Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  “Cumaill will hear of this.”

  “And knowing him he will agree.”

  As the door closed, Drangar heaved a sigh. He had broken guest law and had given his life into the hands of the one slighted. Whatever Úistan Cahill had planned for him, it surely would not be wood chopping.

  CHAPTER 25

  Some things, Kildanor knew from experience, were hard to accept, and harder to believe. What Ralgon had just told him was worse.

  Now he and Ealisaid stood outside the room, looking at each other. The Wizardess shook her head, tired disbelief in her eyes. “You think what he says is true?”

  He shrugged, not knowing what was and what wasn’t. “If this Fiend was responsible for the attack of Neena Cahill, what triggered it?”

  “You go on and speak with her, I need rest,” replied Ealisaid, stifling a yawn.

  “You did it again, didn’t you?”

  “What now?” she asked, a little too innocently in his opinion. Her eyes betrayed her. “Unconsciously, yes, I think I did.” Her confession was out a heartbeat later. “It was so hard staying afloat and destroying the timber.”

  “So, you forced the issue, so to speak?” Whether it was meant as a question or not, he cared little. What if there had been some sort of wave spreading out from the center of destruction? She had calmed the raving Ralgon by merely closing her eyes and humming. Did forcing magic release the Fiend? If so, what had happened that had made Ralgon lose control when he was with the ladies Cahill?

  “Copper for your thoughts,” Ealisaid interrupted his musings. The look she gave him was a mixture of curiosity and bone-deep weariness.

  “I’ll tell you in the morning,” he said, evading the request. Maybe she was already thinking along the same lines, maybe not. What mattered now was that she rested. “Culain!”

  The guardsman stood a good dozen paces down the hallway, trying in vain to calm their host. Immediately the two men hurried their way.

  “See that she gets rest,” he told Ealisaid’s lover. As the unlikely pair headed for the stairs, he turned to Lord Cahill and said, “I need to talk to your wife.”

  “Hasn’t there been enough talk by now? What do you think you’ll get out of her now?” Sir Úistan stood his ground, arms folded across his chest.

  “For starters I want to know what triggered the assault.”

  The noble snorted. “Neena happened.”

  His daughter happened? What the Scales did he mean by that? “Care to explain?”

  “Ralgon had been training them to use spears. For hours he ordered them to stab dummies with quarterstaffs.”

  “He agreed to that?” Kildanor couldn’t believe his ears.

  “Found him in the practice room whetting a blade. Figured him being a warrior he could teach my ladies better than me.”

  “Sharpened swords?” He did not like that image at all.

  “Aye. My guess is he had been doing that for a while.”

  “You do know that he is troubled?” Maybe Cahill had forgotten about Ralgon’s problems.

  “If you fall off a horse, best thing is to get back in the saddle right away,” the nobleman replied gruffly. “Nothing better than that to face your fears.”

  Only Drangar’s fears and worries didn’t deal with falling to the ground, Kildanor thought. The depth of the troubles in Ralgon’s mind had just grown by another mile, and Úistan Cahill hadn’t had anything better to do than to put him into a situation in which the mercenary might have been forced to use weapons again. “Drangar Ralgon hasn’t just fallen from a horse’s back, milord. The last thing he needs is to be reminded of what has happened to him.”

  “I did not ask him to sharpen my swords, Chosen!”

  There was little he could say against that argument.

  “He is my guest, and as such has duties as well. Why not use someone with experience to train my family?” Sir Úistan continued. “He knows how warriors think, has stood in a shield wall. So, what is the harm in passing on that knowledge?”

  “Only that he never was in a shield wall.”

  “What?”

  Had the situation not been so bad, he would have enjoyed the noble’s shocked expression, instead he said, “Drangar Ralgon was one of those madmen trying to breach the enemy wall. They called him Scythe for that simple reason, because he just charged and mowed down anyone blocking his path.”

  All fury had left Sir Úistan’s face, and slowly the shade of grey his skin had taken on disappeared. “But no one survives such insanity long,” he finally said.

  “He did.”

  It was interesting to see the nobleman’s mind at work. The shock of moments before was gone. Instead, as if reading columns of numbers, Cahill’s head and eyes moved up and down, a smile blossoming on his face. “Nice,” he muttered, and seemed to only realize he wasn’t alone when he looked at Kildanor again.

  The bad feeling he had had from the beginning, when Drangar had pledged his service to Cahill, returned, tenfold. “I still would like to speak to your wife, milord.”

  His host seemed barely aware of him. “Yes, yes, sure,” he said, rubbing his hands, grinning like a man possessed. “Camran! Florence!” The shout echoed down the corridor.

  Soon the two servants hurried toward them. “Florence, take Lord Kildanor to my wife, and then see to it that our guest”—he pointed at Drangar’s room—“is sleeping well. If necessary fetch a Caretaker to administer some ophain.”

  The young woman curtsied, and then said, “Follow me, Lord Chosen.” He didn’t hear the order Cahill gave Camran but couldn’t shake the feeling of unease when thinking of the nobleman’s calculating look.

  “Neena happened,” Leonore Cahill said, a wan smile creasing her lips. She let go of her needlework, gazing into the distance.

  Kildanor sensed there was more to it than that and waited. His attention was focused on the noblewoman, though he couldn’t help but notice the plainness of the sitting room. Like every other room in Cahill Manor, it was utilitarian. Judging from the debris littering it, the turret room had been the only exception.

  “Sometimes she can try the patience of a mountain,” she finally continued. “Don’t get me wrong, milord, my daughter is a pleasant person. It’s just that… maybe I tried to counter her father’s pragmatism by spoiling her. When she refused to do something he told her to do, I always intervened on her behalf. Ralgon ignored her whining, kept drilling us with those staffs. Scales,”—the curse caught him by surprise—“even I was tempted to slap her after a while. Don’t want to imagine what he must have felt.”

  “So, you’re saying he grew angry?” Kildanor asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  A moment passed. Lady Cahill’s eyes again gained that far away quality. Then she looked at him, nodding briefly. “Anyone would have. What was disturbing though, were his eyes.”

  He recalled Drangar’s look a few days ago, again when he had been angry. “They glowed,” he said quietly.

  Another brief nod was all the answer he needed. Again, Ralgon’s Fiend had gained control. Now he knew of two triggers that could unleash the mercenary’s monstrous side. Was this somehow connected with the potion the Sons of Traksor had administered through Hesmera two and a half years ago? He remembered Ralgon saying that the Sons were dedicated to fighting demons, but what if they had changed? It had happened to Chosen, the sworn protectors of the land.

  There was one thing of which he was certain. As long as this Fiend remained within Ralgon, the man was a danger to himself and everyone around him. He thanked Leonore Cahill for her time and left.

  The manor was abuzz with activity. Retainers hurried to and fro, carrying arms and armor, and Kildanor had the glum feeling that this was part of what Sir Úistan had in mind for Drangar. What was Lord Cahill planning? Did the nobleman even realize what sort of danger Ralgon posed?

  Too much had happened. He felt tired and headed back to the Palace. Maybe tomorrow would shed new light on this strange situation.
r />   CHAPTER 26

  Twenty-sixth of Chill 1475 K.C.

  The strain of working battlemagic last night had still not worn off, and the look Culain gave her before going on duty spoke volumes. It was far from the first time he appeared more worried for her than for himself. Ealisaid thought it curious. They had barely known one another for one week, but she relied on his strength, and seeing him like this made her exhaustion all the more irksome.

  “I was out much longer after I destroyed the houses,” she said, knowing the moment the words left her lips that this attempt at levity could not succeed.

  “There has to be another way!” he replied.

  Those exact words she had used on the Baron when he commanded her to destroy the enemy timber. Duasonh had refused her request to explore the ruins in the Shadowpeaks. “Maybe the Baron will listen now,” she said.

  “Regain your strength,” he ordered and shut the door, leaving her alone.

  Ealisaid sat up, shedding the covers that held the cold at bay. Had her forcing magic truly triggered Ralgon’s reaction on the wall? Some part of her wanted to dismiss the Fiend the mercenary claimed was lurking in the back of his mind, but the glowing eyes and the assault on Neena Cahill could not be dismissed. She shivered.

  Just how had she managed to pull him back from the brink of madness? If it was madness, she amended. Split personalities, she knew was an illness of the mind. Maybe that part of Ralgon that drew upon the power of his blood was just that, a different person. She had acted on instinct, thinking an enveloping feeling of love would counteract the raging part of his personality and the way he had calmed, his eyes losing their glow, had proved her right.

  The Chosen’s talk of demons still made little sense to her. There was no absolute power for good or evil. Greed yes, selfishness certainly, and combinations of both, but like the way the sun both helped and harmed, there were two sides to every being. In some one or the other was just a bit stronger. Kildanor’s demons had to be something else, same with Ralgon’s Fiend.

  She slipped out of bed, feet touching the rushes covering the floor—why was the Palace starker even than Cahill Manor, she wondered—and as she stood the room began to spin. Eyes squeezed shut, Ealisaid tried to suppress the sense of vertigo. Still, her mind reeled. Was that a knock on the door? Bile rose, rushes stabbed her feet, knees trembled.

  Strong arms caught her, guided her to sit on the bed once more. The turning and twisting stopped. A mug’s moist rim touched her lips. Instinctively she opened her mouth and let the cold water in, then gagged and swallowed, grateful.

  “Better?”

  For a moment she couldn’t place the voice. Then, opening her eyes, she recognized Kildanor. He pulled back the mug, refilling it. “Yes, thank you,” she panted, hoping the bile would stay inside.

  Had he slept at all? He certainly didn’t look that way, despite last night’s proclamation to need rest. “Came to talk to you about our mysterious friend, but that can wait. You should rest.”

  “Too much to do,” she heard herself mumble. “Need to convince the Baron it is necessary to explore alternate means of destroying things. I just cannot go on like this.”

  “Rest some more, I’m sure it can wait.” Kildanor put mug and pitcher back on the desk. Then, to her stunned surprise, he knelt, lifted up her bare feet and slipped them back under the covers. He pushed her back onto the pillow and tucked her in. “I’ll see to it that someone attends you.”

  Then he was gone, and, still mulling over his sudden tenderness, she closed her eyes.

  The next time she woke, the sun lay low in the west. An entire day lost to sleep. No, not lost to sleep, but to magic, the wrong kind of magic. Perched on the table underneath the window she made out a figure. A child, if her eyes didn’t betray her. Long hair was so common with boys and girls that the locks could have belonged to either. The visitor turned, a halo of golden locks framed her face. “The way you blew up that wood is wrong,” Ysold said, her face lined with concern. “And the stew is cold.”

  She pursed her lips. The girl was impertinent. Then the true import of what she had heard dawned on her. “How do you know what I did?” Ealisaid asked.

  Hopping down, her pupil cast a grave look at her then picked up the tray and carried it over. “Easy,” she stated. “I followed you.”

  “You followed me?” Even to her the question sounded dumb. The lass knew how to fly? No, that wasn’t it.

  “Sure, if I want to I can walk through walls.” Spiritform! Ysold knew how to walk in spiritform. “Wanted to see what you were doing, so I followed. And the way you pushed and pushed to burst the wood was wrong.”

  Indeed, the stew was cold, but even so it spoke volumes of the cook’s skill. “I know that,” she replied, the spoon poised before her lips.

  “Then why did you do it?”

  She swallowed a mouthful, sighed and said, “Because I was ordered to destroy the wood.”

  “I thought wizards could already do that. You know, blowing holes through mountains and such.”

  Should she tell the girl what she suspected? That there was no doubt in her mind that Shadowpass had been created by the same kind of self-destructive magic she had employed yesterday? Without a doubt, if the Citadel’s library still stood, she would find less consuming ways to cast battlespells, but for that Duasonh had to grant her leave to conduct such research. “Tell me,” she said, facing Ysold, “why do you say my casting of the destruction was stupid?”

  The lass gave her an astonished look, as if the reply couldn’t be more obvious. After a moment’s consideration—as if the girl was waiting to see if she was victim to a joke—she replied, “I dunno, seemed as if you were beating up a horse that was just too willing to give you what you wanted, I think. Then it gave you more of the same and dragged you along.” She shrugged. Ealisaid guessed she lacked the background to describe what she had seen in more detail, though it was quite detailed already. “I never learned such magic,” she finally admitted.

  Ysold pursed her lips and creased her brow, looking older than her ten summers. “Then you have to learn it, ‘cause if you don’t, you’ll fry the life right out of you.”

  Just how perceptive and talented was the girl? Maybe having Ysold accompany her to the Citadel would help both of them. She decided to ask the Baron for permission to take her apprentice with her. Provided he allowed her to leave. “I need to speak to the Baron.”

  Ysold darted for the door. “Shit! I forgot!” she exclaimed pushing the handle.

  “Forgot what?” Ealisaid asked, taken aback by the lass’s sudden movement.

  “I was supposed to tell him you’d woken the moment you did,” Ysold replied and was out the door.

  Struggling out of bed, she pushed the tray aside, grabbed a dried apple and headed for the wicker chest holding her clothes. Then, shifting the fruit between both hands, Ealisaid struggled into a dress.

  The sentinels accompanying her led the way to a part of the Palace she hadn’t visited before. Here, the worn walls attested to this section’s age; everything seemed narrower, smaller. A century ago rumors had already turned to legend about how the Palace had once been a manor and only later additions had turned it into the fortress it had become. The carefully maintained doors, steeloak by the look of them, lacked the simplicity so omnipresent everywhere else.

  The corridor felt like a well-worn, much loved pair of shoes, comfortable, a contrast to the stark look in the rest of the castle.

  Only one door was guarded, and as she approached, one of the two flanking the portal opened the door and spoke into the room. Needing no further instructions, Ealisaid entered.

  For a moment she was stunned. In a former life this must have been the Baron’s ancestors’ sitting room. After having the near chill of both her cell and the rest of the Palace, what must have been cozy warmth slammed into her like stifling heat. A great cushioned chair, its high back facing the door, stood before a massive fireplace. The dancing flames reflected
off the seat’s polished wood in such a way that for an instant it looked like a throne. Then, her eyes adjusting to the contrast, she saw it was not. To the chair’s left stood a comfortable looking bench, while on its right a low table sporting an assortment of bottles and glasses sat like a glittering, multicolored mosaic.

  “Have a seat.” The Baron sounded as weary as she felt. A hand stabbed the air, indicating the bench.

  She complied, arranging the linen the way she would a well-tailored silken dress. Duasonh looked tired. In his right hand he held a glass, elven-made, since no human glassblower had ever produced such an intricate piece of work. He turned to look at her, and now she saw how exhausted her liege lord really was. “You look like shit,” he said, stifling a yawn.

  Taken by surprise at his frankness, she took a moment to compose herself. Then, deciding this meeting was as personal as it could get, she returned the barb. “So do you, milord, but I doubt you asked me here to trade insults.”

  “Wine? Broggainh? Mead?” he asked. “Helps me sleep.”

  She believed him and wanted nothing better than to sip spirits but unlike the Baron she had just slept the day away. “No, thank you. I need my wits about me.”

  “It would take me a whole lot of booze to take leave of my wits,” he replied, guiding the glass to his lips. A gulp later, Duasonh spoke on. “Kildanor told me of your predicament and suggested we allow you to seek out your order’s library.”

  “I told you before, this kind of magic is not healthy,” she said. “But you demanded the wood be destroyed.”

  “Had we waited longer the timber would have been scattered across three sites instead of just one, and then the strain would have been far bigger,” the Baron repeated the argument he had used before, the argument that had made up her mind to go through with the mission.

  “Still, milord, if you intend to use my abilities to fight the Chanastardhians, it is only in your best interest that I learn all I can about battlemagic.”

  “You have your student, that part of the deal is concluded, Lady Wizard!”