by T. A. Miles
Shirisae scowled at him. “Don’t glorify your deed, mystic! You saved him to spare your conscience. I’ve seen the way you behave toward him. You don’t love him!”
The mystic’s delicate brow creased. “Don’t presume to speak my love to me. It runs far deeper than the girlish emotions, which currently guide you on a fool’s path. My love is for an empire, for the land that gave it and the people a foundation. I live for the safety and prosperity of that land and its people...and yet I threw my life away for one person.” His gaze lowered to the floor and he drew the knight almost unconsciously toward him, absently cradling Tristus’ head while the young man leaned into him, weeping softly. “I must now reflect on the deed, and suffer its consequences for your petty interest in a reckless and troublesome young man.”
Shame filled her too quickly. “I brought you back because I couldn’t bear to see him suffer...not to ingratiate myself with him.” The words sounded like a lie. She looked to Firestorm for support, but its light was dim and cold. “How can this be? You have chosen him. You brought us together.”
“Yes, the Blades brought us together,” Xu Liang said. “All of us. We, as the bearers of these weapons are inclined to follow their calling, but the emotions are our own. For some of us they may be difficult to understand. For others of us they are all too clear. They exist. That is all that matters, and we cannot let them divide us.”
Shirisae looked at the mystic with tears glistening in her golden eyes. “Us...or the Swords?”
“Us,” Xu Liang answered emphatically. “The Swords on their own are little more than artifacts. The bearers distinguish them and activate their powers. We must understand those unique powers and use them together, harmoniously. As day balances night and contrariwise; we must achieve that same balance amongst ourselves. If we do not, this chaos will continue to grow, until it swallows everything. The heart of it beats beneath Sheng Fan. There, we must put it to rest. Then your people will be given a new beginning, a life free of the demons that plague them now.”
“No,” Shirisae argued. “The Keirveshen are not merely spirits. They will continue to exist, whether or not your problems in your homeland are resolved. You would use us for your own purposes.”
The mystic frowned. “I set out to use the Swords. I realize now that I must unite with their bearers. Yes, it is true that the Keirveshen will always exist, but they flourish in the madness which radiates from my homeland. They become stronger with its awakening, taking advantage of the fear already in all of our hearts. They are being helped by one of our own. As the Moon Blade calms and protects, the Night Blade enshrouds and attacks. It attacks the mind and stirs our darkest thoughts. It is a terrible power, but one that can be governed. A malicious will governs it now and would lure all of you to destruction, if you let it.”
Shirisae watched the exotically fair man, holding the knight, whom she had inexplicably fallen in love with upon the moment she and D’mitri spied him with the others. She believed that Firestorm had explained everything to her when it glowed so brilliantly in his presence. Now she was uncertain as to any explanation for it, but her love remained just the same. She would not let him be taken here. She would protect him, somehow, but...
“How can you know these things?” she asked the mystic. “Has your spirit left your body again? Would you risk such a feat, knowing it would undo what the Phoenix has done, what it was barely capable of doing and could never do again?”
As Shirisae watched, the Fanese man changed. He seemed to grow smaller and somehow fairer. His blue and violet robes paled, becoming faint, almost pearlescent with shimmering silver threads forming wondrous images that glittered like the stars. The color of the robes reminded Shirisae of the glow given off by the mystic’s slender blade. The pleasingly round face that stared out of that radiance was not Xu Liang’s. It was the face of a young woman, her black hair bound up with many strands of shimmering beads.
“There is so much pain,” the woman said, her voice soft and melodic. “I wish that I could shelter you all from it, always, but that is not possible. It is in your nature to face this pain, whether you can defeat it or not.”
“Who...are you?” Shirisae asked, mystified by the presence of such a radiant being as this. She could not have been real. “Where is Xu Liang?”
The pale woman did not answer. She slipped carefully away from Tristus, who slumped in miserable silence, then rose gracefully to her feet. She took three tiny steps, then knelt beside Dawnfire. Pressing her delicate hands together, she closed her eyes and seemed to utter a prayer. The spear answered at once, glowing so intensely that Shirisae had to close her eyes.
When she opened them again, the young woman was on her feet once more. A man with long platinum-blond hair, wearing golden robes that seemed to blush with an iridescent red hue, was kneeling before her, his head bowed.
“Your brother needs you,” the woman said to him politely. “You must try harder.”
“Yes,” the man replied obediently. “I will do all within my power to meet your expectations.”
The radiant woman looked at Shirisae next and smiled sweetly when she said, “You must let him go. I understand that it is difficult, sister, but your duty must come first.”
Shirisae was struck speechless by these words.
The woman suddenly beside her, however—a slim figure with braided black hair, wearing a long silver tunic with big sleeves, loose-fitting black pants, and tiny black shoes—had much to say. “If we can find a way to be together, why won’t you allow it? We have been apart so long, I cannot bear to see him this close and not be permitted to reach out for him.”
“I understand,” the more delicate of the two women replied peacefully. “I too have been reunited with my love, and unable to reach him. It is a price we must pay to fulfill our obligation to the Master. As well we must remember that these lives are ours only to guide, not to control. Their hearts must be allowed to move freely, wherever they should like them to go.”
The woman in silver and black was silent for a moment, seeming almost resentful. At length she put her hands together and bowed at the waist. “Forgive me. I shall continue to serve loyally.”
The other inclined her head in reply. The man in bright robes, who had been silent and motionless through their discussion, lifted his head and cast a quick, longing glance at the woman beside Shirisae. Then he emanated a familiar golden glow and vanished, presumably back into the spear that seemed to be keeping his spirit. In the next second, the woman beside Shirisae had gone as well and she was left facing the radiant being that could only have transcended from the beautiful blade carried by Xu Liang.
That being bowed to Shirisae. “Forgive me for having interrupted you. I will leave you now.”
Shirisae blinked, and the woman was gone, as was Tristus. She quickly looked about and found that the knight was not actually gone, but that he had gotten to his feet at some point and wandered to the wall to her left, where he leaned against the bottom corner of an enormous tapestry, looking weak and exhausted. Shirisae felt as if she had awakened from a dream and couldn’t remember half of what went on in that dream, but she did recall something about the Night Blade being in the wrong hands.
“Shirisae,” Tristus gasped, clutching Dawnfire like a frightened child clung to a parent. “We have to get out of here. I can’t control what may happen if we don’t.”
Shirisae recalled the power the knight had unleashed in order to rescue Firestorm and Aerkiren. She had seen the mystic use his spiritual powers to calm Tristus afterward. He had stilled the rage, but apparently he had not banished it. Whatever dark thoughts attacked Tristus’ mind now, if they reached the darker force within him, Shirisae would not be able to fend him off without killing him. Knowing that she might fail in that task, she agreed that it was best to get out from under whatever influence was trying to pin them down.
ALERE WENT THROUGH the door at the end of the bridge and emerged from the house, onto a large balcony overlo
oking a thick mist. He could not see the ground from his position, and knew by the feel of the stone ledge, as well as the look of it—it was wide enough for fifty elves to stand across it—that such an addition was not connected to the original house. This was a castle. As he determined that, it began to snow. He stepped away from the door and turned slowly to find it gone. A deep hall faced him, filled with shadows and grand marble pillars. The house of Vorhaven seemed to shift perception of all things, even of time and of physical space.
“Where are you?” Alere growled into the emptiness. “Show yourself!”
“Come,” the voice insisted. “I am not far. I have never been far from you, elf. I have shadowed your steps from the moment you took up your father’s sword.”
Someone touched Alere’s shoulder. “Don’t. Don’t go any further. This is what he wants. He’s in your mind, Alere. He’s worse than I remembered him. Much worse.”
Alere’s eyes narrowed, and he turned his head slowly to face Bastien Crowe. A vicious scowl formed on his lips. “Take your hand off me.”
The gypsy’s hold tightened. “Listen! He will do to you what he did to me. He will take your precious sword and cast you into oblivion! I spent seven months of my life wandering without direction or purpose. I scarcely recalled my own name at times! How are you going to avenge your parents with all focus and will diminished? Or maybe he’ll just kill you. Would that comfort you, Alere, to know in your final moments that you’d failed, and that one of your young cousins inherited your quest for revenge?”
“Why do you care?” Alere snarled. “If this is in my mind, how did you get here? Why should I trust my eyes where you are concerned and not this place?”
“Damn it! You’re not listening! This place is real, but he—Vorhaven is in your mind, luring you, positioning you where he needs you to be, so that he can—”
“No!” Alere shirked Bastien’s hand away. “I would more readily believe that you are trying to delay me! I will tell you only once, gypsy. Do not interfere!”
“You fool!” Bastien put himself directly into Alere’s path. “This is not the way! I know what he did to your family, but you can’t let those memories control you now!”
Alere was prepared to move the gypsy from his path, by whatever means necessary. However, something else cleared the way for him.
There was no time to react as the shadows came forth and dug their claws into Bastien, not shredding, but grasping and hooking. They dragged the gypsy away unable to scream while their black, skeletal hands covered his face, leaving only his horrified eyes to be seen as he was borne away, into the hall and up toward the ceiling.
“His services are no longer required,” said the bodiless voice of the shadows’ master.
“Services?” Alere echoed, scanning the darkness carefully. It proved futile. He saw nothing.
“He believed that the Brotherhood reassigned him after his disappearance,” Vorhaven explained. “Searching for information concerning the other Swords was my idea. I was deeper into his thoughts than even he knew. Disappointing, that he could not lure all of the bearers to me, but I understand there were certain...complications.”
Alere scowled with disgust. “Show yourself!”
“Come, elf,” Vorhaven persisted. “Come willingly or be carried, like the gypsy. Of course, how thoughtless of me. You prefer a fight, don’t you? Very well, then, Alere Shaederin. Cut your way to me. I shall be waiting, as I always have been…at the end of your nightmares.”
A thousand yellow eyes lit in the darkness, all of them looking at Alere, who suddenly heard the fearful weeping of his young cousins as he ushered them through the blackness years ago, his hand gripping a weapon he scarcely knew how to use. A cold wind sent the snow swirling about him. His cloak flapped like a banner stuck in the battlefield; tattered, dusty, and blood-stained.
Would this war never end? Could the end be lying at the other side of this hall?
Alere firmed his grip on the hilt of Morgen Shaederin’s sword. “Lothve, Aerkiren,” he begged softly, then went forward, into the awaiting shadows.
“MADNESS,” TRISTUS PANTED, putting an exhaustive mental effort into each step while his control teetered dangerously on the edge. He commanded his body at the moment, but he felt the rage that was always inside of him, tracing his spine with the cutting edge of its undying anger. “This place...is a labyrinth.”
“Come,” Shirisae said gently. “We are at the bridge Alere crossed.”
The Phoenix Elf reached out as if to pull Tristus along, and he withdrew from contact quickly.
He put out one hand to ward her back. “No. Don’t touch me.” Though the look on her face was calm and patient, he felt as if he’d startled and offended her. He withdrew his hand to massage his tensed features, pushing back his hair afterward. “I know you mean well, Shirisae. I would accept your help, my lady, but...but the one inside me, whoever it is—whatever it is—would take you as a threat. Please, try to understand.”
Shirisae remained collected, and said, “You do not fight this force alone. He is helping you.”
Tristus looked at her. He knew better than to think that she was referring to God, but who...who had he been leaning against in his dream of the past? He remembered he was on the verge of reenacting the slaughter. Someone stopped him. And then Shirisae told him to get up. Someone knelt beside him afterward, consoled him with a gentle touch. He didn’t look to see who, and he hadn’t recognized the voice. All he could hear was the rage beneath his despair, still trying to take him over.
“Come,” Shirisae beckoned gently, and she started across the carpeted bridge.
Tristus followed, not too quickly. Halfway across the bridge he felt a moment’s peace, and the sensation that someone was behind him. He looked and saw no one, but for an instant he was sure that he descried voices in the silence, whispers of a conversation taking place in another world, creeping into this one as a draft slides through a closed window on a winter night. It did not seem a friendly conversation. It would not have surprised Tristus to learn that ghosts roamed the passages of this house.
The thought chilled him, and he moved on across the bridge, seeking support from the railing when the dark weight of the madness inside of him came down once again.
No one’s trying to hurt you, he said to himself. Look at Shirisae. She is safe. She will not turn against you. It’s this house, making you feel unsafe, but it cannot hurt you. Houses don’t attack people. It’s all in your mind.
He tightened his grip on Dawnfire, felt its magical warmth through his glove, and pressed on. He didn’t know what would happen if they were attacked, but he wouldn’t leave Shirisae alone, and he was sure that he had gone too deep into the house to find his way back, besides.
We have to find Alere. Once we find Alere we can leave.
BODIES LITTERED THE floor. The dark blood of the Keirveshen coated the marble pillars with a wet, slimy sheen. Somehow, the elf remained white against the sea of blackness, alive against the mounds of death. His blade glowed violet in the dark, untainted. The Blade, like the elf, knew little of fear and nothing of boundaries. There was a way to succeed against all odds, no matter how terrible they seemed. Once again, Aerkiren and its bearer had demonstrated that.
Vorhaven was impressed. He sat back upon his throne in the great hall within the palace of his forefathers, smiling as his thumb glided over the pommel of a long, broad blade, whose tip rested against the floor at his feet. The metal appeared black, obsidian, almost as if it had been forged of stone instead of metal. An energy radiated from it, like tendrils of black mist, forming intangible fists that squeezed and choked the light around it.
“He has come to take you from me, Behel,” Vorhaven murmured. “I will not allow it. The elf will not have you and take from me my solace; my world that you have helped me to reshape. How many centuries have I existed in night without understanding it? How long have I hidden myself in the shadows, sheltered beneath my children…lost in my study?
I was a negligent parent. My children ran wild and without purpose, without direction. You have changed me, Behel. You have made me understand. I know what must be done...and no elf will stop me. Though they have tried for centuries, they have always and will always end in failure. Just like the Brotherhood.”
Focusing on the elf now, he projected his voice. “The Brotherhood believes only in silencing. Others have discovered Behel’s power and it almost killed them. They were unfit. I am able to fully understand Behel…to bond with it, one might say. I can use it to restore order to this land.”
“By creating demons?” the elf answered in disgust, finally coming forward, out of the black death behind him.
“The Keirveshen were not intentional,” Vorhaven answered, regarding the pale creature before him with as much admiration as hate. “As you may know, all plagues require carriers. I happen to be such a carrier, an individual who twists and ruins all that he touches, but who remains perpetually unaffected.”
He stood calmly, dressed in the fine clothes he was entitled to wear as a member of the Vorhaven family, head of a broken, scattered household. Beneath the dark velvet and white lace was an ancient man of diseased beauty, held forever in the soft skin of his youth while his mind and spirit decayed. He’d watched his world become shadow.
One by one, his family, his friends, his lovers...all who did not flee his curse were inflicted by it, transformed into hideous variations of the monster Malek Vorhaven saw each time he dared to look into a mirror. He could not honestly remember when or why this curse had befallen him, but he did know one thing with maddening certainty. “Elves are not susceptible, of course.”
As he spoke the words, a piece of his memory flashed at the front of his mind, like a shard of broken glass turned into the light.
Elves...long had they been the source of his envy and his hatred. Yes, he remembered now. It was her. He could still see the elf maid in the forest, looking like a ghost against the snow, white from head to toe… perfect. Her beauty was crisp and clear, as a field of freshly fallen snow, untrod upon, unsoiled. Her purpose so near to Eishencroe was a mystery to Malek, but the sensation he felt in his heart was not. He’d fallen in love with her, instantly. He would make her his, somehow...but the look of scorn in her luminous gray eyes when she looked at him!
