“Guardian, why do you not answer me? I saw you on the landbridge. The others were occupied with chasing Damerien, but I saw your signature on the strands.”
Someone was chasing Damerien? Dith tried to speak to the voice he heard, but he could not.
From the empty shadows around him, he had a sudden sense of a woman. He could not see or smell her, but in this dream––for it had to be such––he simply knew, as surely as if he smelled her perfume or felt the softness of her skin. As if bidden by this realization, the world around him took on substance and light. He was in a garden, still floating, suspended above the tall grass and subtle flowers, and a shape solidified before him, filling the air with the scent of jasmine. Dark blond hair fell in soft curls to the woman’s waist, and her body was rich and beautifully curved beneath the diaphanous gown of seamless white.
But the smile on her lovely face faded quickly to confusion. “What is the meaning of this? Who are you? Where is Galorin?”
Dith only stared at her, absurdly fixated on the flowers near her feet which had been blooming but now wilted and caught fire.
“Answer me.”
But he could not. He only stared at her, unable to move, unable to speak.
“So,” came another voice, and near her, another being formed from the darkness. This voice was familiar. It was the same voice Dith had been hearing in his mind for months––Galorin. But the voice was not tender or fond. If anything, it held a note of irritation.
“You found me, Guardian.” Galorin sighed. “Well done. What do you want?”
Guardian? Who was this woman? He tried to end the dream and wake himself, but he could not.
“Stop squirming, boy. She will not let either of us go until she’s had her say. Best bear it with me, but do not draw attention to yourself. You do not know her purpose, and as you stand, you are vulnerable.”
The being taking form before him was not what he had envisioned at all. For some reason, he had always pictured Galorin as an old man with long gray hair and a hunched back for no real reason other than that the mage was ancient.
The man before him was instead lithe and muscular, perhaps a few years older than Dith, with strong, even features surrounded by ringlets cascading to his shoulders that were so black they might have been dipped in birch tar oil. His eyes were a murky green in an almost handsome face that seemed prone to humor, but with a grim cut of a mouth that at the moment showed no humor at all. He stripped from his head a blue silk band that suddenly appeared there and dashed it like glass against the bare rock that spread beneath him where he stood.
The woman’s smile faltered––she had not expected this, it seemed––but she reached out her arms to embrace him. He stood fast, refusing her invitation, and she abandoned the gesture.
“Come now, my love. Four thousand years apart, and you’ve not a single fond word for me, for your Ranala?” The woman smiled appealingly and cast a self-conscious glance at Dith. “The others believe you died at your little castle on the island, but I knew. I was sure Nial’s hobby horses could not defeat you.”
Dith turned awkwardly, feeling out of place. He had no part in the intimacy of this conversation. He stared at the ugly misshapen rock which glowed white hot in the presence of the two mages, and the strands of power surrounding it became so dense that the writing on it was almost completely obscured, as if a child had scribbled all over a masterpiece. The thought filled him with a mysterious apprehension.
“You were wrong.” Galorin sneered at her. “So what do you want?”
“I…my darling, I only…I…”
He crossed his arms. “Stop playing the coy ingénue with me. ‘Four thousand years,’” he mocked. “The strands do not care about distance or time. But it took me returning to Byrandia’s very shores before you could be bothered to seek me out. So yes, you found me. You want something from me, or you would not be pestering me. What is it?”
Tears filled her eyes. “Pestering? I only wanted to see you. After all this time––”
“After all this time, I have not forgotten your lies and your betrayal.”
Her lip quivered fetchingly, and a blush lit her cheeks.
“Woman, do not think to play me like a drum. Now speak to the purpose or let us be.”
“Us?” Curiosity burned away her pretense and quickly turned to jealousy. She looked at Dith and back to Galorin. “Is he your lover, then? I should have known—”
“No, Ranala,” he said impatiently. “Unlike you, not every person I meet becomes my lover.”
She recoiled as if he had slapped her. Her gaze hardened. “If he is not your lover, why do you keep me from seeing who he is?” She stared at Dith. “I see that he is a mage, but I cannot…” She whirled on Galorin. “A Wittister mage!” She stepped back from Dith in horror. You allied with a Wittister mage!”
Galorin laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ranala. He is no more a Wittister mage than I am.”
“But there was a Wittister mage on the landbridge.”
He templed his fingers and nodded. “More than likely there was.”
She waited for him to elaborate, but he did not.
Dith had questions of his own, but he could not ask. He dared not ask. Whoever this woman, this Guardian, might be––
“Ranala. She is the eldest of the Guardians, something of a leader. I have no doubt you will get to know her very well. She will see to it.”
––he would likely learn more by listening than by talking.
“No, absolutely not,” Ranala said with finality. She sat back in the cushions of her seat. “What you propose is far too dangerous. The potential damage to the threads and to the certainty trees is unthinkable, to say nothing of the risk to ourselves, and by extension everything else.”
He swore. “Have you looked at the threads? They’re weakened already!”
“If even one of us should fall to the Wittisters,” Kesastra said with the usual edge of panic in her voice, “they would become nigh invincible. We simply cannot allow it.”
Galorin paced impatiently. “And what do you suppose they will do, once they have killed every mage in Byrandia? Do you suppose they’ll wait patiently on Cragen’s leash or will they come at last to the Citadel with that great massing of power, to finish off the craven Guardians who could not be bothered––”
“Mind your tongue!” Ranala stood, her eyes sparking with anger.
He met her gaze, emphasizing each word as he spoke it. “Who could not be bothered, I say, to stop them.”
Nial crossed his arms and watched with vague amusement.
“It is quite possible,” Dolik offered quietly from where he sat, “that the Wittisters, once sated, will leave our Citadel alone. A sort of gentlemen’s agreement, as it were.”
“Bought with the blood of every––!”
“In any event,” he continued over Galorin, “I believe the five of us could hold off all but the most vigorous onslaught. We’ve but to maintain, as we always have.”
Galorin stared at the balding middle aged one among them in disbelief. “Maintain? Hold off?” he gasped. “Do you think they drain the life from these mages to pass the time?”
Nial cleared his throat. “They do so at King Cragen’s will.”
Galorin turned and glared at Nial. “They are building their power, you ignorant fool!” He grabbed Dolik by the front of his robe and lowered his voice to a seething whisper. “Why is that? Set your great mind to pondering that. In the meantime, this world is not ready to be rid of magic,” he snarled, throwing the Dolik aside. “So I will be saving the mages of Byrandia in the only way I can, by getting them as far from here as possible.”
He stormed out of the chamber and through the corridors of the Citadel, out into the bright sunlight of the canyon shelf. At the bottom of the cliff, huddled against the canyon wall at the rim of the Byrandian badlands, he could see G’ragne with its modest shops and homes, and beyond it, empty desert.
“Guardian!” T
he voice was Ranala’s, and it was a tone of command. Of course it was. He shook his head angrily without looking back at her and lifted his hand.
“Galorin,” she tried again, her tone softer, more intimate. “Wait, please.”
He would not face her. She was almost in tears, at that perfect pretty stage of sorrow that she knew men could not resist. It was her finest performance. He had been her audience for it so many times before. He did not need to see it again.
“Please, do not go. I need you here beside me.”
He sneered and walked away from her.
“Please, what more can I say or do? Galorin, you know he was a passing fancy, nothing more. He was just a townsman!”
Was that supposed to ease the pain somehow? This “just a townsman” had meant nothing to her, and yet he had been worth sacrificing centuries of trust between them? He laughed at how pathetic they must look, these two supremely powerful entities, alive for thousands upon thousands of years, yet still plagued with the absurd, sordid pettiness of those who moved through their miserable, short lives below.
“I learned how much I love you and how wrong I was…”
He drew a deep breath and turned to face her. “Do you believe I care about any of that now? Do you care about anything outside yourself and what you want in the next minute?” He looked at her coldly. “Help me, Ranala. Help me save these people.”
She closed her eyes, considering. “If I help you save them, you will come back to me, yes? We can be together again, yes?”
He studied the streets below and sighed with resignation. She was, after all, Ranala.
He turned and looked at her, his normally grey-green eyes turned to obsidian.
“No.” A moment later, he was gone.
“So you are living in this child’s mind,” she said. Dith felt her eyes probing through the darkness to find him, to study him like a child studies ants. “Do you control him, or does he control you?”
Occasionally lightning crackled in the distance, no doubt the manifestation of her anger in his mind.
“The insinuation is petty, Ranala. It is beneath you and absolutely expected. The answer is, neither. Just as I need not take everyone to bed––”
“A shame,” she purred, still peering at Dith, still trying to see his face. Finally, she reached out and touched Dith’s face as if he had no protections at all. Then again, she would not fire his protections since he was only dreaming. Wasn’t he?
“He’s pretty,” she smiled without a trace of warmth. Her hands traced down his chest. “And you got old.”
“I also died.” Galorin added dispassionately.
Ranala’s hand traced lower on his chest, to his belly, and Dith turned pointedly away from her. He saw Galorin’s smile of satisfaction through the corner of his eye.
“Not every man can turn Ranala away.” Galorin shrugged. “Still, I admire your resolve.”
She laughed a pretty, brittle laugh at Dith’s rejection of her advances. A freezing drizzle of rain began to fall over the dying flowers, and it froze to their petals.
“You asked what I want,” she said at last. “I want nothing.”
Galorin snorted. “I find that impossible to believe.”
“Believe what you want,” she snapped. “I had hoped only to see you again, to assure myself that you yet live, even if you are no longer mine. That, and I bring you a warning.” She looked distant for a moment. “You still have time, but not much. You are about to be under attack. I see a large force moving toward you.”
Galorin turned, and a massive network of threads exploded around them, interconnected, weaving over and under other threads, binding to everything. “The same army that we fought on the landbridge?”
She shook her head. “No, not the same force. This one… even I cannot see who drives it. As a Guardian…”
“As a Guardian, you can do nothing,” Galorin sneered.
“No.” She looked at him, and for the first time, Dith saw sincerity in her eyes. “As a Guardian, I dare do nothing or it will bring unwanted attention before you are prepared.”
“From the draemondrae?” Galorin asked. “We have already beaten them once.”
“Just draemondrae?” Her eyes met his. “Oh, no.” She looked down, and a sad smile crossed her lips. “I may have put you at risk as it is, but I had to see you again. I had to warn you.” She considered carefully. “Above all, you must understand: They come tasked with a singular goal.” She looked between the two men. “They come to kill Damerien.”
Twenty-Seven
Renda was on her feet with her sword drawn before she’d come fully awake, already scanning her surroundings, evaluating the threat. The coastal night air had condensed to a thick fog covering the camp, leaving her all but blind and deaf beyond the pounding of her heart in her ears, but in only a moment, despite her disorientation, she focused on what had awakened her. The sound grew louder: a wet rumble of heavy footfalls in the mud.
They could not be far off, and they were moving impossibly fast. She looked around her, trying to orient herself and plan a strategy. Her father and Laniel had relieved her for the watch—that could not have been more than a few hours ago, but she did not see them now. Around her, the rest of the knights were scrambling to find their weapons and to armor each other in the fog.
A chain coif was pulled down smartly over her head, and knowing hands were cinching her breastplate around her. “Gikka?” she whispered.
“Peace,” murmured Gikka, “I am at your side.” She nodded ahead toward the rising sound. “Chul and I crested a hill and found ourselves in their very midst, like a stampede of cattle. We rode in with them nearly at our heels, running at all speed this way. ”
“Demons?”
“Like the others.”
“Mages?”
“Not as I saw, but could be. I seen the demons’ front-most ranks, but they have numbers behind.” She patted the strap she had just fastened and listened. “We’ve no time for more, so the breastplate will have to serve.”
“It will have to be enough,” the knight said, gripping her sword. Around her, she saw the rest of the knights forming up. They had no cover, so they took position as they could, with Grayson and Qorlin taking up bows and the rest swords.
Suddenly a great rush of shadows erupted from the fog. The enemy was among them, storming their camp in impossible numbers. She staggered to keep her feet against the force of their rush and raised her sword to defend herself against the attack.
Except…
The demons raced past her, as if she were not there. They flew whisper close past the knights, past the makeshift shelter and the other trappings of the camp, not slowing at all and not touching anything. The demons did not swerve or weave. They merely ran straight lines that managed not to cross anything in the camp. Their eyes never wavered. They saw nothing.
“Thank you, Dith,” Renda breathed.
The fog thinned and swirled around them in the demons’ wake, and through it, she tried to gauge their numbers as they passed. It looked so far to be about as large a force as that which they had faced at the Lacework, but even so, she was fairly certain this was not the same army. They were too many and too fresh, and to her small relief she saw no mages among them, at least not yet. Small relief, indeed. That they had now met two armies of these creatures before they’d even made landfall on Byrandia proper only fed her fears that the land was overrun.
She stood as if in a dream, strangely motionless, while the demons continued to swarm past her, just a sweep of light and shadow and wind across her face. The fog thinned and swirled in the demons’ wake, giving her brief glimpses of the other knights, the camp, and the horses, most of whom had gone instantly to silence upon scenting the demons. She had no sense of the passage of time as the creatures went by except for a dull ache in her arm. She still had her sword raised.
Was this force of demons making its way to Syon? She doubted it. They were not provisioned, and the landbridge had no
game for them to hunt. They were equipped to fight an enemy near at hand, most likely the knights. But thanks to Dith’s protections, she and the others had only to stay still and let them pass. They would likely return when they realized they had passed their quarry by, but at the very least, the confusion should buy the knights some time. Time was what they needed more than anything else.
At last, their numbers seemed to be thinning. In only a moment more, they would be gone. Only a few remained––from the look of their lumbering shadows in the fog, the stragglers, those who could not keep up.
All they had to do was stay still and let them pass.
Let them pass.
Cold, dark. Something badly out of place…
She tried to shake off the feeling off, refusing to let it overwhelm her, refusing to acknowledge it because if she was forced to acknowledge it, she would be forced to believe it. Please, B’radik, not again…
Suddenly Gikka pulled her down to the ground and bade her be silent.
In the distance, lumbering closer behind the last of the demons, she heard heavy foot falls and muttering, grunting, as of someone talking to himself. She knew this sound. This sound filled her nightmares. It was a sound she’d hoped never to hear again.
“Kadak,” she whispered.
“It cannot be,” hissed Gikka. “Kadak is dead, you saw to it yourself.”
“It could be no other!”
Her mind went to Vonn’s strange attack on Qorlin and the odd glow in his eyes that Kerrick and Amara had described. She shuddered. She had known. She supposed Gikka had guessed, as well. But rather than give voice to her fears, even in her own thoughts, she had driven the notion out of her mind as impossible. She had told herself that Kadak was gone, and that no other such creature could possibly live.
Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) Page 42
