The Nightblade Epic Volume Two: A Book of Underrealm, page 10
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. What vegetation there was came in small, scrubby bushes and spindly trees that sucked 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 land 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, begin to turn their eyes outwards to what more they can claim for their own.”
“I know much of Dorsean greed,” said Loren. “It is what brings them to war with Selvan, over and over again.” Chet nodded firmly.
“You speak with many dramatics, and little truth,” said Annis, rolling her eyes. “Why, I have met many merchants from Dorsea, and members of the Dorsean royal family, and 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 of your kingdom are so good and kind-hearted as you.”
“It is no less foolish to claim great knowledge of all people, when you have spent all 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 vary wildly. But this is idle philosophy, and we have little time for it. Let us press on.”
Now they were in open territory, and a land about which Loren knew little. Xain took to guiding them, for as he told them, 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 as for where I was born, that is Wadeland to the east, though I left it as a young boy when my parents found I had the gift of elementalism.”
“And how did they find that out?” said Gem, leaning forwards with interest. “Were you bandying about the horses one day, 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 practices of the wealthy. When a child of royalty nears his sixth year, he is required by law to see a representative of the Academy. Wealthy families, even those who are only distantly related to the nobility, such as my parents, pay in coin for such a representative to visit them. These men know how to test for the gift, and they put the child through a series of trials, meant to discover if any of the four branches have presented themselves in any strength.”
“I took the trials,” said Annis, sounding as if she were trying very 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. “Wizards are gifted with only one—even the most powerful among us.”
With those words he fixed Loren with a look. She thought, as he must be thinking, of the Lifemage and the Necromancer, and the two branches of magic that had lay hidden for centuries. How did the wizards of the Academy detect them, if they even could? She doubted if they would ever know.
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 of it, so that it might block the light of their campfire from anyone who would follow them out of the Birchwood. Loren knew there might be Shades in Dorsea already, and they might be seen from the west or north. But as they had seen no sign of their pursuers for days, the warmth of the fire seemed worth the risk.
Chet took the first watch. Loren had half expected Xain to volunteer, as he so often did now, but the wizard looked weary and worn. Almost as soon as they had built a fire he curled up in his bedroll and slept. Loren hoped that was a hopeful sign. When he had suffered from the magestone sickness in the Greatrocks, he had gone through a time of great anguish and pain, followed by a bone-deep exhaustion. If he had come to that point already, it meant his recovery from now on would be less taxing.
Loren’s thoughts were still much occupied with their fight against the Shades in the Birchwood, and the village full of corpses, and she feared that sleep might well elude her. But it was a warm night for autumn, and the soft glow of the fire quickly lulled her off to a deep slumber, one without dreams or dark 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 in the sky above her, and realized with a start that it was still the middle of the night.
She looked about in confusion. Had a noise woken her? If so, it was gone now. Only dying embers remained of their fire, and the others were all curled in their blankets. The world was silent, save a faint whisper on the air and far-off birdsong.
When she lifted her head, she saw Chet sitting by a rock near the edge of their camp. His head was bent down into his chest in slumber, and her mouth twisted in annoyance. It was foolish, and she would have words with him—but in the morning. For now, she would simply take the watch and let him sleep. They were all of them weary.
But when she rose, she saw the Elves.
There were six of them, standing glowing in the starlight, only a few paces away from her sleeping friends. She knew them at once from the tales she had heard all her life. Those tales were told in quiet whispers in the night, for it was said that to speak of the creatures too often was to invite their wrath. The stories always came from survivors, of which there were precious few. When humans came upon Elves in the nine lands, more often than not they did not survive to speak of it.
They were all of different hues, but shared white clothing and the same raven-black hair, which hung long, down to the smalls of their backs, wafting gently with every movement. They wore no armor and carried no weapons, clad only in the white robes, the edges of which frilled and floated as though underwater. Their eyes were as pale as their clothing, a thin and ghostly gossamer with no pupils or irises, so that it was hard to tell 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 so much as a muscle. What should she do? What could she do? Her first thought was to rouse the others, to get to the horses as quickly as they could and 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 their intent. Indeed, so far as Loren knew, no one had ever spoken to Elves, nor knew the words that they used.
But she and her friends could not run, not now. They could never move fast enough. Even if Loren left the others to save herself, the Elves could be upon her in an instant. They would kill her, 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—she never removed it, even when she slept. But she immediately dismissed that furtive instinct, for it was ridiculous. Mighty knights and kings had tried to battle Elves, but none ever survived. What could such a tiny knife do against them?
The dagger.
This time the thought came more insistent, like a shout in her mind. And 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 shifted so much as a muscle. Only their clothing and their hair moved, wafting gently as though in a breeze, though the night held no wind. They had not spoken. The words had come directly from their minds to her own.
Loren reached for her waist, desperately hoping that this was not a terrible mistake. If they thought she meant to fight them, they would kill her for certain. As quickly as she could, she drew the dagger and then flipped it about, holding it by the blade, hilt forwards. One tentative step she took towards them, then another. When she was a few paces away, she knelt and placed the dagger on the ground.
Then they moved at last—or at least, one of them did. It stepped away from the others and came forwards, and watching the movement of its limbs was like watching a courtly dancer. The Elf was pure grace, and ease, and at the same time it imparted a terrifying power. It held out a hand, its fingers curled as though around the dagger’s hilt. Loren pictured that hand circling her throat, and she quailed with fear. Then the dagger appeared, as if from nowhere, in the Elf’s hand. If it had reached for the blade, or moved it with some magic, Loren had not seen it. One moment the dagger was not there, and then … it was.
The Elf turned to the others and lifted the dagger. It flashed in the light of both moons, which were directly overhead, and Loren thought she saw the silver glow of the Elves reflected in its steel as well. And then the Elves began to sing.
Loren burst into tears. Her knees failed her, and she fell to the ground 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 sound of 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 mind and leave her wishing always to hear it again. She felt as though it were transforming her from the inside out, changing something deep within her, something beyond explanation or hope of memory.
The song stopped. Loren lay there, still a wreck, aching to hear just one more note. And then, though they had sung to the dagger in chorus, as if in reverence, the Elf took the blade by the tip and dropped it in the dirt.
The dagger. The thought came to her again, and this time Loren knew it for the Elf’s. She struggled to hands and knees; the thought of standing seemed more than her body could bear. Slowly she crawled forwards, searching the ground for the blade. But she was too far beyond the fire, and her eyes were filled with tears besides, and she could not find it.
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, she thought. The Elf would kill her now, for she had moved too slowly. She only hoped it would leave the others be.
The dagger, came the thought, impatient. The Elf was holding it now, its hilt towards her.
She found her hand wrapped around the hilt, though she had not meant to move it. The Elf released the blade, and then her shoulder, and the world seemed darker and more horrible than it had before she felt its touch.
The stones. And now in her mind’s eyes she saw the magestones, the small packet wrapped in brown cloth that rested in one of the pockets of her cloak.
“What?” she said out loud.
She caught a movement—just the barest twitch of a muscle in the Elf’s jaw. Then it seized her again. Loren wanted to burst out in hysterical laughter at the feeling of it, the power and the joy. But the Elf, uncaring, reached into her cloak and seized the packet. From the brown cloth it drew one of the stones, and then broke it in half to hold before her eyes.
The stones.
Loren took the stone between thumb and forefinger, gingerly. And in her mind’s eye, she saw herself putting the stone in her mouth, crunching down upon it, and swallowing the dust. Her eyes widened with fear, and she thought of Xain.
“No,” she stammered. “I cannot—”
The Elf seized her throat. She felt its skin upon her own, no longer dampened by the cloth that had protected her when it took her shoulder. Her mind threatened to 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 it was all of it distorted and misshapen, turned about so that 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 that ran off back and forth in all directions, in every direction at once and none of them, and through time as quickly as through the many leagues they had traveled, and would travel still. With the sight came knowing, and she knew that 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 all in a group, and 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 …”
Then the Elf placed the magestone in her mouth and released her, and the world was as it had always been.
Loren swallowed hard on instinct, and she felt the half-magestone slide down her throat unbroken. She gasped, for she felt 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, honing its edge.
With a start she realized she could see all the world around her, clearly as if it were day—except that she could see better now. She saw the pores on blades of grass, and the threads that made up Gem’s bedroll, and the hairs that clung stubbornly to Xain’s thinning scalp. Although it was a poor kind of sight next to the vision of the Elves, this was something her mind could comprehend, and she found it beautiful.
She looked at the Elves in wonder, and the glow that poured from them seemed thrice as lovely as before. But now their eyes were black, 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. All of them looked skywards, to where the moons continued their long path across the sky, west towards the horizon where they would finally set. As one the Elves turned, though Loren did not see their feet move, and they began to wander off into the west. Back and forth they strayed, but always westerly, and though they did not seem to hurry, they were out of sight beyond the horizon in what seemed like no time at all.
When the last glow of their presence faded from sight, Loren went suddenly weak and fell to the grass again. She still felt the glamour of their presence in her mind, but without it there to sustain her, she was exhausted. What was more, the night vision of the magestones had faded. The world was black around her again, black save for the silver moonslight—a light she already knew would remind her, for the rest of her days, of the Elves.
At the sound of her dropping to the ground, Chet started awake where he sat against the rock. His head jerked, his eyes blinking furiously, and then he beheld her.
“Loren!” he said. He tried to rise, but he was still groggy and nearly toppled over. “I fell asleep. Sky above curse me, I am sorry. I hardly thought myself tired, but then a deep weariness overcame me, as though … what is the matter?”
She looked at him, and only then realized that tears still trickled down her face, leaking from the corners of her eyes to leave their tracks upon her cheeks. Hastily she wiped at them with her sleeve.
“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing. Go, sleep in earnest. I will take the watch.”
“I have slept enough—too much, it seems.” He still looked worried, and he peered at her in the night as though trying to read her expression. “I can keep the watch, for a while longer at any rate.”
“No. I cannot sleep now. Rest yourself. I … I wish to be alone for a while.”
She could tell he was still worried, for he did not look away from her for quite a while. But he did not argue, only turned and went to his bedroll. Soon he was asleep like the rest, and Loren marked that Gem’s snores had resumed, loud as ever.
Loren took the other half of the magestone the Elf had fed her. She put it between her lips and bit down, and then swallowed, though her stomach clenched with fear to do so. But the magestone went down the same as last time. Only now, she saw nothing, and the night was dark as ever.
Brow furrowing, she reached into her cloak for the magestone packet again. But in reaching for it, her hand brushed against the dagger’s hilt once more. The night sprang into stark daylight, a vision beyond vision where even the horizon seemed near.
Her hand jerked back in surprise, and the vision vanished. She stared at the dagger a moment. Then she took it again, and could see as bright as day.
Jordel had told her that her dagger held many magicks, and one day he would teach them to her. He had died before he could teach her this one. But had he meant to teach it to her in the first place? Did he know the dagger held this power, or was it some secret of the Elves? Or had Jordel known, but withheld it, because of the magestones?
Would they act on Loren the same way they had acted on Xain?
That thought came with its own terrors, and she shoved the magestones as deep in her pocket as she could. Then she pulled them out and stood, intending to throw them into the darkness. But at the last second she stopped. Mayhap she was wrong. Mayhap the magestones would have no ill effects, if she was not a mage. Mayhap the dagger itself protected her.
