The dreams came again.
“Burn with me,” said the woman in the long hall of white stone, the old knight watching him from the throne.
“Watch and listen, boy,” said the old warrior. “This has been going on for a long time now, a very long time. I’m older than dirt, but compared to the war we’re fighting, I’m a babe in the cradle.”
“Burn with me,” said the woman gowned in flame, her features shifting into those of Calliande, and Ridmark looked into her eyes
Visions exploded through his mind, a whirling mosaic of images and scenes, and he struggled to make sense of them.
In one he saw the kingdoms and cities of the high elves, spreading across the face of the world like a shining crystalline web, long before dwarves or orcs or anyone else had come to this world.
The Black Mountain stood in the land that would one day be named the Northerland, a dark shadow rising in the heart of the high elves’ kingdoms. Some of the high elves sought to open the heart of the mountain, and they changed, twisting and becoming the dark elves. Ridmark saw the dark elves raise kingdoms of their own, and he recognized some of the dark elves he saw – the Warden and the Traveler and the Artificer. With them stood another dark elven lord, pale with white hair, his expression perpetually annoyed, and around him crouched urvaalgs and ursaars and urshanes and the other creatures his dark magic and twisted alchemy had wrought.
A hundred thousand years of war flashed before his eyes in a thousand shattered instants. He watched as the dark elves opened gates, summoning other kindreds to labor as their slaves and soldiers. The high elves fought back, losing ground over the centuries. From time to time they were led by a mighty warrior wreathed in flame, and Ridmark realized that the warrior wielded the woman gowned in flames, who had been transmuted into the form of a golden sword.
In those thousand shards, he saw the true shape of the war. The dark elves had opened the way, and the shadow had seeped out from the Black Mountain. The shadow twisted the dark elves. The shadow convinced them to summon new kindreds. The shadow sought to free itself by breaking the world, using the other kindreds as tools and weapons and pawns.
Through it all the woman’s voice filled Ridmark’s head.
“Burn with me. Burn with me. Burn with me…”
###
Calliande climbed the stairs to her room, Gavin and Antenora following her.
She was a little dizzy.
Camorak had not been lying when he had said that the brandy of Durandis had a kick to it. Calliande had drunk the first toast and immediately felt much warmer, and after that, she had only sipped at her drinks. Even then, she had drunk more brandy than she wanted, and she now felt a bit dizzy and flushed. Calliande had never gotten drunk, but this was closer to it than she would like.
Gavin and Antenora followed her. Gavin, too, seemed a bit tipsy, though Antenora as ever remained cold and calm, her yellow eyes watching for any threat.
“I think,” said Gavin, “that I am looking forward to sleep.”
“You fought hard today,” said Antenora.
“Also,” said Gavin, “I think I drank too much of that brandy.”
A ghost of a smile went over Antenora’s gray lips. “That is also possible.”
“God and the saints,” said Gavin. “I’m never doing that again. No wonder Camorak always looks so tired. Does everyone in Durandis drink this way? It is only the mercy of God that they’re all not pickled.”
Calliande laughed. Some men, when drunk, grew silent, others became violent, and some became weepy. Gavin, it seemed, became talkative.
“There are nations like that upon Old Earth,” said Antenora. “Drinking is a way of life, and most men and women die of alcohol-related illnesses in their forties or fifties. Does this world have a drink called vodka?”
“Vodka?” said Calliande, looking at her apprentice “What is that?”
“The word means water,” said Antenora. She hesitated. “I forget what language. It is a popular drink among several nations of Old Earth.”
“The brandy of Durandis,” said Gavin, “is definitely not water.”
Calliande reached the end of the stairs and gripped the wall until her head stopped spinning.
“I believe,” she said, “that Sir Gavin is entirely correct.”
“Good night,” said Gavin, disappearing into his room. “I shall be here if you need me.”
“I shall stand guard in the hallway, Keeper,” said Antenora.
“Thank you, Antenora,” said Calliande.
She stepped into her room and closed the door. The room was small and narrow, the room of a knight or a man-at-arms, with a small bed. Right now, it looked like the most comfortable bed that Calliande had ever seen. Tomorrow, no doubt the Dux’s seneschal would send maids to help her, but right now, she just wanted to sleep.
Calliande cast aside her cloak and boots, propped up her staff in the corner, and flopped onto the bed.
A moment later she was asleep, and in her sleep, she dreamed.
It was a dream that she had dreamed before.
Calliande stood on the shore of a blue-gray lake, so vast that she could not see the other side. The beach was made up of countless stones, rounded from the constant hammering of the waves, and pieces of driftwood lay scattered around her. A vast curtain of mist rose from the rippling waters, filling the air with dampness.
Morigna stood a short distance away, clad in her tattered cloak and leather clothes, the carved staff in her hand.
“Morigna,” said Calliande.
“Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Morigna. “One fears that you cannot hold your liquor very well.”
Calliande sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment, trying not to grind her jaw. “And even in death, your tongue has not lost its sharp edge.”
Morigna smiled. “One does not lose one’s virtues with death.”
Calliande said nothing, trying to think. Even in the dream, her mind still felt clouded from the brandy. Morigna’s spirit had appeared in her dreams a few times. She hadn’t told Ridmark for fear that the news would upset him.
“No,” said Calliande. “No, I suppose not.”
“Have you seduced Ridmark yet?” said Morigna.
Calliande flinched. “What? I...I don’t...” Guilt flooded through her, which promptly turned into annoyance when Morigna started laughing. “What is so funny?”
“You are,” said Morigna. “The mighty Keeper of Andomhaim, and for a moment you looked like a child caught stealing cookies.”
“We’re not talking about cookies,” said Calliande. “We’re talking about a man that we both love. And he loved you, but he didn’t love me...and now you’re dead, and, yes, I feel guilty.”
“Well,” said Morigna, “both you and Ridmark have a regrettable tendency to blame yourselves for things beyond your control. I am dead, Calliande. Do not the scriptures say that the dead shall neither be given nor taken in marriage?”
“They do,” said Calliande, “and I am surprised that you of all people are quoting the scriptures at me. Brother Caius would be delighted.”
“Perhaps that will make my argument for me,” said Morigna. “You need him, Calliande. And Ridmark needs you. He needs you badly. And he is going to need you very soon if you both are not killed in the days to come.”
“Why?” said Calliande. “Why will he need me?”
Morigna smirked. “What does a man usually need a woman for? Surely you are not that innocent.”
“That’s all?” said Calliande. Her voice broke a little, much to her annoyance. “You brought me here to tell me that?”
Morigna laughed. “No, that is not all, but it is enjoyable to watch you blush. Yes, Ridmark would need you for that...but he needs you for something more. There is a power coming for him, and it will destroy him unless you are there to keep him from destroying himself.”
“What do you mean?” said Calliande.
“First, you must survive,” said Morign
a.
“What do you mean?” said Calliande.
“Observe,” said Morigna.
She gestured, and Calliande saw a woman standing a few yards away. She was about average height, with long blond hair bound in a braid and bright blue eyes in a pale face. The woman wore a leather jerkin, chain mail, trousers, and heavy boots, and Calliande thought she looked pretty in a windswept sort of way…
Then she realized she was looking at a perfect copy of herself.
“What is this?” said Calliande.
“An illusion,” said Morigna. “Observe.”
She walked to the copy of Calliande, reached up, and pulled away the face. It peeled off like a mask, and beneath it, Calliande saw the snarling features of an urshane. The duplicate shifted, taking the form of an urshane, a gaunt, spiny creature armored in black scales, eyes burning like coals, poisoned claws bursting from its fingers and a scorpion’s tail rising over its shoulder.
It started to move, and Calliande hit it with a burst of white fire, feeding the spell through the Keeper’s mantle of power. The fire tore through the urshane and reduced it to smoking ashes before it could take another step.
“What was that?” said Calliande. “Why is an urshane here?”
“A warning,” said Morigna. She scowled. “Apparently, I am not allowed to warn you directly. Which is vexing, but I do not make the rules. Beware of false faces and false friends.”
“What do you mean?” said Calliande.
Morigna started to answer and looked at the gray sky.
“You might find out for yourself,” said Morigna. Her black eyes dug into Calliande. “Ridmark needs your help. The power is looking for him, and when it finds him, it might destroy him.”
The dream dissolved into gray mist.
###
Calliande blinked her eyes open, the dream swirling through her thoughts.
She sat up, looking around the gloomy room. The buzzing sensation of the brandy had passed, and her head felt clear. She had no headache, thankfully, though her throat was dry. There was a carafe of water on the table next to the bed, and she poured herself a cup and drank.
That dream. What did it mean? If Morigna’s spirit was communicating with her, then what kind of warning was it? What sort of power was looking for Ridmark? Even as the thought crossed her mind, a pulse of magical power flared before her Sight.
Calliande stood, her eyes widening. A flicker of magic shimmered around the tower, magic that seemed familiar, but for some reason, she could not recall where she had seen it before. The flow of power centered on the tower, on…
A surge of alarm went through her.
It was centering on Ridmark’s room.
Calliande seized her staff, not bothering with her boots, and burst into the hallway. The corridor was silent, light from five of the thirteen moons leaking through the window at the end of the hallway. Antenora stood motionless in her usual spot and looked up as Calliande approached.
“Keeper,” said Antenora. “Is something amiss?”
“Can’t you see that?” said Calliande.
“See what?” said Antenora.
“That flow of power,” said Calliande, stepping past her to Ridmark’s room.
“I do not see any active spells,” said Antenora.
“It’s coming from Ridmark’s room,” said Calliande. Her Sight still noted the slender thread of power. Calliande seized the handle, pushed through the door, and stepped into Ridmark’s room. It was identical to hers, with the same narrow bed and furniture. Ridmark lay on the bed, still in his clothes, thrashing and muttering to himself in the grips of a dream.
The thread of power wrapped around him, sinking into him.
“Ridmark!” Calliande knelt next to the bed and grabbed his shoulders. “Ridmark!”
He jerked awake and sat up with enough force that Calliande fell back and landed on the floor. He looked around, his eyes wide and a little wild, his chest heaving, his pulse throbbing in his neck.
“Burn with me,” he whispered. “Burn with me. Burn with me!”
“Ridmark?” said Calliande, getting back to her knees. She gripped his arms. Even through his sleeves, he felt hot, almost feverish. “Ridmark, what’s wrong?”
“Burn...” He blinked, confusion coming over his face, and shook his head. “I...” He looked around. “There was a dream. A hall of white stone? Fire? I can’t remember.” The confusion deepened. “What are you doing here?”
“The Sight,” said Calliande. She wasn’t sure she wanted to tell him that his dead lover had appeared to her in a dream. “I woke up, and the Sight saw a thread of power touching you. I came to see what was going on.”
Ridmark nodded and rubbed the heels of his hands across his face. “I think so. I don’t know. These dreams, God and the saints...”
“Antenora,” said Calliande. “Could you keep watch outside?”
Antenora inclined her head and disappeared back into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
Ridmark let out a long, ragged breath.
“These dreams,” said Calliande. “You’ve had them often, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said Ridmark. “For a while. I think it started right after Dun Licinia fell to the Frostborn. How did you know?”
“Third told me,” said Calliande.
“Of course she did,” said Ridmark with a snort.
“She is extremely observant,” said Calliande. “And Mara commanded her to keep watch over you.”
“I suppose she did,” said Ridmark.
“These dreams,” said Calliande. “Can you remember anything of them?”
“No,” said Ridmark. “A little. There is a hall of white stone. Fire. Always fire. And a woman...”
“Morigna?” said Calliande. Was Morigna speaking to Ridmark in his dreams?
“Maybe,” said Ridmark. “Sometimes the woman is Morigna or Aelia. Sometimes it is you.” Calliande’s mouth went a little dry. “Beyond that...I don’t know. I can never remember. Except...”
“Except what?” said Calliande.
“Except…I always remember dread,” said Ridmark. “I wake up convinced that I am surrounded by foes.”
They lapsed into silence. Calliande’s knees were starting to ache, so she straightened up. Ridmark blinked, and then a look of chagrin went over his face.
“That was thoughtless of me,” he said. He scooted over. Calliande blinked, and she sat next to him on the narrow bed, the frame creaking beneath their combined weight.
“You just woke up from a nightmare,” said Calliande. “You can be forgiven a little thoughtlessness.”
She was worried about so many things, but right now she was worried about him. She was also aware of how closely he sat to her, their legs touching. A little part of her mind pointed out that she was finally sharing a bed with him, and she choked back a sudden burst of inappropriate laughter.
“They’re just dreams,” said Ridmark, his voice hoarse.
“No, they’re not,” said Calliande. “I saw a thread of magic touching you.”
“Dark magic?” said Ridmark.
“No,” said Calliande. “I don’t know what kind of magic. But it was definitely there.”
Ridmark let out a sigh. “Who would be sending me dreams?”
“I don’t know,” said Calliande. The thought scratched at the back of her mind. Calliande felt like she ought to know, that she had seen it before, but she could not remember where.
Ridmark nodded. “Then it’s not of any importance. A sleepless night or two won’t do me any harm, and there are more important things to do.”
“Ridmark,” said Calliande.
She hesitated, then reached across him and grasped his hands, pulling them onto his lap. He blinked at her, and she felt the entirety of his attention upon her.
“Let me help you,” said Calliande. “I want to help you.”
He smiled. “That is kind, but I don’t need help.”
“You do,” said Calliande.
“I promised to help you,” said Ridmark. “To see you to the end of this, whatever happens.”
She nodded. “I know. But I think you need help, Ridmark. Please. I don’t like seeing you in pain.”
“I’m not in pain,” he said.
Calliande stared at him.
“I might be wrong about that,” said Ridmark.
“Yes,” she said. “This is hard to admit, Ridmark. I’m the Keeper of Andomhaim. The defense of the realm from dark magic is my duty, my responsibility. I need to be strong because so many people are relying on me. I can’t do this without you. I need your help. I need you, and I care about you, and I don’t like to see you in pain, and I just...”
She stopped talking, a little horrified at herself. She had lost control of that sentence and hadn’t been sure where it was going.
What was she supposed to do? Tell Ridmark that she loved him? He already knew that. Throw herself at him? A wave of deep frustration went through her. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim. How could she defend the realm from the Frostborn when she could not even govern her own heart?
Ridmark leaned forward and kissed her.
She froze for an instant in shock, and then leaned against him, releasing his hands to wrap her arms around his back. He pulled her closer, and Calliande let out a little moan and kissed him harder, her pulse thundering in her ears.
At last, they broke apart, and she leaned her head against his chest, his arm settling around her shoulders.
“Ridmark,” said Calliande. “I…”
She couldn’t think of anything to say, so she looked at his face instead. He was breathing hard, his face flushed, his eyes blinking rapidly.
“We’re alone,” she said.
“No, we’re not,” said Ridmark. “Antenora’s right outside the door. Probably heard every word.”
“Aye,” said Calliande. She wanted to tell Ridmark that she loved him. She wanted him to push her down to the bed and take her. She also knew what kissing her must have cost him.
“And what if you got with child?” said Ridmark.
She smiled. “Do you really think I would not want to carry your child?”
He stared at her, the moment burning between them. The fingers of his free hand rose to stroke her face, and she shivered a little at their touch.
Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (Frostborn #12) Page 9
