Dreamwalker

Dreamwalker

By

M.K. Fonvielle

www.maryfonvielle.net

©2016. All Rights Reserved.

WORKS BY M.K. FONVIELLE

CHILDREN OF FIRE SERIES

Children of Fire, Part I
Beginning Stones
Eye of the Void
Forges of Delir,
Coming Soon

The Sight of Blood, A Short Story

For Corey.

Part I

The Dusk Wolf

T
he scent never changes. Other details fade in and out, insignificant and essential at the same time. But the scent he remembers with perfectly clarity. It is bitter and metallic, sharp to the nose and tongue. Sometimes there is the taste of blood.

Midnight. This time it is a forest clearing during a thunderstorm – the rain so heavy that it drowns out all sounds. Every few seconds lightning flashes overhead. The circle of magic runes glows bright red and in the center of it lies a woman. Her green eyes are staring at nothing. From the edge of the clearing Ander stares, helpless, at his wife. She is dead.

He has dreamed the same scene every night for almost twenty years. Sometimes he is standing over his wife’s body, other times he kneels beside her as she gasps softly, clinging to each breath. At times they are in a cave, a house, or the depths of some enemy’s dungeon. The runes glow red, silver, green, or not at all. Sometimes there is a knife in his hand. The details change and shift, all but the scent, and when he finally gets it right he’ll remember what truly happened and where he went wrong.

Youth is his only excuse. Youth and ambition, combined with an excess of talent and power that no boy should have. He was a Dreamwalker, more powerful than the mages, the alchemists, or even the elves to the east. They could not walk between worlds or control dreams – not without hours of practice and complex rituals. They could not speak to spirits or run wild with the winds. They were beings of study, precision, and caution – he was wild, untamable. At nineteen Ander decided that patience and cautious training were beneath him.

It took less than a year for that decision to end. Although the details of his wife’s death were always on his mind, Ander wasn’t even sure where he had buried her. Several days later he left the home they had created together. Sometimes it felt as though he had been moving on ever since, forever chasing the creature responsible – the demon. He thought of little else. For years he searched without stopping, following legend, rumors, and hearsay, chasing the slightest whisper or whim. He had to find the demon. Nothing else mattered.

As the years dragged on Ander noticed the fire and determination of his youth had left him. He was slowing down. Rumors and legends were replaced by lists and diagrams. They were his obsession. Every night he dreamed that same instance, whether by herb or spell or, rarely now, the natural onset of sleep. During the day he recorded every detail that he could remember, for each night the details changed, even if only slightly. He wrote lists of names – names he remembered from his youth, people he had met during his pursuit of his wife’s murderer, and the many names of the demon itself. Sometimes he spent hours copying older lists when he had nothing new to write down. Eventually it came down to one name: Ambrosine. He had written it so many times that the movements became almost instinctual.

He settled in Delving Vale, a quiet village in the Southern Mountains, far from demons and magi and memories of his mistakes. It was a small village of farmers and craftsmen. The people were friendly enough, though most were aware of Ander’s abilities and knew it was best to leave a magic-weaver alone. Many were refugees from the wars. Some were soldiers – deserters, maybe, but Ander never asked. No one asked about another’s background if they did not wish to be asked about their own. It was a fact that Ander appreciated.

He had lost all desire for material things and lived only on what he deemed to be necessary. Wild game and vegetation that he could provide for himself were the bulk of his diet. He ate well enough, not because he was hungry, but because it kept his mind clear and his body able. He often traded for any items of clothing or tools that he could not fashion on his own. It was the sort of quiet life he wished he could have lived much earlier.

Then the demon came.

D
aybreak over Delving Vale brought fresh frost and the biting chill of a promised winter, but Father Josue woke with thoughts of the Summer War. So few knew it as the Summer War, so named because it was believed the fighting between humans and elves would stop after the first harvest of the first year. That was three centuries ago. Josue guessed that his father’s generation had been the last to teach their children the old name. Now it was just the War, an ongoing fact of life wherever you were.

Josue rose to dress, then stepped out into the chill of the morning. Rays of yellow sunlight seeped through the trees that bordered his tiny homestead to his right, and far to his left the edge of the cliff overlooked the sleepy village in the valley far below. Rubbing his arms and hands to get the blood flowing, Josue set about his morning routine, speaking the morning prayers eastward and breaking the thin layer of ice that covered the bowl set out for the old shaggy dog that followed him quietly a few paces behind.

Josue had never been a solider. By the grace of his goddess, Lyetia, he had received an early calling to Her service, and lived a life of relative peace and prosperity that so few were ever granted. Years of service had granted him knowledge and patience, and when the hairs on his head and chin began to sprout white and he received his second calling, this time telling him to leave the temple, Josue’s travels gave him wisdom. He had seen much, done much, and in what he quietly greeted as the final years of life, he contemplated what it all might have been for.

His life in Delving Vale was a simple one, more so than even his years at the temple. With some help from those he came to know as his friends, he built a small one-room cabin on the rise that overlooked the valley. A simple garden and the kindness of others kept him fed and clothed, and the old dog whose name he had long since forgotten was ample company. People came from the village for blessings and prayers when required, and, rarely, for advice or guidance. These were farmers and craftsmen, and most seemed content enough with lives unfettered by the war beyond the mountains that sheltered them. They were happy to have a man of the gods, but Josue knew his use was wearing thin.

The feelings of a worn welcome melted away when he heard laughter on the road. Ellys, the young daughter of the local militia captain, would be arriving soon with her mother, bearing a jug of goat’s milk and enough eggs to last him the week. Ingra, the girl’s mother, was a kind and warm woman who wouldn’t hesitate to give away what others were found wanting, but Josue had been giving Ellys lessons in reading and writing this past year in exchange for the goods.

Josue walked out toward the path to greet them, but as Ellys’s familiar brown curls came bouncing into view over the rise he was surprised to see she was accompanied by her father, Draven Gree. Draven was a quiet man, reserved and well spoken. That he had been a solider was clear, but he never spoke about the war and quickly changed the subject when asked. He and his wife had been among the first to settle in the valley, years before Josue arrived. They had never spoken much, only on polite and superfluous things. Josue had always suspected he preferred it that way, and sought to avoid the priest whenever possible for reasons that were his own. His arrival today perplexed the old man.

Ellys ran forward to greet him, her joyous smile and child’s energy beaming through the redness of her cheeks and nose. He took the little covered basket she offered and thanked her, and upon seeing the pointed look in her father’s eyes he bade her go and play. Ellys delightfully complied, the shaggy dog bounding after her in a rare display of enthusiasm.

He greeted Draven with a quiet smile and the blessings of his goddess, and Draven accepted them courteously. For a moment neither man spoke, and both turned toward the cliff that overlooked the valley. Normally a stoic and stalwart figure, Draven seemed unusually tense, shifting his stance more than once and clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. Josue stood in patient silence, waiting for the other man to speak. At last he obliged.

“Father. I know we rarely speak on spiritual matters.”

“I never thought you a religious man,” Josue answered, not unkindly.

“I’m not.” Draven sighed and dragged a hand over his mouth and chin. “But lately…lately I’ve been troubled. A shadow over my thoughts. I can’t seem to shake it.”

Josue said nothing, waiting for the other man to continue. At last he complied.

“I was a solider in the war, as I’m sure most people around here know. I came here…to get away. I knew when we came here that this couldn’t be home forever. We all know that. But I thought the war was years off, at least. Long enough for my daughter to grow with some small idea of peace in her life.”

Josue frowned a little. “Are you saying you think the war will reach us here, soon?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve been having dreams about it. About my time…before we came here. And when I’m working, when I’m grooming my horse or chopping wood for our fire, my thoughts always turn back. The war, the deaths, the swamp fort…”

Behind them, Ellys darted between the rows of the little garden that stood barren at the edge of the tree line, her laughter ringing in the morning air. Draven stopped to smile as he watched her, but behind the warmth of his expression there was dread in his eyes. His smile wavered and Josue stepped forward to rest a hand on his shoulder.

Draven sighed heavily. “I promised myself the shadows of war would never touch her.”

“You have done well by your family, and this village. That is not something to brush aside lightly.”

None of this was on Draven’s mind, and Josue could see that his words would do nothing to change that. A deep-set fear or doubt of some kind plagued the younger man’s thoughts, and he was doing everything he could to keep it there. He opened his mouth several times to speak, but seemingly no words would come. Again Josue waited, hoping that patience was the most he could offer this man.

“Just…promise me.” Draven stammered. “Promise you won’t let me hurt anyone.”