Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

III

The castle had no entrance, at least none that Valea could find. She had skirted around it as much as possible, avoiding only the area where the land dropped off into an endless void. Valea had peered down into the haze, seeking some bottom, but none could she find. It was as if the realm of the dead ceased at this point.

Returning to where she had first reached the looming structure, the enchantress mulled over her situation. She had belatedly cast a shield around her that she hoped would blind the Lords to her location, but knew that such ancient sorcerers would eventually overcome it. That meant that Valea had to hurry.

Why had Shade come to this place? Was he now in league with the macabre necromancers? It seemed so unlikely. Even despite his shifts from light to dark, there was no record of him ever having allied with the Lords. It seemed that the depths of their hatred for one another likely ran very, very deep.

Was he a prisoner, then? That made more sense. Valea wondered if that was what the elf maiden’s spirit had sought to tell her, that Shade was not a threat himself, but was in danger.

If the warlock was a prisoner, that presented potential disaster. It might be possible for the Lords of the Dead to finally turn him to their cause through some wicked spell. If that happened, Valea could not imagine the fate the Dragonrealm would soon after suffer.

She wished that Galani could have told her more, that somehow the spirit could have made clear what it was Valea faced and what was expected of her. If only-

An image flickered in and out of existence before her very eyes. The vision was so very brief, but Valea could never have mistaken the face peering back at hers-for it had, in many ways, been her own.

“Galani?” the red-haired young woman whispered.

Again, a flickering image, but this time posed differently. It was not Galani, for the hair was long, lush, and cascaded down past the waist. Even more startling, it was a brilliant silver-blue, so radiant in contrast to the starkness of the land. The face was more human, too, although the eyes were an arresting aquamarine and crystalline in design.

Crystalline . . . her father’s journals spoke of people with crystalline eyes.

The Vraad.

Gasping, Valea instinctively backed a step away. Then the realization that this ghost wore her own face made her move forward again. Was there a link to this phantasm akin to the one with Galani?

Again her doppelganger appeared and this time the one hand pointed upward and to the east where a dagger-shaped rock twice as tall as Valea stood.

Biting her lower lip, the spellcaster followed. The phantom materialized every few yards, always anxiously pointing at the rock.

When at last Valea reached it, that changed. Suddenly the ethereal woman formed inside the very rock, reaching out to her earthly twin with beckoning arms. She seemed to want Valea to walk into solid stone, something which, while easy for a ghost, was not so simple for a living being.

But when Valea touched the rock, her hand sank through. She quickly withdrew her hand, then touched the rock once more. When her fingers again sank deep, she felt around. Part of the rock was illusion. An arched opening slightly taller than her lay hidden right before the spellcaster.

Valea stepped through.

She had a brief moment of vertigo . . . then stood in a dank, stone corridor lit only by some vague, sourceless gray illumination. A fine dust covered the floors and the walls and the corridor seemed to go on forever.

The ghost formed briefly again, pointing down the direction Valea faced. The enchantress headed along the hall, eyes and other senses ready.

But nothing barred her path. She continued on down the corridor, passing door after wooden door. The first few she tried, only to find them tightly locked and sturdy despite their rotting appearance. Her spectral companion continued to urge her on and Valea finally abandoned all attempts to check the rooms.

The dust thickened as she made her way deeper into the castle and that bothered the spellcaster. If this area was in use, why were there no footsteps? It was as if nothing lived here. Surely, though, at least the Lords of the Dead walked the castle . . .

Then Valea realized that she might be presumptuous to expect that the necromancers were at all mortal any more.

A slight sound suddenly made her freeze. Valea backed against one of the doors.

The sound reminded her of something being dragged. In such a place, in such a realm, the possibilities of what that meant twisted her stomach.

The noise grew louder, nearer. Valea raised one hand, ready to fight with a spell. The source of the sound had to be almost upon her, but still she could see nothing. Her hand clenched in anticipation and worry-

And just like that, the sound receded past her.

She glanced after it, refusing to believe that it could be possible. The sound continued on, growing fainter and fainter until it ceased to be audible. The dust on the floor remained undisturbed save where Valea’s own prints were.

As she looked back the way she had been heading, the enchantress again saw her unsettling doppelganger. The figure pointed on, her face all urgency.

Again biting her lip, Valea followed the specter. The corridor finally came to an end several yards later at a narrow, winding stairway leading up. The stone passage had no rails, but Valea leaned against one wall as she ascended.

And at the top of the stairs, an iron door confronted her. The symbol of the dragon had been cast upon it and even through the dust Valea could see its malevolent eyes peering back. The style reminded her of the Dragon Kings and she wondered if there was some connection.

The ghost stood before the door, imploring her to enter. She vanished as her mortal counterpart neared. Valea touched the ringed handle, but it would not budge. There was no keyhole.

Concentrating, Valea let her higher senses show her what her eyes could not see. Draped over the door was a series of spells that kept the path sealed. The enchantress probed one and found it easily yielding to her power. After testing another and finding that as readily undone, Valea could come to only one conclusion. The peculiar earmarks of the spells indicated that they served one very specific purpose. They had been designed to work against a particular magical signature and one that she had come to know so very well.

Shade’s.

So he was here and he was a prisoner of the Lords. That was what Galani had tried to impart to her and what this other phantom, this other incarnation of herself, had also sought to say. A peculiar sense of relief touched Valea. She had come fully expecting to confront and vanquish the legendary warlock in order to prevent his evil from ever erupting again. Yet, a good part of her had battled against that notion. Valea could not deny that she felt something for Shade. It was not merely some residue of the time that she had spent bound together with Galani. It went far deeper. To Valea, it was as if her soul, in whatever form it existed throughout time, had always been intertwined with his. Had she lived other lives that had crossed the warlock’s path? Surely the second ghost indicated that.

Valea shook her head, clearing her thoughts of any foolish romantic feelings. Her brother would have mocked her and her parents would have looked down at her in pity. She risked more than her life coming here and to let her be distracted by such prattle endangered her further.

Still, she had come here to find Shade and she had done so. All that barred her from confronting him were some simple spells.

With an inherent skill that only a Bedlam could wield, Valea quickly and efficiently removed the remaining spells. There were no hints of alarms among them, which surprised her until she recalled just where she was. The confidence of the Lords in their own dread domain could hardly be surprising. Their only mistake had been not knowing that Valea would have unearthly help to guide her to this point.

As the last spell dissipated, the anxious enchantress tugged on the ring.

The door swung open with an utter silence that both relieved and astounded her. She quickly stepped inside.

The familiar gray cloak completely draped his back, making him look more like a monk than the fearsome figure he was. His face was to the barred and magically sealed window, the only feature of the small chamber. A long, stone bench enabled him to sit there. It was the only piece of furniture in sight. If Shade slept, then he did so on the floor and wrapped in his own garments. Her sympathy for the imprisoned spellcaster grew, but Valea kept it in check, aware that Shade might still prove a danger.

Still facing the window, he slowly rose. At the same time, the ghost, her arms at her side, formed before Valea. She faced not the enchantress, however, but rather Shade. Valea did not move, instead staring straight through the transparent figure.

And as he finished turning toward her, the enchantress came at last face-to-face with the one to whom she had been led.

Valea gaped-for there was indeed a face where there should have been none.

The aristocratic features were more handsome than those of her father, with the nose slightly aquiline. Dark hair hung loosely down over the forehead and the chin was narrow. It was a youthful yet ancient countenance, outwardly little older in appearance than hers. The eyes, however, were what made the true difference. They were, like the ghost’s, crystalline, albeit of a deeper shade than the female’s.

Vraad.

An expression of intense sorrow colored the startling face. In a voice that Valea knew all too well, the hooded figure muttered, “Sharissa . . . I am so very sorry.”

And the door behind Valea abruptly shut tight.