Well of Darkness

by Margaret Weis

  “What a weary time that was. Tamaros fasted and prayed. I fasted myself, locking myself in my cell. I dared not allow myself to be distracted by anything, either food or drink. I dared not sleep. I listened to the darkness, to Tamaros’s words on the other side of the darkness, words barely heard, as if I were standing at the bottom of a vast chasm, and he far above me. But I knew. I knew the moment he had received the blessing. In that moment, the curse came into being. But where?

  “I opened my eyes and stared about my cell. I searched everywhere, under the bed, amongst my papers. I even thought, in the first frantic transports of excitement, about smashing my writing desk and searching through the wooden scraps. I could sense the Void magic, you see. Like hearing a drip, drip, drip of water in the night and not knowing where it comes from or how to stop it. A little sound, yet how terrible after hours of hearing it pound monotonously into your brain. You cannot sleep. You become obsessed with ending it. I was about to set out in search of it, proceed aimlessly, for I had no idea where to look, when I recollected myself. I calmed down. I had to consider this logically.

  “Born of the Void, this object would be found within the Void. I listened to the darkness and let it draw me into it. You will not be able to guess what I found?”

  “No, Master,” said Gareth. “I cannot.”

  “A room in the Temple devoted to the Void!” The old man was smug, triumphant, enjoying the shocked look of his young pupil.

  “No! Truly? In the Temple? But how—”

  “The Temple is old. It was built in the days when Void magic, though not loved, was at least held in respect. And so, yes, there is a room dedicated to the Void. I found it. I marked it. You will find its location there, in the book you hold.

  “I walked through the darkness. The sense that I was nearing my object increased with each step—the dripping sound became louder, if you like—and I knew I was on the right trail. I made my way warily, for people often wander about the Temple at night. No one saw me, however. A good thing. So pent-up and overwrought was I that I believe I would have slain any person who had interrupted my search.

  “I found the secret room. I found the altar of the Void. But that which I sought was not there! I howled in frustration, not caring if I woke the entire Temple. I thought the Void was playing tricks, luring me on only to laugh at me. But as I placed my hand upon the black altar, the knowledge came to me.

  “The object I sought was located in the very center of the Temple. Just as the Void is located in the center of the four elements.”

  “The great amphitheater,” said Gareth. “In the center of the four altars.”

  “Yes. And there I went. I had to know exactly where to look. I had to locate the exact center, or at least as close as I could come. Starting at the Altar of the Humans in the front, I walked carefully to the back of the Temple, counting my paces—a weary task—until I came to the Altar of the Elves, which stands opposite. Proceeding to the Altar of the Orken, which is located at a forty-five-degree angle from that of the humans, I walked to the Altar of the Dwarves, counting every step. Imagine my joy to discover that they were equidistant, one from the other. Quickly, I determined where the center should lie. I paced the distance, counting, reciting the numbers aloud so that I should not become confused in my excitement.

  “Someone entered, a novice, come to trim the candles.

  “ ‘Who is there?’ she called out. ‘Oh, it is you, Revered Magus Zober. What are doing here? You should be in your warm cell. You are shivering. Let me take you—’

  “ ‘No, no, no!’ I said shrilly, with the unreasonable irascibility of a doddering old man. ‘Leave me be! I came here to pray!’ Inside myself, I was saying over and over the number I had reached, so that I did not have to begin again. The dripping sound thudded in me, like those huge drums the orken beat so that the rowers can keep the time.

  “The woman left, finally, and I continued on. I came to the very center of the room and there the drumming was so loud that it seemed to reverberate through my skull and dislodge my brain. I stood in between two rows of the stone benches. I looked down, and there at my feet was this very dagger, lying on the floor, as if someone had dropped it. Which is, at first, what I thought. Picking up the dagger I saw beneath it a black circle embedded in the stone floor. The circle was small, about the size of your index finger, and insignificant. Countless people had trod on it without seeing it. I myself had walked over that very place and never noticed it. I asked about it later, innocently. Why was the circle there? What purpose did it serve?

  “I was told that it was placed there by the builder, something to aid him in his measurements. Of course. That is what they would say. But you and I—we know the truth. As all the other followers have the representation of their gods in the amphitheater, so do we followers of the Void have ours.

  “I brought the dagger to my lips and kissed it and knelt in prayer and thanksgiving upon the black circle. And it was given to me to know how to use this dagger and for what purpose.”

  “And that is?” Gareth spoke in a harsh rasp. His mouth had gone dry, his palms were wet. He rubbed them on his robes.

  “Slay a man with this dagger,” said the old man, his voice hushed, so hushed Gareth had to lean forward to hear, “and the corpse becomes yours to command.”

  “What would I want with a corpse?” Gareth asked, disgusted and disappointed.

  “Not just any corpse. A corpse that walks,” said the old man. “A corpse that thinks. A corpse that in all ways appears to be alive. The corpse will retain his form so long as he wears the magical armor granted to him by the Void. Does that sound familiar?” The old man cackled.

  “But the beauty of this is that as long as he is in that form he must serve the one who wields the dagger. Thus, you see, he becomes the opposite of a Dominion Lord. The Void magic is his to command whenever he wants. Inside the armor, he has the strength of ten, he knows no fear, feels no heat, no cold, never thirsts, never hungers, except for that which keeps him alive.”

  “And that is?” Gareth asked hesitantly, horrified, fascinated.

  “Souls. The souls of those unfortunate enough to cross his path when he hungers. He feasts upon the dying and they give him life. Thus the creatures are called ‘Vrykyl,’ an elven word. It means ‘eater of the dead.’ ”

  Gareth shivered, pulled his robes more closely about him. The dagger was warm in his hand, he held it tightly.

  “Are there—” He hesitated, uncertain how to ask, not certain he wanted to know the answer. “Are you—”

  “A Vrykyl? No.” The old man grimaced. “How could I be? One may not use the dagger upon oneself, any more than Tamaros can make himself a Dominion Lord. Void magic extended my years. Unlike the Vrykyl, such magic cannot extend your youth, cannot give you strength. That’s why I lie here like a broken doll,” he said bitterly. “That’s why I quit casting the dratted spell. What’s the point? I’ve done my duty now. And, to answer your other question, no, there are no Vrykyl in existence today. Not for lack of trying.”

  The old man grumbled, shifted restlessly beneath the covers. He made a feeble gesture. “It is all there, in that book. I wrote down everything I know about the dagger and the ceremony required to raise a Vrykyl. The subject must embrace the Void, that is the key. He must be deemed an acceptable candidate. You can’t just slip up behind someone and slit his throat and expect him to become a Vrykyl,” the old man said testily, adding in a mutter, “I know. I tried. It doesn’t work. The dagger fell from my hand before I could strike. The dagger chooses its own, you see. Or rather, the Void chooses its own.”

  “I see,” said Gareth somberly. He held the dagger to the light, studied the workmanship, marveled at the detail. He would not have been much surprised if it had turned into a real live dragon in his hands.

  The old man sighed deeply, as if he had let go of a great burden. He lay back on his pillow, a contented and restful expression on his face.

  “And now it is
yours, Gareth,” said the old man.

  “Yes,” said Gareth.

  The old man closed his eyes. His voice was little more than a whispering breath. “Now it is yours. I have passed it on, as I was required. You, in turn, will pass it on when it is your time to leave this life.”

  “Yes,” Gareth said again. He turned the dagger in his hands.

  “You know what to do after I am gone.”

  “Yes,” Gareth said for the third time.

  “It will not be long now. I am tired. So very tired.”

  He said nothing more. All Gareth could hear was the rasp of the shallow breathing and the howl and rattle of the storm.

  Gareth rose to his feet, stiff from sitting too long without moving. He placed the dagger upon the table, took the book, and, shifting his stool closer to the fire, opened the book and began to read.

  Lifting his head, he looked at the marked candle that burned away the hours. He was startled to notice that two had passed. Outside, the storm was lessening, to judge by the sounds. Sleet no longer tapped on the window, the wind no longer beat on the door. To judge by the silence, the old man no longer breathed.

  Gareth went to check on him, lifted his wrist. It was cold and limp. The old man was dead.

  Drawing the blanket up over the still form, Gareth thought he must feel grief—he had been coming to see the old man in secret for nigh on five years—but he couldn’t. He had never really liked the old man, and all Gareth could feel now was a sense of relief. It was over and done. He had the dagger. He had the book that told how to use it. He had the power to bring into the world the antithesis of the Dominion Lords, creatures of immense magic who would slavishly serve the one who wielded the dagger.

  Gareth lifted the dagger to the firelight, watched the flames burn in the shining steel blade. He allowed himself to imagine, for one brief moment, that he had a choice. That he could cast away this dark artifact. King Tamaros would die as peacefully as this evil old man. Helmos would be a good and revered and much loved king. The world would totter along in uneasy peace. He pictured this with clarity, tears of longing and regret wet upon his cheek.

  He wiped the tears away with his sleeve.

  There was no choice. Not really. Not anymore. He had made it long ago.

  Gareth picked up the book and thrust it into his pouch. He wrapped the dagger in a bit of cloth he cut from the old man’s blanket, placed the dagger inside his pouch along with the book. He looked around the old man’s hovel one final time, saw nothing that was of any use. Gareth opened a jar of lamp oil he had bought some days ago for precisely this purpose. He doused the old man’s sheets and blankets and bedding with it. A gesture of Gareth’s hand brought the flames leaping from the fireplace. The flames seized hungrily upon the soaked linen. The bed exploded in fire.

  Gareth left the house quickly, before the smell of burning flesh could reach him. He walked rapidly up the alleyway, keeping to the shadows, though no one in his right mind would have been out at that time of night, in such ferocious weather. Reaching the end of the alley, he looked back to see the flames starting to shoot out of the roof.

  He turned onto South Highway. Not a soul was on the street. The storm had raged itself out, but the wind was still high, blowing fierce and cold off the frothy sea. The wind would spread the fire quickly. By the time anyone noticed the flames, the hovel would be completely destroyed, the body burned beyond recognition.

  His soul to the Void.

  The Dagger of the Vrykyl

  “Your Highness,” said Silwyth quietly, speaking low in the prince’s ear, so that the attendant lords could not hear. “Gareth requests that you meet him in the old playroom this day at the supper hour. He has something of great urgency to impart.”

  “Does he, indeed?” said Dagnarus, sipping chocolate.

  “You are looking in unusually high spirits this morning, Your Highness,” said one of the fawning lords.

  “Thank you, Lord Malroy, I am in an excellent humor. Perhaps because the weather is so fine.”

  “Fine weather, Your Highness?” said the lord blankly.

  “There was a terrible storm last night, Your Highness,” said Silwyth softly, leaning near to remove the prince’s breakfast tray.

  Dagnarus had spent the night in Valura’s arms, the two of them hidden away in a secret chamber in an interior wing of the castle that housed foreign diplomats, a part of the castle excellently well suited for love trysts, since it was opened only for special functions or celebrations. Dagnarus had not heard the wind, the sleet, the driving rain. Drowned in pleasure, he had heard nothing but the rushing sea of his own blood. The two had separated reluctantly an hour before dawn, she to creep back to the small room in the palace off the Queen’s bedchamber (her husband lived alone in their house in the city; Valura having insisted on being near the Queen), he to return by the hidden passages in which he played as a child to his own bedchamber, to be there to greet the attendant lords upon their arrival in the morning.

  “Fine weather to me, Lord Malroy,” said Dagnarus, throwing aside the bedclothes. “I enjoy the rage and clash of the storm. Get rid of them,” he muttered under his breath to Silwyth.

  Silwyth shooed the lords, like so many chickens, out of the bedroom. He saw them safely ensconced with their dice in an antechamber, then returned to the prince.

  “What is the gossip around the palace, Silwyth?” Dagnarus asked as he prepared for his bath. “Has anyone said anything?”

  “With regard to yourself and the Lady Valura, no, Your Highness. Beyond the fact that Your Highness has been in an unusually good temper lately and that Her Ladyship has been reprimanded for being dull and sleepy in the Queen’s presence, nothing untoward has been noticed.”

  Dagnarus smiled. “I shall have to go into a rage about something, I suppose, to save my reputation. But, see here, Silwyth, I am fairly even-tempered, cheerful most of the time, not given to brooding or melancholia or savage outbursts. I don’t see any change in myself.”

  “Love makes even the ugly attractive, Your Highness, and thus it follows that it would make that which is already attractive beautiful.”

  “Love.” Dagnarus mused. “I thought I was immune to that sweet disease. But you are right. I have caught it, and its fever consumes me. I wonder how soon it will wear itself out.”

  Silwyth regarded him gravely. “It will not wear out soon with the Lady Valura, Your Highness. Elven women are not fickle and changeable as are human females. Where an elven woman loves, she carries that love to her death.”

  “Really? You astonish me, Silwyth,” Dagnarus said, shrugging. “I do love Valura intensely now, but no violent emotion ever lasts long with me—be it battle rage or something softer. Still”—he sighed, recalling the transports of their pleasure in the night—“I cannot imagine not loving her. Perhaps my infatuation will last, Silwyth, so do away with that supercilious stare and go and heat my bathwater.”

  Gareth sat awkwardly in one of the short-legged chairs of the playroom, his knees bent beneath him, practically touching his chin. The playroom was dusty, for it had been long since abandoned. About once a year, the maids would open it and sweep it and brush away the cobwebs, but then it would be shut up again. Gareth had not been in it for many years, ever since the day he’d left to go to the Temple at the age of twelve. He looked about with fond remembrance overshadowed with a kind of horror, as if thinking back on a dream that should have been pleasant but that, on waking, left him ill at ease.

  Picking up the old books, stacked neatly on the table, he heard Evaristo’s voice lecturing and Dagnarus’s petulant voice disparaging, cajoling, haranguing. He could not hear his own voice, Gareth’s voice, at all.

  He was reading one of the old books when the door was thrown open with a bang, and Dagnarus strolled in.

  Gareth glanced up.

  “You look terrible,” Dagnarus said cheerfully. Glancing at his face, he grimaced. “You should do something about that pimple, Patch. Cover it with
powder or something.”

  Gareth recalled the time the Queen had wanted to cover his birthmark with powder, how Dagnarus had thwarted her by telling her that the gods had marked him. Well, so they had.

  “I had no sleep at all last night, Your Highness,” Gareth returned testily, ignoring the remark about the pimple.

  “Neither did I,” Dagnarus said with a wink. He stood slapping his gloves in his hand, for he had just come from riding and was still booted and cloaked. “Why did you choose this dismal place? I spent enough time imprisoned here. I don’t suppose you’d like to hear me read again?”

  Gareth walked over, looked out the door. Seeing Silwyth hovering in the hallway, Gareth turned.

  “May I suggest that you send the elf away, Your Highness,” he said softly.

  Dagnarus lifted an eyebrow, but intrigue was welcome as wine to him. Reaching into an inner pocket, he drew out a handkerchief of fine lace and cambric, delicate enough to have been woven by spiders.

  “Silwyth. Here is a trifle I discovered in the marketplace. See to it that it finds its way into the proper hands. Do this immediately.”

  “What about your supper, Your Highness?”

  “I am not hungry,” Dagnarus said. He glanced at Gareth, who shook his head. “Nor is Gareth. Leave upon your errand. And make certain that you are not seen.”

  Silwyth accepted the charge, bowed, and departed. Gareth, keeping watch outside the door, saw the elf pause and linger in the hallway. Gareth stepped outside the door, stood staring coldly at him. Silwyth inclined his head, then was gone. Gareth waited a moment longer, to be certain the elf did not double back. Finally, convinced that he and the prince were truly alone, Gareth shut the door and slid home the bolt.