece of the world’s life force to do so.”
“Oh my,” Iris said in wonder. “Is that bad? Does that mean that casting spells weakens Vorallon?”
“No, not unless you were to use a phenomenal amount of energy,” Lorace reasoned. “It is similar to when you use your gift. You may feel tired as you use it, but when you rest it is recovered. Vorallon’s spirit is enormous, and at its core is godstone—a lot of godstone. Those who take of Vorallon’s spirit against his will, face the threat of another godstone hero, none of whom have failed in their task.”
Iris accepted everything Lorace said, but it triggered a memory of something she had forgotten. The magic had flowed so easily here and she had been too eager to put her past behind her. She had awakened in Lorace’s arms to find and know love, now something she should never have forgotten reared back at her like the twisting of a snake in her grip
“Lorace, this is bad,” Iris’s already large eyes widened in distress. “This blight of undeath is not just killing the spirit of Vorallon, it is destroying magic. An aura of pain I could feel, surrounds the Devourer, driving back the Spirit of Vorallon with its own dark and twisted forces. To come here, I cast a spell of distant journeying. I failed, at first, to gather the magic for the spell, it seemed to be withdrawing from the area of Blackdrake Castle. That is where this attack is emanating. If it is stronger now and spreading further, we will not be able to reach Vorallon’s spirit at all when we enter the blight.”
Lorace’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “I think we are going to have to fight our way through it, pushing back the blight of undeath while pulling the spirit of Vorallon along with us,” Lorace turned once again to the assembled priests. “You must master your connection with this new blessing of Lord Aran. I am sure the dwarves and elves will be able to help with this as well, their connection to Vorallon is already strong.”
He looked down at his chain and then back up into her eyes with a frown.
“Iris will aid you in this,” Lorace said, and Iris’s shoulders slumped. She wanted to be with him for as much of the time that remained to them as possible, and now he was offering her up to school the priests in channeling this new power—her longing to be with him bordered on ravenous hunger. “For the remainder of the day, she will guide you, but come nightfall I must take my bride from you.”
There was a moment of silence after his words. The priests and his companions looked between them with growing smiles while Iris blushed.
“Bless you both!” Oen erupted in exuberance, and then frowned himself. “Lorace, we cannot accept this. Your time together is too precious.”
“The Lord Aran wed us as we prayed before his altar,” Iris said, squaring her shoulders again and lifting her chin. “I must do what I can to train you all, it is my offering as a pilgrim of Halversome, and I must insist. We will have to be as strong as we can for what lies ahead. I will take my evening with my Lord Husband though, so let us begin.”
Lorace found himself trapped within a bone-crushing embrace.
“Tornin!” Lorace gasped. “Cannot breathe-”
Tornin did not let go of his hold, but he did lessen his grasp before Lorace was forced pull air into his own lungs with his gift.
“My Lord—my Lady,” Tornin said with a hitch in his throat. “Congratulations to you both!”
Lorace wriggled free at last and turned to his would-be paladin. “You might want to bring Captain Falraan to pray with you before Lord Aran as well, young knight.”
Tornin went several shades of red. “I will, my Lord,” he stammered.
Lorace chuckled as he clapped him on the shoulder. “The sooner the better.”
Iris and the priests withdrew from the main hall as citizens continued to enter the temple to receive Aran’s blessing. Oen and Hethal joined her as well eager for whatever knowledge she would share.
Lorace looked to Tornin and Sir Rindal with mock severity. “I guess that leaves me stuck with two chaste paladins, just when I am in need of some advice for my wedding night.”
“If I can make a suggestion,” Sir Rindal began with a chortle. “You might want to find your bride a proper dress as befits a lady. Her charms are so hidden within her robes you have no idea what it is you have gotten yourself into.”
“Why, Sir Rindal, I am shocked!” Lorace clutched at the robe stretched tight across Sir Rindal’s chest like a sheet of sail in a storm. “The eyes of my heart are blind to such things!”
Sir Rindal reached out and tapped a forefinger on Lorace’s forehead. “Indeed you should be shocked, your eyes see far too much.”
Lorace stood silent for a moment before his cheeks began to flush warm. Tornin took hold of his arm, saving him from having to deny Sir Rindal’s implication.
“Come, my Lord,” Tornin bid. “I know of a marvelous dressmaker near the north gate.”
The tall knight promptly drew Lorace from the temple and toward the north end of the city.
Stepping upon the bridge that spanned the narrow channel of the Silarne, they encountered Captain Falraan. She led a group of mixed guardsmen and black armored pilgrims carrying various burdens of supplies in the opposite direction. She commanded the men to continue to the great lift then paused before Lorace and his two knights.
Before Tornin could say a word, Falraan turned both his warders about, “You two! Lend your backs to these men and aid them in carrying those supplies for our voyage. When you are finished with that load, fetch another.”
“Yes Ma’am but-” Tornin sputtered.
“I will assist Lorace with whatever his mission requires,” Captain Falraan leaned forcefully toward both of the hulking men. “Or do you not think he is safe in my care?”
Sir Rindal took hold of Tornin’s arm. “Never dispute a woman who outranks you,” he whispered sagely to the younger man as they hurried to catch up with the burdened soldiers.
Falraan turned back to Lorace with a much softer expression. “Now, what is it you seek?”
“I am wed to Iris,” Lorace answered. “I would make a gift to her of a dress—it was Sir Rindal’s idea and Tornin was showing me to a dressmaker.”
Falraan stepped beside him and put her arm around his waist to continue guiding him across the bridge. “And a wonderful suggestion it is! She is a very special woman, and I imagine you have no idea how a proper woman should be attired. Therefore, I will accompany you to insure that no mistakes are made. You are quite fortunate to have run into me, I at least have a good idea of what will fit her since seeing to her bath last night.”
Falraan’s eyes twinkled with a mysterious light as Lorace beamed his appreciation. “I place myself in your competent hands, Captain.”
She led him into the northern side of the city, a region he had yet to examine.
The north half of Halversome was comprised mostly of grand, flat-roofed homes with well-tended gardens surrounding deep porches in riotous blooms, despite the coming of the winter moon. At the will of Vorallon, the dwarves had built large. They were told to anticipate big families with many generations of children, and indeed some of the homes were alive with burgeoning families, but most stood silent and vacant.
Lorace remembered Tornin telling him
about the construction of Halversome, built to hold a great populace. Though completed over fifty years ago, she remained largely empty. Her population had not grown to more than a skeleton crew. Of those who had heard the call of the City of Thunder, few could complete the pilgrimage during these darker days.
Falraan shared more of the city’s story with him while they walked the broad street leading toward the north gate. “It is the Keth Gate,” she said. “Our farms and pastures lay beyond, rich land that has filled our winter stores well. The elves of the Keth have instructed us in the tending of fields and livestock, things many of the pilgrims who founded Halversome never dreamed of; ways to keep the fields fertile, grow foods which have helped keep us healthy when darker places of the world have fallen to famine or disease.”
“How is it you know of such things?” Lorace asked. “I believed Halversome to be well isolated from the world.”
“It is, I was just a young girl at the time, but my father and Uncle Oen knew of these things all too intimately when they brought our family here as pilgrims,” Falraan sobered from the bubbling woman who had guided him across the bridge. “It is one of the reasons my father left over a year ago, to share the knowledge we have gained here. He went to teach those who could not follow the call to Halversome themselves, but he has not succeeded, has he?”
Lorace took Falraan’s hand. “He has not. My brothers have told me that the rest of the world has fallen. Hethal brought the army of Zuxra so those few could survive, those men have lost everything that they left behind, what loves or families they may have had are gone. War, famine, and demons have claimed all that the blight of undeath and the Devourer have not.”
Falraan turned to pierce him with her blue eyes. “Are you saying that the people beyond this valley have not just fallen into darkness and corruption, but are dead?”
“Very few still live,” he said, and Falraan shrank in upon herself at his words. “Your father is one of them. Hethal has spoken of future conversations with the Truthseeker.”
Falraan squeezed his hand tight. “Uncle told me. I am just thinking of all that is lost. What will be left once this dark time is behind us?”
“Halversome is the storehouse where the seeds of us all are being stored through this coming winter,” Lorace waved toward the homes lining the street. “I understand now why Vorallon bade the dwarves to build these walls and homes, why he bade the elves teach their lore in growing crops. The world will not end now. We will succeed. Man will spread from here across the world again with the coming spring, my brothers and I will see to it.”
Falraan smiled and pulled him onto the porch of a home just inside the wide Keth Gate. “Thank you, Lorace. Now, as promised, I have brought you to the finest dressmaker in the whole of Vorallon.”
She opened the door for him and drew him inside to find a room bustling with activity. A matronly woman guided two generations of her daughters in the careful construction of dozens of delicate, yellow lace flowers. The women, seven in all, shared a striking beauty with one another; all crowned with flaming red hair, though their matriarch’s had long gone to white.
The resemblance between Falraan and the industrious nattering women was unmistakable.
“Back so soon, dear?” the elder woman pierced Falraan with a familiar blue-eyed gaze.
“Grammie, this is Lorace,” Falraan pulled him unceremoniously forward. “He is the one who saved us all today. Lorace, this is my grandmother Narlana.”
Lorace regained his composure and bowed deeply. “It is an honor to meet you, my lady.”
Falraan then introduced two women who were her aunts, and their daughters who made up the remainder of the gathering.
Lorace watched the women begin stitching the tiny yellow lace flowers onto the low neckline of a petite violet dress. Indeed, they were just putting the final touches on it as Lorace turned to slump his shoulders in defeat at Falraan. “You have set me up—Sir Rindal and Tornin? How deep does this plot go? This is for Iris. It is lovely! You all must have been working on it all day.”
Narlana raised an eyebrow at Lorace. “Hah! Longer than that, we began last night. Falraan got us all out of bed to begin work on it. She wanted us so busy we would not have time to worry about an army of demons at our gate.”
“Oh, Mother, none of us could have slept last night,” one of Falraan’s aunts spoke up. “And now today we are so happy to be alive we have just poured ourselves into this dress.”
“It is beautifully crafted,” Lorace examined the dress, narrow at the waist and amply proportioned elsewhere. “You should all be very proud. Are you sure it will fit her?”
Falraan directed the women to hold the dress up and she gave it critical a nod. “It might be a bit snug in the bust and hips. Iris is small, but she is a woman bloomed—bloomed well indeed.”
What followed was a flurry of activity that Lorace was forced to step back from as the women worked to deftly alter the dress, letting out strategically placed seams at Falraan’s direction.
Lorace felt a slight tug at his elbow drawing his attention to a young white haired boy offering him a cup of tea. “And who are you?” Lorace said, graciously accepting the steaming cup.
“I am Micah,” the boy replied simply.
“Which one of these ladies is your mother, Micah?” Lorace took a sip of the aromatic tea.
“My mother is in Jaarda,” Micah said with pride. “She went there when I was born.”
“We all are mother to Micah,” Narlana said as she combed down the boy’s hair with her fingers. “This is Falraan’s little brother.”
Micah tugged on Lorace’s sleeve, drawing him down to kneel beside him. “Lord Aran allows me to be with mother,” the child whispered in his ear. “She wants me to be a priest, like my father, when I grow up.”
Lorace studied Micah closely, but remained silent.
“Father is not dead,” Micah whispered on, “mother told me.”
Narlana held up the finished dress amid many sighs of satisfaction, calling Lorace’s attention away from puzzling out the child’s words.
Lorace stood to accept the dress, but Narlana pulled it back with a stern frown. “You are not touching this with those filthy hands,” she admonished. “You look like you have been cleaning the soot from Thryk’s forge.”
He looked down at himself; grime covered his white robes and lined his fingernails. He had not noticed it, so wrapped had he been in other concerns. It is not soot, he realized. Fine particles of demon essence—all that remained of their hueratta. He rubbed a tiny pinch of the dust between his fingers, minute traces of something Sakke Vrang had found pure enough not to consume. The passing virtue of an army of demons amounted to a smear of black dust.
“Micah, take Lorace to the dye shed out back,” Narlana ordered the young boy. “Get him soaking in the rinse tub then come back here; I have another job for you.”
“Yes, Grammie,” Micah said as he grabbed Lorace by the sleeve and led him out of the room.
Lorace found the dye shed to be more of a grand hall. Made of stone as were most of Halversome’s dwarf-crafted buildings, it was a long, sturdy structure. Heat and the heady floral smells of the dyes hit him like a pleasant wave. Long swaths of brightly colored cloth hung from every beam to dry, creating the air of a spring festival throughout the hall. In two long rows down its length stood large copper tubs full of deep hued liquids, some steaming over low-banked coals.
Micah continued pulling Lorace along until he stood before a large tub of slightly murky hot water. “This is the rinse tub. The soap is here,” the boy pointed to a white cake of the stuff on an overturned bucket nearby. “Do not get any soap in the tub or I will have to change the water again. Just soak for a bit, get out and soap up then use the bucket to rinse yourself off.”
Directions given, Micah turned on his heel, and marched back toward his family’s home as Lorace called out his thanks to the boy’s straight back. The similarities between the child and his grown s
ister brought a smile of adoration to his lips.
The hot water looked so inviting he removed the satchel from his shoulder and disrobed in the same motion. He plunged a foot into the tub only to immediately remove it with a gasp. The water was hot. Much more tentatively, he lowered his foot into the water. Once the heat merely soothed, the rest of his body carefully followed. Soon he was fully submerged in the steaming tub and feeling the best he could remember since bathing in the traveler’s hall of Vlaske K’Brak. Lorace let such thoughts go and relaxed his mind as well as his body.
When the heat of the bath had permeated to his core, he climbed out with a sigh and picked up the block of abrasive soap. He scrubbed himself almost raw then dipped the bucket full of hot water to sluice his body clean.
Lorace looked at his dropped robes, contemplating the lack of wisdom in putting the soiled cloth back on when Micah returned with a bundle of clothes.
The boy halted awestruck, nearly dropping the bundle. “You have a lot of scars!”
“Sorry, Micah,” Lorace said as he picked up his robe to hide his forgotten marring.
“Wait!” Micah cried out. “I have seen that somewhere before, that drawing the scars make on your chest. Please, can I see it?”
Lorace lowered the robe, viewing himself with his sight from where Micah stood.
Micah pointed to the network of raised lines crossing and curling upon his chest. “I have seen that, it is burning on a great black mountain in-”
Micah silenced himself and looked away.
“Where have you seen it, Micah?” Lorace’s eyes narrowed on the child. “I do not know why I bear these marks. They have simply been a part of me since before I can remember.”
Micah remained silent for a moment longer before he found the courage to speak. “I saw them someplace I was not supposed to go. Mother begged me never to go there, but I had to, I just had to-”
The boy paused, wrestling internally with himself, before he could continue. “That sign is from Nefryt.”
Gifts of Vorallon: 02 - City of Thunder Page 16
