Worldbinder

by David Farland

  Rhianna stood for a moment, torn. She had thought of Daylan as her uncle when she was a child, and she loved him still. But she knew that he was right. Millions of people were depending upon her.

  Fallion was depending upon her.

  “The Emir will help,” Daylan said. “He and his men have brought blood metal, to make forcibles. They plan to strike out ahead, with the hopes of attacking Rugassa and freeing its prisoners. But they will need to take endowments if they are to win through. You will need to find Dedicates for them, and convince them to aid in the quest.”

  Rhianna looked to the Emir. He stood beside his daughter Siyaddah, holding her close, comforting her. He was a tall man, with a gladiator’s build and a hawkish face. With his over-sized canines and the bony plate in his forehead, he looked like some evil beast. In another life, on another world, he had been her enemy. Even now, she did not know if she could trust him.

  How will I persuade people to give their endowments to this monster? she wondered.

  Tell them that they are doing it to save the Earth King, she realized. And Fallion, whom I love. Tell them the truth.

  Rhianna flew high and the morning sun touched her wings, so that they sparkled like rubies in the sky.

  In all of his dreams, Fallion had never dreamt with such intense clarity. He dreamed that he was soaring above the Courts of Tide. He was not riding a graak, nor did he wear a magical wing. In his dream Fallion’s arms stretched wide, holding him aloft, like some seagull that hangs motionless in the sky, its wingtips trembling as the wind sweeps beneath them.

  Nothing below obstructed his view.

  And so he glided over houses where the sweet gray smoke of cooking fires floated lazily above thatched roofs, and Fallion darted above a palace wall, veering between two tall white towers where a guard with his pike and black scale mail gaped up at Fallion in astonishment. Fallion could see each graying hair of the guard’s arched eyebrow, and how the man’s brass pin hung loose on his forest-green cape, and he could even smell the man’s ripening sweat.

  Fallion swooped low over the cobbled city streets, where fishermen in their white tunics and brown woolen caps trudged to their dank homes after a hard day working the nets; the young scholars who attended the House of Understanding stood on street corners arguing jovially while sipping tankards of ale, and a boy playing with a pet rat in the street gaped up at Fallion and pointed, his mouth an O of surprise.

  “The king has come!” the child cried, and suddenly the people looked up in awe and rejoiced to see Fallion. “The king! Look!” they cried, tears leaping to their eyes.

  I must be dreaming, Fallion thought, for never have I seen the world so clearly.

  There is a legendary stream in the land of Mystarria. Its icy waters tumble down from the snowfields of Mount Rimmon, beneath pines that guard the slopes, along moss-covered floors where huge marble statues of dead kings lie fallen. The stream’s clean flow spills into forest pools so transparent that even at a depth of forty feet every water weed and sparkling red crayfish can be seen. The enormous trout that live there “seemingly slide through the air just by slapping their tails,” and all of them grow fat and to a ripe old age, for no fisherman or otter can hope to venture near in waters so clear.

  So the stream is called the Daystar, for it is as clear and sparkling as the morning star.

  That is how preternaturally clear the dream came to Fallion, as clear as the waters of Daystar.

  He longed to continue dreaming forever, but for one thing: the air was so cold. He could feel frost beginning to rime his fingernails, and he shivered violently.

  This frost will kill me, he thought. It will pierce my heart like an arrow.

  And so he struggled to wake, and found himself … flying.

  The wind rushed under him, cold and moist, and Fallion huddled in pain sharp and bitter.

  He could feel a shard of steel lodged below his ribcage like a dagger of ice. Drying blood matted his shirt.

  He struggled to wake, and when his eye opened to a slit, it was bright below. The wan silvery light of early morning filled the sky. He could see the tops of pines below, limbs so close that if he had reached out he could almost have touched them.

  Where am I? I’m flying above a forest.

  In the distance he could descry a mountain—no, he decided, a strange castle as vast as a mountain. It was built into the sides of a black volcano whose inner fires limned the cone at its top and spewed smoke and ash air.

  All beneath, along the skirts of the volcano, a formidable fortress sprawled, with murderously high walls and thousands of dark holes that might have been windows or tunnels into the mountain.

  There was no fresh lime upon the walls to make the castle gleam like silver in the dawn. Instead, the castle was black and foreboding. A few pale creatures bustled along the walls and upon the dark roads below, racing to flee the dawn, looking like an army of angry ants. Even a mile away, Fallion could tell that they were not entirely human.

  Wyrmlings, he realized.

  Fallion shivered violently, so cold and numb that he feared he would die. His thoughts clouded by pain, he struggled to figure out what was happening.

  He was not flying under his own power. He was being borne by some great creature. Huge arms clutched him tightly. If a stone gargoyle had come to life, Fallion imagine that it would grip him so. He could hear powerful wings flapping: the wind from each downstroke assailed him.

  Fallion could not see his captor, but he could smell the arm that clutched him. It smelled like … rotten meat, like something long dead.

  Fear coursed through him.

  I’m in the arms of a Knight Eternal, Fallion realized, one of the dead lords of the wyrmlings. And he began to remember…

  The battle at Caer Luciare. The wyrmling warriors with their sickly pale skin and bone armor had attacked the mountain fortress, a fortress so different from the one he was going to. The limestone walls of the fortress had been glistening white, as clean as snow, and in the market flowers and fruit trees grew in a riot along the street, while leafy vines hung from the windows.

  The wyrmlings had come with the night. The pounding of their thunder drums had cracked the castle walls. Poisoned war darts had pelted down in a black rain. Everywhere there had been cries of dismay as the brave warriors of Caer Luciare saw their plight.

  Jaz! Fallion thought, almost crying aloud, as he recalled his brother falling. A black dart had been sprouting from Jaz’s back as he knelt on hands and knees, blood running from his mouth.

  After that, everything became confused. Fallion remembered running with Rhianna at his side, retreating up the city streets in a daze, people shouting while Fallion wondered, Is there anything I could have done to save him?

  He recalled the Knights Eternal sweeping out of dark skies. Fallion held his sword at guard position, eager to engage one, heart hammering as the monster swept toward him like a falcon, its enormous black long sword stretched out before it—a knight charging toward him on a steed of wind.

  Fallion twisted away from the attack at the last instant, his blade swiping back against the tip of the Knight Eternal’s sword. Fallion had meant to let his blade cut cleanly into flesh, but the Knight Eternal must have veered at the last instant, and Fallion’s blade struck the thick metal—and snapped.

  As his tortured blade broke, Fallion had felt pain lance just below the ribcage. A remnant of his shattered blade lodged in his flesh. He fell to his knees, blood gushing hot over his tunic as he struggled to keep from swooning.

  Rhianna had called out “Fallion! Fallion!” and all around him the noise of battle had sought to drown out her voice, so that it seemed to come from far away.

  Struggling to remain awake, Fallion had knelt for a moment, dazed, while the world whirled viciously.

  Everything went black.

  And now I wake, Fallion thought.

  He closed his eyes, tried to take stock of his situation.

  His artificial wing
s were folded against his back. He did not know how to use them well, yet. He’d worn the magical things for less than a day. He could feel a sharp pain where they were bound tightly, lest he try to escape.

  I dare not let the monster know that I am awake, Fallion realized.

  Fallion’s sword was gone, his scabbard empty, but he still had a dagger hidden in his boot.

  If I could reach it, he thought, I could plunge it into the monster’s neck.

  Fallion was so cold, his teeth were chattering. He tried to still them, afraid to make any noise, afraid to alert the creature.

  But if I attack, what then? The monster will fall, and I will fall with it—to my death.

  His mind reeled away from the unpleasant prospect.

  Moments later the Knight Eternal groaned and cursed, as if in pain. They had been flying in the shadow of a hill, and suddenly they were in open sunlight. Fallion’s captor dropped lower, so that he was flying beneath the trees, well in their shadow.

  There was a nimbus around them, a thick haze. It gathered a bit.

  Of course, Fallion realized, the Knight Eternal is racing against the coming of day. He’s gathering the light around him, trying to create a shadow.

  He’s struggling to get me back to the castle before dawn!

  They had dropped lower now, and Fallion judged that he was not more than twenty feet above ground. On impulse, Fallion reached for his boot dagger, and by straining managed to reach it, grasping it with two fingers. He tried to pull it free.

  Just as suddenly, his captor tightened his grip, pulling Fallion’s arms mercilessly. The boot knife fell, spinning away to land on the ground.

  The Knight Eternal was crushing Fallion against his chest. It apparently had not even noticed what Fallion was doing. But the creature’s grip was so fearsome that now Fallion had to struggle for a breath.

  Fallion despaired. He had no other weapons.

  Fallion wondered about Rhianna. If she was alive, she would have protected him to the last. He knew that about her at least. No woman was more faithful, more devoted to him, than she.

  Which meant that like Jaz, she must be dead.

  The very thought tore at Fallion’s sanity.

  My fault, he told himself. It is my fault that they’re dead. I am the one who brought them here. I’m the one who bound the worlds together.

  And as quickly as Fallion had fallen into despair, rage and determination welled up. Fallion was a wizard of un-guessable power. In ages past, there had been one sun and one true world, bright and perfect, and all mankind had lived in harmony beneath the shade of the One True Tree. But the great Seal of Creation that governed that world had been broken, and as it broke, the world shattered, splintering into a million parts, creating millions upon millions of shadow worlds, each a dull imitation of that one true world, each less virtuous, each spinning around its own sun so that now the heavens were filled with a sea of stars.

  Now Fallion had demonstrated the skill necessary to bind those shadow worlds back into one. He had bound two worlds together. He had yet to bring to pass the realization of his dream: binding all worlds into one world, flawless and perfect.

  But his enemies had feared what he could do, and had set a trap. Fallion had bound his own world with another, as an experiment, and everything had gone terribly wrong.

  Now Fallion’s people had been thrust into a land of giants, where the cruel wyrmlings ruled, a ruthless people thoroughly enthralled by an evil so monstrous that it was beyond Fallion’s power to imagine, much less comprehend.

  I hoped to make a better world, to re-create the one true world of legend, and instead I brought my people to the brink of ruin.

  The Knight Eternal that carried him suddenly rose toward a gate in the castle. Fallion could hear barks and snarls of alarm as wyrmling warriors announced their approach.

  Where is the Knight Eternal taking me? Fallion wondered.

  The knight swept through an enormous archway and landed with a jar, and then crept into a lightless corridor, carrying Fallion as easily as if he were a child.

  Fallion’s toes and fingers were numb. He felt so cold that he feared he had frostbite. He still could not think well. Every thought was a skirmish. Every memory was won only after a long battle.

  He needed warmth, heat. There was none to be found. There had been no sunlight shining upon the castle. There were no torches sitting in sconces to brighten the way. Instead the Knight Eternal bore him down endless tunnels into a labyrinth where the only illumination came from worms that glittered along the wall and ceiling.

  Sometimes he passed other wyrmlings, and whether they were mere servants or hardened warriors, they all backed away from his captor in terror.

  Fallion could have used his powers to leach a little heat from a wyrmling, if one had come closer.

  Maybe the stone is warm, Fallion thought. Maybe it still recalls the sunlight that caressed it yesterday.

  Fallion could have reached out to quest for the sunlight. But there was a great danger. Fallion was a flameweaver, a wizard of fire. Yet he knew that at least one Knight Eternal had mastered such skills better than he: Vulgnash.

  In earlier battles, each time that Fallion had tried to tap into some source of heat, Vulgnash had siphoned the energy away.

  Of course, Fallion realized. That is why I am so cold now. The creature has drained me. I am in Vuglnash’s arms.

  I must not let him know that I am awake.

  Vulgnash had no body heat that Fallion could use. Though the Knight Eternal mimicked life, the monster was dead, and it had no more heat in it than did a serpent.

  So Fallion held still, struggled to slow his breathing, to feign sleep, as the Knight Eternal bore him down, down an endless winding stair.