“No,” said Arandar. “Though I cannot understand how your spirit can be here.”
Morigna shrugged. “Have you so little imagination?”
“To be blunt, I thought your spirit would be in hell for your rejection of the Dominus Christus,” said Arandar.
Morigna shrugged. “Perhaps the Dominus Christus is more merciful than you think.”
“I do not presume to know the mind and the ways of God,” said Arandar.
“Or,” said Morigna, “perhaps this is a consequence to the dark magic I used at Urd Morlemoch.”
“What do you mean?” said Arandar.
“Call it a…penance, if you like,” said Morigna. “You are pious enough, that ought to please you. Before I can move on, there are tasks I must undertake. One of them is making sure Ridmark survives long enough to do what he must accomplish. Another task is to ensure Calliande survives long enough to save Ridmark.” The black eyes seemed to dig into Arandar like knives. “And another task is to make sure you survive to fulfill your mission, High King of Andomhaim.”
He felt a chill. “Why would you care if I live or die?”
“Normally, I would not,” said Morigna. She smiled. “But Ridmark always did like you.” The smile faded. “And if you fail in your task, High King, humanity will be swept from this world like sawdust from the floor of a workshop, and the shadow of Incariel will consume the kindreds of this world until the end of the cosmos.”
“And what is my task?” said Arandar.
“Simple,” said Morigna. “You must defend Andomhaim until Ridmark and Calliande achieve their tasks and return to aid you.” A flicker of misgiving went over her sharp face. “If they are able to achieve their tasks.”
“Wouldn’t you want Calliande to get killed?” said Arandar. “She was your rival, as I understand.”
Morigna rolled her eyes. “Do not be petty. I am dead, and will remain so. The dead do not love as the living do. Ridmark and Calliande need each other in a way that Ridmark and I never needed each other if I am to be honest. The dead also are not bound by time the way that the living are, which brings us to the reason for my visit.” She smirked. “Unless, of course, you were dreaming of me for another reason. You are the High King of Andomhaim, and you still cannot find a woman to warm your bed? Truly, that is indeed sad…”
“I see that death,” said Arandar, biting back his temper, “has not improved your disposition in the slightest.”
Morigna shrugged. “I feel much calmer than I did when I was alive if it matters. But while I am not entirely bound by time, you are, and time is fleeting. You must be ready. The Frostborn are waiting for you.”
“I knew that already,” said Arandar. “Their frost drakes have been shadowing us since we left Tarlion.”
“The situation is quite as dire as you believe it to be,” said Morigna. “The Frostborn have taken Castra Marcaine, and the entirety of the Northerland is in their control. The Anathgrimm have not been destroyed, though they have been forced to withdraw across the Moradel, and the Frostborn have constructed a line of forts along the river’s eastern bank to keep the Anathgrimm from attacking the Northerland.”
“Then the Anathgrimm are trapped in Nightmane Forest,” said Arandar.
“Not necessarily,” said Morigna. “The line of Frostborn forts stands along the eastern bank of the River Moradel. The Frostborn have not yet advanced far enough to fortify the southern boundary of Nightmane Forest. Queen Mara and the Anathgrimm are advancing from there, and hope to aid you soon. The host of the dwarves is marching through Khaluusk, and the manetaurs and the tygrai have nearly reached the western edge of Mhorluusk. Help is coming, High King of Andomhaim, if you can live long enough for it to reach you.”
“My plan to hold and fortify Dun Calpurnia,” said Arandar. “Will it work?” Whether he liked Morigna had no relevance. The realm was in peril, and if she could help him, then he would take that aid gladly.
“It might,” said Morigna. “It is one of the possibilities in the future. Your future exists as a chain of possibilities. In one possibility, you hold at Dun Calpurnia until your allies arrive. In another, the Frostborn destroy you utterly, and it is impossible to say which future is more likely. But beware, Arandar Pendragon! The Frostborn know you are coming, and they know you have allies on the march. They will seek to destroy you before your allies can offer you aid.”
A cawing noise rose from the battlefield, and the thousands of vultures and crows and ravens took to the air.
“Ah,” said Morigna. “It seems that our time is up. One last warning. Beware my murderess.”
Arandar blinked, and then remembered. “Imaria Shadowbearer?”
“That is what she calls herself now,” said Morigna. “Beware her. She is weaker than Tymandain but far more dangerous. For even the Frostborn are only her tools, and she will use them to destroy you and take the Well of Tarlion for herself. And if she does that, this world will be lost forever.”
The cloud of carrion birds blocked out the sun, and Arandar knew no more.
He awoke with a start, the dawn sunlight streaming through the closed flap of his pavilion. Arandar sat up, rubbing the sleep from his face, the stubble of his jaw rasping beneath his palms. Around him, he heard the noise as the camp awoke and Prince Cadwall’s horsemen prepared for their rapid ride north.
It seemed that he had gotten to sleep after all.
The dream was still seared into his memory, sharp and clear, and for a moment Arandar almost dismissed it as the product of an exhausted mind.
No. He dared not. All the evidence was against it. For one, Third had seen Morigna’s spirit in the Tower of the Keeper. For another, Arandar certainly had never dreamed of Morigna before.
That meant the Frostborn were indeed ready for them…and Arandar had to continue with his plan.
His hand curled into a fist.
They would have to take and hold Dun Calpurnia until their allies arrived.
Chapter 8: A Boon
Ridmark came to a stop, gazing in surprise at the sight before him.
He had never seen anything quite like it.
They had climbed the slope for the last two days, the trees becoming thinner and the ground growing rockier. Game had grown sparser as well, and all they had been able to find to eat had been a rabbit and a handful of nuts. Ridmark’s stomach rumbled with hunger, but he had endured worse in the Wilderland, and he pressed on without complaint. He was more concerned about Calliande, but she continued without hesitation. The going had become easier after they had found the ruins of an old road paved in white stone that climbed its way up the slope.
Then they had come to the…distortion.
“What is that?” said Ridmark.
Ahead of them the road, the rocky slope, and the trees continued, but the entire landscape seemed…frozen, somehow, and blurry. Everything looked a little out of focus, and what was stranger, the blur began in a sharp, clear line across the earth. It was as if everything ahead was encased in translucent ice.
“One of the magical defenses of Cathair Solas,” said Calliande.
“What will it do?” said Ridmark.
“I’m afraid it’s perfectly harmless,” said Calliande, pushing back a lock of hair from her face.
“Not an effective defense, then,” said Ridmark, “if it’s harmless.”
“It is both harmless and effective,” said Calliande. “The high elven magi can control the flow of time around Cathair Solas.”
Ridmark blinked. “Is that even possible?”
“For human wizards, no,” said Calliande. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin such a feat. But for the high elven magi…they can perform works of magic beyond our comprehension. This is one of them. Sometimes the high elves slow the rate of time around Cathair Solas.” She pointed her staff at the peculiar blurry barrier. “For every minute that passes beyond the boundary, perhaps a day passes on the rest of the island.”
“Allowing the high elves to de
stroy their enemies piecemeal,” said Ridmark, understanding the utility at last. “They could let their opponent’s vanguard into the range of their defenses, and slow time. Once the vanguard was destroyed, they could let time resume its normal flow and lure in more of the enemy.”
“Yes,” said Calliande. Her eyelids fluttered as she drew on the Sight. “I’m not sure…but I think right now five to seven days are passing on the rest of the world for every day that passes in Cathair Solas.”
“A week?” said Ridmark, aghast. Even now, Arandar and the others were marching against the Frostborn. Ridmark and Calliande needed to return as soon as possible to aid them. Even if it only took them two or three days to find the sword of the Dragon Knight, that might mean nearly three weeks could pass in the outside world.
“A week,” said Calliande, voice grim. “I don’t think we have any choice. If we turn back and try to return on our own, it might take us months to get back to Andomhaim, assuming we can even cross the Lake of Ice. The only way forward is into that.”
Ridmark nodded. He didn’t see any way around it.
“Take my hand,” said Calliande. “We’ll go through together on the count of three.” Ridmark took her left hand with his right. Her fingers felt dry and cold against his. “On three. One, two…”
Ridmark braced himself.
“Three!”
As one they stepped over the line and into the blurred area.
Ridmark felt a moment of jarring disorientation and heard an odd rushing sound in his head. The sensation was like the odd dislocation he had felt after jumping through the rift in the Tower of the Keeper. His inner ear screamed that he was falling to his death, though his boots retained a firm grip on the ground. His stomach twisted and writhed, and he would have thrown up had he eaten anything recently. Just as well that he hadn’t.
Ridmark caught his balance, breathing hard, and saw the same spasm of reaction and discomfort go over Calliande’s face.
“That wasn’t pleasant,” he said.
“Yes,” said Calliande, squeezing his hand to keep her balance, “it was not. The shift from one rate of time to another is…difficult on the body. Just as well we won’t have to do it too often.”
Ridmark looked over his shoulder, wondering what the rest of the island looked like from within the slowed stream of time. To his mild surprise, everything on the other side of the boundary had disappeared into a misty blur. Idly he wondered what would happen if he picked up a rock and threw it over the boundary, and decided not to press his luck.
“I wonder why the high elven magi decided to slow the flow of time around Cathair Solas now,” said Ridmark.
“I don’t know,” said Calliande. She hesitated. “I hope they’re not under attack.”
“Who would attack the high elves?” said Ridmark.
“The dark elves,” said Calliande. “An ambitious orcish warlock or warlord. The urdmordar, if they felt like it – they besieged Cathair Solas for thousands of years before humans came to this world.”
“Do you think they slowed time because of us?” said Ridmark.
Calliande hesitated. “I…had not considered that. I can’t imagine why. We’re no threat to them. And if the high elves knew we were here, surely they would have come out to meet us by now.” She scowled. “Not that Ardrhythain has been rushing to our aid.”
“He did save our lives at Urd Morlemoch,” said Ridmark.
“True,” said Calliande. “He also spent a hundred thousand years hunting Tymandain Shadowbearer, and you killed Tymandain a few weeks after you met him for the first time. What has Ardrhythain been doing since the Frostborn returned? He has the power to close their world gate. If the high elves stirred themselves, they could have dealt a powerful blow against the Frostborn.”
“We might be able to ask him in person soon,” said Ridmark.
“Yes,” said Calliande. “Yes, you’re right.” She took a deep breath, getting herself under control. “We should keep going.”
Ridmark nodded and led the way up the crumbling road. They climbed for another hour or so, the slope growing steeper, and then the road ended as it reached a massive wall of rippling mist that stretched away on either side. The wall of mist rose so high that Ridmark could not see its top, and it blended with the gray sky overhead. The mist rippled and undulated, but never moved. Obviously, whatever it was, it was magical.
“What is that?” said Ridmark. “Another magical defense?”
“Yes,” said Calliande. “That’s the edge of the caldera. The mist will kill anyone who passes it with hostile intent.”
“We don’t have hostile intent,” said Ridmark. He paused. “Do the high elves know that?”
“I think so,” said Calliande. “We were able to pass through the mist once before, Kalomarus and I and the others. You and I should be able to do it.”
Ridmark nodded. “On three.” This time he counted down, and together he and Calliande stepped into the mist. He took her hand so they would not get separated in the thick haze. The mist washed over Ridmark, cool and damp, and filled his lungs as he took a deep breath. He didn’t drop dead or suffer from agonizing pain, so he assumed that the mist had decided neither he nor Calliande were enemies.
They walked perhaps for a hundred yards, and then they passed through the mist and stood at the edge of the caldera.
It was an astonishing sight.
The vast crater was about five miles across, most of it filled with a lake of vivid, intense blue. In the center of the lake stood an island about two miles across.
Cathair Solas filled the entirety of the island.
The city reminded Ridmark of the Tower of the Moon in Tarlion, or perhaps Urd Morlemoch and Urd Arowyn and the other dark elven ruins he had visited. Cathair Solas had some of the same height, and the city had been built of the same gleaming white stone as the dark elven ruins and the Tower of the Moon.
Yet the central tower of the city was enormous, nearly a mile high and hundreds of yards thick. It looked like a far larger version of the Tower of the Moon, and hundreds of smaller towers stood around its base like slender blades of grass. An intricate maze of delicate walkways interconnected the towers. It should have been a bewildering maze, yet the entire city looked stunningly beautiful. The dark elven ruins had always been beautiful, but it had been an unsettling, eerie beauty, one alien and inimical to human sensibilities. Cathair Solas was simply beautiful.
Yet that was not the most remarkable thing about it.
The city was moving.
At first, Ridmark thought it was an optical illusion. Yet he saw that the smaller towers were slowly revolving around the central tower. The bridges from tower to tower moved as well, as if the entire city was one massive clockwork mechanism.
“Cathair Solas,” said Calliande in a quiet voice.
“Why is it moving?” said Ridmark.
“The high elves built it that way,” said Calliande. “The position of the thirteen moons affects the potency of various spells. The city moves in response to the position of the moons. Within some of the towers are rooms augmented by the magic of one or more of the thirteen moons. Depending on the tower’s position, a spell cast within the tower can have tremendous potency.”
“Too bad Caius isn’t here,” said Ridmark. “He would appreciate the scale of the engineering.”
Calliande smiled a little, though it didn’t touch her blue eyes, which remained worried. “Or he would criticize it.” She pointed. A road in good repair wound its way down the inside of the caldera, leading to a causeway of white stone that crossed the lake to reach the city. “That way.”
They descended the road, following its twists and turns down the slope to the blue lake. Utter silence hung over the caldera. Ridmark found that odd, and after a moment he realized why the silence was strange. The revolving towers of Cathair Solas moved in utter silence. He was watching thousands of tons of stone rotate around the city’s central tower in perfect silence. There should have be
en a tremendous grinding noise. The vibrations should have made the waters of the lake splash and churn. The entire caldera should have felt as if it was in the grip of a minor earthquake.
Yet he felt no vibrations in the stone beneath his boots, and the city moved in silence.
They reached the end of the road and the start of the causeway. Four men in golden armor stood there, motionless as statues. The armor looked like the dark elven armor that Ridmark wore and that his companions had taken from the armories of Urd Morlemoch. But this armor was of brilliant gold, and the armored figures wore gray cloaks that hung from their shoulders, cloaks that were identical to the one that Ridmark wore.
The men were high elven bladeweavers, and each bladeweaver wore a pair of soulblades at his belt. Ridmark had seen the bladeweaver Rhyannis fight at Urd Morlemoch during their frantic escape from the Warden’s creatures, and she had mowed through them with ease. Nonetheless, she had been one of the youngest and least experienced of the bladeweavers, and a veteran bladeweaver, with millennia of experience, would be a terrifying foe in battle.
Ridmark and Calliande stopped, and one of the bladeweavers stepped forward. The face beneath the winged helm was beautiful, albeit in a remote, alien way, cold and aloof and unknowable. The eyes were like polished coins of gold, and they did not blink as they regarded Ridmark and Calliande.
“I am Lanethran,” said the bladeweaver in flawless Latin, his voice deep and musical, “Captain of the Gate of Cathair Solas. Only those invited are allowed within Cathair Solas. Turn back now. Should you require provision to survive your journey, it shall be procured, but you may go no further.”
“We were invited,” said Calliande, stepping forward. All four bladeweavers looked at her. “I am Calliande, Keeper of Andomhaim, and this is Ridmark Arban, magister militum of Nightmane Forest.”
“We know who you both are, Lady Calliande,” said Lanethran. “You came here once before, as did your predecessor, seeking our aid against the foes that threatened to devour your kingdom. You are known as well to us, Ridmark Arban, for you rescued Rhyannis from the darkness of Urd Morlemoch when she ventured within the Warden’s walls. But only those who have an invitation may enter Cathair Solas, and you were not invited.”
Frostborn: The Dragon Knight (Frostborn #14) Page 10
