by Alec Hutson
“Now that you can dreamsend you could find out.”
Alyanna shook her head sharply. “No. I can only dreamsend to humans, and even then they must be someone I am familiar with.”
“You know me that well, Weaver?”
“I do, Demian. Even in your new guise as a kith’ketan. And from you I can know others.”
Understanding filled his face. “Ah. That is why you have come. You wish me to make the introductions we spoke of.”
“I do.”
The swordsinger sighed. “They are not like us, Weaver. Not like any of us. Whatever you propose in return for their aid, they will refuse it if it does not fit their . . . pattern.”
Alyanna squinted into the bright sun. “They are mortal. There is one thing I promise you that they desire.”
His eyes widened. “You cannot . . . you cannot promise that, Weaver. It took nine true Talents before, and it still nearly consumed us. And we would need another cataclysm.”
She flung out her arms. “Look where we stand, Demian. In the detritus of the past, in the world we destroyed. In your dreams! Do you question what I can do? We must perform the ceremony again. The sand in our hourglasses has nearly run out.”
He gripped her arm. “Hear me, Weaver. If you lie to them to gain their aid, it will be your end. They will come after you. And even with all your guile, all your sorcery, you could not escape the vengeance of the kith’ketan. I lived among them for five hundred years. They can call upon powers you do not understand.”
Alyanna pulled away from him. “And I command powers they cannot comprehend.” She willed herself into the air, coming to hover above the swordsinger. “I am not lying, Demian. The sorcery I crafted a thousand years ago, it was rough-hewn, simple, a fumbling attempt to recreate what the Warlock King had almost achieved. I have had a very, very long time to refine the magic. Now it is far more elegant, more powerful. I believe only three true Talents will be needed for the ceremony.”
He drew back a pace, his expression thoughtful. “Three true Talents . . . you, myself, and the Bard?”
Alyanna shook her head fiercely. “My cunning may be legendary, but even I could not fool the Bard a second time.”
“Then you mean to use this child. I wondered if you had special plans for him.”
“Now you know his importance. With his help we can halt our aging once more. How goes the journey?”
Demian shrugged. “We are a week out from Menekar, about to enter the Bones. At our pace, we will reach Herath in a month.”
“And what of the Pure?”
“Tediously righteous. He does not care for me or what I am.”
Alyanna chuckled. “And rightfully so. But his help is necessary. There will be at least thirty sorcerers in Saltstone, and the queen must be a true Talent. You will need Ama’s gift to seize the boy.”
“Just pray we do not kill each other before we reach Dymoria.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, Demian, it’s never to rely on prayer.”
“In that, Weaver, we are in agreement. But there are powers beyond men. Something infuses the Pure with their poisonous light. The kith’ketan’s abilities likewise derive from an entity beyond our ken. Are you sure you wish to grant immortality to the daymo? He would make a powerful ally, to be sure, but if he turned on you as Gengris and that Visani fop, Querimanica, did after the first ceremony . . .”
“I told you, Demian, that I have refined the magics. Now what I give, I can also take away.”
That surprised him. “You could withdraw the gift? Then they would be beholden to you forever.”
Alyanna smiled sweetly. “Exactly. We must gather together the most powerful in Araen, and infuse them with an endlessness that we can snatch away at any time . . . we will create a cabal of immortals, kings and emperors and archons, and us ruling over them like gods.”
Something in Demian’s face almost looked disappointed. “I thought better of you, Weaver. I had hoped you’d transcended such trivial things as lusting after dominion.”
Alyanna sighed. “Truly, Demian, I am not so arrogant. I do not need peasants to throw themselves in the dirt as I pass. I do not wish to deal with the petty banalities of ruling. I do not want to be an empress! But, my old friend, I am tired of skulking in the shadows of the world, hiding from those who would destroy me if they knew what I was, what I had done. I want to feel secure, and having the rulers of the world beholden to me forevermore is the perfect way to assure my own survival.”
He was quiet for a long moment, studying her without expression. Finally he shook his head. “You are mad, Weaver. But it was your madness that granted me the last thousand years. I will help you, as you knew I would. I will bring you before the daymo of the kith’ketan.”
Alyanna was surprised at the relief she felt. Had there been any doubt, truly, that Demian would aid her? He had always been her steadfast ally. Friend, even? She held out her hand, and he reached up to take it. “Good. Now I want you to close your eyes, and imagine the daymo. Paint in your mind the most complete picture you can of the old man. The cadence of his voice. The tremor in his hands. His smell. Do you have it?”
“I do.”
In her mind’s eye an image was forming, pulled from Demian’s thoughts. “And now it is mine,” she said excitedly. “Keep holding onto my hand. I will try and bring you along with me into his dreams.”
“What if he is not sleeping?”
“Then we will try another . . . wait. I have it, I think. Prepare yourself, Demian. We go.”
Together they rose smoothly into the air. They passed quickly out of this pale reflection of lost Kashkana, the towers blurring around them. Then they were over the farmland again, while ahead of them, in the distance, a mountain like a fang swelled larger. She could sense a presence within, waiting.
Alyanna glanced down. Far below, a familiar girl in tattered, threadbare clothes watched them pass.
“You’ve returned.”
The voice was raspy, a snake’s belly sliding over rock. It reverberated in the chamber, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere.
That is, if this was indeed a chamber. The blackness was total, all encompassing. She could see nothing, not even the faintest outline of what surrounded her.
“I have,” Demian said, and Alyanna was surprised at the relief she felt knowing that he stood beside her.
“And you have brought your . . . old friend you spoke of before.”
“In truth, she brought me.”
The faint slither of cloth shifting. “Did she? You must have led her here, at least. Though this is not where we dwelled together for so long. You have intruded upon my dreaming mind, Undying One.”
“Yes. She has a proposition for you, and we did not have the time to travel in person to your mountain.”
Alyanna heard movement, a faint scraping. She raised her hand, preparing to summon forth wizardlight, but Demian caught her wrist. How had he seen her do that in the darkness?
“A proposition.” The voice was closer now, but off to her side, as if the presence had somehow circled around her.
She shivered, clammy air brushing her neck. Was that the daymo’s breath? If so, what kind of a man was he?
“We only ask that you bring it before your master,” . “I believe that it will fit his pattern.”
“Are you so sure?”
“No. But I have descended into the darkness and stood before him. I have bargained with what coils in the shadows, and returned into the light. I believe there is no other living man who can claim the same.”
A long silence. Alyanna half-thought the daymo had abandoned them, but then he spoke again.
“What do you propose?”
Alyanna mastered her fear and spoke into the blackness, making certain that there was no quiver in her voice. “A death,
for life eternal.”
Another pause. “What use do we have for life, sorceress?”
“Do you not wish to live forever, to serve your master through years without end?”
“You would make me an Undying One?” The disembodied voice had a strange inflection now, almost as if tinged by wry surprise.
“Yes.”
A dry chuckle. “This I do not want.”
What man did not yearn for eternal life? “Very well,” Alyanna said, tempted to flood the chamber with light, even if it upset Demian. She did not enjoy being kept at a disadvantage. “But there is something you desire. What is it?”
Again, silence. Alyanna suddenly realized that the daymo was not using these lulls to gain some advantage; rather, he was conversing with someone else. Someone, or something.
“Bring us one like you. A youth, unformed, but with the same depth of power.”
“A child with Talent?”
“Yes.”
Alyanna heard a sharp, indrawn breath from Demian. Did the daymo somehow know about the child that had nearly destroyed the genthyaki? The very child Demian had been sent to claim?
“I can give you this.”
“It would please us. Who do you wish to receive our master’s dark kiss?”
Alyanna did not hesitate. “Cein d’Kara. The queen of Dymoria.”
Keilan was cold.
He stood with Nel and Vhelan inside what resembled a large stone tomb, its outer facade carved with florid but fading designs that evoked the changing seasons, in one of the many small orchards within the grounds of the Visani royal palace. A pair of guardsmen had brought them here from their chambers and now stood outside, refusing to set foot within the ancient structure. In the center of the chamber where they waited, instead of a bier or burial mound, a dark hole had been cut into the floor. There seemed to be an almost otherworldly chill seeping from the darkness below, and he shivered.
“What exactly are we looking for, boss?”
“Knowledge, my trusted knife.”
Nel crouched beside Keilan, peering into the black. “And what do they have here that you can’t find in the library of the Scholia? Or the Reliquary? I’m sure Garmond would help you, if you asked.”
Vhelan sighed. “The Barrow of Vis is perhaps the oldest library in the world. It predates even the founding of the Reliquary in Ver Anath and Menekar’s Baskilium. Just the opportunity to venture into its fabled depths is reason enough.”
Nel snorted. “So in other words, it’s your damn sense of curiosity yet again. I was hoping you’d have learned a lesson in Uthmala, but I suppose I know you well enough to realize that that will never happen.”
Vhelan clucked his tongue at her. “Nel, Nel, Nel. This isn’t some haunted ruin that has been abandoned for a thousand years.”
“No, it’s a haunted ruin that foolish people go into regularly, some of whom don’t come back out. Didn’t you hear the librarian talking about the ghost that inhabits this place?”
Vhelan waved away her words. “A ghost. Hardly – more like a friendly spirit.”
“Friendly spirit,” Nel repeated sarcastically. “Well, I don’t want to hear ‘even I’m wrong once in a summer snow’ from you later.”
“I promise nothing,” said Vhelan, winking at Keilan. “Now, where is that librarian? He said the seventh bell, and it must be approaching the eighth.”
“Maybe the ghost got him.”
“He’s coming,” said Keilan, relieved to hear the sound of hurrying footsteps.
A fat man dressed in the same simple brown robes as the librarian they had met at dinner the night before burst through the doorway, his face flushed. He flashed them a broad smile, even as he struggled to catch his breath. “Well met . . . friends. I am . . . Brother Challindris, senior librarian. Brother Pelimanus cannot be here . . . unfortunately. He has been called away by the Lady Astrallia. Her childbirth goes poorly, and he is known as one of the finest chirurgeons in . . . Vis. Oh, by the Silver Lady.” The librarian mopped his brow with a long sleeve. “I came here as quick as I could, yet I am still late. My apologies.”
Vhelan waved away his words. “Nevermind, Brother Challindris. We greatly appreciate your company today.”
The librarian smoothed his robes. “It is highly irregular,” he admitted, “allowing guests into the Barrow. But I suppose times change. Shall we go down?”
Keilan glanced from the librarian to the gaping black hole cut into the floor. “Shouldn’t . . . shouldn’t we light some torches?”
The librarian blanched. “Gods! No, lad, we would never bring fire into the Barrow! Thousands of books and scrolls, all piled together in close confines . . . why, if a stray spark should ignite a blaze . . .” He shuddered, unable to finish the thought.
“Then how will we light our way?” Nel asked.
“Wizardlight,” the librarian answered matter-of-factly.
Vhelan shrugged a hand free of his own long sleeves and summoned a small glowing sphere. “Of course I can help, Brother Challindris. But I think my knife’s question is: what do you do when a sorcerer is not here?”
The librarian furrowed his brow, and then his eyes widened. “Ah, by the Silver Lady! I assumed you knew.” With his finger he sketched a shimmering circle in the air, and when he had finished the light coruscating along the edges of the disc seeped down to fill the center, until a ball of wizardlight hovered in front of him as well.
Nel and Vhelan watched in open-mouthed surprise.
“Yes, well, let’s be off,” the librarian said, moving past them to start on the ancient stone steps. The glowing sphere preceded him, sending the shadows skittering deeper down the stairwell.
Vhelan hurried to follow, his robes flapping. “Wait! Brother Challindris! You are a sorcerer?”
“Of course,” the librarian said over his shoulder as he descended. “We all are. I have to admit I’m surprised – the queen knew about us before she came. I assumed she had told her magisters.”
“She did not,” Vhelan replied, sounding slightly perturbed. “So as you must imagine, this is a great shock to me. How did you keep this secret from the Pure all these years?”
Nel and Keilan shared a quick glance and then fell in behind Vhelan. The steps were cut into the side of the wall, spiraling down around a shaft of blackness so intense it seemed to drink the wizardlight. Keilan tried not to imagine how deep it went, and what would happen if he lost his footing on the crumbling stone steps.
“With great care,” the librarian called back to Vhelan. “That’s why the prince has thrown his support behind Dymoria, you know. He believes it is time for the wizards of Vis to come out into the light again, and that will only be possible in the new world envisioned by your queen.”
“But the Cleansing . . . I knew there was an ancient sorcerous order in Vis before the cataclysms – it raised the great iron walls, of course – but how did it survive when the armies of Menekar spread out over the lands hunting wizards?”
The librarian chuckled. “You are standing in the very reason, my friend. Yes, the armies of Menekar camped outside our walls a thousand years ago. They knew of our ancient order, and they demanded we give up to them all those we sheltered with the gift, even though we had taken no part in the cataclysms that had wracked the old world. Despite the power of the Pure and their mighty siege weapons, they likely could not have breached our iron walls, but such fanatics would have continued their siege until we had all been reduced to eating each other. And the king in Vis and his advisors knew this. So with a heavy heart they were poised to order the sorcerers of Vis to give themselves up, which would have spelled the end of a proud tradition that stretched back for nearly two thousand years.”
“But they did not.”
The fat librarian shook his head emphatically at Vhelan’s words. “Before the king could issue the decree, the
sorcerers of our order offered to sacrifice themselves to save the people of the city. They drank poison, and their bodies were hung from the walls for the paladins to see.”
“Yet some survived.”
“Yes, some did. The leader of our order hid a few of the most promising apprentices deep within the Barrow. He commanded them to stay until the armies of Menekar had long departed.”
“The Pure must have scoured the city.”
“Oh, they did. The paladins insisted on searching every cranny in the city for hidden sorcerers. They even descended into the Barrow. But somehow the ancient spirit of the library kept the apprentices hidden deep down in the darkest recesses. There was talk from the Pure of burning the library, in case it contained any sorcerous tracts, but by some great good fortune the general in charge of Menekar’s armies was a learned man, and he did not want to see one of the world’s great stores of knowledge destroyed. So the wizards of Vis survived, unbeknownst to all save the high nobility of this city.”
“We must share our sorceries,” Vhelan said excitedly, “I am sure both our orders have much to teach each other.”
“Certainly, certainly,” the librarian said, stepping off the final stair into a small antechamber. “And here we are, the Barrow.” Keilan could hear the pride in his voice.
They passed through a wide arched entrance, into a vast chamber filled with row upon row of stone bookshelves that vanished beyond the farthest edges of the wizardlight. Keilan walked forward, as if in a trance, brushing his fingers along the spines of a collection of tomes bound in cracked red leather. He pulled one of the books out, savoring the heft of it, whispering the title to himself.
“The Flora and Fauna of the Sunset Lands, Volume III.”
