Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

IV

“Missstresss Valea! Missstresss, pleassse!”

Valea blinked, realizing her eyes had closed. She moved her head, only to feel a hard surface beneath. Above her, a blinding light coalesced, becoming a candle in a brass holder in the hand of a very distressed Setera.

The drake put the candle holder down, then knelt beside her mistress. Valea looked around, saw that she lay at the foot of the staircase and that the first hints of daylight had just begun to creep in through the windows.

“Are you well?” hissed Setera. She touched the sorceress’s hand. “Missstress! You are cold!”

That was not a great surprise to Valea, considering that she had been lying on the floor all night in only her gown. She rose quickly, then regretted her swiftness when her legs nearly buckled.

Setera kept her from slipping. This close, the drake’s much hotter, more rapid breathing quickly warmed Valea up.

“What-what are you doing here?” Valea asked her.

“I heard a noissse . . . a gasssp! And sssome word or name!”

Shade . . . She remembered calling out his name, but that had been in the dream.

Recollection of what she had experienced suddenly made all else insignificant. Valea had done something her father had never managed, to reach into one of the memories of the Manor and experience a part of its reason for existing. The elves Arak and Galani and their dealings with the warlock Shade . . . small wonder that the ancient edifice would have such an encounter burned into its core.

Gently shaking off Setera’s concern, Valea hurried to her bedroom. Her mind raced over and over the scene and the final instant. She knew of Shade, of course, even though she had never to her memory met him. When last he had appeared, it had been when then-Princess Erini had been on her way to marry Melicard I of Talak. The hooded spellcaster had nearly brought that situation to ruin, but in the end had not only aided the new queen with her fledgling magical skills, but had also prevented Talak from being overrun by one of the Dragon Kings. At the time, it had been assumed that it had finally cost him his life . . . but then Shade had died many, many times before.

Her father believed Shade to be as old as, if not older than, the drake race, which had itself seemingly come out of nowhere far in the past. Cabe Bedlam suspected that Shade was the last of the human race’s precursors, the legendary and sinister Vraad. Refugees from another world, if his research was correct, they had colonized briefly what was now the Dragonrealm . . . and then vanished as a civilization.

If Shade was an example of the might of Vraad sorcery, he was also an example of their arrogance and self-destructive natures. From the stories her father had told her, Shade had early on attempted some mad immortality spell, a spell driven on by a more than normal fear of death. He had succeeded in a horrific fashion, much to his dismay. Shade could die, but each time he did, he instantly resurrected far away . . . and returned not at all the same man he had been prior.

Each incarnation of the warlock emerged with a splinter personality, one that sought final domination of Shade’s body. Worse, those personalities swung from light to darkness depending on the previous one. Her own parents had faced Shade as friend and foe and only the intercession of Darkhorse, the phantasmic creature from the Void and a loyal friend of the Bedlams, had prevented Cabe’s death.

Entering her chambers, Valea went to a basin and washed water over her face. The cool liquid brought her senses nearer to normalcy. She had seen Shade, yes, but only a memory of him. This Tylan, this variation of the faceless warlock, was as dead as the elves.

But what was the secret behind the ghosts she had encountered and the memory she had lived through? For that matter, how had Valea actually made contact with the vision? She had wanted to comfort the dying figure-a foolish notion in retrospect-but that alone should not have enabled her to experience Galani’s past. Never in her father’s records had there been any comment on such an experience.

But never had there been recorded a vision that included the appearance of Shade.

With her mother abruptly departed, Valea could not immediately look into the episode, as she first hoped. Running the Manor demanded her attention. There were overseers, of course, but they still had to have approval on certain matters. There was also correspondence to receive, for her parents kept in touch with friends and allies throughout the continent. One scroll spoke of bustling activity in those lands in the northwest held by the drake confederation, a loose-knit realm populated by the survivors of several clans whose masters had perished. An unmarked drake named Sssaleese commanded them, but his hold was said to be precarious at this time.

Valea put the scroll aside. Her father investigated other rumors near that vicinity. Had he been alone, she would have worried more, but Darkhorse carried him and together they were a team unbeatable.

The day passed much too swiftly and by the end of it Valea found herself worn out. She was rarely left in charge by herself, her brother generally taking that role when their parents were away. There had scarce been a moment when thoughts of her encounter had not been on her mind, but the duties of the Manor had prevented the sorceress from ever thinking them through. Only when she sat down to eat her supper in her room, her view from the terrace the sweeping, green lands protected by the barrier, did Valea finally begin sorting through matters.

It had taken only the touch of her fingers for her to enter the memory. Logic dictated that she should be able to do the same next time. The only question remained when that next time might be. The ghosts of the Manor did not necessarily come at her beck and call. It might be days, months, or even years before she had such luck again.

And yet . . . that night found Valea once more ensconced near the staircase, this time her garments warmer and her determination a hundredfold stronger.

Every creak of the building, every whisper of the wind, sent her sitting up straight, certain that the apparitions had returned. Each time, though, Valea faced only disappointment. The hours of darkness moved on in quick order, morning rapidly approaching.

Bleary-eyed, she abandoned her post just before the first gray light of predawn. That the visions might materialize during the daytime Valea had already taken into account, but she had felt certain that her best chance would be at night. Her assumptions now shattered, the young sorceress pushed back her unkempt hair and retired to her quarters for a few hours respite. The Manor could run itself for awhile.

Unbidden came images of Kyl, his exotic, inhuman features twisted into mirth. What a sight she would have been to him now, so disheveled. Biting her lower lip in bitterness, Valea threw herself onto the plush, down bed and buried herself in one of the pillows. Perhaps when she woke she would be able to make some sense of her foolishness . . . all her foolishness. Even the ghosts had let her down. Even they-

The hand slapped her harshly across her face. Stunned, Valea could do nothing but stand where she was and try to understand what had just happened.

“I warned you about saying such things again! If you must repeat their prattle over and over, cousin, you might as well just go back to the forest where you belong!”

Her cheek still screaming from pain, Valea watched Arak stalk away, the elf in a mood so foul he looked ready to kill. Valea-or rather Galani-shivered uncontrollably, something for which the young enchantress could not blame her. Then, tears pouring, the female elf turned and ran through the marble and wood halls, past a dark, empty ballroom and along corridors lit only by dying torches. If the Manor reflected its inhabitants, it certainly now reflected the mood of Galani’s cousin.

Out of the Manor and into the moonlit garden they ran. Valea stared at the looming maze, now seeming to call to her. Her elven host heeded that call, darting in among the high hedges without any care.

Valea felt each scratch as Galani ran relentlessly through the dark passages. The elf’s eyesight was better than her own, but even Galani’s eyes revealed little more than hulking shadows and twisting limbs.

Finally running out of breath, the sorceress’s host collapsed onto the soft ground near a bench. Valea gasped along with her, finding it impossible to tell who was more exhausted. The tears continued to rain down.

Caught up in Galani’s distress, Valea could not tell how long they lay there. The crying might have gone on, but a pair of hands suddenly took hold of the elf’s arms, guiding her up gently.

Gloved hands.

Even in such dark, it was impossible not to recognize the ethereal figure.

“You’re injured,” commented Shade almost blandly. “Your cousin had no such right.”

Curiously, the fear that Valea had sensed in Galani earlier had vanished. The enchantress sensed some lengthy passage of time since her last visitation, but how much, she could not say. Now the elf looked at the murky form as if having found her champion. Galani’s changing mood affected Valea’s own. For all the evil he had performed, Shade had also done much good. He was as revered as he was reviled. If the present scene was any indication, Tylan was an agent of light . . . and someone who had already touched Galani’s heart.

“Tylan . . .” murmured the elf. “It’s been so long.”

“I had . . . matters to attend to.”

With a suddenness that caught both Shade and Valea unaware, Galani buried her face in the voluminous robes of the warlock. Shade hesitated for a moment, then put his arms around her as one might do for a child.

“What is he becoming?” she begged of the hooded figure. “What is his work with that-that thing he brought back from the Legar Peninsula-doing to him?”

She remained silent for a time, then answered, “You mean the Wyr Stone? It is a dangerous artifact. I warned him of that when he first asked me of it. It all but destroyed the Garoot. He plays with powerful forces . . . but the rewards will benefit all elves if he succeeds.”

“At the cost of his own life? Our people have no desire to rule the land! They are satisfied with their privacy!”

He carefully pushed her from him. The blurred face fascinated Valea as much as it did the elf. A light seemed to radiate from it, allowing one to see the vague details, but never the complete picture. To Valea’s mind, Shade had once been a pleasant-looking male. Not so perfect as Kyl, but better still in other ways.

And what sort of thoughts are those? she suddenly asked herself. Bad enough she had suffered such an infatuation for the future Dragon Emperor . . . now Valea entertained notions concerning an unstable, unpredictable warlock who had more than once nearly destroyed the entire continent.

But Galani entertained similar notions. Before Shade could speak, a slim, golden-clad arm reached up to his murky visage. Perfectly-formed fingers stroked his cheek.

Shade pulled away, but not immediately. “You know the news I brought your cousin. The Dragon Kings have declared among themselves that the elves must be brought to destruction. They distrust your magic. You’re the strongest race other than them at the moment-”

“But what of your people? The humans? Surely they-”

A harsh laugh escaped the warlock. “My people? Galani, the Dragon Kings are much more my people than the humans are!”

Valea did not understand his comment and certainly her host did not. The sorceress wished that she could do more than observe, but this was after all a memory, a playing of events long past. She could no more truly interact with it than she could with the characters in a book. The last time had clearly been a fluke.

“The Wyr Stone . . .” Galani’s voice went cold. “How I wish he had never found that abomination!”

“But it is the key to your people’s salvation. You may trust me on that.”

Again emotions that reminded Valea too much of her feelings toward Kyl surfaced. Galani took one of the gloved hands in her own. “I trust you, Tylan. At times I trust you more than I do my cousin these day.” She suddenly took his other hand. “Dance with me.”

“Dance with you?” Shade blurted, the legendary warlock clearly as dumbfounded as he had possibly ever been. Valea shared his astonishment. One did not ask someone like Shade to dance.

“I miss the life I had before I chose to come here. I miss the times I had with Arak, who is now an utter stranger to me. Yes, please. Dance with me,” Galani begged, nodding once. As she did, the wind suddenly came to life . . . and with it also came a gentle music, the music of the stars and moon, of peace and love.

The elf drew Shade forward, not permitting him escape. She guided him around, showing him how the music flowed. The robes fluttered, but they seemed to do so in time with the notes.

Galani and the warlock danced . . . and so Valea danced with Shade also.

She had danced with Kyl, but somehow those times paled with this. Kyl danced like a drake, moving with perfect but martial steps. The tall figure before her danced differently, his movements not only following the music, but adding to it a hint of something else. Shade danced as one more than well-versed in the art; he danced as someone who loved life to its fullest.

If Galani’s cheeks grew crimson, Valea thought that surely it was because of her, not the elf. Something in Shade now touched her, drew her to him as she had never been drawn to anyone. She looked into the hood, saw a bit of the vague features, and desired truly this time to see the face that should be there.

She raised a hand to his cheek. She, Valea, not Galani.

But at that moment, two silent forms leapt over the hedge to their right.

Shade threw Valea/Galani to the opposing side just before the figures overwhelmed him. Valea had a glimpse of an armored fighter wielding not a sword or ax, but rather a staff with a curved, open end that glowed faintly.

With a hiss, the first attacker slapped the curved end onto the back of the warlock’s hooded neck. Shade howled when the peculiar weapon touched him, then dropped to the floor.

Without thinking, Valea cast a spell. A burst of light illuminated the intruders-savage, fork-tongued drake warriors with a faint purple tint to their otherwise dusky green forms. Startled by the intense glare, the one wielding the magical weapon dropped it-just before the sorceress’s second spell threw him into the foliage.

The other drake charged at her, a short sword drawn. He leapt with a speed Valea had never witnessed in drakes wearing a humanoid form. She wondered why the pair just did not transform into dragons or at least cast spells, then forgot such questions as she defended herself.

In her eyes, lines of force suddenly crisscrossed over every part of the visible world. As she had been trained by her parents, Valea drew from the nearest, touched upon the natural magic and pulled it within herself.

The drake swung at her, crimson orbs glowing malevolently within the false dragonhelm.

Pure magical force threw him into the air, threw him beyond the maze, and even beyond the grounds of the Manor. Unwilling to slay, Valea sent him far away, so far he would be no trouble for months to come. It would take him that long simply to reach his own master . . . who would not be so gentle after such an abysmal failure.

As the spell waned, a garbled, horrific sound made the sorceress turn back to the first drake. To her horror, she saw him struggling futilely to free himself from a hedge that seemed determined to devour his armored form. A gauntleted hand tore uselessly at the enshrouding limbs of the tall plant while the other stretched forth in desperate plea to the figure nearest.

But Shade did nothing as the hedge inexorably pulled its victim within.

Valea charged forward, but the warlock blocked her with his arm. The drake let out one last hiss . . . then the hedge enveloped him, leaving no trace.

“The master of the Libraries delved well and deep for this treachery,” Shade uttered.

At first, Valea did not know what to make of his words, for why her parents’ friend the Lord Gryphon would send drakes to attack the Manor was beyond her . . . but then she recalled that the leonine ruler of Penacles, City of Knowledge, did not yet even exist. The sorceress also recalled the colorings she had seen when the light had been strongest, a faint purple tint to the green scale.

Purple . . . the color of the Dragon Kings who had ruled Penacles until the Turning War, two hundred years prior to Valea’s birth.

Shade waved one hand at the hedge that had devoured the drake. The foliage shimmered briefly, then resumed its normal appearance.

“But how-” Valea stammered. “It’s impossible! How can they pass through the barrier?”

The shadowed visage turned to her. “It is said that any answer can be found in the books of Penacle’s magical libraries . . . if one knows how to phrase the question.” He leaned forward, a specter that suddenly blanketed the night. “You are well versed in power, Galani. My gratitude.” He took her hand. “One would say your power rivals even that of Arak. I am surprised. You have said your powers were minute.”

Only then did Valea realize what she had done. She controlled the elf’s body again. She had made the decisions, defended them both.

She had altered the memory.

Or had she? Perhaps her actions had just been akin to those that Galani would have chosen. Surely it was not possible for her to-

“What is it? What happened out here? Galani! Where are you?”

Shade’s hood lifted. “We are here, Arak!”

A green glow rose from elsewhere in the maze and the hedges before them abruptly separated. Hand up, Galani’s cousin stalked toward them, eyes surveying everything in search of a foe.

“What happened? I heard shouts and felt spellwork!” He seized Valea, practically tearing her from the warlock’s grip. “Cousin! Are you all right?”

“She is well . . . and quite capable, I might add.” Shade pointed at the ground, where the peculiar weapon used by the one drake still lay. “A possession rod. Designed to make its captive pliable through pain. I believe it was meant for you, not me. Lord Purple planned well, but did not take in account my resilience.”

The elf was aghast. “Penacles? There were drakes here? Within the barrier?”

“You know that of all the Dragon Kings he has the wherewithal to find a way inside. Fortunately, some sacrifices had to be made. Neither drake could shapeshift or else we would have been overwhelmed by dragons. The two could not cast spells, either, I believe. They must have seen your cousin run out to the hedge and assumed when I joined her that I must be you.”

“‘Ran out to the hedge’ . . .” Arak stared down at Valea, who chose to say nothing. A look of contrition spread over the male elf’s countenance. “Galani, I am so very sorry. If I-”

“They must be after the Wyr Stone,” Shade interjected.

All thought of apology vanished from Arak. “You think so?”

“What other reason?”

“Then . . . my decision is made for me. Their tyranny must come to an end.”

Valea desperately wanted to ask what the Wyr Stone was and what it would do to the Dragon Kings, but suddenly her head pounded horribly. She swayed and would have fallen if not for Arak suddenly catching her.

“Galani! Galani! Gal-”

“Mistress Valea! My lady! Please awaken!”

Moaning, Valea opened her eyes. A rounded, elderly woman in brown, one of the human servants, leaned over her. The woman’s face was flushed and she had obviously been trying for some time to awaken her mistress.

“Cora . . . what’s . . . what’s wrong?”

“Mistress Valea! ’Tis nearly dinner! You’ve slept all night and all day!” Cora felt the younger woman’s forehead. “And you’re cold to the touch! Do you feel ill?”

Her head throbbed and Valea felt hungry, but otherwise she seemed all right. She told Cora so.

With an expression worthy of Lady Bedlam, the senior household servant shook her head. “Well you’ll still stay in that bed while I get someone to bring you some good broth. If you can down that, we’ll see about hardier food. Wouldn’t do for your parents to come home to find you on death’s door, would it?”

Knowing better than to argue, Valea lay back on the pillow, watching as Cora fussed about for a moment before departing to find her mistress some healthy food. The young sorceress marveled for a moment that she with all her trained and natural skills still had to rely on someone without a single iota of ability when it came to magic.

Thinking of magic drew her back to her dream . . . or whatever it had been. Cora had said that she had slept through most of the day! What sort of dream would cause that? It was surely no coincidence that it had concerned the very characters out of the Manor’s ghostly memory.

She bolted upright in bed. Had she somehow become tied to that memory? But why . . . and how?

And what would happen when she next went to sleep?