“… getting to be a habit,” Tamlevar was saying. She dangled from his back as he ran through the woods. Lifting her head, she saw over a dozen Kards pursuing. She opened her mouth to speak, but then submerged again.
In the real world, something pierced her flesh, but though she noted it, she did not feel it.
Mar-Ra chided her for not paying attention so Waeh-Loh straightened her back and fixed her eyes forward. She wasn’t interested in poetry, but it was one of the arts in which a princess was expected to excel. And besides, her father liked poetry and she wanted to learn more about it so she could share it with him.
But the sun was shining through the castle window, and she couldn’t help but be distracted. Outside, elves were frolicking in the meadows and the trees, and Waeh-Loh wanted to frolic, too. A new child had been born in the village, and the celebration was tonight.
“Pay attention, Your Highness,” Mar-Ra was saying. “Pay pay pay.”
“Pay,” said Willow.
“What did you say?” Tamlevar said. She jostled against his back as he scaled a rocky hill. Below, she saw archers firing arrows at them.
“Pay attention,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Pay,” she said, and then slipped under again.
And waiting for her just under the surface was Warlord Rackal.
Ah, Waeh-Loh, he said. I’ve been waiting such a long time for you. You’ve been awfully naughty to make me wait like this.
No, Willow thought, trying to wake up. I don’t want to be here.
Rackal’s pale blue eyes gleamed in the darkness, and a faint outline of his face began to take shape around them.
He’s feeding on my terror, Willow realized. I’ve got to stop being afraid of him.
But it was no good. The more she feared him, the more solid the wraith was becoming. And the more real he became, the more she was afraid. Already, she saw the outline of his hawk-like nose, the shine of those cruel teeth.
“That’s it, my darling,” Rackal said, his handsome face the picture of true evil. And those eyes! Those brilliant insane eyes! “Fear me. Make me real again. There’s so much left for me to do in your world.”
No, pleaded Willow. No, please.
“Yes,” Rackal said, stroking her thigh. “Oh yes.”
Chapter 30
For a while there was nothing. Willow did not dream, she did not think; she scarcely breathed.
Then something else. She wasn’t alone in the void any longer. Another presence had joined her in the infinite blackness, and it approached. It expanded as it closed the distance, gaining speed and strength.
When it reached her, it enveloped her with color and that color was blue-white. The blue-whiteness enveloped Willow, and her skin began to tingle as though at a lover’s touch. The color caressed her, explored her, penetrated, and permeated her. It was more intimate than love making, yet also more clinical in the manner in which it explored every aspect of her but neither lingered nor discriminated.
A nexus of heat formed in her heart and warmth radiated from it, following the lines of blue and red within her body. Willow felt it reaching towards her fingers, towards her face, towards her genitals, towards her toes. The warmth enveloped and pervaded her.
The blue-white warmth became a pinkish heat—a mild discomfort. The heat intensified and as it did so, it localized, forming tiny pockets of increasingly fierce embers: her head, parts of her back, a region of her chest, one of her legs, and one of her arms.
The pinkness flared into a flaming orange, and now Willow’s psyche began to burn. Paralyzed, she was helpless to prevent the flames from searing bits and pieces of her from within. She envisioned tiny fires erupting on the surface of her skin, blackening patches of her body, spreading. Smoke rising in wisps from charred flesh.
The color progressed to a white-hot filigree that threaded though the fabric of her flesh. If she had voice, she would have begged for the agony to cease, begged for death. She would rather have bashed in her own skull with a rock than endure another moment of this immolation.
Then, impossibly, the heat further intensified into a light so hot, a heat so bright, that her nerves were unable to even register it correctly. She felt phantom sensations: the texture of honey, the taste of a stone, and the particular shade of blue found only in her mother’s eyes. It was an assault on all of her senses, wrapped in an exquisite inferno of pain.
This incomprehensible agony focused even more, like a single steel thread that tore a pathway through her body to thrash and snap at the bones and sinew within a single leg, particularly the ankle and foot. If she could have amputated that foot, she would have. If she could have died, she would have.
As it was, she was helpless, helpless to suffer the torment that surely was the suffering of the damned.
Have I died?
She was astonished to realize that that she had had a conscious thought. Her emergence from oblivion had come unannounced.
But her surprise didn’t last. The heat vanished and Willow plummeted from the void and landed in a soft, healthy sleep.
She did not dream.
* * *
She opened her eyes. It was dark, yet it was brighter than the void she had left. She lay there, blinking. A sense of tremendous well-being pervaded her. She savored the sensation of being at one with the cosmos around her.
No flames. It was cold. She did not feel burned. The kaleidoscope of sensations had ceased. She felt … well, she felt great. Well-rested, her muscles relaxed … even a bit hungry.
She realized she was naked, but she had no feelings on the matter. She lay atop a cold surface, probably stone. She felt the coldness through her back, buttocks, and legs. Goosebumps dotted her forearms. She shivered.
Her belly was warm, though, and it was also heavy. Breathing was difficult and her belly was warm. It took her a while to figure out why.
There was someone draped over her belly.
She lay there, blinking in the dark, and as she started to think coherent thoughts, it occurred to her that it might be interesting to see who it was that was draped across her belly.
She needed to lift her head, but it was difficult remembering how. First, her hands twitched, then her calves, but at last she found the right muscles. She lifted the leaden weight of her skull from the cold surface upon which it lay and inspected the person on her belly.
Tamlevar. The solid blackness of Tamlevar lay draped across the ethereal whiteness of her naked body. He was either asleep or dead. Willow couldn’t tell. At first, she didn’t care which, but slowly, she realized that she preferred he not be dead.
After a struggle to control her limbs, she raised her hand, placed it atop his head, and stroked his soft hair. He was warm. Probably alive then. That was good.
Willow smiled. She was happy he was not dead. His hair felt nice, too.
She decided she wanted to be standing now. That was harder than she expected. A lot of body parts needed to be given a lot of instructions. But eventually, she thought she had figured it all out, and she gave it a try.
She pushed herself into a sitting position and Tamlevar’s head slid into her lap. She cradled his head, swung her legs over the edge of the surface, and then carefully set his head back down on the table.
She dropped to the floor.
Wait. Wasn’t her foot injured? Oh well, too late now.
Besides, as she flexed her feet experimentally across the chilly stone floor, she realized that neither foot hurt. Which was the injured one again? She couldn’t remember.
In the dark room she could barely make out the shapes therein. She saw a lump on the floor beside the table, and upon investigation, it turned out that it was her clothing. How nice!
She dressed. Her uniform felt somehow obsolete or inappropriate. Also, she had trouble remembering which piece went where, and in what order. But it was warm in the clothing, and she had been cold.
Where was she?
She w
alked about the room until she found the door. The walls were stone, but the door was made of wood. She tried to open it. It wouldn’t open.
Out of habit, she rapped on it with her knuckles.
At first, there was nothing, but then she heard footsteps, followed by a key turning in the lock. The door creaked open, letting in a blaze of light that blinded her. She raised her hand to shield her eyes, and still the light was too bright for her to even squint. She pressed her lids tightly closed.
“Has she died yet?” said the man’s voice on the other side of the door. “I told you that you were wasting your—Bakala mah! You live!”
The oath was Elvish.
Chapter 31
The elf was young, perhaps fifty or so, and stood as high as the bridge of Willow’s nose. He wore his black hair in short bangs. His expression was a mixture of suspicion and awe.
“Where am I?” Willow said. The words felt strange to her.
“You don’t remember, Your Highness?”
“If I … If …” She was supposed to say something witty and sharp, but she couldn’t get her brain to operate. She shook her head. “No, I don’t remember.”
“Didn’t your friend tell you?”
“My friend?”
“The black human.”
Willow glanced back at Tamlevar, who still sat on the floor with his head resting upon the stone table.
“Oh,” she said. “He’s not human.”
“He’s not an elf.”
“He’s not human, either.”
“Then what is he?”
Willow sighed. She moved to leave the room, but the elf was in the way. She could see only his silhouette back-lit by the bright light behind him.
“Would you please get out of my way?”
The elf moved, and Willow was about to follow when the door closed in her face. She heard the sound of the key in the lock.
“Please don’t take offense, Your Highness,” came the elf’s voice from behind the door. “I need to check with my superior before letting you out.”
“Terrific,” she muttered.
She went over to Tamlevar’s sleeping form.
“Tamlevar, wake up.” She shook his shoulder gently. “Wake up.”
Tamlevar lifted his head, his eyes half-lidded, and he yawned wide large enough to stuff a live cat into his mouth. He yawned a second time, then blinked twice.
“Willow?” he said.
“Yes.”
Tamlevar yawned a third time, then wrapped his arms around Willow’s waist. He pressed the side of his face against her belly.
“I’m sorry I left you,” he said. “I’m ashamed.”
“It’s not important,” Willow said.
He shook his head. “It is important. I never should’ve left you.” Tamlevar looked up at Willow with sad sleepy eyes. “But I was trying to help you, I promise.”
“Of course.”
“No, really! I was going back to Suel’s tower for some kind of help for you. I just couldn’t stand the … feeling of you in pain.” His eyes met hers. “I’m sensitive to your feelings, Willow. I can’t help it.”
She wanted to pull away but his arms were wrapped too tightly around her.
“I understand,” she said. She hesitated, and then placed her hand upon his head.
“The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt you,” Tamlevar said as he lowered his head to the table again. “Afterall. Love you.”
Willow peered around the side of his head and saw that his eyes were closed. She looked at her hand resting upon his head, and she stroked his hair once, twice, and then withdrew her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
That was weird. Feeling affection? Sorrow?
The door to the cell opened again, flooding the room with light. Willow shielded her squinted eyes.
“You may come out, Your Highness, but please do not try to escape.” The voice was not that of the elf with the bangs. This one was deeper, more authoritative.
She glanced around for her weapons, but did not see them.
“Come,” the elf said, but in the elven tongue.
“What about Tamlevar?” she said, sticking with Szun Universal instead of following the speaker into Elvish.
“You don’t speak Elvish?”
“What about Tamlevar?”
There was a pause. As her eyes acclimated to the light, she was able to discern the shape of the speaker. She saw at least one other figure behind him to his left. She began working out the tactics for an escape.
“He’ll be fine,” the elf said. “Come.”
Willow left the cell, shielding her eyes. She was in an earthen tunnel that led gradually up to her left, and gradually down to her right.
“Is ‘come’ the only Elvish word you know?” she said in Elvish.
He didn’t respond. He was thin, and wore his auburn hair shoulder length. He was dressed as an elven artisan, in simple breeches and a shirt. He seemed to be having trouble finding the right expression to wear on his face. For instance, Willow could not tell if he was relieved or disappointed that she had not died.
He wore a dagger at his side. He noted her glance and said, “Please don’t think about that, Your Highness.”
Behind him was another boy, perhaps forty years old. He was taller than even Willow, and very thin. His face and hands were narrow and bony.
“Where am I?” she asked.
“Among friends, Your Highness,” said the elf with the dagger.
Willow rolled her eyes. These elves had obviously spent too much time hanging around the storytellers. They aped heroism without understanding it.
“You have an odd way of showing friendship.”
His cheeks colored. “I apologize, Your Highness. Life here has taught us to be cautious. We mean no offense. Now please, follow me.”
He started his descent further into the depths of the earth, and after a moment, Willow followed. The lanky elf brought up the rear.
They seemed to walk an interminable distance before the tunnel opened up into a massive chamber. Inside were twenty or thirty elves, all young, and all serious-looking as though they were playing war. The chamber was lit by lamps suspended from the ceiling, illuminating the myriad of maps stretched out across the tables. Many tunnels led off in all directions.
“Welcome to the resistance, Your Highness” said the boy with the dagger. “I am Pree-Var-Us.”
Willow glanced around at the network of tunnels and collection of maps and shook her head.
“The elven underground,” she said, her voice deadpan.
Her jaw dropped. She had just made a joke. But she never made jokes.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?” Pree-Var-Us said.
“Nothing,” Willow said. “Why are we here?”
“You’re here because you needed help. Ber-Ote led your friend here. It was your friend who bargained for our aid.”
Willow’s eyes narrowed. “Bargained?”
Something in Pree-Var-Us’s hazel eyes made him look older than his age. Willow looked around the room: not a single elf appeared to be older than sixty years old. Children playing soldiers.
“Don’t worry, Your Highness. It’s nothing unseemly.”
“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow. “What precisely is this not-unseemly favor that I find myself owing you?”
Pree-Var-Us’s eyes shifted away from hers. “I think that is something you should discuss with Sil-Then. He’s our leader.” There was something evasive in his answer, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. It was just something odd in his manner.
“Well, then I guess you’d better get him.”
Pree-Var-Us’s face colored. “He’s our leader. We don’t ‘get’ him. He commands us, not we him.”
“I don’t have time for your little game of pretending to be soldiers. I have a mission I need to complete and time is of the essence. If you won’t tell me what you want and your leader can’t be bothered to tell me what he wants, then you’
ll just have to wait until I’m done with my mission.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Or do you intend to stop me from leaving here?”
“Wh-what?” Pree-Var-Us said. “No, you’re not our prisoner here, Your Highness. But I would have thought it a point of honor with you to at least show some courtesy and respect to the man who saved your life. Not to mention that from the way Tamlevar described your situation, it didn’t seem like you had many allies.”
He had a point there. She was running short on allies. It had become a matter of face for this Sil-Then. Perhaps it was time to try a little of that diplomacy she’d always eschewed.
“You’re right, Pree-Var-Us. If I may, I would like to formally petition your leader for an audience. I understand that he is likely very busy, but as”—she could barely bring herself to say it—“a member of the royal family, it is my hope that Sil-Then will find the time in his schedule to greet me.”
The words sickened her, but they seemed to be helping. Pree-Var-Us seemed to grow taller as she fed into his little band’s delusions of importance.
He held up a finger. “Please give me a few minutes, Your Highness. I will meet with Sil-Then and see if he can find a moment or two in which to grant you a brief audience.”
“I thank you, Pree-Var-Us,” she said, swallowing her urge to punch him senseless.
Pre-Var-Us disappeared down one of the tunnels, leaving her unattended in the chamber with the young elves and their maps. They pointedly did not look in her direction, yet it was clear by the tomb-like silence that they could think of nothing else. How does a child with a wooden sword and shield react when an actual soldier walks into the room?
It occurred to her that the maps might be of some use to her, so she approached one of the map tables. As she did, the elves stepped away and knelt before her. “Your Highness,” each said in turn as she passed.
Your Highness indeed. She was no princess. She was a soldier. She had long-since relinquished any claim to nobility she might have once had when she fled this land oh-so-many years ago.
She glanced at the various maps. The ones she saw were not of Ignis Fatuus. Worse, they were evidently historical maps. They did not show the lands as they were today, but rather, as they had been centuries earlier. These weren’t soldiers; they were historians!
Prince of Bryanae (Bryanae Series) Page 12
