Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  “There was one who passed through our webs,” a spider screeched. The sound, though hushed, was shrill and carried far into the woods.

  The figure in black raised a hand.

  “Quiet!” he snapped. He turned his head slowly as if listening. “Have a care.”

  The spider bobbed and then continued, this time quieter. “She seemed only a girl,” it said. “But she slipped past our best watchers and entered the Vale.”

  “Merrin had only one daughter,” the rider said. “She’s dead.”

  The dark figure was silent for a moment.

  “What if she’s not?” he said. “Merrin is shrewd. There are still things she’s kept from us.”

  “I saw to the child myself,” a second rider said. “There is no heir to Vlad Valkire left living.”

  Again the dark figure was silent.

  “Then how have the Vyrl returned to sanity?” he said at last. “How was Vaelros turned? Secret daughter of the moon queen. The answer to her riddle is plain.”

  He turned to the second rider.

  “You failed.”

  The rider stumbled back as though struck and, for a moment, the owl could see his face. A dark mist rose from a black and blood-red box at his breast. It encircled his body then covered his head like a hood. Its ends seemed ragged and in those ends, the owl saw tiny hands digging into his skin. His face was white, like a dead man—but his eyes seemed very alive. In them, the owl could see terror. The claws drew blood and his mouth opened in a silent scream. He fell to his knees. The claws released. The mist dispersed and he let out a death-rattle cough.

  He sat so still the owl thought he was petrified. A breeze waved through the grass. Finally, the rider stood. At first he faltered. Slowly his features seemed to change. He grew paler. More terrible. His face—a little more like the dead.

  “He has paid,” a harsh, almost feminine voice, said. It seemed to come from somewhere behind the rider. The owl looked around, startled, but couldn’t see the speaker.

  “A hundred times over,” the figure said dispassionately. “But it doesn’t fix our problem.”

  “She restored the Vyrl,” the dragon mused.

  “Yes,” the figure replied.

  “What must we do?” the spiders clicked.

  “Tonight, strike the elves. Draw the noose tight. No one escapes the Vale.”

  “And what do I do?” the dragon hissed.

  “Watch the Red Gate,” the figure whispered.

  “If she comes?”

  “Do what you want, eat her if you like. I don’t care, so long as she dies or is turned back.”

  The dragon lifted its head and laughed. It was low and barely audible but the branch beneath the owl’s feet trembled.

  “Could she escape?” the first rider asked.

  “It is a possibility,” the dark figure replied.

  “What then?”

  “She’s a witch, remember? Her own people will see to it.”

  The spiders clicked their forelimbs in laughter.

  The figure turned his head and, for a moment, the owl could see his face. It was both beautiful and sad. “Go now.”

  Spiders faded into their shadows and dragon slid down the hill. Wolf and rider filed away and the dark figure glided into the night.

  When all was quiet, the owl spread his wings and, silent as a feather riding smoke, set out to find the others, to spread word about his new mistress. With each wing flap he could feel his strength returning, his fear falling away. Pride swelled in his feathered breast that she had chosen him to bring the news. As he flew, a dark cloud of mist rose from the land. At first, it only blurred his vision. It gradually grew thicker until he had difficulty finding his way. Disoriented, he settled closer to the ground.

  There was sudden motion, a snap, and then pain. Long teeth tore him. His last sight was of his feathers—white with red flecks—falling to earth.

  The Dreaming

  I am dying!

  Pain in her neck, wrists, and side made her back arch in agony. Breath came in little explosions. Hands balled into fists, she struck the bed, leaving smears of black on the white. Her Wyrd Stone—Methar Anduel—gave just enough light for her to see the blood. But darkness pressed in from all around.

  There was an owl. She was the owl. Torn. Pain filled her, like the gnash of a hundred teeth.

  She felt herself falling. Her eyes grew black and the light of Methar Anduel faded.

  Far away, she heard voices. But nearer there was a presence. If followed her as she dropped away.

  No! She is ours! shouted the Vyrl in her thoughts. Death shall not take her!

  A hand touched her. But it seemed far away. Then, something hot and wet filled her mouth.

  There was an explosion of light. It was so beautiful tears fell as she opened her eyes and saw Methar Anduel burning, bright as a star, on her belly. Slowly breath returned, but in painful bursts. Her mouth was hot with Vyrl’s blood. She could feel its healing energy coursing through her. The strength and a sense of renewed life flooded back so fast it made her stomach sick and heavy.

  Methar Anduel’s glow showed the three Vyrl—Ahmberen, Ecthellien, and Elshael—standing over her like tall shadows, hands linked, voices lifted in anger. The great rulers of the Vale of Mists looked down on her. Their black eyes swirled with tiny flashes of light and unreadable emotion. Could they be afraid for me? she thought. Can a Vyrl even feel fear? Through her bond with them she could sense only fury. Their thoughts flashed through her like lightning. She flinched at each violent and strange emotion.

  I’ve lived with them for weeks, but I still don’t understand them, she thought as she struggled to push them out of her mind. She felt shaky and wanted some solace from their wild thoughts.

  Turning her eyes from the Vyrl’s swirling gaze, she saw Mithorden standing at the foot of her bed, a Wyrd Stone ablaze in his fist. Unlike the Vyrl, she could see naked concern in the sorcerer’s eyes and though the rulers of the Vale towered over him, his light and the shadow he cast filled the room in a way that made him seem their equal. There was a sense of strength about him and his steady smile reassured her. She gulped air and tried to calm the pounding in her chest.

  Her gaze shifted to Vaelros who clutched his sword tightly, seeming ready to strike at an unseen danger. His strained face and stiff stance made her wonder if he would ever fully heal from the curse that had nearly killed him. The shadow of that nightmare still seemed to lay long and dark over him. He caught her gaze and his eyes flashed—warm and worried. She struggled to smile—as much to reassure him as herself.

  Melkion perched on an overhang above her, dragon wings spread wide, fanning cool morning air over her. He was small—no larger than a cat—and his brilliant scales threw the light back in a hundred little rainbows. She felt grateful for his comforting wing flaps. Her smile broadened as she faced him and felt his cool puffs of air washing over her. She picked up Methar Anduel, sat up, and tried to collect her thoughts.

  Her hand touched the Stone and its light grew. The shadows fell back, revealing the werewolf Othalas on her room’s far side. Here was the Vyrl’s great hunter. The one they sent to gather children and take them to the Vale of Mists. No more, she thought as the smile touched her eyes. Now he is my friend. He paced by the far wall with worry plain in his massive yellow eyes. His great bulk nearly filled the chamber, making it awkward for him to turn. He seemed nervous as a hen and this sight brought Luthiel fully out of her daze. He looked so silly she laughed aloud.

  “Othalas, you look ridiculous!” she croaked hoarsely.

  Soft as a flower petal falling, Melkion dropped from his perch and alighted beside her on the bed. “She’s alive!” he whispered, as though afraid a loud noise might break her.

  The great wolf let out a growl before bursting through the Vyrl to give her one great lick with his paddle tongue. Melkion’s eyes narrowed and he looked sidelong at the great wolf.

  “You never lick,” the dragon said to the we
rewolf.

  Othalas flashed a row of knife teeth at the dragon. Melkion shook his head and snorted smoke.

  “Well I’m blessed. You actually care for someone.”

  The great wolf looked away, pretending the dragon hadn’t spoken.

  “Othalas wasn’t the only one worried,” Mithorden said with a kind, if strained, smile. “You gave us all quite a scare.”

  “What’s happened?” she asked between breaths. She felt sore and beat up. As if she’d just run ten miles and at the end fallen off a cliff. Wiping blood from her mouth, she stared as the reopened wounds in her wrists and neck slowly closed.

  “You nearly died. It took strong magic and Vyrl’s blood to bring you back,” Mithorden said. “As for what happened, I think you know quite a bit more than any of us.”

  All eyes were on her. She sat still a moment, staring out the slit window, doing her best to compose her thoughts.

  Outside, the night slowly faded as the edge of Oerin’s ellipsis neared the horizon. Spiders were out there—swarming beneath the Vale of Mists’ Rim Wall, invading its forests. Like the spiders in my dream, if it was a dream. The Widdershae who make all things their prey. She blinked her eyes, slowly remembering. This morning they were to venture out. To try and break through the Widdershae and their thick spun webs of nightmare. To reach the elves and ask them to forgive Vyrl.

  She turned her eyes away from the lightening sky and looked at her hands.

  It is still only night. But it seems so much time has passed. If this adventure were not enough, now there is my dream. A dream that wounded me. She shook her head as if that small motion could clear it of all worry and looked back at her companions. They would want to know what happened.

  “It is all still very odd to me. And the only thing I can remember plainly is the death. But I will do my best to explain,” she said in a soft voice. “I dreamed I saw through an owl’s eyes. It was spying on a meeting. Widdershae, a dragon, Zalos’ riders, and a man robed all in black. They—I think they were planning to kill me. When the meeting ended, the owl flew away. Then, I think the dragon kill—”

  Her voice broke and she couldn’t continue. Melkion hissed as Ahmberen and Mithorden leaned closer.

  “You saw what it saw?” Ahmberen said. His swirling eyes seemed draw all of her inside them.

  Luthiel nodded.

  “And this happened to you when it died?” the Vyrl continued, motioning with a long-fingered hand to her hurts.

  “I think so.” Luthiel looked around in amazement. “How could it happen?”

  The Vyrl turned to one another and she could sense thoughts whispering between them. Finally Ecthellien spoke.

  “The Dreaming,” he said.

  Mithorden nodded. “Valkire’s gift. Now his daughter’s.”

  Luthiel watched them with a growing sense of dread. “What’s The Dreaming? If that was a dream, I’ve never seen anything like it before!”

  “It’s not a usual dream,” Mithorden said. “The Dreaming is deeper. Waking or sleeping, your father could share others’ experiences. Sometimes, he could speak to hundreds or even thousands as they slept. The danger is you can share a body. If the body dies—the Dreamer can die too.”

  Luthiel put a hand to her head. She could still feel her heartbeat pounding there. “So that was real?”

  “You’re hurt, aren’t you?” Mithorden said.

  Luthiel stared at the bloodstains, still trying to take everything in. “I feel better now.”

  “It’s the life in our blood,” Ahmberen said. “But for Melkion’s watch, you would have perished in your sleep.”

  A Bright Song

  Luthiel picked up Methar Anduel with a shaking hand, looking deep into the Stone as if trying to see some mystery hidden there. A dream that could let me walk in the thoughts of others. A dream that could kill. The Stone’s light seemed to come from far off, like the ghost of an oncoming dawn. “So you call it The Dreaming? And what part did you play, my little Stone? I wonder.” She felt sad and afraid. She knew it had something to do with Father. They were talking about his Dreaming. His gift and her inheritance. But it was more. It was a dangerous thing—and not just to her. She suspected The Dreaming had snared the owl—snared it and killed it.

  For the brief span of her dream she had lived as the owl. Saw through its eyes. It had seemed such a rich and full being. A life as vital as her own—gone in the flash of dragon’s teeth and falling feathers.

  “You know that owl died trying to help me?” she said to them with shame. She lifted a hand to her face and wiped away tears before they fell. She choked. “To show me something I needed to know. It was just so wrong.” They stared back. Othalas cocked his head in puzzlement but Mithorden’s eyes narrowed with concern as he nodded knowingly. “I could see what he saw. Feel what he felt,” she continued. “This is just as bad as a person dying.” She paused but the others were silent, listening to her. The Vyrl’s eyes swirled coldly and she could hear an angry rumble rising in Othalas’ chest. Even Melkion’s tail swished from side to side in agitation. There was still blood on his mouth from his night-time hunting. Mithorden’s eyes were the only ones that seemed warm to her then.

  “A person?” Othalas growled finally. “It was just an animal. No better than food.”

  “Animal?” Luthiel said, trying to keep the distress out of her voice. “You’re an animal! You just don’t understand. If you saw what I saw, you would.”

  “I was once a man!” the great wolf snapped. “Let it go, Luthiel. It served its purpose.”

  Luthiel looked at the great wolf through eyes glistening with tears and anger. “My sister was Chosen to be food.” She turned to the Vyrl. “I fed you.”

  “You saved us,” Ecthellien said.

  “Only so long as you eat a part of me,” she snapped in reply before turning back to Othalas. “Am I no better than food?”

  “Of course you are!” Othalas growled. “Only you can give what the Vyrl need.”

  “The best food. But food still.”

  Othalas snarled and shook his great body. “It’s pointless talking to you. You’re not thinking.”

  “When you just know something, you don’t have to think,” Luthiel whispered. “You don’t understand. I was the owl.”

  “Luthiel, you shared the owl’s sight, its dying moment,” Mithorden said. “It makes sense you would sympathize with it. But Othalas is right, you must let go. There are more important things going on here.”

  “I can’t!” she said through her tears. “You don’t know what it’s like to share a life—only to witness it snuffed out like that. To know it was for you. Important things? What could be more important?”

  “The message it died to deliver. Would you dishonor its death by overlooking the reason for it dying?”

  “It was a pointless death!”

  “Only if you didn’t receive its message.” The sorcerer said firmly. “Think Luthiel! What did the owl see that was so important? Important enough for it to die trying to tell you?”

  Luthiel shook her head and felt her heart pounding in her chest. It was all too difficult to think about. “I can’t. I don’t know.”

  “Remember or the owl dying was pointless.”

  “They were angry I escaped,” Luthiel said slowly. “I should have died a babe. They were plotting to kill me. The dragon. They sent the dragon to kill me.”

  “They sent the dragon to kill the owl,” Othalas growled.

  “I was the owl!” Luthiel snapped back, then turned to Mithorden. “I can think of no good reason for it to have lost its life for me. There is never a good reason for such things.”

  Othalas leveled his great head and stared her straight in the eyes. “This way of thinking is madness. Some things must die so that we should live. It is the way of things. You know it.”

  “I knew it once. But now I wonder. Why must there be so much killing?” She stood up, Stone still held in her clenched fist. “So I have all these great thi
ngs? My father’s Stone, his sword, his Dreaming? But what are they good for other than getting things killed?”

  They all stared at her. She was angry now, eyes flashing in the morning darkness. “They’re weapons. That’s all,” she said with both anger and sadness.

  “More than just weapons,” Mithorden said. “Consider what we’ve learned. You’ve spied on the secret council of our enemies, listened on as they plotted against you. Without your father’s gifts we would stumble blindly into a trap. Now we are forewarned.” He looked at the Wyrd Stone in her hand. “They are objects of power. They bring dreams to life.”

  “How? Force innocent animals to serve as my eyes? Put them in danger?”

  “You did not kill the owl,” Othalas growled.

  “I know it to my quick. He died for me. He knew me as I knew him. In his mind he called me mistress.”

  Again there was a long silence. Finally, Mithorden spoke.

  “The owl will not be the last to die for you, Luthiel.”

  His words made her tremble and the anger inside grew hotter. “Make dreams come to life?” She shook the Stone at the sorcerer.

  He slowly nodded, giving her a wary look.

  “Then I will use it to make a dream. One to stop the killing.”

  “Impossible!” Othalas snorted. “Today we go out to war. There was never a war without killing.”

  She shook her head. “If I must fight, then I will. But fighting isn’t always about killing. If I could make a dream real, I would not kill anything unless it could never be changed at heart.”

  “And if you must kill to survive? What then?” Othalas rumbled.

  Ignoring the great wolf, she wrapped her bed sheets around her, walked over to the mantel and picked up the hilt of her father’s broken sword—Cutter’s Shear. In its place she left her Stone.

  “Not unless there was no hope for good in a thing,” she continued. “Even then, only with sadness.” She looked at the sorcerer. “Can I make such a dream real if I swear in Father’s name?”

  “Would you take on an impossible restraint?” the sorcerer said, ignoring her question.