Dormael froze. Maybe the girl did remember, after all. His heart sped up a little, and he took a deep, calming breath before he spoke.
“We don’t need to talk about it Shawna,” he said quietly, “We were both very drunk, and strange things happen when you lose control of your impulses, you know. It doesn’t have to be a problem.”
Shawna’s eyebrows shot up in confusion, “What are you talking about?”
Dormael’s heart stopped. “Um…what are you talking about?”
“The tunnels…your abduction. I was going to ask if you were alright,” she replied slowly, then leaned forward and said more intently, “What were you talking about, Dormael?”
“Nothing,” he replied a bit too quickly, “nothing important.”
“Don’t do that!”
“Do what?”
“Say something strange and then tell me to forget it. Now I really want to know what you were talking about,” she said, her eyes peering intently at him.
“Um…,” his mind worked furiously, trying to come up with something, “Just the whole situation with Seylia, you know. What happened between you and me; that’s all.”
“We’ve already talked about that,” Shawna said, peering at him even more intently.
“Sorry,” Dormael said, rubbing his eyes with his free hand, “My mind is just elsewhere today. And yes, I’m alright. I don’t really want to think about it anymore than I have to.”
Shawna eyed him for a little longer, her features softening as her expression became less suspicious and more worried. “Well, if you need to talk about it, you can talk to me, if you want.”
“Thanks, Shawna,” he said, feeling genuinely pleased about it.
Shawna smiled at him and kicked Charlotte out ahead of him again, her eyes returning to the surrounding hills. Dormael watched her go, oddly sorry for the end of their conversation. He’d almost made a fool of himself, there – and probably made one of Shawna, too. They didn’t need to have that talk just yet, if they ever did.
They rode through most of the day that way, cantering along the cart path and keeping their eyes out for anything out of place. They encountered no other travelers on the path, and as the day wore on into the evening, they passed out of sight of Ishamael. Dormael felt odd about that. There was a sort of finality to it, as if he’d never see his home again. It made him slightly melancholy as D’Jenn searched for a place to set up camp.
He found it; again in a sheltering copse of trees that was more a small forest than any sort of grove. Dormael saw to the horses; feeding, brushing, and picketing them while everyone else went about the business of setting up a hooded fire and pulling out food for the night. After the camp was set up, Dormael and Allen got in some spear practice while Shawna and D’Jenn took care of Bethany’s daily lessons. Dormael even heard D’Jenn start in on history and mathematics, probably taking a cue from the Mekai’s gentle suggestion that they do a little better with the girl’s education.
They ate frugally that night, eating dried beef and cheese instead of opting for a more complicated meal. This close to the city and any possible pursuit, they wanted to be able to move fast, and D’Jenn had decided against pulling out any cooking implements. After the meal, the companions sat around the small fire and passed around a bottle of a light wine, while D’Jenn and Dormael smoked a pipe. Bethany had long since leaned against Shawna and had fallen into a contented slumber, and Shawna had simply settled in and stroked the young girl’s hair, smiling to herself.
“So,” Allen said, “Have you taken a look at those documents that the Mekai gave you, D’Jenn?”
“Not as of yet, but now seems a good time, since we’re all here,” D’Jenn replied. He rose from his seat and went to his saddlebags, rummaging around for a moment. He returned with the scroll case, and sat back down in his spot as he popped the buckles and slid out the rolled up parchments. Dormael felt a bit of excitement as he felt the familiar tingle of magic while D’Jenn opened the silk ribbon and unrolled the scrolls.
He perused them for a moment, summoning a bit of magical light to read by and squinting thoughtfully at the first page. There were about four documents there, all handwritten. Dormael was anxious to hear what they said.
“Well, what does it say, coz?” he asked, his impatience getting the better of him.
“This first is a generalized account of the Thardish raids during the Second Great War,” D’Jenn said, still reading, “The Mekai writes that the Thardish armies landed on the western coast of Tept, and swept across the land until they reached Gladia, where they razed the city and looted it. All this is well-known history, but he also writes that during the raid, the Thardish claimed a good deal of riches as war-spoils, including a list of artifacts from the Kansil’s own home. Apparently, there were three things there that were listed as ‘artifacts of unknown import’.”
“Alright,” Shawna said, “so why is that important, exactly? Those artifacts could have been anything; old arrowheads, suits of armor, swords. The King keeps a similar collection in the castle at Arla. They’re mostly just old relics from Cambrell’s history, and nothing very valuable.”
“Yes, but there’s more. As you know, the office of the Kansil has changed hands from time to time over the years. It’s not a hereditary position, like an eastern throne. There have been times when certain families remain in favor and have held the office for a couple of generations, but mostly it changes from generation to generation. The Clan Leaders will vote in a new Kansil when one dies or is pulled down.
“Well, it says here that during the raids, the family who was in power during the War had two family heirlooms taken: an amulet that had been in their family for ages, and a book. But the third artifact was of unknown origin. It was some relic that had remained in the hands of the office of the Kansil, passed down from Kansil to Kansil. The importance of it had apparently been lost, but its description is interesting. It says here that it was an armlet of simple silver set with a smooth amethyst.”
“That does sound slightly familiar,” Dormael said, raising his eyebrows.
“Furthermore, the Mekai writes that he’d found in other journals and accounts that it had long been rumored to be cursed. Apparently they kept it in some case on display, and it caused a stir with a servant at some point in history. She’d claimed to have had dreams about the thing, and a household scribe had written down her dreams as if they were some sort of prophecy. He’d actually circulated his writings of her dreams, and gained the attention of the local temple.”
“Damn,” Allen said, leaning forward now, “What happened to the girl? What did the church do?”
“Apparently they dismissed her dreams as fancy, and found her to be mad. She spent the rest of her days in the local temple, being cared for by the priestesses of Neesa.”
“And no one examined the armlet, during this entire fiasco?” Dormael asked.
“Yes, actually, but it was a priest who did so. The Mekai could find nothing that stated his findings, but he writes that he mustn’t have found anything interesting, because the armlet was never moved from the Kansil’s official home until the Thardish raided Gladia.”
“So the Thardish took a piece of the Nar’doroc, then,” Allen said, “I guess that explains why Dargorin suddenly turned his conquest northward. He’s after that artifact.”
“Which could only mean that he already has one piece,” Dormael added, “Otherwise, why go after something that he’d obviously have dismissed as a story, unless he knew its true power?”
“Well,” D’Jenn sighed, “we already had suspected as much. That means that there’s one piece in his possession already, one in ours, and another possibly in Thardin.”
Everyone grew quiet. Dormael felt a dread in his belly at the thought of the Galanian Emperor possessing such power. If the stories they’d heard so far were true, then one could become practically godlike if the seven pieces were assembled.
“We have to find those other pieces,” Dorm
ael said quietly, “And we have to do it quickly.”
“The piece in Thardin is most likely lost to us,” D’Jenn said, “The entire country will be war-torn and practically crawling with Galanians, and the Thardish aren’t much better. As soon as the melt starts, the war will truly begin in earnest, if it hasn’t already. Dargorin does have Nelekan and Shundovian auxiliaries to toss at the Thardish until he wears them down. Perhaps the winter hasn’t slowed his advance that much.”
“Well, if what the Mekai told us is true – and it does seem more and more likely – then the best place to start our search would simply be the homes of the Kansils in the Sevenlands,” Allen said.
“So what, we just walk in and say ‘Hi, we’re outlaw operatives of the Conclave, can we get a look at every piece of jewelry you have?’ I don’t think that’s going to work,” Shawna said.
Allen shot her a withering glance, “I didn’t say it would be that easy. I just said that it’s the most logical place to start.”
“You’re right about that,” D’Jenn interjected, “But first we have to know what we’re looking for. Just because Shawna’s piece is an armlet, and the piece in Thardin is apparently also an armlet of some kind, doesn’t mean that all the fragments will be the same. They could be a jewel, or even an entire suit of ancient armor. The fact is we just don’t know enough to start racing around on the slim hope that we’ll know it when we see it.”
“I’m willing to bet that our Kais will have the same reaction to the new pieces as they do to Shawna’s piece,” Dormael said, “I definitely think that we’ll know them when we see them.”
“That may be true,” D’Jenn argued, “But don’t forget that these things were apparently mostly dormant for a thousand years or more. Who knows if these other pieces will even respond the same way? Who knows if they’re awake, if that’s even the right word for it?”
Dormael sighed and sat back. D’Jenn had a good point, as he always did. Shawna chewed on her lower lip, and Allen nodded thoughtfully. Bethany shifted in her sleep, but didn’t wake.
“We can’t afford to gamble much on this one,” D’Jenn went on, “If we miss even one piece, and our enemies pick it up, it could mean disaster. Think of the destruction that will already come from Dargorin having two pieces. Who knows what powers he now holds?”
“Speaking of which,” Dormael put in, “That would have to mean that Dargorin is magic sensitive. He’s Blessed, D’Jenn. Otherwise, the Nar’doroc wouldn’t have sang to him, or worked for him, right?”
“I’m not sure. It could be that he is only sensitive enough to hear it, and it could be that he’s as powerful as a full wizard, though you’d think there’d be rumors about it by now.”
“You’d also think there’d be rumors about any strange powers he’d gained from a piece of the Nar’doroc,” Allen said, and everyone grew quiet at that.
“True,” Dormael said, frowning, “There would be, at that. Maybe he hasn’t quite figured out how to use it, or maybe he has one of those mind-augmenting pieces the Mekai mentioned. That wouldn’t be something that manifested openly.”
“It also could be that Dargorin is more devious than we’re giving him credit for,” Shawna said, “Also, he has the Necromancer either working for him, or with him. The Red Swords with Inera proved that.”
“Indeed,” D’Jenn said.
“Well, this is all very informative, but what do the other documents mention?” Dormael asked.
“That is a discussion for another night,” Allen put in, raising one hand to forestall D’Jenn, “I, for one, am tired from a long day in the saddle. It’s time to sleep. We can always discuss these things later on. We know we’re headed to Orm to learn more, and that’s what is most important right now.”
“The world doesn’t stop for you,” Shawna said, jabbing Allen lightly in the shoulder, “What if the rest of us want to stay up and plan this entire mission without you?”
Allen smiled back at Shawna as he rose, “Then you’d best do it quietly, because if any of you wake me up from my slumber, I’ll probably answer with a throwing knife. I need my sleep, you know. I have to keep up my amazing fighting abilities and dashing good looks. Now, excuse me, and good night all. And keep it quiet. Remember: throwing knives.” With that, Allen stepped across the fire and sought his bedroll.
“He has a point,” D’Jenn said, rolling the parchment up and wrapping the silk ribbon around them once more, “We can discuss this later. I’m tired as well.”
“Alright,” Dormael said, rising, “I guess I could use some rest, too.”
Shawna slowly untangled herself from Bethany, and Dormael helped her lay the girl down in her own blankets. She looked peaceful in her sleep, her eyes closed and her face content as she dreamed. Dormael couldn’t help but wonder where she’d come from though, not since the Mekai had mentioned that she may play some part in the plans of their enemies that no one knew about as of yet. He decided to ask her, as gently as possible, about her past.
Shawna gave him an odd look as he sought his blankets. He couldn’t tell if it was longing, sorrow, suspicion, or all three. The girl could be so strange, sometimes. Dormael smiled at her, and she smiled back as she turned toward her own bedroll. Dormael found his own blankets and rolled himself in them.
He was asleep in minutes.
****
Dormael was being stabbed again.
Only this time, Inera was holding the little jagged knife, and Shawna looked on from the edge of the room, laughing and cheering while Inera cried at every thrust of the blade. The pain was so real, but so distant as well. He knew he was dreaming, but it didn’t stop the cries from erupting from his throat with every piercing agony.
When he looked down again, the Taker was there, but this time he truly was helpless as the thing reached its thin, quivering fingers toward his hips, climbing his body and pulling itself up by yanking on Dormael’s shoulders. The feel of the slimy thing as it slid up his body was revolting. When it reached eye level, the strange spiny tongue shot into Dormael’s mouth, and though he tried to scream against the agony, the disgusting violation, of the act, it was no good. He felt blood welling up from his throat as the Taker’s hands tightened on his shoulders.
Why do these things play out in the house of your mind? They did not happen this way.
The voice came to him from his own head, but when he opened his eyes he was standing, fully dressed now and outside of his body, in the room. He viewed the scene as if frozen; the Taker ripping the inside of his mouth to shreds as it clutched itself to his body, Inera laughing maniacally and wiping blood into Shawna’s hair as the noblewoman laid passionate kisses over the cold, pallid skin of Inera’s neck. The two women were intertwined in some gory and erotic embrace, reveling in Dormael’s blood.
It was…disgusting, to say the least about it.
Turning, he regarded the thing that had spoken to him. It was the presence, the strange alien power that he’d been communing with lately, but in this dream it was visible. The thing appeared to him as a young man, dressed in a simple black robe, with short dark hair and eyebrows. He was barefoot, staring quizzically at the scene before him with his hands clasped in front of him and his head tilted sideways. His eyes glowed bright green, but the light seemed to be contained in the depths of the thing’s eyes, which seemed to stretch into forever.
Is this what you look like? Is this truly you? He thought at the presence.
It is you who have given me this form. Does it not please you? Should I instead speak to you as we have before, only in your mind?
No, Dormael thought forcefully, this is…more natural, somehow.
As I said, it is you who contained me in this form.
You seem…different than before, Dormael thought, more articulate. Sharper, somehow.
My prison weakens. I…remember things, sometimes. I am learning your speech from you. The longer we are together, the more I can touch your mind.
I wanted to discuss that, Do
rmael projected. How is it that we are suddenly sharing my head? Why do you speak to me?
It is you who found me, shaman. You came into my prison and your very presence weakened the bonds that hold me. The Wardens are far from me at the moment. They do not trouble me as much. We may speak at length, now.
Who are you, really? Where did you come from?, Dormael asked.
The dark man pursed his lips, an oddly forced expression; as if he were trying it out for the first time. I…do not remember that, not yet. I know that I am only a shadow. I am a piece of something that was once whole. I remember a great feeling of…pain. A separation…a part of me has been ripped away. I was once one, but now I am two, but one.
You’ve said that before; it didn’t make sense then and it doesn’t make sense now.
I do not know how to describe it more clearly. I am sorry.
“Gods,” Dormael muttered, “I’m sharing my mind with something that doesn’t even know itself.”
You never answered my question. Why do your females act so strangely? This is not the way that this happened.
I know that. It’s a dream. It’s supposed to be strange and meaningless. And they’re not my females. They’re just females.
You think of them as such. I have seen it, in your mind. You have made love to the dark one. I have seen this in your memories. The golden one, you desire her.
None of that is any of your business, Dormael thought, and with a gesture he banished the scene they were standing in. It faded away around him, sliding into dust, leaving only the underground chamber around himself and the dark man.
I do not understand. What does it mean when you say ‘none of your business’?
You share my head, apparently. You figure it out.
Ah. Of course. I was only trying to be…what is the word? Polite.
“If you want to be polite, then stop sifting through my memories as if they were your personal playthings,” Dormael growled, turning to the dark man and jabbing his finger into the man’s chest, “That’s not polite. It’s not polite to invade my mind and…do whatever it is that you’re doing.”
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 76
