Instead, she looked around her, and wonder filled her mind.
She was on her knees in a vast domed chamber, the walls and the dome built of gleaming white stone. Yet the chamber was half-ruined. Portions of the dome had collapsed to fall in piles of rubble upon the floor, and weeds poked up between the flagstones. Reliefs covered the walls of the huge chamber, similar to the reliefs that Tamara had seen in the ruins of Cathair Selenias and Cathair Avamyr.
This place had been built by the gray elves a long time ago.
Tamara turned her head to the right and saw two things that filled her with dread, both in the present and within the memory.
The first was a giant ring of dark elven steel. It looked as if it had been made of twisted bundles of wire, and it was perhaps twenty or thirty feet in diameter. It had been set upright, almost like a portal, as if it was waiting for someone to walk through it. There were slots along the ring’s circumference that looked like the scabbards of a knight’s sword.
Seven slots, come to think of it.
Before the ring, filling the central third of the floor, was a well rimmed in gleaming white stone. Tamara couldn’t see into the depths of the well, but she knew it sank into the heart of the world.
And she could just glimpse the storm that filled the well, and that storm filled her with terror.
If the storm was unleashed, it would break the world.
The Well of Storms. Tamara had heard both Calliande and the High Augur mention the Well of Storms. This domed chamber had to be within Cathair Animus, the stronghold of the Guardian Rhodruthain, the place where Rhodruthain and the Master Talitha had betrayed the High King Kothlaric Pendragon. Kothlaric had come to Cathair Animus to destroy the Seven Swords, but instead, he had been betrayed, and the Swords were scattered.
This was where the War of the Seven Swords had begun.
Tamara heard someone running towards her, and she turned her head.
A tall gray elf ran towards her, a staff of red gold in his left hand, its top shaped into the image of a roaring dragon’s head. He wore a ragged cloak over clothes of wool and leather, and his features were weathered, almost battered, as if he had spent long years wandering beneath a harsh sun. His eyes were an eerie shade of gold, and the pointed ears of the elven kindred rose alongside his head.
A golden longsword hung in a sheath at his belt, the pommel adorned with the stylized symbol of a closed eye.
It was the Sword of Life.
Tamara had never seen this gray elven man before in her life, but she knew that this was Rhodruthain, the Guardian of Cathair Animus.
And then she began to speak.
It was a strange sensation. It was a memory, but the words came from her lips.
“You have one of them,” said Tamara. “One flicker of hope in the miserable catastrophe of this day.”
Her voice was strange in her ears. The accent was wrong. When Tamara spoke, she sounded like the freeholders of Kalimnos. Now her voice sounded cooler, more refined. Her accent resembled Kalussa Pendragon’s, come to think of it.
“Yes,” said Rhodruthain, going to one knee before her. There were sorrow and regret on that lined face, sorrow that was older than Owyllain.
“What…” Tamara winced as pain rolled through her. “What of the other six Swords?”
“Scattered,” said Rhodruthain. “Prince Justin took the Sword of Earth. Taerdyn managed to get the Sword of Death before he fled. I don’t know what happened to the Sword of Air. The Confessor almost certainly escaped with the Sword of Water. I’ll expect him to return to Urd Maelwyn and seat himself in his master’s throne, the fool. Prince Hektor seized the Sword of Fire before anyone else could steal it. That is just as well. He might be the only thing standing between Owyllain and slavery.”
“And the Sword of Shadows?” said Tamara.
Rhodruthain hesitated.
“Tell me,” said Tamara.
“Cavilius took it,” said Rhodruthain. “I believe he intended to bring it to you, or to the Great Forge to destroy it himself.”
“Oh, God.” Tamara closed her eyes. “Oh, God. Cavilius. He’s going to become the Masked One. He didn’t deserve that.”
“No one did,” said Rhodruthain.
Tamara opened her eyes. “And Nicion? And Cathala?”
“Nicion fled with King Hektor,” said Rhodruthain. “He believed that you were dead, that Hektor has the best chance of defending Owyllain. And Cathala…”
Rhodruthain turned his head. Tamara followed suit and saw the woman.
She was beautiful, tall with red hair, brilliant green eyes, and fair skin. The woman wore armor identical to Tamara’s, the armor of a Sister of the Arcanii. She dropped to one knee next to Tamara, taking her shoulder, her expression twisted with concern.
Yet something about the woman unsettled Tamara. She could not have said what exactly. Perhaps it was the eyes, the way they shone with rigid confidence that seemed out of place. Or maybe it was her expression. It was twisted up with grief, but it looked almost like a mask. Like she was acting, somehow.
“Cathala,” said Tamara.
In the present, Tamara felt surprised. This was Tamlin’s mother? Tamlin’s looks favored his father, not his mother. Yet Tamara saw some resemblance in the shape of Cathala’s face. Her husband was a handsome man, and some of that had come from Cathala.
“My lady,” said Cathala. “I was faithful. All the others fled or betrayed you, but I alone was faithful.”
“I thought,” Tamara coughed, blood on her lips, “I thought you would be with Prince Justin.”
A flash of rage went through Cathala’s jade eyes but vanished at once. “He thinks above himself. He thinks above you, my lady. His folly might destroy us all.”
“Perhaps,” said Tamara, “but there is no shortage of folly that…ah!”
Her sentence choked off in a strangled cry. Pain rolled through her, but the worst was a wound in her chest.
“My lady!” said Cathala. She glared up at Rhodruthain. “Can you help her? You must have magic to help her.”
“I cannot,” said Rhodruthain. “She was wounded too badly. I have no magic that can save her. Not even the Sword of Life could heal her now.”
“He’s right,” said Tamara. “But there is another way.”
Rhodruthain’s eyes narrowed. “And what way is that?”
“You know what it is,” said Tamara. She gasped again, and the strength drained out of her even as the pain redoubled. She started to fall over, and Cathala guided her gently to the smooth stone floor. “We discussed it earlier. We have no choice left. We…”
“Do you know the cost of what you ask?” said Rhodruthain, sorrow in his voice. “Everything about you would change – your face, your appearance, your tastes and preferences. Your life would be multiplied sevenfold. That would mean seven lives, each with their own sorrows and losses and torments. It would also mean six more deaths at a minimum. I have used the Sight to look into the shadows your present casts upon the future, and if you do this, if you split your life into seven shards, six of those seven shards will die in agony. Only one will have a chance of surviving to carry out your goal.”
“And if I do not?” said Tamara. She could barely manage a whisper now. Even breathing was becoming difficult. “The Sight. What does the Sight say about what will happen if I do not?”
Rhodruthain grimaced. “Then the New God will rise in power. We stopped it today, but we have only bought ourselves a few years at most. The Seven Swords will be reunited after decades of war, and they will be brought here, and the New God will ascend to enslave the world.”
“And if you do as I ask?” said Tamara.
“Then the future is unknown,” said Rhodruthain.
“We have to do it,” said Tamara. “The three of us are the only ones who know the truth. I am about to die. Prince Justin might hunt down and kill Cathala.” Cathala scowled at that but did not disagree. “And the Masked One is going to devote himself to hunti
ng you down, Rhodruthain. If he cannot find you, he will use the Sword of Shadows to erode your sanity, to make you less and less rational. This is the only way. You know it is the only way. One of the seven shards must survive to remember the truth.”
“I will take one of the shards, my lady, and raise her as my own daughter,” said Cathala. “I swear it.”
Tamara felt herself cough out a laugh. “You were horrified enough at the prospect of carrying Justin’s child.”
“This is different,” said Cathala. “To raise the woman who will save Owyllain itself will be a great honor.”
“Where will you go?” said Tamara. “If you betray Justin, he will try to hunt you down. And the servants of the New God will find you. Some of the high priests of the Maledicti survived Urd Maelwyn, and I fear they will attach themselves to the New God.”
“I will hide where no one will ever find me,” said Cathala. “And when the shard is grown to womanhood, we will return to Owyllain, find the Seven Swords, bring them here, and destroy them in the Great Forge. All history will remember what you and I will do.”
“If you are set upon this course,” said Rhodruthain, “then I will find homes for the other six shards. Obscure places where, I hope, the servants of the New God will never find them.”
“Yes,” said Tamara. “Yes, do it. This is my responsibility. I advised him. I failed to see the trap until it was too late. It is up to the three of us to stop the New God. No one else can do it.” Another wave of agony rolled through her, and she bit back a whimper. “Please, do it. Before it is too late.”
“It may already be too late,” said Rhodruthain, drawing the Sword of Life from its scabbard, “but as you wish.”
The golden sword flashed in the sunlight leaking through the breaches in the dome, and then the blade glowed with golden light, flames dancing along the length of the weapon.
Before Tamara could brace herself or even draw a breath, Rhodruthain reversed the Sword and brought the blade hammering down.
The Sword of Life plunged through Tamara’s heart.
She howled in agony, and the golden fire poured from the Sword and sank into her flesh, rushing through her veins like molten metal. The pain blazed hotter as Tamara screamed, and she found herself staring up into Rhodruthain’s face. She felt her body twisting and warping, saw a look of horror go over Cathala’s expression.
The world shuddered, and suddenly Rhodruthain split into seven images.
As if Tamara was looking at him through seven different pairs of eyes, and the horror of the sensation filled her.
Mercifully, the memory ended as everything went black.
###
Tamara jerked back from Calliande’s touch with a scream, her mismatched eyes wide with fear, her chest heaving with the rapid draw of her breath. She reeled back, and Calliande feared that she would fall, but Tamlin’s arms wrapped around her. Tamara sagged against his chest, her eyes wide and terrified, her breath coming hard and fast.
“What’s wrong?”
Calliande looked up. Ridmark had come to her side, staff raised, and a heartbeat later Third appeared out of nothingness, her swords ready. The others had scrambled to their feet, lifting weapons or readying spells.
“There’s no danger,” said Calliande. At least no danger of the physical sort, anyway. “Tamara and I tried to recover a memory from her first life…and it looks like it worked better than we expected.”
“You saw it?” whispered Tamara, staring at Calliande. “You saw what I saw?”
“I did,” said Calliande, remembering the vivid images that had flowed before her Sight. “I didn’t expect that, but the Sight showed me. I am sorry. I did not mean to intrude…”
“No,” said Tamara. She took a shuddering breath and straightened up, though she made no effort to move away from Tamlin. “I…no, it is as I said, Keeper. It is better to know the truth than to live in doubt. Even when the truth was as terrible as that.”
“What did you see?” said Tamlin.
“A memory,” said Tamara. “I was in the ruins of Cathair Animus, near the Well of Storms. It must have been right after High King Kothlaric was betrayed and imprisoned. I was dying. Rhodruthain was there, and so was your mother.”
“My mother?” said Tamlin.
“We talked about the Swords, how the New God had to be stopped,” said Tamara. “I said that the three of us were the only ones who knew the secret. I told Rhodruthain that he had to do it. He took the Sword of Life and stabbed me through the heart. I died…and then I split into seven. The pain was horrible. Then I woke up.”
“This secret,” said Kalussa. “I don’t suppose you recalled it?”
Tamara gave a miserable shake of her head. “No. I’m sorry. And I didn’t remember who I really was. If only Rhodruthain or Cathala could have spoken my name!”
But Calliande had her suspicions. Could it be? No, she wasn’t sure, at least not yet.
“Then our mission is all the more important,” said Ridmark. “We need a living eyewitness to those events…and if we are successful, we can find one in the ruins of the Monastery of St. James.”
Chapter 5: Jastaani
The next morning, Ridmark and the others broke camp and set out to the southeast, following the causeway. The xiatami might have used slaves to build the causeway, but the engineers who had planned it had known their business. The causeway continued to the southeast as straight as an arrow, never deviating from its path. Ridmark supposed the xiatami engineers and their slaves hadn’t needed to contend with hills or valleys, just the endless expanse of the marshes.
“If the maps that King Hektor showed us are accurate,” said Calliande, walking next to Ridmark, swinging her staff with every step, “this causeway should end a few days south of the Monastery of St. James. It should be a short trip north to the ruins.”
“We may save time by leaving the causeway and proceeding directly east across the swamps once the mountains are in sight,” said Third.
“We might,” said Ridmark, “but we’d have to deal with crossing the damn swamp again. Given how slow our progress has been, we might make better time on the causeway.”
“And the mosquitoes are thinner up here,” said Calliande, waving a hand in front of her face to shoo away an errant insect. The now-familiar harsh odor of the fruit juice they smeared across their faces came to Ridmark’s nostrils.
“Perhaps it might be wise to double back for a few days,” said Krastikon.
“Why?” said Ridmark.
“We must not be all that far from the city of Najaris itself,” said Krastikon. “We could obtain supplies and…”
“No,” said Tamlin and Magatai in unison.
The Takai halfling and the Arcanius Knight glanced at each other.
“A rare show of agreement, then,” said Krastikon, amused.
“Sir Tamlin is correct,” said Magatai, adjusting his grip on Northwind’s reins. “We should not go to Najaris, and we should avoid the xiatami if possible. They are quite dangerous. They do not seek out trouble but are very deadly if crossed.”
“Sir Tamlin,” said Kalussa. “You like to talk. Perhaps you should explain to Prince Krastikon why we should avoid the xiatami.”
“I like to talk?” said Tamlin, half-annoyed, half-amused.
Ridmark snorted. “I would rather say that you both like to get in the last word.”
“And to get the last word,” said Calliande, “you both like to talk.”
“And lecture,” said Krastikon.
“It is not my fault,” said Tamlin, “that I thought I was going to become a monk, and so spent my childhood reading the monastery’s library.”
Kalussa grinned, sniffled, and blinked her bloodshot eyes. “You were going to become a monk and abstain from women for the rest of your days? How did that work out?”
Tamlin opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Tamara leaned over and planted a loud kiss on his cheek. Kalussa and Krastikon both chuckled, and Magata
i barked his harsh, booming laugh. Even Calem almost smiled.
“Children,” said Calliande in the tone of voice she used when Gareth and Joachim were starting to misbehave, “perhaps we should stop taunting Sir Tamlin so he could tell us why going to Najaris is unwise.”
“For several reasons,” said Tamlin. “Krastikon, have you ever met any xiatami?”
Krastikon shook his head. “No. I’ve never been this far southeast. My father sent an embassy to the xiatami to ask for their aid, but they refused. They permitted him to trade with Najaris, but that was all.”
“I saw the xiatami several times in Urd Maelwyn,” said Tamlin.
“As did I, Sir Tamlin,” said Calem.
“Then you know that the xiatami are exceedingly dangerous,” said Tamlin. “They are divided into nobles and commoners, but they all consider themselves superior to all other kindreds. They will not hesitate to eat humans when the opportunity presents itself.”
“Or Takai halflings,” said Magatai.
“Or Takai halflings,” agreed Tamlin. “Their nobles and priests wield powerful magic, and they could probably conquer most of Owyllain if they felt like it, but they are too lethargic for offensive warfare. They prefer to remain in Najaris and gather their wealth through trade and slaves, but they are absolutely lethal when challenged.”
“Didn’t they march with Kothlaric against the Sovereign?” said Ridmark.
“So did the Takai halflings, the gray elves, several of the orcish city-states, and numerous jotunmiri earls,” said Tamlin.
“My uncle had a gift for persuasion and leadership,” said Kalussa with some pride.
“Clearly,” said Tamlin. “But the xiatami view all other kindreds in only three ways. Either they are a threat, a potential asset, or a weaker victim to be devoured. They won’t seek us out. But it would be best not to come to their attention.”
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