The Dream Spheres

Twenty

Arilyn and the forest elves took to the rooftops. It felt odd, but amazingly right, to be back in the familiar com shy;pany of her friends. The band took to the new challenge with ease, making their way across the uneven line of roofs as surefooted as squirrels.

They crept up to the Thann villa and circled the place where the tren attacks were to come: the garden shed with the false door that led into the tunnels. They got this in their sights and waited.

The night was dark, with a slim, fading moon and a thick mist. When the tren emerged from the shed, they blended into the shadows. Even to Arilyn's heat-sensitive eyes, they were little more than a cool blur.

"No one but elves would have seen them," the half-elf mused as she fitted her first arrow to her bow. "Oth wasn't expecting this."

At her side, Foxfire nodded and raised his bow. On his signal, all six elves fired.

The arrows dove in like silent, deadly falcons. A faint, rumbling cry drifted up to them, a sound that was abruptly and wetly silenced.

"We got at least one," Arilyn said.

"Two," the forest elf corrected. "There are three more. We should pursue?"

"No need. Listen." There was a faint hiss as the sur shy;viving tren dragged their slain kin beyond range. "They eat their own rather than leave evidence of their pres shy;ence," she explained.

Foxfire shook his head in disgust. "All the same, some of us should stay here. You go along with the others."

She nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder in farewell, then was gone, running lightly over the roof shy;tops toward the Ilzimmer estate. A large shape loomed up in front of her, springing up over the edge of the roof so suddenly that she nearly ran into it. It was the tren who called himself Knute, distinguished by the ridge of festering scar over one eye.

The tren touched the wound. "I think I die soon. Wounded clan chief doesn't live long-others will attack. But I will die wearing your blue hide."

Arilyn danced back and drew her sword. "Notions of fashion in this city," she said grimly as she circled in, "are getting entirely out of hand." She lunged at the creature, a quick attack that forced him back on his heels. Immediately she pivoted into a half turn and swept her sword in low.

Knute turned also, protecting his hamstrings and swatting away the blow with his thick, short tail. The blade sliced deep, but there was little blood. Almost casually, the tren kicked aside the severed appendage. He swiped at Arilyn, a knife in each clawed hand-two quick, slashing blows.

She parried them both, but the pain of the impact jolted through her hands. The prayers of the shaman had healed the blackened skin, but the blow from the moonblade's magic had dealt deep and possibly lasting damage. Arilyn fought aside a wave of weakness and fell back to prepare for the next attack.

To her surprise, it did not come. The tren looked con shy;fused, his tongue darting out and his huge head jerking back and forth as if he were trying to take stock of a host of new enemies. That, she realized, was precisely what he was trying to do. From the corner of her eye, Arilyn saw the ghostly image of a beautiful elf with enormous blue and gold eyes and hair the color of sapphires. The look that the elf gave her-at once bracingly stern and full of love-chased away any thought of weakness.

"Mother," Arilyn murmured, welcoming the appari shy;tion even though it was yet another sign that her sword's magic was breaking down.

She retreated another few steps and glanced around. All the elfshadows, all eight ancestors who had wielded her sword, prowled about the roof in battle-ready stance. The tren's gaze darted from one to another, his tongue flicking out to taste their scent. After a few moments of this, the creature began to advance. Unlike humans, he had no fear of spirits. If he could not smell them, they were not real enough to concern him.

Arilyn lifted her sword in guard position. The tren came in hard, slashing at her with both knives. She turned her sword this way and that to block the attacks. Each one throbbed through her battered hands, and the pain grew so intense that her vision began to blur into a red haze.

A musty, heavy weight sagged against her. For a moment Arilyn thought that she had taken too much punishment, that oblivion was claiming her. Suddenly the weight was gone, and the moonblade was torn from her slack hands.

For some reason, the sudden release steadied her. Her vision cleared, and settled upon Dan's stricken face. The tren lay dead at her feet, killed by three quick cuts of his sword.

She noticed her hands. Danilo held them both in his, gripping the translucent fingers hard enough to send renewed pain singing through her veins. Nonetheless, she did not let go, for she saw what he had seen when he looked at her. She could see through her own hands, almost as clearly as she could see the city below through the ghostly forms of her ancestors.

"Not now," Danilo said, his eyes defying the waiting shadows. "Not yet."

She felt him reaching through the link that bound them, and sensed new strength begin to edge into her battered form.

"I'm filling in," she said. It was an odd term, but it suited. Color and substance were returning to her hands. She pulled them free of Danilo's grasp and held them up for his inspection. Danilo caught one of her hands and gave the fingers a quick, grateful kiss. He then stooped and retrieved the blade. Dimly she realized that it dealt no harm to him, but that did not surprise her. The sword's magic was utterly distorted, so much so that it had turned upon her and was sapping her very lifeforce.

"The Mhaorkiira," she said, understanding what was likely at work. "It's close."

He stopped in midstride and threw the moonblade aside. "You cannot do anything to fight it. Stay here, or leave that sword."

Arilyn could do neither. She brushed past him and stood poised at the roof's edge. "Bring it with you," she said, and then leaped into the night.

Danilo's heart missed a beat, then he heard the light thud of her boots landing on the roof just a few feet below. He picked up the sword and followed her to Diloontier's Perfumes, and from there into the tunnels below.

It was there that the surviving tren were to meet. The elves had done their work well-there had been but few survivors. The bodies of tren and elves alike spoke of the final brutal battle that had taken place. All that remained of this band was the large tren facing off against Elaith.

"Easy victory," Arilyn said confidently.

Danilo was not so certain. Elaith's quick sword kept the tren's knife engaged, but the creature reached his free hand into a suspiciously familiar bag hanging from his belt-a fabric bag such as that worn by human mages, not the grim, fine leather fashioned from a tren victim.

"That is Oth, I'll wager my life on it," he said in a worried voice. The mage had the Mhaorkiira-the pow shy;erful dark stone that stole memory and magic.

Arilyn seized his arm. "I've got to get out of here," she said urgently. "Elaith is fighting for his life. I cannot help him, and I risk distracting him."

Danilo looked carefully at the nearest elfshadow, and understanding jolted through him. The face was Arilyn's, though if possible even more beautiful, and the ghostly image's hair was translucent blue.

"Princess Amnestria," he realized, seeing the wisdom in Arilyn's words. If anything could distract Elaith from battle, it would be the face of his lost love.

The warning came too late. Elaith's amber eyes settled on the beautiful elfshadow, and recognition tore a poignant, painful swath across his face. The elf seized control of himself at once, but the hesitation was all that the Eltorchul mage needed.

The "tren" flung aside his sword and made a short, sharp gesture with the thick fingers of both hands. A burst of crimson light exploded from his reptilian hands and caught Elaith full in the chest. The force lifted the elf off his feet and carried him back several feet. He crashed into the wall of the tunnel and slid to the ground.

Scales melted into flesh and fabric as the mage re shy;claimed his shape. The tall, aesthetic features of Oth Eltorchul came into focus, and in the mage's out shy;stretched palm was a red stone glowing with malevo shy;lent light.

"You will die," the mage said almost casually, "but not before your memories are mine."

Danilo felt the sudden sharp tug-as if someone had reached into his chest and closed iron fingers around his heart. He felt the magic of the Weave shift as his place in it began to tear free, thread by thread.

A glance at Arilyn's white face told him that she was experiencing much the same thing. Her history, her magic was being stolen from her, but the manifestation was different: the elfshadows began to move toward the flame-haired mage, resisting each step, but struggling as if against a strong wind. Arilyn began to move, as well, fighting her way over to the place where her moonblade lay in a desperate attempt to stop the twisted elven magic and the mage who wielded it.

Danilo gathered the remnants of his strength and will and formed it into the spell of accusation he had fashioned for the Lady Cassandra. As he anticipated, the spell went awry. Swirling lines and tendrils of flame danced into the air, swirling around the mage and then disappearing into the Mhaorkiira.

This distracted Oth, if but for a moment. The elf shy;shadows paused, uncertain. Danilo tried again, throw shy;ing at Oth the bubble spell that had contained the tren.

The mage again began to change form, this time to a giant hedgehog. The long, thick quills pierced the magi shy;cal prison, sending shards flying like droplets of rain from a wind-shaken tree.

A howl of rage burst from the mage-a howl that lifted into a wolf's mournful cry and ended in the shriek of a hunting owl. The mage's body followed suit, shift shy;ing from one form to another in a spate of uncontrolled magic. Not all the transformations were uniform. The evershifting result was horrific, turning the wizard into a mirror reflecting the creatures that inhabited a thousand nightmares.

Arilyn finally made her way to the moonblade and stooped to pick it up. Her fingers closed around the hilt-and went through it. Her head fell forward in a gesture of resignation. The battle was over for her. There was nothing to do but wait and watch the spectacular spell battle rage between her love and the crazed wizard. It was the hardest moment of her life. Fitting, she thought fleetingly, that it should be her last.

She raised one ghostly hand to shield her still-sensitive eyes from the brilliant barrage of light. Danilo was throwing every fireball and lightning bolt spell in his memory at the mage.

No, not at the mage, she realized-at the Mhaorkiira.

Panic swept through her, and she tried to shout at him to stop, to flee. Such magic was dangerous at the best of times. In the presence of the dark gem, it could turn deadly.

The Mhaorkiira absorbed each of his magical attacks, growing brighter with each one. Suddenly it exploded, sending shards and sparkles of light into every corner of the cavern. There was no sound, there was no rumble or shudder or tremor. But the forces of the explosion tore through Arilyn's insubstantial form, sending her to her knees.

Never had she faced a foe to equal this one. A sound shy;less, psychic maelstrom whirled through the cavern, made up of memories, magical spells, dreams, and night shy;mares. A lifetime of them-a hundred lifetimes! The force of it threatened to tear her away.

Amid the soundless howl, she heard a familiar voice and felt a familiar, golden presence. Danilo was equally adrift, equally buffeted. A moment's touch, and he, too, would be gone.

She felt the familiar clasp of his hand, as surely in her mind as she had ever felt it in life. With all her fading will she clung to that, lending to it her own stub shy;born courage. The storm raged about them, but together they found they could stand.

When at last the crimson storm faded, Arilyn slowly eased her grip on Danilo's hand. She rose to her feet and jolted with surprise when she noted that he was at least twenty paces away from her.

"Look," he said, nodding toward her elven sword.

The moonblade glowed with faint blue light. The elf-shadows were gone, but each of the eight runes glowed with serene power.

Danilo crossed over to Elaith and motioned Arilyn to his side. She heard the reassuring click of her boots on the stone, knew that her time as elfshadow was not yet come. A quick glance, however, told her that Elaith might not be so fortunate. His injuries were severe.

Oth Eltorchul was in considerably worse shape. The mage huddled at the base of the wall, his eyes as blank as a newborn babe's. At his feet lay the Mhaorkiira Hadryad. The light of life and memory was gone from it, leaving it a common gem. Arilyn picked it up and felt no trace of its malevolent magic. The kiira was as empty as the mage whose mind it had destroyed.