Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (56 page)

“Hello, France,” Morgin said softly. He
wanted to stand and face the swordsman squarely, but he tired
quickly. This was the longest he’d been on his feet unassisted
since Csairne Glen, and his knees began to tremble. Moving with
great care he sat on a nearby cot.

France stood stiff and formal before him.
“My lord,” he said, and bowed deeply from the waist. “How may I
serve you?” He spoke without any trace of his usual accent,
addressing Morgin in the same stilted way he chose to converse with
Olivia. His eyes were cold and distant, and they lacked that gleam
that normally danced within them.

“So you’re going to do it to me too?” Morgin
asked.

“Pardon, my lord? Do what?”

“You know damn well what.”

“Forgive me, my lord, if I have offended
you. I—”

“Damn you!” Morgin shouted. “Stop calling me
that. I’m not
my lord
. I’m me. Morgin.”

France looked at him for a long silent
moment, then carefully asked, “Are you?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, my lord.” France’s face remained
untouched by any expression.

Morgin buried his face in his hands. “Damn
you,” he whispered, thinking of AnnaRail and JohnEngine; her
distant unease and his uncomfortable formality. Both of them had
tried repeatedly to break through the invisible barrier that made
them all strangers, and neither of them had succeeded. “You’ve
changed just like all the rest,” Morgin said.

France’s answer came in icy and distant
tones. “It is not we who have changed, my lord.”

Those words hung on the air like smoke in
the dead stillness of the morning. “Have I changed that much?”
Morgin asked. “I’m still Morgin . . . I think.”

“The Morgin I knew,” France said, “came down
from Csairne Glen bearing wounds no mortal man could survive. Who,
or what, you are, I do not know. But I will not be friend to some
demon who haunts the body of my dead friend.”

“Damn it I’m not dead,” Morgin shouted. “I
never was. I don’t know what happened to me up there.
I . . . Damn you!” He almost started crying,
thinking of the gap in his memory, of that time when he was dead,
or near to it. “I don’t even have my magic anymore.”

“What?” France demanded. “What did you
say?”

“I said I no longer have any magic. It’s
gone, torn from me. I’m as powerless as any peasant.”

“Gone, you say?” France asked with an odd
gleam of approval in his eyes. “Completely gone?”

Morgin nodded. France sat down beside him
and threw a comforting arm about his shoulders. “Don’t ya see, lad?
That’s a blessin’, not a curse. It was yer witch powers that was
always yer curse, lad. It brought nothin’ but trouble, and now yer
free of it.”

France stood, began pacing back and forth in
front of him. “Who knows about this?”

“Just you, and maybe Ellowyn and Laelith, if
Laelith even understands—”

France hissed angrily. “Don’t mention them
two. They don’t exist, never have. They was just a dream.”

Morgin shrugged, decided not to argue the
point. France continued. “But it’s good no one knows about yer
magic. And you be careful not to tell no one. Not even yer mother
or that brother of yers. The fewer who know, the better. If this
gets out, Valso won’t be the only one trying to kill ya.”

“Valso?” Morgin asked. “Trying to kill
me?”

“Sure. He’s been sendin’ assassins quite
regular. In fact the whole damn Greater Council wants yer head on a
pike. Take a look around. Wylow’s still got this place under heavy
guard. And there’s more than a few Elhiynes among them, ya know.
Yer grandmother’s been sendin’ him troops to help out.”

“But why are they after me?”

France shook his head. “You ain’t changed,
have ya? Still can’t see it even when it’s right in front of yer
nose. Yer a big hero. And yer grandmother’s gettin’ everything out
of that she can. She’s pushin’ you real hard, gonna make sure yer a
public figure before she gets done with you. Maybe even try to
unite the Lesser Clans under you, especially if she thinks she can
control you.”

“Me?” Morgin asked.

“Of course, you. You’re the ShadowLord. You
beat Illalla’s army when we was outnumbered four to one. You got a
reputation and she’s makin’ sure it gets bigger every day. If I was
you, the first thing I’d do when I got back home was cut Valso’s
throat.”

“Valso?” Morgin asked. “At Elhiyne?”

“Ya. He and that chop-faced father of his
got caught tryin’ to sneak away from Csairne Glen. Yer
grandmother’s holding ‘em for ransom or something. That woman sure
likes to play her games.”

Morgin’s head spun crazily. It was all too
much too fast. France looked suddenly concerned. “You don’t look so
well.”

“I’m tired,” Morgin said.

“Better get you back to yer bed, eh?”

France and JohnEngine almost carried him
back to his room. It was frustrating to be so helpless, to find his
knees suddenly weak, his eyelids heavy and drowsy. But he’d learned
the hard way that in his present physical condition, exhaustion
came all too quickly, and would not be banished without long and
quiet rest.

But mention of Valso’s name had reopened the
wound in his heart, the memory of seeing Rhianne go to the
Decouix’s bed. He tried not to think of it, but her presence
reminded him of her treachery, and as the days passed the wall
between them grew steadily. He told himself he would forgive her.
He told himself that, and he tried to believe it. He tried with all
his heart, and he failed.

“My lord,” Ellowyn said. “It’s time to light
a—”

“No,” Morgin snapped angrily.

Ellowyn winced. “Why may I not light a
candle, my lord?”

Outside it was early dusk, a world of long,
lean shadows cast by the last remnants of the setting sun. Morgin
stared at the darkness of the open window. “Because I said so.”

Ellowyn looked away from him. Laelith sat
fearfully on the end of his bed, eyes downcast, her wings for once
quiescent.

“This is unhealthy, my lord.”

Morgin didn’t answer.

“You must love her very much.”

“No,” Morgin snarled. “I don’t love her at
all. I hate her.”

“That too,” Ellowyn said. “I’m afraid I will
never understand you mortals. How you can hate someone whom you so
dearly love—”

“I told you I don’t love her.”

“You mortals are also good at believing your
own lies.”

“Please be silent. I’m trying to think.”

Ellowyn stood. “Come, little one,” she said
to Laelith. “We are not wanted here.” She turned and left the room;
the faerie followed close behind.

“Go,” Morgin whispered after them. “You’re
nothing but the stuff of dreams anyway.”

He knew he was dreaming, for only then were
Ellowyn and Laelith about, though sometimes it was difficult to
distinguish between reality and dream, or Ellowyn and Rhianne, and
at those times he wasn’t sure what state his mind was in. He closed
his eyes in exasperation, realized immediately that that was a
mistake as he began to drift away from the dream he had been
dreaming.

~~~

Morgin scrambled quickly from one hillock to
the next, conscious that in so doing he was exposed to whatever
dangers lay in waiting. He was quite vulnerable now, for here there
were no crevices in which to hide. The sun beat down mercilessly,
yielding neither natural nor magical shadows. And except for the
occasional large boulder or fissure, the landscape was unbroken,
barren, gray-brown. He’d been lost now for what seemed an untold
eternity, no food or water, the sun always hot and dry and high in
the sky. And nowhere could he find a landmark to guide him.

He stopped near a large boulder, eyed it
carefully. It was at least a landmark he could use to be certain he
wasn’t walking in circles. But as he looked on its outlines blurred
and grew indistinct, then it melted into the landscape and
disappeared completely. He stood alone now on a featureless and
barren plain. He walked on.

After an unknown distance and an unknown
time he approached another boulder. He stopped and stared at it.
This one remained solid and distinct, and he wondered if he might
use it as a landmark, but then a man dressed all in black leathers
stepped out from behind it. Somehow Morgin knew that like Ellowyn
this man was an angel, dark, handsome, not much older than Morgin,
and kind looking. But in his hands he held a broadsword with the
point raised and directed at Morgin, and the blade dripped fresh
blood, though not as if it had recently cut down a foe, but as if
the blade itself bled from its own wounds.

“Go back,” the dark angel said. “This dream
you must not dream. Go back.”

“Gladly,” Morgin said. “But I don’t know the
way. Tell me the way and I’ll go.”

The dark angel shook his head. “I know not
the way myself. That is why I am the guardian of this dream. That
is why I stand here. If you cannot return, then my master will
demand your death.”

“Who is your master?” Morgin asked.

The dark angel ignored his question, looked
to the heavens and cried, “No, please. I have done enough of your
bidding.”

Morgin backed away from this madman and drew
his own sword, though it was pitifully small compared to the weapon
the angel bore.

The angel looked at Morgin and said,
“Forgive me. My master wants your soul.”

“But you can’t kill me,” Morgin said
desperately. “This is just a dream.”

The angel shook his head. “And every dream
yields its own reality.”

“But this is my dream.”

The dark angel nodded. “Aye. But your dream
is my reality.”

Morgin back-stepped quickly now, thinking of
similar words Ellowyn had uttered about dreams and reality. He
tried to convince himself that this was still just a dream, that he
couldn’t be hurt, that he would awake in the morning, perhaps
poorly rested but still alive and well. Nevertheless he had no
place to run so he stood his ground as the dark angel advanced, his
sword dripping a path of blood to mark his footsteps.

The dark angel lifted his sword over his
head, brought it down in a long arc. Morgin gripped his sword with
both hands and swung. It crashed into the angel’s with a jarring
clang that Morgin felt in his shoulders. The dark angel hesitated
for an instant, looked oddly sad as he struck his next blow, but
with it he swept Morgin’s sword aside as if he were a mere child,
and Morgin fell back, defenseless now against the angel’s
blade.

The angel swung his broadsword back and
forth in a flat arc. Morgin skipped backward, barely avoiding the
tip as blood from the strange blade spattered his tunic. The blade
hissed past his face and he skipped back again, but he concentrated
too much on the blade and not enough on his footing. He stumbled,
fell helpless onto the barren plain of his dream.

The dark angel leapt forward to stand over
him, though in his eyes there was no triumph. Then he pressed the
tip of the broadsword into Morgin’s cheek, and cut the flesh there
deeply and painfully. Morgin cried out.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the angel said sadly.
“But you must know and understand the reality of your dreams. And
so I give you that token.”

Suddenly the angel looked to the sky as if
he sensed something approaching that he feared. And then a shadow
fell over them both, and Ellowyn materialized, livid with
anger.

“You!” she screamed at the dark angel as if
she knew him. He tried to say something but she charged at him and
struck with her own sword before he could speak. He fought back,
but she struck blow after blow in a white-hot anger, and the dark
angel was hard pressed to do more than defend himself. He skipped
just out of reach of her blade, dancing back and away, ever
retreating. It was as if he could not, or would not, strike a blow
against her. And then suddenly he was gone, vanished as if he had
never been.

Ellowyn turned instantly to Morgin. Holding
her broadsword in one hand she reached down and lifted him to his
feet. “Come,” she said breathlessly. “We must be away. And
quickly.”

~~~

Morgin awoke with Rhianne and JohnEngine
standing over him. A single candle splashed a wan and lonely light
across the room. But it was otherwise dark, and his black mood had
not left him with the passing of the dream.

He touched a hand to his cheek and felt a
bandage there. “What happened?” he asked, though in moving his jaw
to speak he learned quite painfully that a deep wound lay beneath
the bandage.

“You dreamt badly, my lord,” Rhianne said,
“and fell from your bed.” She pointed to a small bedside table.
“You cut your cheek on the edge of this table here.”

He thought of the dark angel and
shivered.

“Are you cold, my lord?”

He could see that she wanted to comfort him,
but could only think of how she’d gone to Valso’s bed. He could not
put that from his mind. “No,” he said. “I’m not cold. It was just a
very unpleasant dream. And I told you I don’t want to see your
face. Get out of my sight.”

As she fled from the room in tears,
JohnEngine turned on him angrily. “What in netherhell has gotten
into you?”

Morgin snarled. “She betrayed me, betrayed
us all.”

JohnEngine frowned. “What are you talking
about?”

It was now common knowledge that Morgin had
managed to sneak into Elhiyne while Valso and his Kulls had
occupied the castle, and that it was Morgin who had killed the
Tulalane. But he’d never talked of it to anyone, never related any
details of what he’d done lurking in the shadows of Elhiyne. He now
told JohnEngine how he’d used his shadow magic to spy on Valso and
the
twoname
, how he’d watched Rhianne agree to betray them
all, watched her agree to go to Valso’s bed.