“They are bringing her out now, my lord,” reported one of the elven retainers.
Lord Mabreton watched in grief and bitter sorrow as the prince’s servant, Silwyth, carried the wounded elf woman from the crumbling outpost. Lord Mabreton had truly loved his beautiful wife. Indeed, the lord had committed the very grave sin of loving her when she had been the wife of his brother. The lord had gallantly kept his illicit love hidden and would have carried it to his grave had not the untimely death of his brother made it possible for that love to be properly expressed.
He was aware that Valura did not return his love, but he had hoped to be able, through patience and kindness, to win her heart as he had won her hand in marriage. Their last months together had given him reason to hope that he was succeeding. For the first time in their marriage, Valura had been warm and responsive in their bed. She had seemed more cheerful, had ceased to complain about living among the humans. She had appeared to take an interest in her husband and what he did and said.
Now the lord knew the real reason for her sudden enjoyment of their lovemaking—she was acting a role, loving him in order to mask the stench of another man’s love. Her sudden happiness could be attributed to the same cause. Lord Mabreton recalled her every move, every word, and wondered how he could have been so blind. The nights he had awakened to find her gone from their bed. She had been unable to sleep, she had told him, and had gone to walk in the cool air. The nights she spent in the castle, rather than in their home, claiming that the Queen had requested her to stay.
Lord Mabreton now hated the woman for the shame she had brought to him and to his House. He had ordered the archers to shoot her in the leg, crippling her. The healers would keep her alive, but she would be subjected to agonizing torment that would end only in ignominious death, at his hands, if she had any scrap of honor left in her. Yet he could not look upon her, as the elf servant laid her gently on the ground, could not look upon her beauty that was still wondrous without feeling his love for her stir in his heart.
His eyes filled with tears. He turned from his men that they might not see his weakness. The prince’s elven servant bowed in the direction of the unseen lord.
“My master, Prince Dagnarus, accepts the challenge of Lord Mabreton and will meet him in single combat upon this ground that is stained with the blood of the Lady Valura.”
“Excellent,” said Lord Mabreton. He wore the armor of the Dominion Lord, magical armor that shone silver in the sunlight. “I will rid the world of this demon prince.”
“What of the prince’s servant, Silwyth, my lord?” asked one of the archers, raising his bow, arrow nocked. “He is a disgrace to our people. I have a clear shot at him.”
“Leave him be,” Lord Mabreton ordered tersely. “The ancestors will deal with him.”
In truth, the lord knew that Silwyth was in the service of the Shield and that the Shield thought quite highly of the young elf. Lord Mabreton had no intention of being the one to kill the Shield’s favorite spy.
“Two of you men, go fetch the female. Carry her to the healers. They are to treat her well and give her what ease they choose. She will have to ride at least part of the way back to the road, where she will then be placed in a litter for the journey home.”
The elves did as they were ordered. Two laid down their weapons and advanced into the compound, where Valura lay on a blanket, weak from loss of blood and fainting with pain. Yet, when the elven men came near her, she found the strength to lift her head and raise herself up on one arm.
“Do not touch me!” she ordered with a scathing glance. “I will make my own way!”
Refusing their assistance, she pushed herself painfully off the ground, struggled to her feet. The arrow’s shaft was still embedded in her thigh. She grimaced and gasped aloud when she was forced to put her weight upon her injured leg, almost fell. With great effort, she managed to remain standing, however. She limped forward, her lips compressed against the pain, her face ashen. Every step must have been agony for her, but she persevered, refusing all offers of aid.
Such courage and fortitude, even in one disgraced, is much admired. The elven soldiers murmured their approval. Lord Mabreton had to look away again, suppressing the urge to run forward and clasp her in his arms, to pardon her and take her back. Duty to his family would never permit such an act.
He waited until he could assure himself, by sneaking covert glances at her, that she was making her way to the healers. She moved slowly and painfully, leaning against tree trunks to aid her hobbling steps, but she continued to walk on her own. The guards came behind her, not offering to touch her, for every time one of them made a move toward her, she repelled him with a scornful, furious look.
“Lord Mabreton!” came a cold voice. “I grow impatient.”
The Dominion Lord tore his gaze away from the woman who had once been his wife and focused on her demon lover.
Drawing his sword, Lord Mabreton went forward to meet the challenge.
“Remember, Your Highness,” Gareth warned Dagnarus, as the prince was about to set forth, “the sword of a Dominion Lord is a blessed weapon, one that can be fatal to you.”
“But even then, Patch,” Dagnarus answered glibly, “he will have to kill me twice.”
The two combatants, one clad all in silver and shining like the dawn, the other clad in black and dark as empty night, met on the field of honor. Visors lowered, the combatants could not see each other’s faces, only the eyes through the eye slits. Each watched the eyes of his opponent, hoping to be able to judge where the next blow would fall.
They circled. Once Dagnarus lashed out with his sword, a slash easily parried by Lord Mabreton. The elf made a furious chop with his blade which was turned aside by Dagnarus. The two were measuring each other, each testing his opponent’s strength and agility and skill. The opponents were evenly matched, that much was soon apparent.
Gareth turned from the window. He had to prepare for his magic, had to nerve himself to face the considerable pain casting such a powerful spell would cost him. He came to stand side by side with Silwyth in the open doorway to watch.
“For whom do you cheer?” the elf asked softly, his eyes on the combatants.
“For His Highness, of course,” Gareth answered.
The elf’s gaze—dark and cynical—flicked to Gareth.
Gareth tried to meet that gaze and found he couldn’t. He looked back at the contest.
Dagnarus was a skilled warrior. He fought well in the tumult of battle, where the soldier has little time to think, but must react swiftly and instinctively to constantly changing conditions. Dagnarus lacked the patience of the skilled duelist, however. The elf lord’s feints, dodges, and maneuverings soon angered the prince, who wanted to bring the contest to a swift end. Dagnarus began to make mistakes.
Silwyth clucked his tongue, exactly as he had done when the boys were young and the prince was being particularly obstinate and headstrong.
The sound took Gareth back to the playroom. He could not mourn lost innocence; he had left that behind the moment he had set foot in the castle. But he could mourn lost dreams. Shining silver and glistening black blurred in his vision. He lowered his head for a moment. Beside him, Silwyth caught his breath.
Fear rending his heart, Gareth look up swiftly to see Lord Mabreton thrust his sword into Dagnarus’s chest. The blade of the Dominion Lord, blessed by the gods, pierced the black armor of the Lord of the Void with ease.
Lord Mabreton jerked his sword free. Blood followed it, washing over Dagnarus’s black armor.
Dagnarus did not cry out. Letting his sword fall from his flaccid hand, he stared down at the gaping wound, at his blood flowing freely, and he seemed astonished. He sank to his knees. He pressed his hand over his chest.
As chivalry and honor commanded, Lord Mabreton would make no further attack on the dying man. The Dominion Lord handed his weapon to his squire to wipe off the blood. Arms folded across his chest, Lord Mabreton prepared to watch hi
s enemy die.
Dagnarus made as if to fall forward. At the last moment, he seized his sword. Leaping to his feet, he lunged forward. Amazed and horrified, not believing what his senses told him was impossible, Lord Mabreton stood weaponless, helpless to halt the attack. Dagnarus plunged his blade into Lord Mabreton’s throat.
The stroke was brutal, vicious. The black sword cut through the silver armor, severed the man’s head from his body. Lord Mabreton was dead before his corpse keeled over. The squire made a desperate swipe at the attacker with his fallen lord’s sword. Dagnarus bashed the squire in the face with his mailed fist, snapping the man’s neck. Standing over the decapitated body of the elven Dominion Lord, Dagnarus raised his blood-slimed sword.
“Who is next?” he shouted, his voice echoing hideously from beneath his helm. “Who will next challenge the Lord of the Void?”
From down the hill where the healers had carried Valura came fearful screams and cries—the fainting lady had transformed into a black avised bird of death, ripping apart the flesh of those who had murdered her.
“You must go now, Gareth,” said Silwyth. His voice was calm, revealed no emotion. “You have your orders.”
Gareth did indeed have his orders. Cloaking himself in the darkness of the Void, he slipped out the door, unseen by the distracted elven archers, and ran around the back of the building. The thought came to his mind to keep running, run until he reached the edge of the cliff and keep running then—straight into blessed oblivion. He did not leap off the cliff, however. Not because he lacked the courage to kill himself—death would have been very easy for him now. He did not because inside he was already dead. Inside, he was as much a Vrykyl as Valura or Shakur. Only when Dagnarus died would the Vrykyl be freed from their cursed existence. Only when Dagnarus died would Gareth be freed of his.
As for Dagnarus, he had died already. His curse was to keep dying, over and over, over and over, over and over.
* * *
That night, the people of Vinnengael left their houses and gathered in the streets to watch a great fire burning on the top of Beacon Hill. All knew the outpost had long been abandoned; a hundred years had passed since a beacon fire had burned on that hilltop. This fire was obviously magical, for the white flames were green and purple at their heart. Their tongues leapt so high in the air that it seemed they might lick the stars.
The King and the Most Revered High Magus kept watch all night, observing the fire from the tower room.
“What do you think it is?” Helmos asked, after they had been watching, in silence, for an hour.
“I dread to speculate, Your Majesty,” Reinholt replied.
“Is it the magic of the Void?” Helmos stood before the window, staring at the silhouettes of distant trees, stark black skeletons against a backdrop of flame.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” answered the High Magus. “It is the magic of the Void.”
The fire raged all night, eventually dying out in the morning. Thick smoke and ash roiled down the mountain, casting a pall over the city. Coughing and choking, people remained inside their houses, shut their windows and blocked the doors with blankets to keep the smoke out of their homes. The black smoke had a noxious odor, and the rumor spread that it was poisonous to breathe.
The orken left, every one of them, the shaman having reportedly told the Captain that the omens were among the worst she had ever witnessed in her life. Crowding aboard their ships, the orken set sail, taking advantage of the same wind that was carrying the cursed smoke down from the mountains.
The elves remained, to find out what had become of Lord Mabreton.
That day, they had their answer.
Captain Argot entered the palace, requested to see the King.
The King, the captain was told, was with his father.
Argot entered the hall where Tamaros lay in state. The body of the King, clad in red robes trimmed in gold, and covered with a blanket of purple cloth, lay upon a catafalque, with candles burning at his head and his feet. Around him, in the hallway, stood the empty suits of armor, keeping their dull and unending vigil over death.
Helmos sat on a chair at the King’s side. The former King looked serene, calm, at peace. The new King’s head was bowed with worry and doubt, their rising tide overwhelming his grief.
Captain Argot knelt in respect to the deceased King, then rose and advanced to make his report to the living one.
“What did you find?” Helmos asked.
In answer, Captain Argot held out a pendant. The pendant had once been shining silver, was now tarnished and blackened. Helmos took the pendant, stared at it. His eyes closed in anguish, his hand clenched over it.
“It is the pendant of a Dominion Lord. Lord Mabreton’s, Your Majesty,” Captain Argot said. “I recognize it.”
“No Dominion Lord ever removes his pendant,” Helmos replied, his voice heavy. “Not unless he is dead.”
“We found the bodies of his men, Your Majesty. Most of the elves died in the blaze, which has completely blackened the hillside. Some did not, however. We found several…” Argot hesitated.
“Go on, Captain,” Helmos said.
“We found several elves who had not perished in the flames. Each of these—and they appeared to have been healers, Your Majesty, not soldiers—had been dismembered. We did not find Lord Mabreton’s body at all. Only the pendant.”
“No trace of my bro—” Helmos halted, drew in a sharp breath. “No trace of Dagnarus?”
“No, Your Majesty. Although we heard reports from the peasants who live between here and Dunkarga, rumors of demons riding steeds of darkness along the road toward Dunkarga. The peasants are ignorant, superstitious folk, Your Majesty…”
“Thank you, Captain.” Helmos turned away, turned to rest his hand upon his father’s cold and lifeless hand.
“What are your orders, Your Majesty?” the Captain asked. “Forgive me for disturbing you, but the city is in an uproar—”
Helmos did not look around. He clasped his father’s hand, sighed deeply.
“Prepare for war, Captain. Those are my orders. Prepare for war.”
Split Apart
The Shield of the Divine reverentially approached the shrine dedicated to his Honored Ancestor. He wore his finest robes, for his mother had always maintained that she could judge a man’s character by the quality of the silk he selected to clothe his body. The Shield carried in his own hands a honeyed oat cake—a favorite treat of the Honored Ancestor. Servants walked behind him, bowing every few feet as they approached the most sacred part of the house. They carried an ornate dragon pot filled with orange peel and black pepper tea and two small cups of porcelain so fine that one could almost see through them.
The Shield placed the oat cake in front of the shrine and directed the arrangement of the teacups. He dismissed the servants, poured the tea himself—the Honored Ancestor would appreciate the distinction. Then, sipping his tea, he waited until she should arrive.
The ghost of the old lady was not long in coming. Her watery image, accompanied by a faint fragrance of honeysuckle, appeared across the table from the Shield. Although the Honored Ancestor no longer had need of nourishment, nor could the Honored Ancestor drink the tea, she was pleased by the sentiment expressed with the offer.
After the formalities had been completed—after the Honored Ancestor had inquired anxiously about the state of health of every single member of the Shield’s immediate family, including his fourteen children, and after the Shield had politely inquired after his other ancestors: great-grandfather and great-grandmother, great-aunts and great-uncles and even a favorite cousin, who had died untimely in battle, the two settled down to discuss business.
“The messenger from King Helmos arrived this morning, Honored Mother,” said the Shield, reaching into his robes and removing a scroll. He laid it down upon the table, rested his hand upon it. “A Dominion Lord brought it, a Lord Altura. You see here the human King’s request, which the Lord delivered with her own han
ds. The request is not what we expected.”
“Soldiers, gold, weapons,” said the lady, her eyes—the most solid part of her—bright as the eyes of a cardinal. She went through the motions of drinking tea, in order to keep her son from feeling embarrassment over drinking his tea when she could have none. “He does not ask for any of those?”
“He does, of course, but only for form’s sake,” the Shield replied. “He has his spies, who tell him, no doubt, that elves comprise a goodly portion of Prince Dagnarus’s forces. He knows that these troops entered human lands by my command or, if not that, at least with my knowledge.”
“He might think they came from the Divine,” the ghost observed, eyeing the honeyed oat cake wistfully.
“King Helmos understands that the Divine is my puppet and that he twitches only when I tug on his strings. I have maintained publicly that the elven forces fighting with Prince Dagnarus are renegades, but Helmos is no fool.”
“Send him an army, too,” the Honored Ancestor suggested. “So long as we kill humans and gain our objectives, what does it matter whose side we’re on?”
“I considered doing just that, but it is not an army he wants.”
The Shield shifted his gaze to an elaborate case made of gold and crystal, which stood in the most honored place on the household altar. Within the case, mounted upon a pedestal covered in purple velvet, was a singular jewel, formed in the shape of a triangle with smooth-planed sides. The diamond reflected the light of the altar candles, shimmered with myriad tiny rainbows.
“The Sovereign Stone!” said the ghost suddenly, sharply.
“Yes, Honored Mother.” The Shield bowed. “That is why I thought it best to remove the stone from the garden where it was kept and bring it here to our house. King Helmos requests the stone’s return. One might almost say—demands.”
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