by J. L. Doty
“You act as if I did it alone.”
“In a way, you did, for without you it surely could not have been done.”
“I don’t want to be a symbol,” Morgin said.
“Then you should have allowed Illalla his victory.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“No,” she agreed. “You couldn’t. Your destiny was written in the blood of Csairne Glen long before you fought there.”
“Damn you!” Morgin snarled. “You’re starting to sound like all the rest.”
She was not an expressive woman, and a shrug seemed to be one of her most prolific gestures. “I speak only the truth, ShadowLord. But if you wish, then I will call you Morgin, but only among friends.”
~~~
It should have been a simple spell, an every-day kind of spell. A cup of herbal tea left by his bedside that he’d forgotten, and with time it had cooled. A short incantation, a few words and a bit of power and any clansmen could reheat it in an instant. But when Morgin tried, no power came at his bidding, nothing.
He tried again, and again, and again. His power and arcane abilities were gone as if burned out of his soul, and he realized then that he must hide that fact from everyone. There was an emptiness in his soul, a vacuum of nothingness that left him alone and cold. Somewhere between the horror of Csairne Glen and the pain of his awakening he had lost his power, and its absence left an ache in his soul, a sorrow that consumed him. He was a wizard without magic, a sorcerer without power.
Chapter 27: The Pride of Fools
For Morgin the days passed slowly. JohnEngine visited almost daily, but like AnnaRail and Tulellcoe he held himself at a nervous and unfamiliar distance. It was as if he stood separated from Morgin by a wall of change beyond which neither of them could look nor speak nor hear without great effort. They had both changed, though they tried to pretend they had not, but silently they recognized their pretense for the lie that it was.
With much time on his hands Morgin thought often of MorginDeath, and of Csairne Glen, and of that time after the battle during which they told him he had lain unconscious and near death. Twelve days and nights of unconsciousness, though to him it was a time without even the rudimentary thoughts of the unconscious mind, a blank chasm within his memory without thought or deed. Someone or something was playing with his memory again, playing with his dreams, and it frightened him. And his magic and power were gone. And when he thought such thoughts his mood turned black and sorrowful.
They’d given him a room high in Castle Inetka, and he started exercising by walking up and down the stairs regularly, though JohnEngine protested mightily, while Rhianne was smart enough to keep her mouth shut around him. He soon extended his walks to include the gardens behind the castle. One day, walking in the castle yard and watching some of the armsmen at practice, Morgin asked JohnEngine, “Where is the men’s barracks?”
“Why do you want to know that?” JohnEngine demanded.
“Because I want to see France,” Morgin said. “He’ll be there this time of day. I know it.”
JohnEngine frowned. “Perhaps now is not the time.”
“Damn it!” Morgin shouted. “Why hasn’t he come to see me? I know he hasn’t left the castle; I’ve seen him practicing his swordsmanship in the yard. He’s avoiding me and I want to know why.”
JohnEngine’s eyes narrowed with indecision, and when he spoke, strain tightened his voice. “All right. Follow me.”
He led Morgin across the yard and through a narrow doorway, then down a windowless corridor lit by foul smelling sooty torches. The walls were totally unadorned for they had left behind the living quarters of House Inetka. They’d entered a section of the castle that housed commoners and clansmen of low caste. It was not unlike the section of Elhiyne where Morgin had first lived.
JohnEngine stopped near an open doorway, and with a nod of his head directed Morgin through it. Inside he found a long barracks furnished with a great number of cots and a large table at the far end. Seated at the table were several common soldiers and a few clansmen of the lowest caste. They tossed dice back and forth on the table, cursed loudly, and told the kind of jokes that one heard only in a soldier’s barracks. None of them noticed Morgin as he stepped into the room.
France sat on one of the cots, his back to Morgin, methodically sharpening his sword. Morgin walked slowly down the aisle between the cots and stopped a few paces short of the swordsman.
“Aye, swordsman,” one of the soldiers playing dice bellowed. “Are you sure you won’t try your luck?” He looked up for an answer, but instead saw Morgin. His eyes shot open and he stood suddenly. “My lord,” he said, bowing deeply from the waist. Taken by surprise, his comrades jumped to their feet and followed suit. France stood also and turned slowly to face Morgin, though he did not bow.
One of the soldiers stepped forward. He was obviously their leader and experienced at dealing with highborn clansmen. “Forgive us, Lord. We didn’t know you was there. No offense intended.”
“And none taken,” Morgin said. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a silver coin, more than a month’s wages for one of these men. “I’d like to speak to the swordsman alone,” he said, and flipped the coin onto the table where it chinked among the copper coins the soldier’s had been gambling with. “If you’d do me the favor of continuing the game elsewhere, that should sweeten the pot for your trouble.”
The soldiers thanked him and left quickly. JohnEngine hesitated for a moment, then he too turned and left.
“Hello, France,” Morgin said softly. He wanted to stand and face the swordsman squarely, but he tired quickly. This was the longest he’d been on his feet unassisted since Csairne Glen, and his knees began to tremble. Moving with great care he sat on a nearby cot.
France stood stiff and formal before him. “My lord,” he said, and bowed deeply from the waist. “How may I serve you?” He spoke without any trace of his usual accent, addressing Morgin in the same stilted way he chose to converse with Olivia. His eyes were cold and distant, and they lacked that gleam that normally danced within them.
“So you’re going to do it to me too?” Morgin asked.
“Pardon, my lord? Do what?”
“You know damn well what.”
“Forgive me, my lord, if I have offended you. I—”
“Damn you!” Morgin shouted. “Stop calling me that. I’m not my lord. I’m me. Morgin.”
France looked at him for a long silent moment, then carefully asked, “Are you?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, my lord.” France’s face remained untouched by any expression.
Morgin buried his face in his hands. “Damn you,” he whispered, thinking of AnnaRail and JohnEngine; her distant unease and his uncomfortable formality. Both of them had tried repeatedly to break through the invisible barrier that made them all strangers, and neither of them had succeeded. “You’ve changed just like all the rest,” Morgin said.
France’s answer came in icy and distant tones. “It is not we who have changed, my lord.”
Those words hung on the air like smoke in the dead stillness of the morning. “Have I changed that much?” Morgin asked. “I’m still Morgin . . . I think.”
“The Morgin I knew,” France said, “came down from Csairne Glen bearing wounds no mortal man could survive. Who, or what, you are, I do not know. But I will not be friend to some demon who haunts the body of my dead friend.”
“Damn it I’m not dead,” Morgin shouted. “I never was. I don’t know what happened to me up there. I . . . Damn you!” He almost started crying, thinking of the gap in his memory, of that time when he was dead, or near to it. “I don’t even have my magic anymore.”
“What?” France demanded. “What did you say?”
“I said I no longer have any magic. It’s gone, torn from me. I’m as powerless as any peasant.”
“Gone, you say?” France asked with an odd gleam of approval in his eyes. “Completely
gone?”
Morgin nodded. France sat down beside him and threw a comforting arm about his shoulders. “Don’t ya see, lad? That’s a blessin’, not a curse. It was yer witch powers that was always yer curse, lad. It brought nothin’ but trouble, and now yer free of it.”
France stood, began pacing back and forth in front of him. “Who knows about this?”
“Just you, and maybe Ellowyn and Laelith, if Laelith even understands—”
France hissed angrily. “Don’t mention them two. They don’t exist, never have. They was just a dream.”
Morgin shrugged, decided not to argue the point. France continued. “But it’s good no one knows about yer magic. And you be careful not to tell no one. Not even yer mother or that brother of yers. The fewer who know, the better. If this gets out, Valso won’t be the only one trying to kill ya.”
“Valso?” Morgin asked. “Trying to kill me?”
“Sure. He’s been sendin’ assassins quite regular. In fact the whole damn Greater Council wants yer head on a pike. Take a look around. Wylow’s still got this place under heavy guard. And there’s more than a few Elhiynes among them, ya know. Yer grandmother’s been sendin’ him troops to help out.”
“But why are they after me?”
France shook his head. “You ain’t changed, have ya? Still can’t see it even when it’s right in front of yer nose. Yer a big hero. And yer grandmother’s gettin’ everything out of that she can. She’s pushin’ you real hard, gonna make sure yer a public figure before she gets done with you. Maybe even try to unite the Lesser Clans under you, especially if she thinks she can control you.”
“Me?” Morgin asked.
“Of course, you. You’re the ShadowLord. You beat Illalla’s army when we was outnumbered four to one. You got a reputation and she’s makin’ sure it gets bigger every day. If I was you, the first thing I’d do when I got back home was cut Valso’s throat.”
“Valso?” Morgin asked. “At Elhiyne?”
“Ya. He and that chop-faced father of his got caught tryin’ to sneak away from Csairne Glen. Yer grandmother’s holding ‘em for ransom or something. That woman sure likes to play her games.”
Morgin’s head spun crazily. It was all too much too fast. France looked suddenly concerned. “You don’t look so well.”
“I’m tired,” Morgin said.
“Better get you back to yer bed, eh?”
France and JohnEngine almost carried him back to his room. It was frustrating to be so helpless, to find his knees suddenly weak, his eyelids heavy and drowsy. But he’d learned the hard way that in his present physical condition, exhaustion came all too quickly, and would not be banished without long and quiet rest.
But mention of Valso’s name had reopened the wound in his heart, the memory of seeing Rhianne go to the Decouix’s bed. He tried not to think of it, but her presence reminded him of her treachery, and as the days passed the wall between them grew steadily. He told himself he would forgive her. He told himself that, and he tried to believe it. He tried with all his heart, and he failed.
Chapter 28: Dream Seeker
“My lord,” Ellowyn said. “It’s time to light a—”
“No,” Morgin snapped angrily.
Ellowyn winced. “Why may I not light a candle, my lord?”
Outside it was early dusk, a world of long, lean shadows cast by the last remnants of the setting sun. Morgin stared at the darkness of the open window. “Because I said so.”
Ellowyn looked away from him. Laelith sat fearfully on the end of his bed, eyes downcast, her wings for once quiescent.
“This is unhealthy, my lord.”
Morgin didn’t answer.
“You must love her very much.”
“No,” Morgin snarled. “I don’t love her at all. I hate her.”
“That too,” Ellowyn said. “I’m afraid I will never understand you mortals. How you can hate someone whom you so dearly love—”
“I told you I don’t love her.”
“You mortals are also good at believing your own lies.”
“Please be silent. I’m trying to think.”
Ellowyn stood. “Come, little one,” she said to Laelith. “We are not wanted here.” She turned and left the room; the faerie followed close behind.
“Go,” Morgin whispered after them. “You’re nothing but the stuff of dreams anyway.”
He knew he was dreaming, for only then were Ellowyn and Laelith about, though sometimes it was difficult to distinguish between reality and dream, or Ellowyn and Rhianne, and at those times he wasn’t sure what state his mind was in. He closed his eyes in exasperation, realized immediately that that was a mistake as he began to drift away from the dream he had been dreaming.
~~~
Morgin scrambled quickly from one hillock to the next, conscious that in so doing he was exposed to whatever dangers lay in waiting. He was quite vulnerable now, for here there were no crevices in which to hide. The sun beat down mercilessly, yielding neither natural nor magical shadows. And except for the occasional large boulder or fissure, the landscape was unbroken, barren, gray-brown. He’d been lost now for what seemed an untold eternity, no food or water, the sun always hot and dry and high in the sky. And nowhere could he find a landmark to guide him.
He stopped near a large boulder, eyed it carefully. It was at least a landmark he could use to be certain he wasn’t walking in circles. But as he looked on its outlines blurred and grew indistinct, then it melted into the landscape and disappeared completely. He stood alone now on a featureless and barren plain. He walked on.
After an unknown distance and an unknown time he approached another boulder. He stopped and stared at it. This one remained solid and distinct, and he wondered if he might use it as a landmark, but then a man dressed all in black leathers stepped out from behind it. Somehow Morgin knew that like Ellowyn this man was an angel, dark, handsome, not much older than Morgin, and kind looking. But in his hands he held a broadsword with the point raised and directed at Morgin, and the blade dripped fresh blood, though not as if it had recently cut down a foe, but as if the blade itself bled from its own wounds.
“Go back,” the dark angel said. “This dream you must not dream. Go back.”
“Gladly,” Morgin said. “But I don’t know the way. Tell me the way and I’ll go.”
The dark angel shook his head. “I know not the way myself. That is why I am the guardian of this dream. That is why I stand here. If you cannot return, then my master will demand your death.”
“Who is your master?” Morgin asked.
The dark angel ignored his question, looked to the heavens and cried, “No, please. I have done enough of your bidding.”
Morgin backed away from this madman and drew his own sword, though it was pitifully small compared to the weapon the angel bore.
The angel looked at Morgin and said, “Forgive me. My master wants your soul.”
“But you can’t kill me,” Morgin said desperately. “This is just a dream.”
The angel shook his head. “And every dream yields its own reality.”
“But this is my dream.”
The dark angel nodded. “Aye. But your dream is my reality.”
Morgin back-stepped quickly now, thinking of similar words Ellowyn had uttered about dreams and reality. He tried to convince himself that this was still just a dream, that he couldn’t be hurt, that he would awake in the morning, perhaps poorly rested but still alive and well. Nevertheless he had no place to run so he stood his ground as the dark angel advanced, his sword dripping a path of blood to mark his footsteps.
The dark angel lifted his sword over his head, brought it down in a long arc. Morgin gripped his sword with both hands and swung. It crashed into the angel’s with a jarring clang that Morgin felt in his shoulders. The dark angel hesitated for an instant, looked oddly sad as he struck his next blow, but with it he swept Morgin’s sword aside as if he were a mere child, and Morgin fell back, defenseless now against the
angel’s blade.
The angel swung his broadsword back and forth in a flat arc. Morgin skipped backward, barely avoiding the tip as blood from the strange blade spattered his tunic. The blade hissed past his face and he skipped back again, but he concentrated too much on the blade and not enough on his footing. He stumbled, fell helpless onto the barren plain of his dream.
The dark angel leapt forward to stand over him, though in his eyes there was no triumph. Then he pressed the tip of the broadsword into Morgin’s cheek, and cut the flesh there deeply and painfully. Morgin cried out.
“Forgive me, my lord,” the angel said sadly. “But you must know and understand the reality of your dreams. And so I give you that token.”
Suddenly the angel looked to the sky as if he sensed something approaching that he feared. And then a shadow fell over them both, and Ellowyn materialized, livid with anger.
“You!” she screamed at the dark angel as if she knew him. He tried to say something but she charged at him and struck with her own sword before he could speak. He fought back, but she struck blow after blow in a white-hot anger, and the dark angel was hard pressed to do more than defend himself. He skipped just out of reach of her blade, dancing back and away, ever retreating. It was as if he could not, or would not, strike a blow against her. And then suddenly he was gone, vanished as if he had never been.
Ellowyn turned instantly to Morgin. Holding her broadsword in one hand she reached down and lifted him to his feet. “Come,” she said breathlessly. “We must be away. And quickly.”
~~~
Morgin awoke with Rhianne and JohnEngine standing over him. A single candle splashed a wan and lonely light across the room. But it was otherwise dark, and his black mood had not left him with the passing of the dream.
He touched a hand to his cheek and felt a bandage there. “What happened?” he asked, though in moving his jaw to speak he learned quite painfully that a deep wound lay beneath the bandage.
