by Ted Neill
“Tallia, stay close,” Katlyn said. The girl called Tallia nocked back an arrow and took aim at the imposter Cody while Adamantus approached.
“Stygorn,” Cody said. “What is old is new and new is old. Our meeting was inevitable, was it not?”
Adamantus raked the ground with a hoof. “Reveal yourself, the time for masks and illusions is over.”
“Is it?” Cody said, swinging his sword. “Illusion has served me well. We know our roles. We were enemies long before the whelps behind you were ever born. Long before these kingdoms were founded. We remember the empires whose ashes they rose from.”
“Some empires should remain in the past.”
“And some creatures outlive their time.”
“As do some servants their masters.” Adamantus had heard enough and charged. Cody—or the Magus disguised as him—rode out to meet him. Adamantus would show no mercy, swinging his antlers low and slashing open the neck of the horse. The animal fell to its knees and onto its belly with a bellow, its life blood pouring out in a red gush. The Magus pitched forward onto the ground and tumbled over before coming to his feet and drawing a short sword from his belt. Dirt mixed with blood on his forehead and his teeth showed white as his mad, wild eyes.
They clashed again, antlers against steel, but unlike the vaurgs or other adversaries Haille had seen challenge Adamantus, the Magus knew how to meet the elk’s attacks, catching his blows and counterattacking so that the elk had to step sideways and backwards, his hooves scraping and stabbing the ground for balance, fans of dirt spinning up into the air about them both. The Magus, still in Cody’s likeness, spun forward in an attack that slipped past Adamantus’ defenses and scoured a gash on his head between his eyes. Cody’s comely face smiled, the blood dripping from his sword. Adamantus circled once before driving in again with an attack that left the Magus on his back. Adamantus brought his hooves down but the Magus kicked up his legs, landed upright and sidestepped just as the elk landed.
Tallia’s bow string twanged and sent an arrow spinning at the Magus’ back. But with a glance and a narrowing of his eyes, he cast the arrow into flames so that only soot and embers remained in a cloud. Adamantus swung down his rack of antlers in a straight-on attack, this time driving the Magus backwards, his feet sliding in the dirt. As he began to lose his footing, he bent his knees, rolled to the ground, somersaulted, and landed running. He placed the trading block between them. As they circled, Haille noticed a new gash in Adamantus’ shoulder.
“You’ve overplayed your hand, elk,” the Magus said, his face misshapen, the illusion protecting his identity slipping.
“We’ll see,” Adamantus said, but Haille noticed one of the elk’s legs buckle as he paced around the block. The Magus’ form shimmered again and out of his torso grew two more arms, each with swords identical to his first two. He spun them all like interlocking windmills. Haille knew it to be illusion, but it was a confusing one. Which blades were real? Which blades would Adamantus block?
The Magus charged, leaping from the block. Adamantus reversed his steps and held his ground, swinging, dipping, stabbing at the blades, the antlers sounding each time they struck true. Haille could not tell real from fake nor could Tallia or Katlyn, for they gasped many times together when they thought one of the real blades had slipped passed Adamantus’ crown, only to pass through his head or body, as ephemeral as a shadow.
“I can’t watch,” Katlyn said.
“It will be over soon,” Haille said, sure that the elk now held the upper hand as he continued to guess correctly which limbs and blades were real and which were fake. The elk could control the pace of the fighting now, driving the Magus backwards. Haille only grew afraid when the Magus lost ground and moved towards the three of them as they watched. Haille thought to move farther back, out of range, but he was too late. The Magus, sensing an opening, turned and flung his swords end over end towards them.
“Watch out!” Haille said, diving from the saddle and pulling Katlyn and Tallia down with him.
“No!” Adamantus said, stepping in the path of the flying blades. But they faded and evaporated along with the phantom limbs—only a feint. Adamantus staggered suddenly, having guessed wrong this one time. The elk shook and coughed up blood as the Magus’ real sword buried hilt-deep in his chest. With a final flourish the Magus dragged the short sword across Adamantus’ neck. His eyes rolling back to the sky, Adamantus fell.
The misshapen face that only faintly resembled Cody now shimmered in a devious smile of triumph. He kicked his sword free as Adamantus rolled to his side, his antlers sending up sprays of dirt, his hooves gouging at the earth.
“Adamantus!” Haille heard himself cry. He drew Elk Heart and scrambled to his feet. The Magus, whoever he was, smiled, welcoming Haille’s foolhardy attack. But his expression changed when the elven horn sounded once more and Veolin, her brothers, Val, and Chloe rounded the corner of the square. The Magus threw his blades aside, abandoning them. His body shrank and twisted into a raven and rose into the air flying high over the houses, the bluffs, and disappearing into the sky.
Haille knelt beside Adamantus, the elk on his side, his head twisted, his mouth open. Katlyn and Tallia were trying to stop the bleeding but it was of little use. Haille tore off his cloak and pressed it to the wounds but blood hot as bath water covered his hands.
“No, no, no . . . .”
In his distress, Haille did not even realize the elk was calling his name. It was Tallia who tugged his sleeve for his attention.
“No, I need to hold this to the wound,” Haille said.
“It is too late for that, Haille,” he heard the elk whisper.
He moved to the elk’s face, dimly aware of the others gathered around them. He was focused on the elk’s eyes, which held Haille in a powerful grasp. Haille grew still, his panicked breathing steadying, his pulse slowing. It was as if time were slowing down. It reminded him of the first night he had seen the elk in the cage, when those eyes, like twin moons, held such beauty, possibilities, and potential. Just like that night, the elk’s gaze penetrated into him so that he felt it was only he and the elk, together, waiting in the moment of judgment and surrender.
“Haille, you have to carry it.”
“Carry what?”
“What I will give you. Your suffering, it has made you worthy.”
“I don’t understand.”
The elk’s eyes closed for a moment, then reopened, wide. Haille’s body became rigid, his mind filled with light and visions, visions he could not understand, emotions, knowledge of lifetimes that were not his own, vistas of cities in the clouds that he knew his own eyes had never seen. There were cycles of gains and losses, victory and defeats, light and dark. He fell into a cavern of eternity where love, fear, pain, joy, ecstasy, and suffering were all the same. It was too much and would overwhelm him. He’d never be worthy, he’d be a vessel that would crack. He tried to free himself of the transference, but the spell would decide when he was free, when he would belong to himself again. His consciousness stretched to infinity; his self disappeared. Then he snapped back; a universe compressed into a grain of sand. He fell backwards in agony, for a moment he saw Veolin’s face as he had seen her in the forest next to the Gillithwaine before he had fallen asleep. And that was all he could now, close his eyes to sleep, to dream, to live a thousand lives and die a thousand deaths.
Chapter 20
Ginger Tea and Candlelight
Haille woke to the smell of ginger tea. He opened his eyes and turned his head to meet the steady gaze of Tallia studying him over her cup. She set down her drink, walked to the door, and called out for Chloe and Katlyn in a soft voice.
The room Haille found himself in was small, furnished with a single bed, a table, a wash basin, and a chamber pot. Rusty hooks pointed out from the back of the door and the wall, presumably to hold cloaks or bathing cloths. It had all the generic appearance of a room at an inn that Haille imagined he had been carried into after . . . afte
r whatever had happened.
Tallia returned with Chloe and Katyln, “Welcome back again, traveler,” Chloe said, brushing the hair back on his head. He was reminded of waking up on the Tameramb in the Hand Sea, his head in her lap after he had seized during the attack from Victor Twenge and his men. But on reflection he did not feel the aftereffects of such an episode. He was tired and lightheaded, the room spinning with every move of his head, but that was likely from hunger. His limbs were free of the lead-like heaviness that usually weighed them down after a seizure.
“What happened?” he asked. “Adamantus, is he—”
“Passed,” Chloe said, her tone gentle. “We’re not sure what happened to you. It was like a seizure, but without the tremors.”
“I don’t feel like I seized. I . . . I’ve been dreaming, but it doesn’t feel like dreams either, it’s like memories, but not my own.”
“Perhaps the elves might know,” Katlyn said.
Haille sat up in bed. “Where did they come from? Where did you come from?”
“Cody and I met in Kinth. They were not far behind.”
“How did they know?”
“Cyan, my reckoning. He disappeared after you were imprisoned. We thought he was lost, turns out he had flown to seek reinforcements. The elves are able to understand his songs even better than we.” Katlyn took a bowl of porridge from Tallia, thanking her, and held it out for Haille. He took it with thanks, the honey-sweetened mix filling the hole in his stomach.
“The vaurgs?” Haille asked between spoonfuls.
“Dead, or fled south to Carasans. We imagine that is where the Magus is, too.”
Haille swallowed hard as he remembered that figure, his changing shape, the power he commanded. “Our people, how many hurt?”
“Dozens injured. Many killed, but we still prevailed,” Chloe said.
“We’ve set up this building and the next as a hospital. The elves are doing their best to heal whom they can.”
Haille scooped the last of his porridge. Without him having to ask, Tallia handed him his own cup of ginger tea. He sipped it, savoring the warmth.
“I need to see him, alone.”
The women looked to one another before turning to him.
“We thought you might,” Chloe said. “We’ll take you to him once you’ve finished your tea.”
He drained the cup and the others left him while he slipped out from the covers and dressed. His clothes from Drahlstrom were gone. Likely they had been soaked with blood anyway. A different tunic and trousers were set out for him as well as a warm jerkin and mantle. They were relatively clean, if a bit worn, all either too big or too small, having been scavenged from the inn or the abandoned town, or perhaps from the dead themselves. But it was better than wearing the clothes stained with Adamantus’ life blood.
He stepped outside into the hallway and passed by other rooms where men were convalescing and from the sound of it, some were dying. He followed just behind Chloe who descended a set of stairs into a great room that was warm with the heat of a fire burning in the hearth. The rafters were blackened, the floorboards worn and smelled of yeasty ale. It was a drinking hall, but now converted into a field hospital. Elves, in their glittering armor and colorful raiment, tended to men and elves alike, the wounded stretched out on mattresses, piled rugs, or animal skins. Haille’s skin tingled all over, his hair stood on end with the powerful sensation of magic emanating from all around. He recognized Kelief and Lasolorn. Both were tending to a she-elf who had been wounded, the claw marks of a vaurg deep in her shoulder. The brothers nodded to him without word before turning back to their charge.
Outside on the gallery the air was brisk. The street was busy with elves and men tending their horses, gathering around cooking fires, and sharpening their blades. It was strange to see the two races mixing so seamlessly, but Haille knew battle made fast friends.
“Prince Haille,” Val said, stepping up from where he had been seated next to Cody and Gunther. He embraced Haille, followed by Gunther, and Cody—this the real Cody. They had been seated around a brazier along with two others who were familiar to Haille.
“Prince Haille, this is Darid Causland. A ranger from Karrith who has served alongside us.” The Karrithian stood and bowed. He was the same ranger who had first brought news of trouble in the south to Antas castle the autumn before. Val paused before turning to the second figure. “And I think you know . . . Gail Redmont.”
Gail, who Haille had known as Avenger Red, took a knee before him. “My lord.”
“I know you in a different guise,” Haille said.
“And I you.”
An uncomfortable silence followed that Katlyn broke. “She is changed,” she said, wrapping Haille’s elbow in her hand. “And has been a loyal ally and fierce friend.”
To his surprise, his former adversary drew her sword and offered it to him. “My life and my service are yours. I served your father in the Karrith campaign but considering my past wrongs, I am at the mercy of your judgment.”
Haille’s throat felt full, his voice coming out thick, “You have my forgiveness if you have won my friends’ trust.” He turned to Katlyn, suddenly eager to leave. “Can I see him now?”
“Of course.”
Katlyn led him alone through the galleries of the tavern and store fronts avoiding the muddy streets and the drizzle that had begun to fall. They rounded on a street that was empty but for a few men and elves who entered and exited a meeting hall converted into a holding place for the dead. It had the same pieced-together appearance of most of Soledor, the timbers mismatched, their ends at uneven angles. The walls were tilted and either faded from sun or moldy from rain. Inside the hall bodies of elves and men waited, some clothed in bloody, rent armor, others were naked while being washed by friends, and still others lay cleaned beneath sheets pulled up over their heads.
Haille and Katlyn walked between rows with bowed heads and lowered eyes. The hall was cold. What need was there for warmth? The air was tinged with the smell of blood, sweat, and earth. Water dripped in a basin as survivors squeezed out the cloth used to wipe the blood from a dead comrade. In the corner three fair-haired elves sang a beautiful but melancholy dirge over the bodies of elves and men alike. Haille could not understand the words but he didn’t need to in order to feel their lament.
He followed Katlyn into an adjoining hallway that was dark but for the candlelight flickering from a doorway on their right. Katlyn turned, the soft light bathing her face in a golden glow. “I will leave you two alone,” she said as Haille took slow steps into the doorway.
Within the room the great bulk of Adamantus’ body lay peacefully, his legs folded, his head resting as if he were asleep. His wounds had been cleaned and covered, hiding their lethal violation. Candles burned from alcoves, candelabrums, and sconces. Next to the body, her hands folded across her breast, was Veolin, her face veiled by her hair.
Haille looked to Katlyn who had already slipped away. He listened to the sound of her steps receding and remained in the doorway taking in the immensity of what loss lay before him. Veolin did not stir although he knew she was aware of him. After a pause he walked into the room, closing on Adamantus’ head, resting across his forelegs. Haille touched his fingers to the antlers that were on level with his head and found himself hoping—wishing for some magic to manifest that would wake and heal the elk so that he would rise and march out of this house of the dead, triumphant.
But Adamantus remained still. Haille’s hand trailed down the length of antler to rest on the elk’s forehead. “What is life but a series of losses. The taking away never stops.”
He was not sure if he was making any sense but Veolin turned her face and looked at him with the same deep gaze she had when they had last looked upon each other across the waters of the Vorax. Her intact cheekbone cast a light shadow on her face. It was a refined and graceful contrast to the scar that ran across the right side of her face. The wound had healed but left a jagged line in her f
lesh, a memory of her own suffering.
Haille shook his head. “Adamantus told me something just before he died. He said that my suffering had made me worthy. I don’t know what he meant.”
“Someone once told me that we grow more from subtraction than addition, more from suffering than pleasure,” Veolin said.
Haille swallowed, noting how the elk’s fur still shone in the candlelight. “That is a grim outlook when spoken aloud. But in the past weeks, months, subtraction and loss seem to be the only lessons life has to teach me.”
She pushed a strand of hair from her face. He was reminded of the night at the Fire Point, how she had struggled to pull the strands from the still-weeping wound. “You seem changed, Haille. Not like when we met.”
He exhaled. Triumphs and losses, but mostly losses played across the stage of his memory for a moment. “I had more hope then.”
“And now?”
“Sometimes I only feel despair,” he said, watching the shadows on the wall. “Val and Chloe have tried to help. They tell me to live for life, love, a cause, connection. But what is the point? It’s all taken away from us in the end.”
“Isn’t it better to have died side by side with a friend than lived a whole life without one?” she stopped and in an apologetic tone she changed course, “At least that is what they say.”
Haille pressed his palm to Adamantus’ neck. He thought of the groans and sighs of dying men he had heard in the inn earlier. “So much needless suffering. I once heard a teacher say that detachment was the key to not suffering. But that does not help the men I heard dying on the way here.”
Veolin stepped to her left, “Why are you so afraid of suffering?” Haille turned to look at her as she circled the elk. “Who wants a world of detachment?” she continued. “Suffering is not needless, Haille. Above life and love, suffering can be the end to the means, I believe it is a thing that can ennoble us.”
