Darnuir sensed a conflict within Blaine’s tone. “He might have scorned your religion, Blaine, but you cannot deny he found the sword. He must have been ‘worthy’ or do your gods not have the strength to defend themselves?”
“Even empowered with the Champion’s Blade, I doubt the gods thought of him any more as you or I might consider a bug underfoot,” Blaine said. “Yet he did find the blade and, as you saw, it granted him enough power to equal Norbanus.”
“He bested him,” Darnuir noted. “Maybe the Champion’s Blade grants even more power?”
“That is a possibility,” Blaine said, “but it is impossible to tell from the memory alone. Dronithir was a capable warrior and he had time to get used to the sword before the duel.”
Darnuir fumbled with the rubies in his hand. He winced as the pounding headache returned with a renewed vigour. I hope this is all leading to a point, he thought, glad to have his mind to himself again.
“So you seek to find the Blade?” he asked. “And then with the extra power, we can defeat the demons.”
“Were it so simple,” Blaine sighed. “My many years of fruitless searching lead me to conclude that the legends surrounding the blade are true. One must be worthy in order to discover it. It is said that Dronithir virtually stumbled upon it, embedded within rock where the town of Farlen is now built.”
“The monument…” Darnuir said in quiet acknowledgement.
“I travelled there first during my exile,” Blaine said, “but nothing indicates anything special about the place. Perhaps the evidence has been lost in time as well; it has been seven hundred years after all, yet surely the rock that held the Champion’s Blade would have been preserved. Those mountains were inhabited since fairies began collecting Cascade energy; I find it hard to believe that no one would have come across it. I fear the Champion’s Blade will only appear to its chosen master.”
“But what made him worthy?” Darnuir said. Something did not seem to add up. “It cannot be simply for defending humanity. Arguably, I did the same thing at Torridon, and still the Champion’s Blade has not appeared.”
“I agree,” Blaine said, gently touching the depiction of the third blade upon the wall. “There must be something else to the tale.”
“Dronithir called Norbanus a murderer,” Darnuir said, “and you mentioned there was a healer, erm, Elsha, who nursed Dronithir back to health after he was wounded? Would it be a stretch to assume Norbanus killed her?”
“That is what happened,” Blaine said. “At some point during the war, Elsha was captured and Norbanus demanded Dronithir return to the dragons.”
“Dronithir loved her,” Darnuir said. It was a statement of fact. He had seen it in the ancient prince’s eyes. A passion and a hurt that he recalled seeing in Balack on that bloody night, with Eve’s body within arm’s reach. Eve, who had been too close. It wasn’t so long ago, had it really only been a couple of months? So much has changed.
“He did, or at least he claimed to,” Blaine said.
Darnuir shook his head to clear it. “Why did Norbanus kill her? Doing that only gave Dronithir more reason to fight him.”
“Norbanus believed, as many did back then, that humanity was the chosen race of the Shadow; just as dragons are the chosen race of the Light. Likely as not, he thought that Elsha had corrupted the dragon Prince.” Blaine snorted loudly at the thought. “Well, she corrupted him enough I suppose. Norbanus was wrong to act the way he did of course.”
“And how is this all connected to Rectar?” Darnuir asked. “How does this help us?”
“He was not always Rectar,” Blaine said, a deep resonating sadness in his voice. “Once, he was a dragon; once, he was known as Kroener and once, he was no different than you or I. He might even have been my successor. Yet, like Dronithir, he too went to war when he was young and, like him, he did not return the same.”
“And here I am now,” Darnuir said, “young and off to war.”
Blaine tried a strained smile that was more of a grimace. “The more I look back, the more I consider it, the more I see the patterns repeating. History throws it up if you look closely; working in cycles, an infinite cycle, just like N’weer, repeating and rejuvenating.” Blaine stepped intently towards Darnuir, looking into him as though searching for some profound truth. Darnuir instinctively edged back, wary of the Guardian. “You were blessed by him, Darnuir. You were revived and born anew.”
“It was Brackendon, not a god, who did this to me,” Darnuir told him. “And if Rectar truly has the sword then how can your gods be real? How could the Blade be found by one so evil?”
“Perhaps he found the sword and was later corrupted by the Shadow?” Blaine proffered. “Perhaps I am wrong and there is some other explanation. We dragons have continually been our own worst enemy. The Black Dragons fell to the Shadow long ago and we fought them for millennia. Norbanus was the very worst of my order: zealous to the point of blindness. He was a fool to think that humanity was the chosen race of the Shadow, as we are the champions of the Light; but humans do not dominate this world. We do.”
Darnuir felt uneasy about this rhetoric of superiority; looking down on the very people who raised, loved and saved him. Darnuir could not help feeling it was plainly flawed. “Dragons don’t dominate anymore, Blaine.”
“We have only ourselves to blame,” Blaine retorted. “Our position is our own fault. Not humanities, not the fairies, not even the wretched demons. It is ours, and largely mine, but no more.”
“Then tell me what happened, Blaine!” Darnuir urged the aged dragon. “Tell me everything.” He gazed back at Blaine, attempting to match the intensity with which the Guardian was scrutinising him. For all of Blaine’s outward show of strength and resilience, there was a sadness there. In the half-light of the dim hallway, Darnuir saw something similar to Cosmo’s grief, etched subtlety but deeply in his features, smoothed with time.
“Before we delve into my past, we should unlock your own,” Blaine told him. He held out his hand for Darnuir to take.
Darnuir still had the ruby in his grasp. He reached out to take Blaine’s hand and his pounding head seemed to quicken in anticipation.
“Don’t resist it,” Blaine said. “Let the memories in.”
“The last time I did that, I lost control of myself completely,” Darnuir said warily.
“Do as I tell you, boy,” Blaine said, a little tired. “If it works, you won’t lose control, but nor will I be able to speak to you. As it is your own memory, well your old self’s memory, you will experience it exactly as you felt it back then.”
“Erm, right,” Darnuir said, completely confused.
“It feels like a dream when I look back on my own memories,” Blaine said. “Only more real. You will feel everything you felt, think everything you thought at the time.”
“Will you be there as well?” Darnuir asked. “Like before?”
“I will be there but only as an observer, as we were with Norbanus. I won’t be able to communicate with you.”
“I see…” Darnuir said, still apprehensive. Yet there was no way to avoid it and he needed answers for his own sake. He let go.
Darnuir felt himself being sucked down through the blur of racing colour, leaving the real world behind once more. This time, as his vision cleared, the man with the arced hair materialised fully before him. His hair and stubble were jet-black and his robes a deep purple. Silver irises marked him as a wizard. It was the familiar scene from his dreams but now it seemed real, as though he was truly there. Castallan sat before him, his face shadowed in the darkness of the room. Weak light shone from three flickering lanterns, the one small window behind the wizard was covered by thick drapes. In this dank room, it seemed nothing else mattered in the world but Darnuir and Castallan. They sat upon low, crooked stools, Castallan leaning forward expectantly while Darnuir kept his posture rigid and his arms tightly folded. The dimness of the scene only heightened the sense of secrecy, which Darnuir felt with a peculiar
sensitivity. He wasn’t simply watching the memory, he was living it.
“The war does not fare well in the east then?” Castallan said knowingly.
Darnuir arched an eyebrow at the wizard. “What makes you say that? You know that we pushed the demons back all along the Crucidal Road. The Forsaken City may even fall within the year.”
“But you do not really believe that, do you?” Castallan smiled. “When has Rectar ever allowed such easy victories?”
“Perhaps he has not allowed it?” Darnuir said. “It might be that we are winning the war.”
Castallan shook his head a little. The wizard almost seemed disheartened. “Come now, Darnuir,” he said with whispered urgency, “you would not be here if you truly felt that. Victories should be hard won and the demons have simply melted before you of late. It almost seems lazy of Rectar to not even feign a realistic retreat.”
“You seem sure of this,” Darnuir said.
“As sure as I was about the enemy’s latest manoeuvrings,” Castallan said. “And it was that information that allowed your last great ‘victory’.”
Is he finally going to reveal his secret? The wizard’s predictions of where the demons would emerge was too accurate. Some magic is at work but why does he guard his method? Darnuir remained silent, hoping Castallan would continue on naturally. It seemed to work. The wizard seemed unsure when his grand statement continued to go unanswered.
“Darnuir, I believe that I can help end this war,” he said, quick and quiet, as though sharing some childish intrigue.
“If so, why not share this with the Conclave?” Darnuir asked pointedly.
“The Conclave would not be quite so understanding,” Castallan said. “They would consider my position too dangerous; Brackendon would especially speak out against me to the Archmage.”
“Then perhaps it is too risky,” Darnuir said. “I won’t pretend to know the ways of your Order but if what you practice is not worth bringing before the Conclave then I ought to have no part in it.”
“It is not what I do so much as whom I speak to,” Castallan said furtively. Darnuir remained silent again, waiting for the great reveal. “Darnuir,” Castallan whispered, leaning even closer, “the enemy has chosen to contact me.”
“Rectar speaks to you?” Darnuir said suspiciously. The idea of it was unnerving and extremely dangerous. On that, the wizard was quite right.
“Not directly,” Castallan admitted, “but there are thoughts, images, and sometimes a spectre Lord. I reached out once with the Scrying Orbs, I casted my mind to Kar’drun and he found me there.”
“Well you are right,” Darnuir said. “The Conclave would deem this insanity.”
“But there are things we must know, Darnuir,” Castallan urged. “His power seems infinite. How does he process so much of it?”
“And what do you know?” Darnuir demanded. “Have you learned of our impending doom? Is this why you are so certain we stand on the brink of defeat?”
“Yes,” Castallan said bluntly. “I have seen his armies. Fresh and vast, massing beneath the mountain.”
“And why would he show you all of this?” Darnuir asked.
“He wants me to work against the Three Races,” Castallan said. “To be his agent amongst the Conclave and your own councils.”
“I hope you did not agree to serve him?”
“I did agree,” Castallan said. “I saw an opportunity.”
“To die?” Darnuir asked.
“To offer us insight; to win the war, my Lord Prince.”
“This consorting with the enemy is to dabble with our own defeat,” Darnuir said. However, he remained where he was. This knowledge placed him in a difficult position. If Darnuir left now, he would have no choice but to inform the Conclave, and yet there was a chance here. Even if it were a slim one. “Do you think you are capable of pulling off this double-agency?”
“I have so far, have I not?” the wizard said.
“And what else do you anticipate to learn?” Darnuir asked. “And why me? What is it you want from me? By telling me this, you are gambling everything.”
“Because I do not think you will let this opportunity pass by, my Lord,” Castallan said. “We are not so different, you and I.”
Darnuir remained stone-faced and silent as an answer to that impertinent comment.
“You seek answers as well, why else would you have come to the Conclave?” Castallan asked. “And you wish to save your people any further hardship, as do I. You must realise that this fight cannot be won through swords alone. The enemy showed me something by accident, I think. Something I was not supposed to see. If I can replicate it then my magical solution will create soldiers of incredible power to aid us.”
The wizard had that much right at least. Something radical was required to bring this war to a conclusion. “My people have bled enough,” Darnuir agreed. “What is it that you want from me?”
“I shall require gold and lots of it,” Castallan said.
“And what will you need that for?” Darnuir asked. It was a curious request.
“To find sufficient ‘volunteers’. Do you really want to know the details?”
“No,” Darnuir said without hesitation. “What you do with humans is no concern of mine but I must insist you refrain from approaching my own people.”
“Of course, my Lord,” Castallan said, a little nervously. “In any case, I do not think dragons would be as suitable. All I need from you is gold and a safe environment to work. With that, and enough time, I will find the answer for you, for us!”
“You are sure?” Darnuir asked him in a considered tone. “I seek answers,” he reminded the man, “not more questions.”
“I am, though it will take a deal of secrecy to work without interruption or suspicion. Few are as open-minded or understanding as you, Darnuir.”
“Few share my passion to preserve my race,” Darnuir said. “Even my father lacks that most basic instinct of survival. I feel he has resigned himself.”
“We shall turn the tide,” the wizard assured him.
“I hope so, Castallan.”
As the memory ended, it began to unravel just like it did in his dreams. Darnuir anticipated the familiar flying sensation that would return him to reality, however, this time was different. The blur was not simply of flashing colour but of other memories. Scenes of battle, of council and of quiet seething whipped before him. Emotions and feelings flooded him as well: anger, frustration, desperation. He saw the Dragon’s Blade being lifted high above him, out of reach – oh, how he longed for it. Not for its own sake, he told himself, but in order to act, to fight, to do what was necessary. He saw and felt years of training and battle in mere seconds. The information was overpowering. It violently filled his mind like an avalanche might fill a valley. Before long, he found it hard to tell which memories were his own and which came from the rubies. Everything was vying for attention and it felt as though he had two minds: one old, one new, colliding and chafing against each other.
He felt pain. Greater than anything he had ever experienced before. A memory came to him of a shattered shoulder, a gouged side, and all the pain of it did not come close to the agony he felt now. His very being was ablaze and some menacing part of him seemed to roar savagely: bestial and hateful. How long it lasted for, Darnuir could not say. Seconds, minutes, hours, even days might have passed in the world and he would have been stuck in this vortex of memory. Trapped between two lives.
Then, in an instant, it ended. He saw Blaine standing over him, fear and concern stark across his face. Darnuir’s ears rang and he could not hear what Blaine was saying. He felt exhausted. A tiredness engulfed him, greater even than the fatigue that had followed the run from Torridon. Darnuir closed his eyes and left the world for the comfort of sleep.
Chapter 24
THE GUARDIAN’S BURDEN
BLAINE ROSE AT dawn, as was his custom. A bowl of piping hot water was brought to his chambers as expected and he removed the pr
ickly hairs from his face that had sprouted during the night. He donned fresh whites and only then noticed the single silver leaf beside the bowl. It was perfect in form; its body curving up to a neat, pointed tip, and so pure in colour that it might have been a jewel. Over two weeks since I return and only now she wishes to see me? He could not help but suppress a pang of exhilaration. He pushed it back down, deep down so it would not cloud his judgement. Things were not about to change.
He knew she would be waiting for him and so his morning service would have to wait for the once. He tapped his fingers gently on his armour before opting for a lighter tunic of pale green. Reinforced plate would not help him where he was going. He left the armour of the Guardian on its stand but contemplated the heavy chest beneath it. The armour of the King rested within and had done so for eighty years. Will Darnuir ever be ready to wear it? It seemed a lifetime since he himself had looked upon the armour, with its roaring dragon draped across the pauldrons, lined thinly with starium to grant the wearer the greatest protection in all of Tenalp. So heavy and thick was the metal that without the support of one of the Blades, it could not be worn. His own armour was similarly strong. It would be a relief not to wear it for a time.
He strapped the Guardian’s Blade around his waist nonetheless and left his room for the interior of the Argent Tree. Being close to the top of the great tree, he could look down the hollow silver trunk onto the star-like lanterns, glistening in their hundreds, radiating their delicate light throughout the interior. Blaine enjoyed the world best at this time of day. He had gotten used to the quiet of Val’tarra during his years here, and realised shamefully that a part of him secretly yearned to revert to that state of restful nothingness. His return to the fold had been swift and hard and he had felt the impact of his age. It was an age deeper than muscle or blood or bone. A deeper ache that had struck at him more forcefully as the days went on. The Guardian’s Blade kept him fit enough but he was so weary.
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