Legends of the Dragonrealm Volume 2

VI

As much as she disliked having to tear herself away from Darkhorse, there finally came a point when Sharissa had to return to some of her other duties. She had come to realize that the very night after her unsatisfying visit to Gerrod when, returning to her domicile, the sorceress found petitioners. Their grievances were petty, as far as she could recall, but it had been her idea to take on some of her father’s lesser roles in order that he might deal with more important projects. In time, Sharissa hoped to convince him that it would be good if he took on subordinates. Unlike his counterparts, Dru tried to do everything for fear that, if he did not, the balance of power would shift too far to one side. It had almost been impossible to make him give her this much. Not that she had not had enough to do without taking some of his work in addition to her own roles.

Like father like daughter? she thought wryly.

The petitioners were dealt with accordingly, but Sharissa soon rediscovered her other projects. One of the few Vraad who worked with her brought up the subject of the system of subterranean chambers existing beneath the city. In some places, the surface level was proving treacherous, for time had weakened the earth here and there and one person had already died when the floor beneath him gave way and he fell to his death. At some point, Sharissa had started organizing a mapping campaign that would seek out the weak areas. It now became evident that those involved had no idea what they were doing when she was not there to supervise them. How, she wondered, had her kind ever survived the crossover? Sometimes the sorceress was amazed that they could even feed themselves.

Darkhorse was gone when she looked for him. The next day, she found he had returned to Sirvak Dragoth, but not before shocking several inhabitants by racing about the city perimeter in the dead of night.

“You can’t do that,” Sharissa scolded, pacing the length of the chamber where she did her research. It was part of an oval building that had once contained a library, although all the books had crumbled with time. The young Zeree was starting to fill the shelves with notebooks of her own, however, and, with the aid of others, hoped to one day gather a collection as vast as the multitude of mantels indicated the collection of the founders had been. She had once feared that Darkhorse would not be able to maneuver himself through the narrow, winding halls, but Sharissa had forgotten that he only resembled a horse. Watching him shift and shape himself accordingly had been a novel if stomach-wrenching experience. “Do you want to undermine what we’ve accomplished? If you go scaring folk needlessly, they’ll fear you all the more! Have you any idea of the image you project?”

The massive, pitch-black steed laughed. His chilling orbs were all aglitter as he voiced his amusement. “A fearsome one, indeed! One fellow dropped to his knees and pledged his loyalty to friend Dru… and all I did was wink at him as I passed! Nothing more!”

“Do you want them to fear my father?”

He sobered. “It is not Dru that they fear; it is me!”

“And you represent him.”

“I-” The sight of so menacing a creature suddenly struck still by understanding almost made the sorceress forget her annoyance with him. The feeling did not last long, however.

“You have much to learn about the pettiness and suspicious nature of the Vraad, Darkhorse.”

He was slow in replying, but what he said surprised her at that moment, though, in retrospect, she would realize that she had seen it coming. “I do not care for the ways of the Vraad very much. They are not like Dru or you. They curse me behind my back, thinking I have ears as weak and foolish as theirs, and call me monster! They do not try to understand me, while I have willingly struggled to comprehend all things around me! Nothing I do lessens their fear and distrust! I have acted in all ways I can think of, yet they care no more for me than when I first appeared in the square!”

Darkhorse did something then that Sharissa had never seen him do. He turned his head to the left and blinked. In all the time the sorceress had spent with him, she had never seen the ebony stallion blink. That, however, was nothing compared with what occurred immediately after, for a brilliant glow materialized before the eternal, a glow that expanded in rapid order.

A portal! Darkhorse had not made use of this skill since his stunning arrival, and so it had taken Sharissa a moment to comprehend what it was the eternal was doing. His every movement reminiscent of a frustrated child-the young Zeree recalled herself-Darkhorse gave her no time to react. He was through the magical gateway and away within seconds. She had barely time to call his name before the portal shrank into nothing, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the chamber without a notion as to where he had gone or what he planned to do.

“Serkadion Manee!” Sharissa wanted to throw something against one of the walls, but forced herself to stay where she was until the desire died. Why was nothing easy? Why did everyone have to fight her, no matter how minuscule the reason?

Sharissa waited, but after several minutes passed and the shadow steed did not reappear, she knew it was futile to sit and worry any longer. Darkhorse was predictable in some ways. He would return to the square and then to Sirvak Dragoth. Either that or spend a few hours running wild through the woods and plains-hopefully without spooking anyone else. He had done this once before. Of one thing she was certain: the eternal would not abandon the city, not while his companion of old remained there. He had no one else to turn to and, unless she had misread him, which was possible but not likely, the dweller from the Void desperately craved friendship. It was as if Darkhorse had tasted a fruit long forbidden to him. Had he not, after all, searched world after world for her father after the guardians of the city had exiled him from this place?

Realizing that Darkhorse would return only when Darkhorse chose to, Sharissa returned to her work. There was always so much to do, so much to organize. Ever the first to admit she was very much a reflection of her elder, the sorceress knew that, before long, she would become so engrossed in what she was doing that the day-and, she hoped, the shadow steed’s tantrum-would pass without her even realizing it.

First on her agenda was the mapping situation, something long overdue and growing even more so each week. That led her to a reconstruction phase recommended by one of the Vraad who assisted her. It had something to do with an expected need to increase food production through farming, she recalled…

“Lady Sharissa?”

She looked up, blinked several times in rapid succession when it occurred to her that it was getting dark in her chamber, and then frowned when the unsightly figure standing near the hall entrance moved closer. He carried an oil lamp that served more to add an appearance of ghoulishness to his features than it did to illuminate the room. That he had gotten this far meant he had bribed one of her aides. She would have to speak to them in the morning.

“Bethken, isn’t it?”

He bowed, somehow keeping the lamp balanced at the same time. “It is, yes, lady. I know it grows late, great lady, but I wondered if I might-”

Trying to hide her disgust, Sharissa waved the robed figure forward. Bethken had once been a stout man-by choice-but fifteen years had taken their toll on his girth. For some reason, though, his skin had never taken a fancy to his new slimness and had, therefore, merely gathered in layer after layer of loose flesh about his person. Bethken looked very much like an old waterskin just emptied. As for his loyalties, he had none. Like many Vraad, he was technically under her father’s banner, but that was mostly because the others had never had anything of sufficient value to sway him. No doubt, he had come in the hopes of gaining something of value from her. “What is it you want?”

“First, allow me to offer you light.” He put the oil lamp down on one of Sharissa’s note sheets, staining it in the process with oil.

The sorceress wanted to scream, but she knew that was bad form. For many Vraad, Bethken’s way was as close as they could come to being congenial. It was not supposed to matter to Sharissa that what he seemed more like was a serpent sizing up a tasty field mouse.

In an effort to avoid further damage to her work, either from stains or, worse yet, a flash fire, she took the lamp, placed it on a stand nearby, and said, “My thanks to you, Bethken, but I can provide my own light.”

The petitioner stumbled back as the chamber became brilliantly lit by a soft, glowing spot near the ceiling.

“Gods!” The other Vraad looked up, an envious expression blossoming as he admired her handiwork. “If only I could…”

“You came to see me for a reason?” She did not care for the way his eyes grew covetous when he turned his attention back to her. He could see her much better in this light, true, but it was not merely lust for her that she read. Bethken was one of those to whom a loss of power was like stealing the food from his mouth. He hungered for it, and the wonders it could give him. In Sharissa he saw much of what he hungered for.

“It is always glorious to see such skill in these dark times, lady.” The man fairly fawned upon her. Any success he might have had, however, was countered by the constant shifting of his loose skin as he talked and moved. “Would that we could return to the days of our greatness.”

“I doubt even you would want to return to Nimth now.”

“Hardly!” He looked shocked, as if she were mad to even make mention of such a thing.

“Good.” Sharissa nodded. “Now, what is it you want? I have many things to do.”

“The demon; he is not about?”

“Darkhorse is no demon, Bethken, and, as far as your question… do you see him here?”

His laughter was forced. “Forgive me, Lady Sharissa. I meant him no insult. It’s just that it would be better if he were not here; he might grow heated at some of what I wish to convey to you.”

If you ever succeed in conveying it, the sorceress thought wryly. “Go on, please.”

Bethken bowed again, sending his folds of skin into renewed jiggling. “You know that Silesti’s faction has been vocal concerning their fear of the dem-your companion?”

“Of course.”

“I have heard that Silesti thinks to go beyond mere words, that he desires to remove the creature.”

He was obviously hoping for some sort of dramatic reaction, but Sharissa had no intention of satisfying him. She had heard the rumor already and knew it to be false. Silesti had admitted to Dru that the thought had crossed his mind, but he had decided that it would be a breach of faith to Sharissa’s father, whom he respected and, though neither man would admit it, even liked. Silesti trusted Dru, and the elder Zeree trusted the somber, black-suited figure.

“Your news is hardly news to me.”

The man looked crestfallen. It was interesting how so many people came to her with what they imagined was important information. Like Bethken, they wanted compensation, of course. To be owed a favor by any of the members of the triumvirate or even someone close to them was a coup indeed.

“He seeks to call a meeting of the triumvirate, at which point he will-” the unsightly man babbled.

“Strike. He’ll kill my father and the Lord Tezerenee and chain Darkhorse.” As if chains could hold an entity such as the shadow steed.

“I thought-”

“You do have my thanks for trying, Bethken. I’m sorry that you went to the trouble of coming all the way here for this. I hope you don’t have far to walk.”

Her less-than-subtle hint that he had overstayed his welcome mortified the wrinkled figure. He hemmed and hawed for a moment, then bowed once more.

“Perhaps another time, Lady Sharissa. It was no trouble, and I have the satisfaction of retaining a memory of your beauty. That is reward enough. Good night!”

Bethken remained bent over as he backed out of the chamber. It was not until he had vanished from sight that Sharissa recalled his oil lamp. She started to call after him, then decided that he knew by this time that he had forgotten it. Certainly walking about in the dark should have informed him of the fact. If Bethken returned for the lamp, Sharissa would give it back to the horrid man and turn him out again. If he did not, she would have someone return it in the morning.

Her research soon enveloped her in a cocoon of forgetfulness. More than once she had followed in her father’s footsteps, sometimes finding the morning sun creeping across the table where she worked. Each time that happened, Sharissa swore she would not do it again.

She finished writing notes about another of her pet projects, a study of the effects on the various individuals who made up the population of the city. Of late, many Vraad had grown more weathered in appearance. She could not bring herself to think of them as old, because then she would have to think of her father dying at some point. Still, it was highly probable that, in abandoning Nimth, the Vraad had lost part of what made them near immortal. Something in the sorcery of Nimth that was missing in this world… unless this was some trick of the lands themselves.

Looking up, Sharissa thought, Could what Gerrod said once be true? Could this world be changing us to suit its, the founders’, desires? Is that what the Faceless Ones are doing among us?

Almost as if conjured by her thoughts, a shape seemed to move across the entranceway. Sharissa squinted, but the figure, if it had been there, was now gone. Thinking of Bethken, she rose and walked carefully toward the outside corridor. At her command, the ball of light floated down from the ceiling and preceded her into the hall. Sharissa glanced left and right, but the corridor was empty.

She had no idea what the hour was, but knew it had to be very late. Returning to her notes, Sharissa started to straighten things away, fully intent on returning to them after a good sleep. Her task had barely begun, however, before her attention was caught by a flickering motion to her side.

It was the oil lamp. The sorceress smiled at the apprehension she had briefly felt touch her. Reaching over, she doused the flame.

Her hands succeeded in preventing her fall to the floor, but only just so.

If someone had asked Sharissa to describe the sensation she had just experienced, the young Zeree might have best put it as the lifting of a veil from her eyes. The night was the same, but it was now part of her existence, not merely a thing in the background.

… sa!

“Darkhorse?” She shook her head in order to clear her thoughts further. Had there been a voice in her head, one that reminded the sorceress of the ebony stallion? Sharissa waited, hoping to catch something more. The Vraad had some ability in mindtalk, but this had been no Vraad. She was not even certain there had been a voice. Perhaps it had been a stray thought of her overworked mind, but then, what had it concerned? Sa was no word she recalled, but it was the last syllable of her own name, and Sharissa had, at that instant, felt an urgency.

The nearest window gave her a view of the center of the city. She strode over to it and peered outside. One of the moons was visible-Hestia, if she recalled-but nothing out of the ordinary was revealed in the dim illumination the harsh mistress of the night offered.

“I’m a tired fool,” she muttered, smiling at her own silliness. If Darkhorse had called to her, he would certainly have tried again after having failed to reach her the first time. The eternal was nothing if not persistent. In fact, it was more likely that he would have materialized before her rather than call to her using the less-than-trustworthy method of mindtalk. For one with the stallion’s abilities, it was a simple thing. For the weakened Vraad, it was much, much more difficult. No, Darkhorse had not called her; she could not sense his presence anywhere-

Anywhere? Her mind snapped to full alertness at last.

Sharissa could not sense Darkhorse anywhere. He was in neither the city nor the surrounding countryside. When he had first come to the western shores of this continent, the sorceress had felt him almost at once. She had been the only one, as far as she recalled. If she could not find him, then it was certain that no one else could either.

Sirvak Dragoth! He has to be there! Though there was no reason to believe the eternal was in danger, Sharissa had a feeling of foreboding. She knew that he was not in Sirvak Dragoth. Even from there, Sharissa had always been able to vaguely detect his odd magical emanations, an apparently natural and ongoing process of the stallion’s nebulous “body.”

Nothing. It was as if Darkhorse had left the continent. While it was very possible he had, she could not see him leaving in so abrupt a manner, even after his petulant attitude earlier. He would have come to speak to her, to say goodbye. In many ways, the leviathan was very predictable. Sharissa knew him very well after only these past few days. His habits were ingrained to a degree that even the most predictable human could not match.

Her work completely abandoned now, Sharissa pondered what to do next. If her fears were without merit, then she was thrusting herself into a mad, futile chase. If there was merit, then what had happened to her father’s old comrade… and did her father know?

The desire for sleep was beginning to nag at her, but it was still only an infant in strength. The longer she delayed, however, the more dominant the demand would become. Sharissa began plotting her move, knowing that her time limit was short; the sorceress had already taxed herself the night before.

It was a shame, Sharissa thought, that she had no hound to follow his trail-providing Darkhorse had even left one. He moved more like the wind, and the only way she had ever been able to keep track of him was by reports from fearful and angry colonists and her own higher senses. Gathering information would take too long, and she had already tried to detect his present position.

The whimsical notion of the hound intruded upon her thoughts again, but it took Sharissa time to understand what it was her subconscious was trying to tell her. What use was a hound when she had no trail, and what did it have to do with her now useless ability to sense where Darkhorse was at this moment?

A hound followed a trail left by its prey, but there was no trail… was there?

“Not physical, but maybe magical!” she hissed, frustrated at herself for not seeing it sooner. Darkhorse was unique, being a creature whose very substance was akin to pure power given sentience. Yet, both Vraad sorcery and that of this world left a residue of sorts.

Did Darkhorse leave such a trail wherever he went?

She searched with her mind, seeing first the prismatic view of the world, then the lines of force that crisscrossed through everything. That the others who held some degree of power saw only one or the other when they sought to use their abilities always bothered her, for she wondered why she had been singled out. In fifteen years, the sorceress had never been able to train anyone to see the lifeforce of the world as she did.

To her surprise, the trail was clear. So foreign a magic was Darkhorse that he was a blight upon the otherwise colorful and organized landscape Sharissa perceived. Even after nearly a day had passed since his frustrated retreat from her scolding, the memory was still strong.

I didn’t see this? It was not so surprising, in retrospect. Did she study her shadow every day? What about the footprints she left in the soil when she went walking in the fields beyond the city? When one was astride so overwhelming a being as Darkhorse, even the world itself faded into the background.

“Sharissa?”

The voice startled her so, coming as it did after so many hours of solitude. Sharissa turned, already knowing who it was who had invaded her chambers. “Lochivan? What do you do here at this hour?”

The Tezerenee chuckled and stepped into the light. He carried his helm in the crook of one arm, allowing Sharissa to see the clan features he tended to hide more often than not. In truth, between Gerrod and his brother there was no comparison; Lochivan favored his father’s ursine features far too much to be considered handsome. “I drew a late watch. The patriarch plays no favorites, especially where his own children are concerned. When my watch was over, I could not sleep. I thought the solitude of the city would help, so I walked.” He shrugged. “I’ve known of your habit of staying up till all hours for years now, Sharissa. I thought you might be awake when you should be sleeping. When I saw the light and your figure outlined in the window at one point, I knew I was all too correct in my assumption.”

She was chagrined; it was true that this was not the first time he had stopped by. It was only that his timing could not have been worse… and his presence reminded her of who in the city would most profit by Darkhorse’s disappearance, though she found it hard to believe that the entire clan could muster the strength to threaten him.

“Is something wrong?” He had taken her silence to be, in part, an acceptance of his presence. Lochivan gazed around the vast room as he joined her, his eyes resting on Bethken’s unwanted gift. His mouth crooked upward at the ends as he put his helm on the table and examined it.

“A present from someone trying to worm his way into my favor,” she explained, then, realizing she had never answered his first question, added, “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I was just about to retire for the evening.”

“What’s left of it.” Lochivan put the lamp down. “I probably shouldn’t bother you, then. I can come back during the day.”

Despite herself, Sharissa could not help feeling that there was something amiss with the conversation. She knew what she was not telling Lochivan, but was there something else that he was not telling her?

“Lochivan, what do you know about Darkhorse?”

His eyes told her she had guessed correctly the reason for his being here. It had been too coincidental, even recalling his previous visits.

He said nothing, but there was now a tiny flame, a match or some minor use of power, at the tip of his index finger. The oil lamp flickered to life…

Sharissa reread the notes she had taken on the subterranean mapping project. Should take care of any worries, she thought. Now if they’d just do it the way I’ve described it and let me get on to something else!

Looking up from the table, the sorceress had the oddest feeling that something had passed her by, some event she should recall. Considering the many duties she had usurped from her overworked parent, not to mention her own research, Sharissa was not surprised that she might have forgotten something. Her eyes wandered the room in a distracted manner while she tried to think of what it was.

Her gaze came to rest on the oil lamp, which blazed high even after hours of use. The slim sorceress studied it further, finding some doubt in the image before her but at a loss as to explain just exactly what was out of place.

Should she douse it? A part of her saw the needless waste of oil, yet it seemed so unimportant a task, hardly worth rising for. She could always douse it when her work for the night was finished. That was not that long, was it?

Still, when she turned back to her work, her mind refused to leave the lamp to its function. It was as if the simple object was becoming the focal point of her existence.

I’ll just douse the flame and put it out of sight. It had to be getting very late if she was so concerned about a simple object. Sharissa started to rise, but then her attention wandered to a page of notes concerning a reconstruction phase that somehow involved future food production. The sorceress sat down and started to read. The plan had merit, but had she not read something similar to it? The more she perused the notes, the more the sorceress wondered at the familiarity of the recommendation.

The parchment fell from her hand. At the bottom of the recommendation was an analysis of the plan-in her handwriting and dated this very evening!

“Serkadion Manee!” she swore. Small wonder it sounded familiar to her; she recalled now reading it and making the suggestions at the bottom. How could she have forgotten it? Had the night drained her so much?

A shadow on the table flickered, as though living.

Sharissa turned and stared at the lamp-which she knew she had planned to dispose of at some point.

The sorceress rose from her chair with such fury that the glow she had cast to light the chamber grew momentarily into a miniature sunburst and the chair itself went tumbling backward as if seeking to escape her. Sharissa resisted an impulse to return to her work, to begin anew her research that she had abandoned earlier.

The closer she moved to the lamp, the stronger the flame became. The young sorceress found herself slowing more and more. She renewed her efforts instantly, knowing that if she continued to slow at the rate she had been, she would never even come within arm’s reach of her goal.

She all but closed her eyes as her fingers neared the flame, for it not only blazed as bright as her own magical light had, but the movements of the fire had a hypnotic effect.

“You’ve fooled me before! Not again!” she snarled at the innocent-looking lamp.

The flame rose high, almost causing Sharissa to pull her fingers back lest they be burned. Instead, she remembered herself and reached forward to end the battle between the devious trap and herself. “Not good enough!”

Tongues of hungry flame washed over her hand, seeking to blacken and curl her slim fingers before finally reducing them to ash. So it would have been if Sharissa had been any other person. Reflex had made her pull back the first time, but thought had reminded her that she was, after all, one of the most powerful spellcasters among her people. This pathetic thing before her was a clever but not so potent toy whose greatest strength had been its anonymity. Now that she knew the enemy’s choice of weapons, there was no difficulty. It had only been the lamp’s hypnotic gleam that had stayed her so far.

Her hand came down on the source of the flame and she cupped the mouth, holding her hand over the opening until she was certain she had ended the threat. A simple probe verified that the lamp was once more just a lamp. As long as she did not light it, it could not assault her mind. That was how she had evaded its trickery last time, only to fall victim to it again when-

“Lochivan!”

She knew her anger and her growing exhaustion were making her reckless at a time she should be thinking clearly, but that did not seem to matter the more she thought of the betrayal. Lochivan had always been her good friend, almost as much as Gerrod… who had warned her that his brother’s good company meant nothing when the patriarch gave a command.

“Lochivan, damn you!”

The Tezerenee did have Darkhorse. She remembered everything now, including the brief contact between the ebony stallion and herself. True, Sharissa could no longer sense the eternal, but she knew the trail would point to the drakes and their masters. “Lochivan, you and Barakas better pray to your Dragon of the Depths that Darkhorse escapes and gets you first!”

It would mean a spell of teleportation. She had cast such a spell only a few times over the years, her irrational fear that she would end up in some limbo similar to the Void keeping her from performing the spell on a regular basis. Darkhorse needed her aid, however. She could not know if her father had sensed his former companion’s danger, and Sharissa did not have the time to seek him out-not in her distraught mind, that is. Each moment that passed, and too many had passed already while she hesitated, made rescuing the shadow steed more and more unlikely.

She raised her arms and took a deep breath. A moment to collect her thoughts and she would be gone.

A disturbing sensation brushed her mind. Something flashed around her neck, making it all but impossible to breathe.

Behind her, a voice, Lochivan’s voice, calmly said to another unseen intruder, “Just in time. I told you not to doubt me.”

Sharissa’s world became a buzzing blur… then a shroud of silence and darkness.