Dream Magic (11 page)

He looked around him, aghast. The place was a mess. He’d never known how they’d left it—and he was appalled to face the truth. The low ceiling dripped with distant rains, and there were tumbled caskets all around.

Sprawling
on the floor at his feet were a dozen of the Dead. They lay in varying positions and states of decay. Some were no more than skeletons wearing rotted robes. Even the most recently dead had bones showing through in spots.

None of them looked as if they were resting easily. Their
lipless mouths were open as if their existences had ended as they shrieked in agony. He supposed they probably had done just that.

“Gods,” he whispered to himself. “They just left them. They sealed the place, and left the Dead to
slumber where they fell.”

Slet, a man who’d
personally cared for the Dead for a decade, found the scene disturbing and unprofessional. He supposed he couldn’t really blame Brand and the rest. He’d been there and seen the Storm firsthand. They’d probably feared to spend any time down here and could not find a volunteer brave enough to come down and make things right. He could understand that. Even now, a decade later, the place was a horror.

Stepping over outstretched bony fingers and skulls wrapped in skin like parchment and dusty locks of dead hair, he made his way to the second stair. He had not seen anything vaguely like a Jewel
thus far—and that could only mean the Black was farther down.

It was as he reached the second floor and found it much like the first that he began to wonder what might happen to him when he took up the Black. He’d heard stories, and he’d seen Brand in his rages.
He did not know if his own mind would hold up, but he was willing to try. His son might not be much more appealing than the Dead at his feet, but he’d not see the child killed again so soon.

Gathering his courage, he stepped over a big
Dead-thing on the way down to the lowest level. With a shudder, he realized who the body belonged to: Morcant Drake, the prior caretaker of this place. He pressed onward, wanting to get the whole affair over with.

It was as he passed Morcant by that he had a grim thought. These corpses ought not to have flesh clinging to them still. Not after all these years. They were exposed, not even in caskets. Could it be that the power of the Black Jewel, just by lying nearby, had preserved the Dead in their slumber. The thought was enough to give him a chill.

There!
A silvery gleam shone from the floor at the base of the last stairway. That had to be it!

He shuffled forward, opening his hand and stooping—but he halted.
The object that had caught his eyes wasn’t a Jewel or a Scepter, as he’d heard the Black presented itself. It was a sword. A rapier of excellent quality.

A thin-boned hand gripped the hilt. Curious, Slet picked up the blade and the dead fingers released it with reluctance.

He lifted it and swished it in the air experimentally. Perfect balance, if a bit on the light side for a grown man. He gazed at the corpse that held it, but no recognition came to him. Shrugging, he went down into the depths to the final floor of the crypt. There, he turned this way and that searching for the Jewel.

He froze then, for the first time realizing that he was not alone.
There was a glimmering shadow in the darkest corner.

“I’ve waited
here a long time for a visitor,” said a soft voice.

Slet’s eyes were wide with fright. He almost bolted rather than
face whatever it was that addressed him. But he gripped the sword in his right hand and the flickering candle in his left, lifting the light slowly and peering into the corner.

He could not come out of th
is crypt empty-handed. His son would surely perish before his eyes if he did, he had no doubt of that. And no child of his deserved to die in fear and pain more than once.

So he
bravely faced whatever had spoken to him. He expected to see a ghost, and he was right in that supposition. But he had not chanced to guess her identity.

It was the Shining Lady.
She was the loveliest female imaginable. Her face was chiseled like a marble sculpture, her body curved to perfection. She was clad only in swirls of spun gauze. Her skin shone silver-white, reflecting the light of unseen stars. Her feet were like the talons of an eagle, but those abominations were hidden beneath her flowing white clothing, which was thickest around her legs.

Her effect upon Slet was immediate. His heart pounded in his chest
, and he burned for her. He could barely think, and he could not speak at all. He parted his lips, and she did the same, smiling at him sadly. A single croaking grunt escaped from Slet, but that was all.

“
You are to be my champion?” she asked in disappointment. “So long I’ve waited, and I’m thusly rewarded for my patience? I’d expected Brand, tired of dull mortal women clad in stinking flesh, to come to me at last. How are you called, lowly creature?”

Given leave to speak, Slet managed to stammer out his name.

“A Silure? Does my memory fail me, or isn’t that one of the lower clans of the Haven?”

“The lowest, my lady,” he said with typical Silure pride.

She tilted her head, and he followed her with his eyes as she came gliding closer.

“A rogue then,” she said. “Not a warrior, or a prideful mage. A thief in the night.
A grave-robber. Tell me, rogue, did you come to find the Black?”

“I did, Lady.”

“Hubris. Madness. You cannot wield such power.”

“I do not want to wield it.”

The Shining Lady, who’d been approaching him with gentle movements, stopped gliding across the chamber littered with ancient Dead and toppled coffins.

“You don’t? Why then, pray tell, would you risk you
r only soul to come here and seek it?”

“To save my son.”

She looked at him curiously.

Slet, for his part,
thought of nothing other than having her. To pull her ghostly lips close to his, to embrace her—such were the thoughts of ecstasy that raced through his mind. But something else, something irritating, tried to break through the spell she’d woven over him. He’d forgotten about the urgency of his quest. He’d forgotten about the world of wind and rain far above the ground. He’d even forgotten about Morgana and his staring bestial son in his silver cage.

“Let me see if I understand the situation
,” said the Shining Lady. “You’re the creature of another? An agent? A minion without a will of its own?”

Slet frowned. Did this mean she would not embrace him? He wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted his
lovely elven wife. It seemed grossly unfair that this woman might spurn him. He had to make amends. His mind raced and he tried to think of something that might please her.

“I
have a will! I do as I must, however. I came to save…someone.”

“
Your son, you said.”

“Yes,” said Slet, frowning with the difficulty of thought.

“Tell me then: whom do you serve, puppet?”

He fell to one knee. “I serve thee, lady.”

“No,” she said sadly.

Slet felt tears of regret roll down his muddied cheek. How could he cause her anguish? He was nothing, a flea to be crush betwixt fingernails. It was wrong of him to cause her the slightest pain.

“You serve another. Name the person who sent you into this crypt.”

Slet licked his dusty lips and beetled his brows. He could not recall the name for a moment…then he had it at last:
“Morgana.”

The Shining Lady gave him a quizzical look. “Morgana? Who is this person? What does she have that might cause a simple River Boy to seek his doom in this place?”

“She has my son in a cage, and I believe she wields a Jewel of Power.”

“Absurd. I know every Jewel and everyone who has one. What Jewel do you claim to have seen? What does it look like?”

“Like the sun and the stars together as one.”

“What is its color?”

“White, I would say.”

The Shining Lady retreated from him. Slet felt pain at her withdrawal. She’d been getting closer and closer, and although he’d learnt since childhood that her embrace meant certain doom, he’d been more than ready to
clutch her. Now that she pulled back he felt lost and dejected again, but he also felt some of his wits returning.

“You’ve released me from your spell,” he said. “Why?
Will you not take me?”

“You claim to have seen the
White
? The Sunstone? It cannot be. That Jewel was lost before I was made. Do you understand that?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I only know what I have seen.”

“What is this nonsense about a child?”

“My son—he is a troll, and she has him in a silver cage. She threatened him with fire if I did not come down here and bring her the Black.”

“Insane,” the Shining Lady said. “A stranger comes and seeks to wield both the White and the Black. Madness! Not even Brand is so foolish as to attempt such a feat. She
can’t
have the power to carry both. No one ever has.”

“Lady,” Slet pleaded. “Is the Black even here? I must take it back up the steps. I must save my son. Have mercy, dear Lady.”

She looked at him with a sudden guile. He did not know her mind, but the ghostly figure did not look like someone who often showed mercy.

“I’m not unkind,” she said. “I hear your plea, and I answer. Take the Black, but…”

“Where is it?”

“It is hidden from view—
and time is short, is it not?”

After having explained his quest to the ghost, he recalled it with clarity. How long had he lingered here? He must find the Black, and he must find it quickly.

Slet pushed at coffins and dry bones, seeking the Black. He found a crown fallen from an ancient skeleton, but gave it no heed. What was a fortune to a man that let his only child die and die again?

“Where is it?” he asked her
desperately. He turned around and lifted his sword.

“You raise a blade to me?”

Slet looked down in surprise. The silver rapier was indeed in his hand. But he did not lower it.

“If I must, and e
ven if you have no flesh to cut.”

She nodded as if fascinated. “Very well, swear to do as I say and I’ll tell you where it is hidden.”

Breathing hard, he nodded.

“Here,” she said, stepping to one side.

Slet stumbled forward. At first, he did not see, but then he spotted a glimmer. The Scepter was there, behind a headstone of carved granite. The stone had a simple inscription:
Morcant Drake
.

“Before you take it, let me tell you what you must do, because your mind may be lost when you grasp the
Scepter.”

Slet heard her speaking behind him, but his eyes remained upon the Black Jewel. Necron was the
very absence of light, and its dark power filled his mind and chilled his soul.

“What must I do?” he asked.

“This crypt is full of Dead,” she said softly. “They sleep now, but they can be awakened. Touch the Jewel to the forehead of each, and you will have an army. You must march at the head of your army up out of this crypt—and there you will find Morgana and you will destroy her.”

Slet’s lips worked. Finally, he managed to speak. “If I wield the Jewel the first time I pick it up, I will surely go mad.”

“That is my price, and you promised to pay it. Now, swear to me again.”

“I swear
I will raise the Dead, and I will kill Morgana.”

“
Good. Now lift your Scepter, my beggar, my King!”

Slet reached a
clutching hand into the empty tomb and gripped the scepter. An explosion of non-light burst in his mind.

He straightened
slowly. He was now a thing apart from what he’d once been. He turned toward the Shining Lady, and her powers did not sway him now. He saw her beauty but did not feel driven by it. Before he’d been under her command, ridden as a man might drive a horse down a lane. He was her creature no longer.

She backed away wordlessly.

Slet turned and dropped his candle. It was no longer necessary. He could see everything despite the perfect darkness—even the tiny creatures that swam through the earth nearby were plain to his cold, inner sight.

He strode first to the body from which he’d taken the sword. He touched the Jewel in the Scepter to the skull of the fallen elf who’d once
brought a silver rapier down into this crypt. There was a blinding flash of darkness—of non-light. It was as if a void filled the crypt with nothingness then gently receded.

Puck’s eyes did not open, because he no longer had eyes.
The holes in his skull came up to regard Slet, as if he were curious about the man who had awakened him. Then, like a puppet being yanked erect by a harsh master, the fresh Dead-thing struggled to rise with jerking motions.