Journey into the Void

by Margaret Weis

  The man boomed this on one corner, then stalked off down the street to boom it on another. The streets began to empty, with most people heading for their homes. Those inclined to linger were helped along by patrols of armed guards.

  “What are we going to do?” Bashae wondered in dismay. “We don’t have a home. Where will we go?”

  There is nowhere to go, which means that we’ll be arrested, he thought. Which means that we’ll be reunited with our friends. Darkness seemed to fall, all of a sudden, stranding the pecwae in this strange stone wilderness. He was on the point of calling out to the soldiers, when the Grandmother suddenly cried out, “Evil!” and lashed at something with her stick.

  Bashae turned to see a man sneaking up on them, hands outstretched. The agate-eyed stick took the man across the knuckles. He howled and snatched back his hand, but his companion made a lunge at Bashae, seized hold of him by the hair.

  “Quit squirming, you little bastard,” the man snarled in a rough, deep voice, “or I’ll pull your hair out by the roots.”

  Tears stung Bashae’s eyes as he flailed about, struggling to escape his captor. The Grandmother shrieked at the man in Twithil and lashed at him with her stick.

  This had little effect, and the man was about to drag Bashae away, when suddenly he gasped. The hand holding Bashae let loose, and he tumbled to the pavement, where he crouched, paralyzed, afraid to move.

  Somewhere, close to him, men were fighting.

  Bashae couldn’t see in the darkness. He heard scuffling sounds, then a splintering crash, as if someone had tumbled through a wooden gate, and a thud. A man slumped to the pavement and lay there staring at Bashae. The man gave a groan, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his body went limp.

  Light flared. Bashae peered up, blinking at the sudden brilliance, to see a Trevinici warrior holding a torch.

  The warrior was clad all in leather. His reddish brown hair was tied back in the traditional manner. He wore the gruesome trophies of his battle kills around his neck and a long knife thrust into his belt.

  “Here you two are,” the warrior said, stern and unsmiling. “I have been searching for you everywhere.”

  “You have?” Bashae said, confused. He did not know this warrior, did not recognize him. “How do you know about us?”

  “Your friend sent me,” said the warrior.

  “Jessan?” Bashae asked eagerly, and scrambled to his feet.

  The Grandmother stood nearby, panting for breath, the agate-eyed stick clutched tightly in her fist. She stared at the Trevinici, her black eyes orange in the firelight.

  “Jessan sent you?” she demanded, her tone suspicious.

  “Yes, Jessan,” said the Trevinici. He prodded the bodies of their attackers, who lay in the street. “A good thing I came when I did.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Bashae earnestly. “Thank you for rescuing us. Grandmother,” he added in low tones, pinching her arm, “what’s the matter with you? This warrior saved us. You should thank him.”

  “Evil,” returned the Grandmother under her breath. “There’s evil about. The stick tells me.”

  “Yes, Grandmother. The evil is lying at my feet,” said Bashae, exasperated.

  The Grandmother grunted and shook her head.

  Bashae gave the Trevinici an apologetic smile. “The Grandmother is also grateful to you, sir. Where is Jessan?”

  “He is a long way from here,” said the Trevinici. “Outside the city walls. I will take you to him.”

  “He left the city?” Bashae was troubled. “Without finding us?”

  “He didn’t have much choice,” said the Trevinici dryly. “He was under arrest at the time. They were taking him to their prison that is in the middle of the river, when he managed to escape. That’s how we ran into each other. He could not come himself, because they are searching for him. But all this is a long story. Curfew has been declared, which means that everyone must be off the streets. You must come with me now.”

  “Of course,” said Bashae, tugging on the Grandmother’s arm.

  She ignored him. Staring at the stick, she gave it an irritated shake.

  “Bashae! Grandmother!” a familiar voice called out, as a familiar figure came running down the street. “Thank the gods I’ve found you!”

  “Ulaf!” cried Bashae, waving. “He’s a friend,” he added in Trevini.

  “Some friend,” the Trevinici grunted, displeased. “To leave you two to wander the streets alone.” He took a firm grip on Bashae’s arm. “The man is a Vinnengaelean, and none of them are to be trusted. We will leave now.”

  “Please let go of me,” said Bashae, respectfully but firm. Sometimes Trevinici did not know their own strength. “I know you don’t mean to, but you’re hurting me. I will go with you, but not just yet. Not until I explain to Ulaf. It’s not his fault that we’re lost. It’s our fault. We ran away when we saw the guards coming.”

  The Trevinici let go of the pecwae, but he didn’t look happy. Bashae wasn’t surprised. The Trevinici had not been born who had any use for city people.

  Ulaf’s fair-complected face was flushed from running, his hair tou-sled. A genial man, with a manner that was invariably friendly and outgoing, he appeared only mildly annoyed at the pecwae for running off.

  “I’ve been looking for you two everywhere,” said Ulaf, grinning. If he was startled to find them in company with a Trevinici, he gave no outward sign of it. “Baron Shadamehr was really worried about you. Looks like there’s been some trouble.” He glanced at the two unconscious men lying on the pavement, then shifted a keen-eyed gaze to the Trevinici. “Who’s your friend? Is this his work?”

  “I am Fire Storm,” said the Trevinici with a scowl. “I did what I had to do to protect the small ones, since others left them neglected. These ruffians meant to make slaves of them, as you must have known would happen if they went wandering alone about the city. I will take charge of the pecwae now. Tell your master that they are safe. Come along, you two. Jessan is waiting for you.”

  “I’m sorry, but we have to go with Fire Storm, Ulaf,” said Bashae, settling the knapsack more comfortably over his shoulder and getting a firm grip on the Grandmother, who was knocking the stick against a wall. “Jessan sent his friend for us—”

  “Jessan,” interrupted Ulaf in wondering tones. He looked more closely at the Trevinici. “Jessan is with Baron Shadamehr.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Bashae explained. “Jessan was arrested and taken across the river. Fire Storm helped him escape or something like that. Anyhow, Jessan sent Fire Storm to search for us and so we have to be going.”

  “Jessan arrested? And he escaped, you say? How very exiting.” Ulaf laid his hand on the Trevinici’s arm. “I have to hear this tale! There’s an inn nearby called the Tubby Tabby. I’ll buy the ale, Fire Storm, if you’ll tell your story.”

  The Trevinici knocked Ulaf’s hand aside. Glowering, he turned to the pecwae.

  “We have no time for such foolery. Are you coming?” he demanded dourly.

  “You won’t be able to leave the city,” Ulaf remarked cheerfully. “Didn’t you hear the bells ringing? They’ve shut the main gates. No one in or out until morning and maybe not even then. You might as well come to the tavern where it’s warm and we can have something to eat.”

  “What should we do, Grandmother?” Bashae asked in a low voice, speaking Twithil.

  “Do about what?” demanded the Grandmother, looking up from the stick.

  “Should we go with Ulaf to the tavern or go with Fire Storm to find Jessan? Ulaf says that they’ve shut the city gates. I want to find Jessan,” said Bashae, “but it’s a long way to walk, clear back to the river. And I’m really hungry. We haven’t eaten anything since morning.”

  The Grandmother regarded the stick with a look of contempt. “The eyes see something terrible close by us, but they won’t tell me what it is or where.”

  “Grandmother,” said Bashae, looking from the gutter that was awash with raw sewage
to the two ruffians, who were groaning back to consciousness, “we’re in a city. There’s evil all around us!”

  “This is my sleep city,” she snapped.

  “I’m sorry, Grandmother. I forgot.” Bashae sighed.

  The Grandmother knocked the stick against the wall again, as if she’d knock some sense into it, then whispered into Bashae’s ear.

  “If you must know, I think I made a mistake. My sleep city doesn’t smell this bad, and there aren’t this many people. I don’t think I’ll die here, after all,” she concluded in a decided tone.

  “I’m glad about that, Grandmother,” Bashae said. He could see that the Trevinici warrior was growing impatient. “But what do we do? Go to the tavern with Ulaf or go with Fire Storm?”

  “Not much of a choice, if you ask me,” the Grandmother said with a dark glance for both tall humans. “As for this Fire Storm, he’s not telling all he knows. Why didn’t Jessan come for us himself? Jessan is not one to shirk his responsibility. He wouldn’t have sent another to find us unless something was wrong. As for this Ulaf, he licks us like a playful pup, and all the time he watches us like the cat. Still”—she shrugged—“as you say, it’s late, and I’m hungry.”

  “So we’ll go with Ulaf?” Bashae asked.

  “Will you find us something to eat?” the Grandmother demanded of Ulaf, shifting from Twithil to Elderspeak.

  “I’ll buy you whatever you want,” Ulaf promised. “But we should hurry. It’s almost curfew hour, and the patrols will be coming through the streets, arresting people. You should come with us, Fire Storm. I don’t think you want to answer a lot of questions about what happened to these two wretches.”

  “We had better go to this tavern,” the Trevinici said grudgingly. He reached out his hand, took hold of Bashae’s knapsack. “That looks heavy. I will carry that for you.”

  Bashae clutched the knapsack close. Mindful of what the Grandmother had said, he was suddenly wary of this strange Trevinici. All his life, Bashae had been accustomed to trusting everyone. Now it seemed he couldn’t trust anyone. It was this city. He hated this city, hated it so much that his hatred made his stomach churn, and he wasn’t all that hungry, after all.

  “Thank you, Fire Storm, but I can manage,” he said.

  “Suit yourself,” said Fire Storm, shrugging.

  “Oh, quit your whining,” said the Grandmother to the agate-eyed stick.

  LIGHT! WE NEED LIGHT!” ALISE ORDERED, TRYING TO KEEP THE tremor of fear from her voice, trying to hold panic at bay.

  She put her hand on Shadamehr’s neck, felt for a pulse, and found it. He was still alive. But his skin was cold to the touch, and his breathing was shallow and erratic. He’d been wounded—she’d seen the blood on his shirt as he ran from the palace. He had assured her, with his own jaunty air and self-mocking smile, that it was “just a scratch.” There hadn’t been time for more.

  Having escaped from the palace by leaping out a window in full view of the public and a large number of guardsmen, the baron had caused something of a stir. The alarm raised, the guards set off in pursuit. Alise and Jessan in tow, Shadamehr had thrown off pursuit by dodging down alleys until they came to this tavern. He had made it as far as the back room, then almost immediately collapsed. The room was a storage room with no windows. They had to keep the door shut, in case the guards conducted a search, and no one had thought to bring a light.

  “Go back to the bar, Jessan. Grab a candle, a lantern, whatever is available. Bring water and brandywine. And don’t say a word to anyone!”

  An unnecessary warning, she realized. The taciturn Trevinici warrior had spoken maybe twenty words to her during the weeks she had known him, and those words had been in answer to some direct question. Jessan was not sulky or sullen. Like all Trevinici, he saw no need to engage in idle chitchat. He said what was important to say, and that was all.

  Now, for example, he did not waste breath on questions. He simply left to go fetch light. Alise could hear him kicking boxes and barrels out of his way as he stumbled through the darkness. She heard him fumble at the iron door latch, heard the door scrape open.

  Light and tobacco smoke and noise flooded the room. Bending over Shadamehr, Alise looked into his face, and fear coiled around her heart, squeezed it so that she very nearly stopped breathing. He was waxen white. No vestige of color remained in his skin. His lips had a bluish tinge, his cheeks were sunken hollows. His forehead was chill and clammy, his long, curling hair damp with sweat. When she put her hand on his forehead, he shuddered and grimaced in pain.

  The door shut, the light vanished. Alise was left alone in the darkness. Alone with Shadamehr—the aggravating, irritating, annoying, reckless Shadamehr, generous of heart, noble of spirit, a damned fool. Beloved, detested, a pain in the ass, and dying. She knew he was dying as surely as she knew that he was her lord and she was his lady, whether they admitted it to each other or not. He was dying, and she could do nothing to save him because she didn’t know what was killing him.

  A scratch, he’d said.

  The door opened, light returned. Alise heard a woman’s voice asking if there was anything she could do. Jessan said no, and the door closed. The light remained. Jessan came forward carrying a lantern in one hand, a bucket of water in the other, and a pewter flask attached to a leather thong slung about his neck. He set the lantern on the top of a barrel, arranged it so that its light illuminated Shadamehr. He placed the bucket on the floor, handed the flask to Alise.

  Squatting beside Shadamehr, Jessan looked at him and shook his head.

  Now that she had light, Alise could examine Shadamehr. She ripped open the bloody fabric of his shirt and saw just what he’d told her she would see—a ragged, narrow scratch along his rib cage. The blow had been struck in haste. Aiming to penetrate to the heart, the blade had been turned aside by a rib. Alise ripped a piece from the hem of her linen chemise, dipped the cloth in the water, and washed away the blood.

  The scratch appeared to have been made by a blade that was thin as a darning needle. The wound had punctured the skin, but had not gone deep; otherwise, there would have been more blood. Nothing serious, at first glance; nothing to cause such a reaction. Bending nearer, Alise noticed then that the edges of the skin around the scratch were chalk white, almost as if the wound had been packed in snow.

  Alise had lived with Shadamehr and his cohorts for many years. She had been involved in numerous dangerous and daring escapades, and she had grown accustomed to working her healing magic on injuries of all types, from knife wounds to bite marks to ghoul clawings. She had never seen anything like this.

  Or had she? She suddenly remembered Ulien, Shadamehr’s friend, who had been mysteriously slain. She and Shadamehr had gone to investigate. She remembered the sight of the man’s body as it lay in the morgue. He had died of a single wound to the heart—a wound that was small, almost bloodless, and ghastly white around the edges.

  “Oh, gods,” Alise whispered. Her hands began to tremble. Don’t do this, she commanded herself. He needs you. Don’t fall apart now.

  “Jessan,” said Alise, “what happened in the palace? Tell me everything. How did Shadamehr get hurt? Did you”—she looked intently at the young man, into his face—“did you see a Vrykyl? You know what one is, don’t you?”

  “I know,” said Jessan, and there was a shadowed, haunted look in his eyes. He shook his head again. “I saw no Vrykyl. As for what happened—”

  “You must be brief,” Alise interrupted. “I don’t think…” She swallowed. “I’m afraid the baron is in very grave danger.”

  Jessan thought back, arranged his thoughts to make his recital as brief and succinct as possible.

  “We were arrested and brought before the boy king and the woman who is the person truly in charge of New Vinnengael, or so Shadamehr told us.”

  “The Regent,” said Alise.

  “Yes. Shadamehr said that he suspected the Regent of being a Vrykyl, for they can assume the form of any person t
hey have slain. Shadamehr believed that the boy king was the Vrykyl’s prisoner, that he was under her control. He planned to rescue the boy king, carry him to safety. The two elves who were arrested with us—Damra and her husband—agreed to help. The guards took the four of us into a room. The Regent cast a spell on me and on the elven Dominion Lord. The Regent said she was searching for the Sovereign Stone. She found the Sovereign Stone on Damra, but not on me. She seemed surprised and angry at that. There was another wizard, wearing armor and a sword—”

  “A battle mage,” said Alise. “Hurry, Jessan, please hurry. What happened?”

  “It was all confusion,” Jessan said grimly. “Damra began shouting strange words. Suddenly the room was filled with elves who looked exactly like her.”

  “An illusion spell,” Alise murmured.

  Jessan shrugged. The Trevinici have no use for magic, distrust all who cast it. “Her husband spit at the battle mage, and he screamed and fell down. One of the guards attacked Shadamehr. I knifed the guard. Shadamehr grabbed hold of the boy king and suddenly…”

  Jessan paused, remembering. “Suddenly the baron made a strange sound, sort of a strangled gasp, and dropped the boy to the floor. Then he cried out that we had to run for it. He took hold of me, and the next thing I knew, he was running toward the window, dragging me with him. We crashed through the window. The ground was a long way below us. I thought we were going to die with our brains spattered on the pavement. But we floated down like thistle—”

  “Griffith cast a spell on you,” Alise said. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, we caught up with you then and came here.”

  Alise gazed long at Shadamehr. Opening the flask, she daubed some of the brandy on his lips.

  “My lord!” she called softly. “Shadamehr!”

  He groaned and stirred, but he did not regain consciousness. She sighed deeply.