Aidan released the light, letting it drain out of him. Then he reached out to draw from the black veins. As his fingertips sank into the goo, he sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. It was thick, jelly-like, and cold as ice. Colder. He pulled in darkness until his fingers went numb, then yanked them away. Inky goop rushed over the impressions his fingertips had made and flowed onward. Aidan imagined some huge, dark heart buried deep within the tunnels, pumping blood through the passageways and beating in slow, low measures. Wiping his hand on his pants, he extended a trembling hand to the key and prayed in the Language.
The cold rushed out of him and the floor, the walls, the world fell away. Then it reappeared. But it was different. He no longer stood at the mouth of a tunnel dozens of feet from the ground. He stood at the mouth of a tunnel on the ground, staring out at another waypoint.
Staring around in amazement, he groped at his feet for the lantern but couldn’t find it. It was gone; he had not been touching it when he had... what had he done? It wasn’t kindling. Kindling involved warmth and light and a slight warming of the skin. What Aidan had done was cold and dark, and stank of ash in a cold hearth. Darkening.
He stepped out into the waypoint and immediately forgot about the lantern. He did not think it would do him any good here, anyway. This waypoint was similar to the first. Smaller, fewer tunnels leading off every which way. He picked out his thread easily and followed it to another opening. Only the key was displayed on the wall. No marks. He had traveled miles, probably leagues, in a heartbeat. He thought back to how Daniel had described it: like riding a wave. Close, but not quite right. It was like shifting with his eyes closed—not nearly as fatiguing as his desperate leap from Sharem back to Sunfall, but somewhat draining, still.
In fact, other than a slight chill and a bit of tiredness, he felt fine. He patted his hair, his face, body, legs. No darkness growing on him like fungus, no urge to raise bodies from their graves and send them on a hunt across Crotaria. He had used dark magic and lived to tell the tale.
Not that he would. Dark magic was forbidden. He let out a laugh, shaky at first, then a full-bellied roar that had him bent over gasping for breath. The living dead pursued him, shadows came to life and tried to eat him, his parents had been replaced by abominations and wanted him arrested for treason. What was one more crime, one more slight, atop his mounting pile of worries?
Aidan got hold of himself and faced the tunnel. One challenge down. Now for the next. Sallner. A kingdom eight hundred years in exile, its people corrupted by their tyrannical rulers, disciples of Kahltan and wielders of the darkest magic—only now, Aidan found himself more curious than revolted. What had Dimitri and Luria Thalamahn done to corrupt themselves and their people, exactly? Such questions were not asked, at least not by those who feared being branded a heretic. It was enough to know that the Sallnerians had embraced darkness and used it do terrible things.
It had been enough. Not anymore. Now he wanted to know.
He stepped into the tunnel.
—Something is coming, Heritage said, its voice tense.
Footsteps, dozens marching in time along the path before him, like a waterfall heard from far off. The footsteps were growing louder. Aidan ducked into one of the side tunnels and crouched in the shadows to watch. A man in flowing green robes appeared and crossed the chamber. Behind him marched a column of men in a variety of dress—Wardsmen vests, trousers, and mail; Darinian furs; the loose, flowing, colorful garments of Leastonians.
Suspicious, Aidan touched Heritage and summoned Sight. Bile rose up his throat. They were vagrants, every last one, and they surrounded the man near the mouth of the tunnel Aidan had just left. But he was not a man, either. Empty sockets stared around. Fleshy strips ran between his lips like cell bars.
The vagrants milled around him. Half of the group strode on, disappearing into the tunnel. The rest waited. Aidan heard the man who was not a man mutter a phrase—a prayer in the Language of Light—and the rest of the mob disappeared.
Cautiously, Aidan rose and crept back into the waypoint.
They came from Sallner, he thought.
—And just left for Torel, Heritage finished.
Not just for Torel. For his friends waiting for him back at the Fisherman’s Pond. He fought the urge to race across the chamber and let the darkness spirit him back to Daniel. To Christine.
—There is little time left, Aidan. You must press on.
Chapter 23
The Prophet
THE TUNNEL STANK OF death and rot. Aidan gagged and pinched his nose, keeping one hand on his sword hilt in case more vagrants appeared in front of him. Up ahead he saw light filtering through a curtain of vines. He hurried forward, eager to leave the tunnels behind. His first glance at the southern kingdom was almost enough to make him turn right back around.
Sallner was as dead as the vagrants who had chased him across Crotaria. The vines hanging over the cave entrance, which dropped him behind the charred remains of what was probably a shop, were brown and brittle. Aidan brushed them aside and they crumbled and fluttered to the ground in flakes. He took a step forward and tripped, barely catching his balance. The ground at his feet had once been unbroken, smooth, paved stone. Now it was torn by gashes. Some, like the one that had caught him, were as thin as a knife’s blade. Others were chasms that stretched far in either direction. Aidan edged carefully around one pit, sending pebbles skittering and clicking down the side.
When the last stone dropped away, a silence Aidan had not noticed before settled back over the land. There was no movement, no breeze, no sound. Sallner sat frozen in time.
—Keep walking south, Heritage said.
Aidan barely heard her. Great wonders rose up all around him. There were towers that rose up to the sky; telescopes, instruments crafted by Torelian inventors some five hundred years ago, hung limply from broken windows. Rutted stone steps led up to buildings built from gleaming marble—or at least, the marble had gleamed once. Now it was dull and dirty, smeared with grime.
All the buildings had been gutted. Glass crunched under his boots as he turned in a circle, unable to fix on one spot for too long before another snagged his attention. Spiral staircases, huge chambers, burnt books, colored powders as fine as sand, and a square slab of dirty glass twice the size of a door. It clung to the side of the building like a mirror, tilted back to stare up at the Lady.
Rather, where the Lady would have shined her light on its surface if not for the green haze that hung over the sky like a thick forest canopy, covering everything in a twilight haze.
Where am I?
—Illuden, Sallner’s greatest city. Many discoveries were made here.
Aidan felt a deep melancholy settle over him. Walking through the remains of these huge structures, spotting marvels every time he swiveled his head, was like walking through the skeletons of some long-dead beast. Walkways that trailed off into nothingness and jagged hunks of wall were its bones, and the discoveries left behind were meat that no one had shaved off to consume.
He passed more buildings, many even larger than the first, all bearing scorch marks like bruises. Empty windows stared like eye sockets. He did not cross through them. He did not want to look. He thought of the mirror hanging from its side, the way it was slanted to catch the Lady’s light. It wasn’t glass, he knew. He couldn’t be sure, but its material reminded him of the lamp hanging from his neck. He thought back to the telescopes drooping out of windows. Torelians had created them five hundred years ago. Sallner had been exiled for eight hundred.
So much squandered potential, he thought.
He came to a rusted iron gate hanging from one hinge. Aidan passed through it, leaving the bones of Sallner’s greatest city behind him. He followed a scarred street bordered by rubble that had once been walls, doors, rooftops. Homes. The grass had grown tall before the exile had ceased all growth; it scratched and scraped at Aidan’s trousers as he passed by.
After several hours—or perhaps longer; the light never
seemed to change in Sallner—the sword spoke up.
—Do you see that shanty over to your left?
Aidan looked. Her term was generous: the shanty was more like a pile of wood and rubble hastily assembled into a square and wedged in between two equally shabby huts.
—We’ll be going in there.
Aidan veered off the road and went to the door. He reached for the knob hesitantly, certain the whole place would collapse on him if he so much as sneezed. It creaked open, and Aidan stared into the blackest blackness he had ever seen, like a pit that went to the deepest point of Crotaria.
What is this?
—That is the Duskwood, Heritage said in its grandmotherly voice. That is your destination.
How did it come to be here? How can it grow? And how have I not heard of it before?
—Enter.
A square of light appeared just inside the doorway. Hunched over to keep from hitting his head and inviting spiders to use his hair as a nest, Aidan stepped through and onto the luminescent square. It was narrow; he had to set his heels together to fit within it. Behind him, the door snapped shut, leaving him in still, silent dark. The light from the puddle at his feet did not illuminate his surroundings; it seemed to cower as if afraid or unable to reach beyond its borders. A second puddle of light faded in before him, then a third, all leading deeper into shadows.
—Step forward, Heritage said.
Aidan hastily complied. Turning, he saw the patch where he had been standing fade away. The illuminated ground at his feet was all dirt, roots, and green grass. He continued forward, walking wherever the next spot of light formed. They did not always appear directly in front of him; some winked into existence on either side.
More than once he wondered if he was being led in a circle.
What would happen if I stepped off the path?
Heritage did not answer, but something else did. Feet scampered through vegetation. Some footfalls were light and fleeting; others pounded by, their passing sounding like trees being slowly pushed over and cracked beneath too-large feet. Purrs and growls echoed around him. He was reminded of the sounds of prowling nightlife he had heard during his camping trips with his grandfather. Only, Charles was not here to protect him. Aidan wished the lighted spots would appear faster.
What is this place? How can it be so big?
—You will find out soon.
Aidan rolled his eyes. He and Heritage disagreed on the definition of “soon.” He walked and walked until finally, no puddle of light materialized beyond the one where he stood. He was preparing to consult the sword when he heard a familiar creaking sound. The door had reappeared, hanging ajar. He stepped through and forgot all about the creatures stomping through the darkness behind him.
He was in a vale, one as vibrant and full of life as Leaston in the springtime. Grass swayed lazily in the light breeze. Wildflowers ran through the grass in strips, painting the ground in rainbowlike swathes of color. Birds chirped and flitted overhead, filling the sweet, earthy, alive air with their song. Trees enclosed the space.
Branches from one wove with limbs of another to form screens. Through the cracks, Aidan could see the darkness waiting beyond. In the center of the vale was a plain wooden cabin. Encircling the cabin was a narrow stream of water that bubbled over rocks and pebbles. A narrow wooden bridge led to a simple wooden door. He crossed the stream and knocked on the door without looking, his eyes drawn to the vale’s beauty.
—Enter, Heritage said.
The walls were as plain inside as they were out. In the center of the tiny room was a table with two chairs. At the far end was a small stone fireplace. A single burning log emitted a comfortable wave of heat that filled the room. A rocking chair facing the fireplace swayed in a steady, creaky beat. The chair slowed, and the occupant stood and turned to face Aidan. It was an old woman; her skin stretched tight against her bones, and her emaciated form quivered with age as she faced him. Aidan found himself unable to tear his gaze from her eyes. They were brown, and youthful, the eyes of a young woman. When she spoke, it was in a steady tone that defied her ancient features. Aidan’s eyes widened as he recognized the voice. He had heard it numerous times before. “Welcome to the Duskwood Vale, Aidan Gairden.” —I am the Prophet, the sword continued.
“I am the Lady of Dawn,” they finished in unison, the sword clattering in its sheath.
The old woman folded her hands in front of her, waiting for something. Aidan pulled Heritage free, looked at it, to the old woman, back to the sword.
“You are the Lady of Dawn.”
Her laughter was like the jingle of a wind chime caressed by a breeze. “If I were, I wouldn’t appear before you bent like an old tree. No, I am called the Prophet, the foremost Disciple of Dawn, the Lady’s liaison to this world. Through me and others before me, the Lady is able to touch the world, and has been doing so for over eight hundred years.”
He smirked. “And you are... my sword?”
She laughed; the sound was like wind chimes singing in a breeze. “Don’t be silly, Aidan,” she said, as if what she had said a few moments ago was not silly enough. “I speak through the sword. It is the Lady’s creation. Through it, I can communicate with sword-bearers when necessary.”
Aidan’s smile widened, then dipped into a frown. In the history of Heritage and Ordine, an old crone had blessed Ambrose and Anastasia’s union. Surely she did not expect him to believe that this woman and the one from the story his mother had shared were one and the same!
“Goodness, Aidan, I am not that old.” She smiled and took a seat at the table, gesturing for him to join her.
Aidan started. Whoever she was, she had made a habit of reading his thoughts. “Could you explain, then?” he said, sitting across from her. He knew he sounded skeptical, but he couldn’t help it.
“It’s really quite simple. Disciples of Dawn serve the Lady, as you know—spreading her word, doing her work. That work consists of various tasks, some of which are more laborious than others. I am from a long line of Prophets, a select few plucked from uncountable many, charged with sitting right here, in this cabin.”
“Why?”
“We will get to that.”
Aidan kept his temper in check. He had not traveled all this way to have her dodge the rest of his questions, especially with more springing up like weeds in springtime.
“Have you spoken to any others of my line?”
“Four, including you.”
“Who?”
“You will find out soon enough.”
“Typical. Why me, then?”
“Because you’re very special. I’ve been waiting on you for a long time.”
“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Chuckling, she shook her head. “You’ve come all this way on my word alone. Surely you must believe some of what I’m saying?”
“I came here because I had nowhere else to go.”
Two cups of tea appeared out of the air and settled on the table. The old woman took one and sipped.
“Most humans do not believe what they cannot see or feel. The Lady respects that; she gives her light so that we might see.” She set her cup on the table and extended her hand toward him.
“Would you like to see her?”
“See the Lady? You can do that?”
She crooked her fingers at him, beckoning. Aidan hesitated for an instant before obeying. He felt... compelled, as though trusting her was something he wanted to do, had to do. She opened her eyes. He looked into them and gasped. They were ageless, eyes that had seen centuries go by as if they were mere seconds, and would see countless more pass just as quickly. They had seen happiness, tragedy, and sadness. Those eyes had seen everything. Triumph and defeat; sorrow and joy; pain and healing; anger and tranquility; madness and sanity; night and day.
Gently she released his hand and her eyes cleared. He withdrew his hand slowly as he sat back. “How...?”
“She sees through my eyes, and on occasion, allows ot
hers to see her through me.”
“That’s incredible,” he breathed.
She shrugged and took another sip of tea. “It is a gift, yes. It is also a burden.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe,” he continued, but stopped as she shushed him.
“Do not apologize, Aidan. Your recent eagerness to question makes my mistress proud, even if it works against us.”
“I still don’t understand,” he said. “Why have you been waiting for me?”
“Danger swiftly approaches, but you have been waiting for answers, so I will grant as many as I am able,” the Prophet said. “When I showed you my mistress, you saw all that she has seen— the good, the bad, the light and the dark. Everything in all of creation comes in pairs, and can be divided into two sides: peace, and destruction.”
Aidan swallowed. “You mean the Lady of Dawn and the Lord of Midnight?” The Prophet had not yet commented on his use of dark magic, but she had seen.
To his surprise, she shook her head. “Not exactly like that. Every emotion and state of being has an inverse, like good and evil. But what is not good is not necessarily evil. I know you used dark magic to ride the tunnels, Aidan. You did nothing wrong. You walked in the shade, as people say. How did you feel afterwards?”
He thought about the question. “I felt... fine, actually. A little tired...”
“And a tad cold, I’ll wager.” She continued when he nodded. “Dark magic is the inverse of light magic. Kindle too much light too quickly and you come down with the fever. Draw in too much dark magic, and you… what was the word you used for it?”
“Darken,” he said, a little embarrassed.
But the Prophet nodded as if he had given the correct answer to two plus two. “Darken. I like that. Darken beyond your means, or in your case, without giving your body time to fully recover, and you can come down with the sniffles. Or worse. Like kindling, your body needs time to recuperate.”
She examined him closely, then leaned back and smiled. “You look fine otherwise, though. No second head. No fangs. You traveled, Aidan. You used a tool to reach your destination faster. Others use dark magic to accomplish destructive ends, but the same rules apply to light magic. How did your friend Daniel put it? ‘A sword in the wrong hands can spill any man’s blood.’ The Lady’s light can be used to keep peace. It can also be used to destroy. Magic is magic, a sword is a sword. Both are tools. How you choose to use them is what matters.”
Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles Page 20
