Well of Darkness

by Margaret Weis

  Dagnarus watched all this in amused astonishment. “What precautions! One would think we were plotting to rob the royal treasury. We’re not, are we?”

  “You’re in a good mood,” Gareth said accusingly.

  “People keep telling me that.” Dagnarus grinned. “I’ll let you in on a secret, my friend. I’m in love.”

  Gareth didn’t hear him or, if he did, the words meant nothing. He motioned the prince to stand over by the window, as far from the door as possible. Dagnarus, mystified, accompanied him, stood leaning against the window, his arm resting on the sill.

  “What is it, Patch? By the gods, you’re all of a tremble! Bad news? Has something happened?”

  “Give me a minute. Let me collect my thoughts,” Gareth said, endeavoring to calm himself. He stood by the window, his head bowed.

  Dagnarus, caught by the dire note in his friend’s voice, waited in silence for the requested minute.

  “Come, Patch,” he said at last, growing impatient.

  Gareth lifted his head and looked earnestly at Dagnarus. “That which I am about to show you is known to only three men in this world. The first is dead. He died last night. I am the second. He bequeathed this to me. You are the third. I tell you this to impress upon you the gravity and the enormity of what I am about to reveal.”

  “Yes, yes. Get on with it,” Dagnarus said, though he was impressed, that much was obvious, despite his flippant tone. “I promise to behave myself, Master Tutor.”

  Gareth smiled fleetingly at this reference to their childhood, but the smile did not last long. He reached beneath his cloak, drew forth a pouch. He placed the pouch upon the table, opened it, spread the pouch’s lips wide.

  The day outside was gray and chill, with lowering ragged clouds that seemed undecided whether to storm again or not. Silwyth had lit a fire in the playroom to warm it, but he had not brought lights. The fire sputtered desultorily on the hearth; the playroom was as gloomy and gray as the sky outside the window. Dagnarus was dressed in browns and blacks, Gareth in the nondescript gray robes of a novice. The red velvet was the only point of color in the room, and it seemed to blaze like blood on snow. The Dagger of the Vrykyl lay on the velvet, its polished surface reflecting the gray of the sky and the red of its nest.

  Dagnarus regarded the dagger disparagingly. He did not move to touch it. “Faith, it is an ugly thing. Unwieldy, too. No weapons-smith with any sense would forge a dagger such as this.”

  “It’s a ceremonial dagger, as you know full well, and was never meant to be used in battle. It is an artifact of the Void,” Gareth said, his voice low and fervent.

  “Truly?” Dagnarus studied the dagger with more interest. He still did not offer to touch it. “What does it do?”

  “It animates corpses, Your Highness,” said Gareth.

  Dagnarus started to laugh. The laughter died on his lips. “Are you in earnest?” he exclaimed, disbelieving.

  “Earnest!” Gareth stared at his friend, appalled. “Earnest! I was ten years old when you showed me the Void. Ten years old when you made me read the books of Void magic to you! I have lived a lie ever since, I have sacrificed my peace, my happiness…and you ask if I am in earnest!”

  “You could have turned aside at any time,” said Dagnarus coldly. “I never forced you to pursue your studies of the Void. Those you took upon yourself.”

  “I know,” said Gareth wearily. “I know what I did. I would do it again…perhaps. I’m sorry, Your Highness. Forgive my outburst. I didn’t sleep at all. I spent the entire night reading about this dagger.” He nodded at the weapon.

  “Tell me again. What does it do?” Dagnarus asked, and his tone was serious, respectful.

  “It came into the world at the same time your father was granted power to make Dominion Lords,” Gareth said, guessing this would catch the prince’s interest. He was rewarded by a flicker of flame in Dagnarus’s green eyes. “As the King was given the power to create, so there came into being the power to destroy. Whoever wields this dagger may bring into existence the dark opposite of a Dominion Lord, an evil shadow, an undead creature with magical power and extraordinary abilities, a creature who is loyal to the one who wields the dagger. But, whereas the Dominion Lord draws upon his life energies to fuel his magic, the Vrykyl—for that is what such creatures are called—uses death.”

  “Vrykyl. The word sounds elvish. What does it mean?”

  “It is an elven word. It means ‘eater of the dead.’ ”

  Dagnarus grimaced. “Not particularly appetizing. How does this work? What must one do? What spell must one cast?”

  “The spell is bound up in the dagger. Anyone may use it, but that use is not as easy as it might appear,” he added in a cautionary tone, for he had seen Dagnarus’s eyes shine with excitement.

  “Tell me, Patch,” said Dagnarus, and now he reached out his hand for the dagger.

  “First, the dagger itself chooses the victim. The dagger must find the candidate acceptable. Therefore, the victim must be someone who has embraced the Void.”

  Dagnarus smiled, and Gareth could guess what the prince was thinking.

  “These rules must be adhered to, Your Highness,” he emphasized. “The old man who passed this on to me attempted to create Vrykyl by cheating. It did not work.”

  Dagnarus raised an eyebrow, shrugged. “Very well. We will follow the rules. It should not be too difficult to find someone who will be acceptable to the dagger. And so it brings the dead to life. Think of the possibilities.”

  “It is an unholy life,” Gareth admonished with a shiver. “A life that the creature must kill to sustain.”

  “We kill every day to sustain our lives,” Dagnarus observed.

  “I am not talking about chickens,” Gareth returned irritably. “I am talking about people. A Vrykyl must feed off other people’s souls. A Vrykyl is gifted with magical armor, the same as a Dominion Lord, except that this armor is shining black. The armor covers the Vrykyl from head to toe and remains with the Vrykyl until death—”

  “I thought you said these Vrykyl were already dead.”

  “I am coming to that, Your Highness. The first act a Vrykyl performs, when he is animated, is to forge himself a dagger made of a piece of his own bone. This he can take quite readily, since he does not feel pain nor does he bleed. He can cut off an arm with impunity. The limb is encased by magical armor, and is not really necessary. The armor itself acts as a limb. Once this knife is forged, using the bone as part of the hilt, the Vrykyl may then use this knife to steal the soul of a victim and thus replenish his own life. Without this, the Vrykyl will eventually diminish to his original state. His body will slowly begin to deteriorate during that period until, by the end, anyone who would see the Vrykyl without his armor would see a corpse that has been moldering in the ground for months.”

  “You were wise to suggest we skip supper,” Dagnarus said wryly. “What does a well-fed Vrykyl look like?”

  “Whatever he wants,” said Gareth. “If he was an old man when he died, he could return to what he was in his youth—the picture of vigor and health. The magic of the armor permits him to cast an illusion of any one he has seen.

  “Two things only can kill a Vrykyl: the lack of sustenance and weapons that have been blessed by the gods. If, somehow, you could lock up a Vrykyl for six months without giving him a chance to kill, he would perish. Of course, that would be extremely difficult, because a Vrykyl is possessed of unusual strength. I doubt if the dungeon has been built that could contain one. The blessed sword of a Dominion Lord, if it pierces through the armor to touch the dead flesh beneath, will slay the Vrykyl instantly.”

  Dagnarus was scarcely listening. Eyes glistening, he lifted the dagger in his hand and held it to the light of the gray day. He turned it in his hand admiringly.

  “Think what this could mean, Patch! I could create armies—”

  “Not armies,” Gareth corrected. “The number of Vrykyl is bound up with the number of Dominion Lords. There
are only ten Dominion Lords permitted each race, for a total of forty, thus there may be only forty Vrykyl.”

  “Well, leaders of armies, then. I would be invincible! My father is High King of the human lands. I could be High King of all lands, everywhere. When I become a Dominion Lord myself—”

  “No!” Gareth cried, shocked. He clasped hold of Dagnarus’s forearm, gripped it tight. “No,” he repeated.

  “What do you mean?” Dagnarus wrenched his arm loose from Gareth’s painful grip. “Why do you stare at me like that?”

  “Don’t you see, Your Highness?” Gareth said desperately. “You don’t have to become a Dominion Lord now. You don’t need it! That’s why I did this! That’s why I sought this out! For you! You don’t have to risk your life—”

  “I find your concern for me quite touching, Patch.” Dagnarus spoke in a cold and dangerous tone. “But also quite insulting. You are convinced that I am going to fail. I remind you that I have never failed at any challenge I have undertaken in my life. I will not fail at this—a thing my brother could do!” His lip curled.

  “You cannot be a Dominion Lord, blessed of the gods, and wield this dagger, Your Highness,” said Gareth.

  “Well, then, you will create Vrykyl for me.”

  “Certainly, Your Highness,” said Gareth, with a bow. “And they will be loyal to me, for I am the one who will wield the dagger.”

  Dagnarus scowled, not accustomed to having his will thwarted. “The means must be found to get around this! You will look for a way, Patch. I will find a suitable candidate. We will test this ourselves and see if this dagger does all that you claim.”

  “And where will you find a candidate?” Gareth was skeptical. “One who would openly embrace the Void?”

  “I have an idea,” Dagnarus said lightly. He placed the dagger back in the pouch, covered it carefully, and thrust the bundle inside his shirt, next to his skin. “I will keep this myself, Patch.”

  “Certainly,” said Gareth, looking after it with a shudder. “I am glad to be rid of it. Keep it secret and keep it safe, Your Highness.”

  “Never fear. I am used to keeping secrets these days. Unlike you, I find it a pleasant pastime.”

  Gareth only shook his head.

  Dagnarus regarded his friend in concern, and Gareth saw the pity in the prince’s eyes. Gareth couldn’t blame him. He must look dreadful, thin and worn and pale, appearing older—far older—than his twenty years. His nails were bitten to the quick, the cuticles ragged and bleeding. His eyes blinked too often, for they burned, and he tried constantly to ease them. His clothes were unkempt, his shoes shabby. And always that terrible mark on his face. Both terrible marks.

  “I’m sorry, Patch,” Dagnarus said suddenly, quietly.

  “What?” Gareth gazed at the prince in astonishment. He couldn’t remember ever hearing Dagnarus apologize to anyone for anything. “Sorry for what?”

  “For neglecting you. You’ve done all the work while I’ve had all the fun. You will see.” Reaching out, Dagnarus placed his hands on Gareth’s thin shoulders. “You must lead this double life of yours a short time longer, I fear. Only until I become a Dominion Lord. Then you may leave those doddering old fools in the Temple and come to work for me, as my advisor, as we planned when we were children. When I am King of Vinnengael—”

  “Don’t say that, Your Highness,” Gareth said miserably. “Or at least, not King of Vinnengael. Helmos will be King of Vinnengael, a worthy king. You will be King of the elven lands or the dwarves—” He lowered his head, so that the prince should not see his tears.

  “When I am King of the elven lands, then,” Dagnarus rephrased in pleasant, conciliatory tones. “I will make it all up to you. You will live a life of ease. I will build you a castle, procure you a wife. A wife and a mistress…”

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” said Gareth. There wasn’t much else to say. A castle, a wife, and a mistress in exchange for his soul. He might have made a worse bargain.

  “And now”—Dagnarus put his arm around his whipping boy, steered him toward the door—“now we will leave this dismal place which always did depress me and we will get you something to eat. No, no arguments. So what if you are late to your classes? I will send Silwyth along to say that I required your presence. Let us go tease the cook for a midday sup, as we used to do when we were boys. What do you say to cold venison pie and fresh goat cheese? Hot crusty bread and new-made ale?”

  “It sounds wonderful, Your Highness,” said Gareth, his stomach turning at the mention.

  Dagnarus banged open the door, keeping his friend under arrest, as it were, dragging him along.

  “Good! We must fatten you up, put some color into those pimpled cheeks. By the way,” Dagnarus added offhandedly, “did I mention that my nomination for Dominion Lord comes up before the Council this day?”

  “I wish you luck, Your Highness,” said Gareth.

  “I know you do, Patch,” said Dagnarus with a smile, his grip tightening. “I know you do.”

  The Nomination

  The Council meeting for the Dominion Lords was set for the fourth day of every third month, during which meeting the Dominion Lords would consider all matters brought before them. Attendance was required, though a Dominion Lord could be absent if he or she was involved in a matter deemed to be of sufficient importance to demand said Dominion Lord’s presence. Since the number of Dominion Lords fluctuated, it had been decided that the presence of three-fourths the current number of existing Dominion Lords constituted a quorum.

  Matters were decided by vote, a two-thirds majority being necessary for truly important issues, such as the selection of a new Dominion Lord. King Tamaros, though not a Dominion Lord himself, was present in an advisory capacity. He had no vote. Other rulers were also invited to attend, particularly if they had grievances or causes they wanted to bring before the Council.

  Ten years had passed since the gifting of the Sovereign Stone. The humans had almost their full quotient (nine of ten) of Dominion Lords. The elves had ten, for they had taken to the notion quite readily. The Shield of the Divine, now possessed of the Sovereign Stone, had gained the upper hand in his struggle against the Divine for rulership of the elves. The Divine was still seen by the elves to be their spiritual leader, but all knew (including the Divine himself, to his constant aggravation) who wielded the true power.

  Unlike humans, who must voluntarily put themselves forward as candidates for Dominion Lord, the elven Dominion Lords were chosen by the Shield of the Divine. These elves could refuse—the Council required this—but if they did so, they would lose face and also favor with the Shield, both of which were sufficient to cast themselves and their families into disgrace, a disgrace that might last for centuries.

  The Shield had built a lovely shrine in which to house the elven portion of the Sovereign Stone. The stone floated on a cushion of sacred air above a white-marble pedestal, fashioned in the shape of a lotus blossom, rising from the center of a large, perfectly round pool of clear blue water in the center of a sunlit garden. The garden was sacrosanct—no one except the Shield of the Divine was permitted to walk there. Guards surrounded the garden day and night. Elven wizards—the Wyred—had enhanced the garden magically, so that any who ventured in without the proper warding amulet (worn by the Shield) would become ensnared in magical traps. One thief had been caught this way. He had slain himself before he could be taken and questioned, but it was well-known that he had been sent by the Divine.

  The elven ceremony to create Dominion Lords was held in secret, not open to the public, as was the ceremony of the humans. Only the family and the Shield and his retinue attended. Because the elves selected had only nominal choice in the matter, one or two were rumored to have died during the Transfiguration. The fact that more did not succumb was due to the wisdom of the Shield, who carefully screened all candidates before making his selection. The ten current elven Dominion Lords were from Houses that were either loyal to the Shield or, as in the case of
Lord Mabreton, were from Houses who had not been loyal to the Shield previously but who were now beholden to him. Not one had been turned down by the Council of Dominion Lords. All had been found worthy.

  Although pleased to have portions of the Sovereign Stone, neither the dwarves nor the orken had taken full advantage of the ability to create Dominion Lords. The dwarves, ever mistrustful of human motives, feared that by becoming a Dominion Lord, a dwarf would, in some way, become more human. Only one dwarf had volunteered to become a Dominion Lord. This was Dunner, one of the Unhorsed and a dwarf who had lived for many years among humans.

  Dunner could not himself explain the motives that had led him to undergo the dangerous Transfiguration. He had too many motives, all thrown together in the same stewpot. First one, then another would bubble to the surface. From a purely selfish viewpoint, he had hoped to heal his twisted leg and free himself of the constant pain, and this he had achieved. He had emerged from the Transfiguration whole and unscarred—to the awe and amazement of all the dwarves who had gathered to see the show and who began at that moment to have second thoughts about the value of becoming a Dominion Lord.

  Dunner had hoped that he would once more be able to ride a horse and join his family clan, wherever they might be. He had achieved this goal with the healing of his leg, but now that he was able to ride, he found that he had little desire to do so. A less selfish motive was the fervent desire to help his people play a more important role in a world he believed was being rapidly usurped by elves and humans. He could do this only by being a part of their world, representing the dwarven interests in the court of Vinnengael, and this he did.

  Dunner constantly protested the incursion of humans into dwarven territory, constantly defended dwarven attempts to push them back. True, the dwarves believed that one day all the continent of Loerem would be theirs, all other races their subjects, but the dwarves were in no particular hurry to achieve this manifest destiny, and, meanwhile, because of their constant roaming and refusal to settle anywhere, the dwarves were seeing their own lands being nibbled away by human farmers and sheepherders.