Shadeborn: A Book of Underrealm

by Garrett Robinson

  “We will rest here for the night,” she said. “The Shades have come already. They will not be back, at least not for a time. We will ride before first light.”

  “Should we . . . I mean to say, the corpses . . ." said Gem.

  “We cannot bury them all, not without many days.”

  “The Shades will have done this in other places,” said Chet.

  “I imagine they have.”

  “Can we not warn them? Or can we not, at least, give the Shades reason to pursue us instead of killing innocents who have never heard our names?”

  “How do you mean to stop them, Chet?” said Loren, growing angry. “We could march into their midst and offer ourselves for sacrifice. But as long as we are outside their grasp, they will hunt for us wherever they think we might be found.”

  “So you mean to let them?”

  “We do not let them do anything,” said Xain. “Did we invite them into the Birchwood? Did we tell them where to find this village? Did we tell them to put their swords to the throat of innocence?”

  Chet shook his head. “There must be something we can do.”

  “There is not,” said Loren. “We can only flee, and survive, to someday deliver our greatest stroke.”

  Loren thought about leaving Wellmont with Jordel, while the city was under siege. Others had begged the Mystic to stay and aid in Wellmont’s defense. He had refused and grew angry when pressed. Loren had thought him somewhat heartless at the time. Now, at last, she understood. Wrath was a mask, a bandage meant to staunch the festering wound of his guilt. Doubtless Jordel would have fought upon the walls of Wellmont and given his life to defend the city without a second thought. But he had known, or suspected, that a greater battle lay over the horizon, and so he needed Xain to survive. How long must he have traveled the nine lands with that burden, letting evil go unchecked in the service of stopping a far greater power?

  Loren looked at them all, at Chet and Xain and the children, their faces turned to her, angry and hurt and expectant.

  She set her jaw and squared her shoulders.

  “I will take the first watch. All of you rest. Even you, Xain. Tomorrow is another long ride toward an uncertain end.”

  fifteen

  The following days passed like bitter winter months: cold, plodding, and lingering in their minds long after each long day was behind them. None spoke often, laughed, nor told any jokes, for the memories plagued them. They slept a few hours at a time, when neither the sun nor the moons were high to guide their way, and often as they pressed forward their heads would sag against their chests, only to snap upward at a jostle in the road.

  Xain’s condition was growing slowly worse, and though Loren tried not to pay it much mind, she could not ignore it. Fortunately, it was not as bad as it had been in the Greatrocks. Then he had been driven to madness, half the time forgetting who and where he was, and the other half filled with a murderous rage that he sought to unleash upon Loren and the others. This was more of a quiet wasting away, a slow breaking down of his body. Loren often saw him wincing at dismount, and his skin had been bruising with barely a brush. But he spoke no complaint and always matched her pace. So she concerned herself only with the road ahead.

  Five days after they found the village slaughtered in the Birchwood, they came at last out the northern side of the forest and down into the kingdom of Dorsea. Earlier that day, Loren noticed that the trees were shorter and sparser, less hearty than those in the south. The ground turned brown and brittle, the horses’ hooves kicking up dust that took long to settle.

  Dorsea itself, when they reached it, was much the same. The land was not quite mountainous, but rolling and hilly as far as the eye could see, browner than it was green. The scant vegetation came in small, scrubby bushes and spindly trees, sucking what water they could from the earth.

  “To the west and to the south, Dorsea is much like Selvan,” said Xain. “But here, it is half a desert. The acreage may be tilled, but not easily, and so the people are as hard and stubborn as the land upon which they feed themselves. Still, adversity has made them somewhat kinder than their western and southern brethren who, like all fat and happy people, turn their eyes outward to what more they can claim for their own.”

  “I know much of Dorsean greed,” said Loren. Chet nodded.

  “You speak with much dramatics and little truth,” said Annis, rolling her eyes. “Why, I met many merchants from Dorsea and members of the Dorsean royal family. They were no more or less crafty than any other inhabitants of the High King’s Seat. Those from Selvan included. You are a gem among women, Loren, and you seem a decent enough fellow, Chet, but you must know that not all people are so good and kindhearted as you.”

  “It is foolish to claim great knowledge of all people when you have spent your life upon the Seat,” said Xain. “It could be said, rather, that the wealthy and the powerful are much the same from one kingdom to the next, though the people they rule may wildly vary. But this is idle philosophy, and we have little time. Let us press on.”

  They were in open territory, in a land Loren knew little about. Xain took to guiding them now, for he had traveled Dorsea well as a young man.

  “Do not tell me you hail from this kingdom,” said Annis in surprise.

  “It is hard to say where I hail from,” said Xain, “especially since my first answer would have been the Seat until recently, and they will no longer claim me as their own. But I was born in Wadeland to the east, though I left is as a child when my parents found I had the gift of Elementalism.”

  “And how did they find that out?” Gem leaned forward. “Were you bandying about the stables when you accidentally set the stable boy on fire?”

  Xain chuckled—an odd sound from him these days, and one Loren welcomed. “Nothing so crude as that, though I can hardly blame you for thinking so, since you are a commoner and know little of the wealthy. When a child of royalty nears his fifth year, he is required by law to see a representative of the Academy. Wealthy merchants, such as my parents, pay in coin for such a representative to visit. These men know how to test for the gift and put the child through a series of trials meant to uncover if any of the four branches have presented themselves in strength.”

  “I took the trials,” said Annis, sounding as if she were trying hard not to boast. “They found nothing. What do they do, I wonder, if a child shows the gift of more than one type of magic?”

  “That is impossible,” said Xain. “We are gifted with but one—even the most powerful among us.”

  Xain fixed Loren with a look. She thought, as he must be thinking, about the Lifemage, the Necromancer, and the two branches of magic that had been hidden for centuries.

  How did the wizards of the Academy detect them, if ever they did?

  Loren doubted if they would ever know.

  sixteen

  They made camp on the wide plains of Dorsea that night. They found a crag of a hill in the midst of the flatlands and settled down to the north so that it might block their fire’s light from anyone who would follow them out of the Birchwood. Loren knew there might be Shades in Dorsea already, and they might be spied from the west or north. But as they had seen no sign of their pursuers for days, the warmth seemed worth the risk.

  Chet took first watch. Loren half expected Xain to volunteer, as he so often did these days, but the wizard looked weary and worn. Once they built a fire, he curled up in his bedroll and slept. Loren hoped that was a hopeful sign. When he had suffered from magestone sickness in the Greatrocks, he had gone through a time of great anguish and pain, followed by a bone-weary exhaustion. If he had reached that point already, it meant his recovery from now on would be less taxing.

  Loren’s thoughts were still much occupied with their fight in the Birchwood, and she imagined it might give her a sleepless night. But the summer’s warmth and the fire’s soft glow lulled Loren to slumber, deep without dreams or black thoughts. She woke feeling refreshed, more so than she had in all the many miles
of their journey since Northwood, and as relaxed as if she had spent the night on one of Mag’s softest mattresses.

  Then she saw the moons, and realized with a start that it was still the middle of the night.

  Loren looked about in confusion. Had a noise woken her? If so, it was gone. Only dying embers glowed, and the others were all curled in their blankets. The world was silent, save a faint whisper on the air and far-off birdsong.

  Loren lifted her head and saw Chet sitting by a rock near the edge of camp, head bent into his chest, asleep. She sniffed in annoyance. It was foolish, and she would have words with him in the morning. For now, she would take watch and let him sleep. They were all of them weary.

  But then Loren rose and saw the Elves.

  There were six of them, glowing in the starlight only a few paces away from her sleeping friends. She knew them at once from a lifetime of tales told in nighttime whispers. It was said that to speak of the creatures too often might invite their wrath. Stories came from survivors, of which there were few. When humans came upon Elves in the nine lands, they rarely lived to tell the tale.

  They were white of skin and clothing, the color of snow everywhere except their hair. That was raven-black and long, spilling down to the smalls of their backs and wafting gently with their every movement. They wore no armor and carried no weapons, clad in robes and dresses of white, the edges frilled and floating as though underwater. Even their eyes were white, a thin and ghostly gossamer with no pupils or irises, so that it hard to see where they were looking.

  Except that they were looking at Loren, and somehow, in the deepest part of her soul, she knew it.

  She was frozen, unable to move a muscle. What should she do? What could she do? She thought to rouse the others, get the horses so they could ride for their lives. They were powerless if the Elves should choose to harm them—even Xain, were he at the height of his power, and he was far from that now. Elves could not be reasoned with, they could not be talked out of slaughter if that was there intent. Indeed, so far as she knew. And no one had ever spoken to Elves or learned their words.

  She could not run, not now. They could never move fast enough. Even if Loren left the others to save herself and run for Midnight, they could be upon her in an instant. The Elves would kill Loren, and all the rest of them, if that was their whim. And she could do nothing to stop it.

  A thought came into her mind.

  The dagger.

  It was on her belt—Loren never removed it, even while sleeping. But she dismissed that furtive instinct, for it was ridiculous. Mighty knights and kings had tried to battle Elves, but none had survived. What proof would such a tiny knife be against them?

  The dagger.

  This time, the thought came more insistent, like a bellow in her mind.

  With a start, Loren realized that the idea was not her own. The Elves had given it to her.

  She studied them. They had not moved, had not shifted so much as a muscle. Only their clothing and hair swayed, wafting gently as though in a breeze, though the night held no wind. They had not spoken. Words had come from their minds to hers.

  Loren reached for her waist, desperately hoping that she was not making a terrible mistake. If they thought she meant to fight them, they would kill her for certain. She drew the dagger then flipped it about, holding it by the blade, hilt forward. She took a tentative step toward them, then another. A few paces away, Loren slowly knelt and placed the dagger on the ground.

  One of them stepped away from the others and came forward. Its limbs moved like courtly dancer’s. The Elf swayed with grace, ease, and terrifying power. It held out a hand, fingers curled as though around the dagger. Loren pictured that hand circling her throat, and she quailed. Then the dagger appeared, as if from nowhere, in the Elf’s hand. If it had reached for the blade, or moved the dagger with magic, Loren had not seen. One moment it was not there, and then it was.

  The Elf turned to the others and lifted the weapon. It flashed in the moonslight, and Loren thought she saw the Elves’ silver glow reflected in the steel. And then they began to sing.

  Loren burst into tears. Her knees failed, and she fell to the floor in a heap. She buried her face in her hands, wailing, giving no heed to the sound of her voice or whether it might wake the others. The song was too beautiful; incomprehensible, for it was sung in no tongue she had ever heard; soul-shattering, for Loren felt that when it ended its grace would break her and leave her wishing for always to hear it again. She felt as though it were transforming her from the inside out, changing something deep within her, beyond explanation or hope of memory.

  The song stopped. Loren lay there, still a wreck, aching to hear another note. And then, though they had sung to it in chorus as though in worship, the Elf took her blade by the tip and dropped it in the dirt.

  The dagger.

  The thought came again, and this time Loren knew it for the Elf’s. She struggled to her hands and knees; the thought of standing seemed more than her body could bear. She slowly crawled forward, searching the ground for her blade. But she was far beyond the fire, and her tear-filled eyes made it hard to find.

  A hand gripped her shoulder, and where it touched her she felt an incredible warmth. It was not a warmth of the body, but of the soul, and where it ran through her it filled her with hope and courage. But the hand was uncaring, uncompromising, and it lifted her to her feet without waiting for her to act. She found herself standing before the Elf, looking into its gossamer-white eyes, and then she realized that the glow in those eyes was the same glow she saw in Xain whenever he reached for his magic.

  This is the end.

  The Elf would kill her now, for she had moved too slowly. She only hoped it would leave the others be.

  The dagger.

  The Elf was holding it now, its hilt toward her.

  She grabbed the hilt, though she had not meant to. The Elf released the blade, then Loren’s shoulder, and the world seemed darker and more horrible than it had before she felt the Elf’s touch.

  The stones.

  And now in her mind’s eye Loren saw the magestones, a small packet wrapped in brown cloth resting in one of her pockets.

  “What?” she said out loud.

  She caught some movement—just the bare twitch of a muscle in the Elf’s jaw. It seized her again. Loren wanted to burst out in hysterical laughter at the feeling, the power and joy. But the Elf, uncaring, reached into her cloak and seized the packet. From the cloth it drew one of the stones, then broke it in half and held it before her.

  The stones.

  Loren took the stone between thumb and forefinger, gingerly. And in her mind’s eye, saw herself putting the stone in her mouth, crunching down, and swallowing the dust. Her eyes widened, and she thought of Xain.

  “No,” she stammered. “I cannot—”

  The Elf seized her throat. She felt its skin upon hers, no longer dampened by the cloth on her shoulder.

  It felt as though her mind would collapse upon itself. She saw herself, all of herself, the bone and sinew and flesh beneath the skin and a bright white light at the center of it all. But all was distorted and misshapen, turned about so she could see every angle of it at once. And from each part Loren saw what looked like a thin thread, a silvery wisp of something running in every direction and none at once, through time and leagues uncounted.

  With the sight came knowing, and Loren knew she beheld the skeins of time, laid out before and behind her, and all of the many twists and turns that had led her to where she stood now. And farther, beyond the place where the camp lay, she saw those threads touching others, one at a time and then great clusters in a group, twisting endlessly around each other in a pattern that covered all the nine lands.

  The twisted, broken thing that was Loren’s body twitched, and from its mouth croaked the words, “I cannot . . . I cannot . . .”

  The Elf placed the magestone in Loren’s mouth and released her, and the world was as it had been.

  She
swallowed on instinct and felt the magestone slide down her throat. She gasped, feeling it creeping through her. She thought it might be like a black corruption, or some great sickness sliding through her veins. But it was nothing so terrible. It was . . . a sharpening. Her mind had been a dull blade all her life, and the magestone slid through her like a whetstone to hone her edges.

  Loren realized with a start that she could see all the world around her, clear as day. She could see better than her day-sight. She saw the pores on blades of grass, the threads that made up Gem’s bedroll, and the hairs stubbornly clinging to Xain’s thinning scalp.

  She looked at the Elves in wonder, and the glow pouring from them seemed thrice as lovely. Now their eyes were black, like Xain’s when he had cast darkfire, and she quailed under their gaze.

  The Nightblade, came the thought in her mind. The one who walks with death.

  Then their eyes turned from her. They looked skyward, to where the moons continued their long path across the sky, west toward the horizon where they would finally set. One of the Elves turned, though Loren did not see their feet move, and they began to wander off into the west. They strayed but traveled westerly, and though they did not seem to hurry, the Elves vanished beyond the horizon in what seemed like mere moments.

  When the last of their glow faded from sight, Loren went weak and fell to the grass. She still felt the glamour of their presence in her mind, but she was exhausted without it there to sustain her. Her night vision from the magestones had faded. The world was black, save for the silver moonslight—a glow that would remind Loren of the Elves forever.

  At the sound of her dropping, Chet started awake. His head jerked. He blinked, and then he beheld her.