“Shadowweavers are a moral anathema to my people, and if an elf is suspected of being one, he is detained and questioned… extensively,” Maran’s voice was tight, and his hand strayed subconsciously toward his missing ear. “If they are innocent, their minds are wiped of the experience and they are released. If guilty,” he paused, “they are marked and exiled forever. Their name is stricken from all records, and to the elven mind, they no longer exist at all. Most of the fallen eventually join with the Do sect.”
The group of humans around him was silent.
“That’s you, right, Maran?” Hoil asked quietly. “You always made the flare pots we used at the doorway, and I thought you were joking when you said it was magic. Thought it was chemicals or something, but it was magic, wasn’t it? You’re a Lightweaver? A Shadowweaver?”
“Yes. Both.”
Nuse looked piercingly at the elf and asked, “And did you, too, fall in with the Do? You still call yourself El’Maran.”
Maran gave no evidence he’d even heard the Blue paladin speak and kept his eyes on Hoil. Nuse raised an eyebrow at the elf, but let the matter lie.
“How does the son of the king become a Lightweaver, much less fall into disgrace and become a Shadowweaver?” Birch asked.
Maran turned toward him, and for once it was Birch who flinched away from eye contact. The elf’s eyes were hauntingly devoid of any emotion – bottomless pits of merciless emptiness. What took Birch aback the most was that the utter lack of pity and mercy was directed inward.
“At first my family was proud that I, El’Maran El’Eleisha, eldest son of the king and crown prince of the elven nation, had the skills and inborn talents of a Lightweaver. I trained for almost thirty years in my adolescence and early adult life[14] until I was granted the title of Master,” Maran said, and now Birch saw a gleam of pride in the elf’s eyes. Then his eyes tightened. “But even while I was learning to Weave the light, I discovered I had other talents… talents about which I had no one to teach me. I learned to Weave the shadows of magic. I learned illusion and deception. I learned about putting out the light of another’s work, and how to snuff the light of another’s life as well. Eventually, I found tutors in my clandestine arts, and on the day the Lightweavers pronounced me a Master, so I also attained the rank of Master Shadowweaver.”
“What’s the big deal about light and shadows?” Hoil asked. “It seems to me you were learning something akin to warfare, just with magic and not swords.”
“That is exactly what it was, Hoil,” Maran said, his voice suddenly harsh. “Learning how to kill. To elves, life is the cycle from day into night. When the dawn breaks, we are born. The sun of our life rises as we grow, and we prosper while the sun is high in the sky. Then it begins to sink, and our bodies begin to age. Twilight comes, and we tire and grow old. Eventually, the sun sets and night falls, and we die, allowing our souls to be recycled as a dead leaf falls and is absorbed by the tree. Shadows exist where there is no light. No life. So you see why Shadowweaving is so abhorrent. It is the craft of non-life. I learned to weave death.”
They were silent, trying to understand the precepts of a culture so alien to their own.
“I was over ninety before my father found out what I had become,” Maran continued. “He’d often wondered how I progressed so quickly in my training, both in Weaving and in other matters, and now he had his answer. My lessons reinforced each other and taught me new ideas and concepts to explore in both areas. At the same time, my training in the shadow included the use of stealth and weapons, and so my swordsmanship improved more rapidly than most. I was viewed as a prodigy, and the future for the elven nation looked bright indeed.
“But my former instructors finally noticed a pattern in my thoughts and training, and they became suspicious. They discovered the truth and told my father, and when I was confronted I did not deny the truth. My father was crushed. As prince of the land, I had to be held to the highest standards and the strictest of punishments. He ordered that my ear be removed, the worst sign of shame an elf can endure, and I was exiled. I wandered for fifteen years before I came to work for you, Hoil.”
Maran fell silent.
“So how is it none of us has ever heard of elven magic before?” Nuse asked. “The evidence of it is in plain sight, but I’d wager half my yearly allowance that I never knew it existed until just now.”
Birch leaned closer and whispered, “We don’t get a yearly allowance, Nuse,” just loud enough so everyone could hear him.
“I know, that’s the point. Now shut up, you’re tipping my hand,” Nuse replied in the same loud whisper. They laughed, and the dark mood Maran’s story had brought over the ship lightened somewhat.
“To answer you, Nuse of the Blue Facet,” Maran said, and their laughter died at his soft voice, “no one really cares. To outside eyes, magic is the work of charlatans, illusionists, or merely the stuff of superstitious folklore. To my people, it is part of who we are, and we are a very private people. Elves have been Weaving for eons, even back when humans were still harnessing fire and marveling over their creation of the wheel.”
It took them a moment to realize Maran was teasing Nuse, so serious and dire was the whisper of his voice, like leaves in the wind of a gathering storm.
“Compound that with the elven reticence to discuss anything of import with one of the lesser, ground-dwelling races, and you see there really hasn’t been much communication between the races on topics such as this,” Maran said, and his tone finally lightened. “Most other races are intimidated by the standoffishness of my people, and any curiosity is coldly rebuffed. The world knows about our magic; it is no secret. But to most, it is so much a mystery that the mere knowledge of its existence is useless, and so, as I said, no one cares.”
“So why are you being so open?” Perklet asked. Birch nearly jumped. The Green paladin was so silent, it was easy to forget he was there at all. “Just not the typical elf?”
“Not exactly,” Maran said with a slight smile. “I’m telling you this for two reasons. First, because I trust you, and the knowledge may help you in your quest here. Second, because what you don’t know may kill you. Now,” and now Maran turned and looked at a seemingly empty space off to his right, “I believe I’ve established that these humans have my complete trust and I am not here under any duress. Please carry word to the Do’Valoren that Do’n’El’Maran has returned and requests an audience.”
There was a pause, then Maran bowed to the empty space of air. To Birch it looked as though he were returning the gesture to someone rather than instigating it. With his attention drawn there, Birch thought he could feel and see a stir of wind as something or someone unseen moved away on silent feet.
“Forgive the theatrics,” Maran said softly in apology. “His presence was bothering me, and it served a purpose.”
“Is your friend shy?” Nuse asked.
“His job is to remain unseen,” Maran replied without looking at the Blue paladin. “His presence was a test and a message for me.”
Now they know I am still one of them, in some fashion, and they will respect me, Maran thought to himself. He was pained only slightly at the necessity of using the name that had been forced on him by his exile. But he was resigned to it; he might have to use that name more often now that he was here. Among humans, and anywhere else in the world, he could be El’Maran – Maran of the light.
Here he could only be Do’n’El’Maran – Maran of the shadows, no longer of the light. Nuse’s question about his name had hit a little too close to home.
“Stay here,” he told them abruptly. “I will arrange for our passage upriver to the capital, but we will not be able to stay at an inn in the meantime. Settle yourself aboard this vessel. I expect we will be here for several days before suitable passage can be found.”
Of course, the delay had nothing to do with booking passage, but it was as close to the truth as he could come.
Without waiting for a reply, Maran leapt from
the edge of the ship and landed catlike on the docks. No obnoxious official approached the ship, and to the humans remaining on board, it was if the elves didn’t even know they existed. Maran shook his head at the stubborn arrogance of his people.
Before he had reached the first ranks of the elves nearby, Maran was already centering himself on his sai, the innermost part of his soul where his ability to Weave was located. Long dormant but never forgotten, his sai enveloped him like a pool of warm water, and Maran slipped into his power effortlessly. He thought about what he wanted to do, and before he’d taken two steps, it was done.
To the men on the ship who’d been watching him, Maran disappeared into the crowd. Maran smiled slightly at the tingling thrill of power he felt in his body. He hadn’t just disappeared into the crowd, he’d disappeared entirely from sight.
- 2 -
The weekend was relaxing, though at times Danner felt his time away from training was like crawling aboard a small piece of driftwood in a sea of turbulence. He knew it was a temporary respite, yet because of that reason he clung to that refuge all the more tightly.
For the first time in weeks, his stomach no longer tied up in multiple, convoluted knots when he was around Alicia. They did nothing more physical than holding hands and draping their arms about each other, but it felt comfortable, and they spent most of their time talking. Danner told her about his life growing up on the streets in Marash and about living with his father and then Faldergash, and his work with the Men for Mankind Coalition.
Alicia in turn told him of her childhood on a farm near Nocka and growing up with Marc and Garnet. Danner hadn’t realized the pair’s friendship extended so far back, but he might have guessed. Flasch had only known her brother for a year or so when Alicia left home. Alicia and Marc were twins, but when their parents died she left to see more of the world, leaving Marc in the capable hands of their aunt in Nocka. She’d wandered for a bit, but as soon as she reached Demar she met Moreen and took a job at the Dragoenix Inn. She’d been working there and doing little else for the last several years until Danner came along.
She told him again about the destruction of the inn, which they had since surmised to be the work of one of The Three. Probably not the one Danner had killed, but then it didn’t make much difference at this point.
“It must have been hard growing up without your mother around,” Alicia said. “I remember how nice it was having mine there. She taught me how to cook and several tricks about how to work in an inn or restaurant. That’s how she met my father. He came in one day and sat down, then the next day and the next, always at a table she was working. It took him a month to work up the courage to ask her out,” she said and giggled lightly.
During the nights, Marc and Michael left to visit Aunt Delia’s, the gentlemen’s club where Marc was so well-known. Both had a romantic interest of sorts there, and sometimes Garnet went with them. Whenever they had leave on a weekend, it was always the same. The two, sometimes three, of them spent most of their free nights there, leaving the rest of their group to their own devices. After their initial visit to Aunt Delia’s, Danner expected Flasch to be among the group who frequented the club, but their wiry friend surprised them all and had only been back once. Instead, Trebor and Flasch usually matched their wits in a game of castles or of stones, and sometimes they set up miniature tournaments amongst the group. This weekend, though, Trebor was more reserved.
Eventually, they got Trebor to relax a bit and take part in their activities. During the daytime, they either practiced in the yard with their bowkurs or else went out riding in Faldergash’s buggy. The gnome’s vehicle was one of his own design, and it was faster than anything else they’d heard of or seen. Normally the thought of driving something made by a gnome would send any sane person running the opposite direction, but because Faldergash was a Dale gnome, the buggy worked perfectly. Danner and Flasch were the most daring drivers in the group, but surprisingly enough Alicia was not far behind them. She seemed to have little or no fear and could now be found laughing alongside Danner while the others hung on for dear life and begged him to slow down.
They spent several hours both days working on their training with the cloaks. This involved one of them wearing a cloak they had “borrowed” from the supply closet and wearing a harness kept in the back of the buggy. The harness was attached to a strong, lightweight rope on a detachable winch in the buggy, while behind the harness trailed a large cloth with strategically placed holes cut into the canvas. The cloth caught the wind as they drove, and Garnet would hold the harness-wearer in place until they could safely winch him out. It was based on the principle of a gnomish parachute, a mandatory safety precaution for their airborne gliders and various – more hazardous – attempts at mechanized flight. Danner had taken a few turns in the harness, and the shock of the chute catching the wind and trying to haul him into the sky was enough that on one try he nearly bit through his tongue.
Once airborne, they had only to drop out of the harness and concentrate on not wanting to fall, and the blessed powers of the cloak would slow their descent. They were all proficient at the maneuver now, including Danner who’d had to overcome his fear of heights, so Garnet had added a new dimension to the exercise just for the fun of it. Once they were gliding safely with the cloak, he began shooting clay discs at them with a flinging device he’d had Faldergash work up. They then had to break the discs with their bowkurs – Garnet had uncannily good aim with the discs, as did Flasch – without losing their concentration. The launchers resembled a child’s slingshot, just on a larger scale and with a wooden platform to support the round clay “pigeons” as they’d taken to calling them, due to their ugly, mottled gray coloring.
Late in the afternoon on Decaday, Danner was aloft in the harness for his turn at Garnet’s new exercise. He’d more or less gotten the hang of it and could at least keep his concentration enough not to lose control of the cloak – the trick was actually not to worry about it and just let the cloak work by itself for the most part. Danner’s aim with his bowkur suffered, however and that’s what he was working on. It was just the six of them this time; Alicia and Faldergash had gone shopping to restock the gnome’s pantry.
When the time came for Danner to release from his harness, he realized too late that his cloak had gotten tangled up in the harness, and when Danner dropped he felt the material wrapped around his neck. The pale yellow cloak cut painfully across his windpipe, blocking his airflow, and spots appeared in Danner’s vision.
In desperation, he reached up and unfastened the cloak, and then his weight pulled him free and he was plummeting toward the ground. He gasped for breath and with forced calmness he allowed his glimmering wings to sprout – or asolve, as he kept reminding himself – from his back. Danner slowed his descent and hovered in the air, massaging his throat. Below him, Michael had stopped the buggy, and they were reeling in the rope and harness.
“Are you all right, Danner?” Trebor kythed. His mental voice sounded strained, and Danner was reminded how difficult it was for Trebor to kythe sometimes with him.
“Fine. I was dumb and the cloak got tied up in the harness. I nearly hung myself,” Danner thought back to him. He started to descend, then thought better of it. “Tell Garnet to go ahead and chuck those things at me. What the Hell.” They were far enough away from any signs of civilization; no one would see him aloft and wonder.
“Righto.”
A few seconds later, Danner saw Garnet lift the first launcher and take aim at Danner. From his height, Danner couldn’t hear the sound of the launcher firing, but he saw the clay pigeon hurtling toward him. Danner whipped out his bowkur and swung and missed. The disc glanced almost painlessly off his ribcage, but Danner guessed he’d still have a bruise.
Damn it, he thought. Something felt strange about his bowkur, as if it didn’t weigh anything at all.
The next pigeon was already airborne, and Danner swooped out of the way even as he swung. This time the disc explo
ded in a satisfying display of clay shards. Danner stared curiously at the shattered pattern as it fell. It looked different somehow. Danner glanced down and saw that Flasch had picked up another launcher while Marc and Michael reloaded the two extras – there were four total – so now Danner had two pigeons airborne and aiming at him.
“Well, I was looking for practice,” he said aloud.
He smashed the first disc, but just missed the second. Danner frowned. His aim was off because of the strange feeling of weightlessness in his bowkur. A gnawing suspicion slipped into his head.
When the next pigeon came his way, Danner moved aside and aimed carefully. He swung, and the disc seemed to disintegrate more than anything else. Little besides grayish white powder escaped to fall toward the ground. He felt guilty about smiling as he pictured a cloud of pigeon feathers exploding and drifting lazily in the wind.
“I wonder…” he said, then lost whatever else he might have said as Flasch’s disc cracked Danner upside the head. Danner’s head spun, but that was it. He reached up and there wasn’t even a bump, much less the blood he expected to feel. Suspicious, he lifted his tunic and saw with some surprise there was no bruise from where the first disc had hit him in the ribs.
“Trebor, tell them to hold off for a minute,” Danner thought to him. “Oh, and hold up your hands and hang tight.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Trebor kythed in reply, his mental voice incredulous.
“Just testing a theory.”
Danner swooped low and grasped Trebor’s up-thrust hands… and he lifted his friend like he was made of nothing but paper. Danner let go with one hand and raised Trebor with the other until the pale-skinned denarae was face-to-face with him.
“This is incredible,” Danner said aloud. The wind ripped his words from his mouth almost before he’d said them, but Trebor heard enough.
“You can say that again,” Trebor yelled. “I’m guessing this is another byproduct of Your Holiness’s special parentage.”
The Devil's Deuce (The Barrier War) Page 9
