Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (102 page)

“My apologies, Galani. Sometimes when I lead, I forget to think about my partner.” He said the last almost ruefully, as if the words held more meaning.

“No—” she managed. “No—apologies, Arak!”

“But, yes! Here you visit your cousin, and what does he do but throw you around like a leaf in the wind!” Arak frowned at himself. “Perhaps the others were wise to suggest you avoid this journey.”

Valea did not know what to reply, but it seemed her lips did. “What the elders think is their own concern, cousin. They spend too much time worrying about nothing!”

“Such as my mad suggestions about our people staking their own claim in this world at last? Such as the elves no longer being passive in a world ruled in turn by such as the Garoot, the Quel, the Seekers, and now the Dragon Kings?”

“Our people have thrived under one master race after another, Arak. Though they have already ruled for several hundred years, we will survive the drakes, too. Certainly better than those beastly humans that seem to be sprouting up everywhere.” Valea listened with fascination at the words she—or rather Galani—spoke. The confidence of the speaker was undermined by the sorceress’s own knowledge of the lengthy reign of the Dragon Kings and how humans, not elves, would begin supplanting the drakes.

Arak nodded—somewhat hesitantly, Valea thought—then led her toward what the sorceress knew to be the entrance to the back of the estate.

Outside, the fanciful topiary animals she already knew greeted them, as did the high, vast hedge maze in which Valea and her brother had cheerfully lost themselves as children. Instead of night, the bright sun illuminated everything. Yet, where Valea’s world was one bustling with the activity of the human/drake settlement that dealt with the Manor’s expansive lands, Arak’s domain seemed one of emptiness, loneliness. The two of them looked to be the only inhabitants and Galani clearly had come as a guest.

“Why are we out here?” her mouth asked.

“I thought you’d feel more at home out among the foliage.” Again, the male elf spoke with some hesitation in his voice.

The ties between the two clearly ran deeper than blood, that Valea could sense. She knew that among the elves cousins did marry, but for some reason any hope of that happening between Arak and Galani had long faded.

Her body shivered. “It is very pretty, but . . . there is something different about the plants here . . . something not natural.”

“This place has been touched by magic in more than one way since its creation, cousin. You simply feel that.”

Valea abruptly found herself staring up into the elf’s eyes. She could imagine losing herself in them—until Kyl’s visage briefly overlapped Arak’s.

Valea pulled away. Valea . . . not Galani.

“What is it, cousin? Do I now disgust you the way I disgust the elders?” The handsome face twisted into something not so handsome.

The sorceress could say nothing, too stunned at having interacted. Fortunately, Galani answered. “Never that, Arak! I only fear that you underestimate the pressures you put upon yourself—” The eyes surveyed the grounds and the tall marble and wood facade of the Manor. The statue of a soaring Seeker, one of the avian humanoids Valea knew of even in her own time, stood perched on one edge of the sloped roof. “—and this place . . . this place is not good for an elf’s mind. I feel that.”

“Rubbish. This is why our people remain nothing more than incidental influences in the land! Beware of the unknown! Beware of change! Beware of outsiders—”

“Surely not all outsiders, my friend . . .” came a voice that, despite its calm, quiet tone, still made every fiber of Galani’s and Valea’s mutual body grow taut.

Arak reacted with anything but uncertainty, He spun around to face the Manor, a look of pleasure on his face. “You are back! How timely! Perhaps between the two of us we can talk some sense into my cousin. I told you of her imminent arrival, did I not?”

“You did.”

Through Galani’s eyes, Valea stared at the newcomer who had so brazenly appeared out of nowhere as if he, not the elf, was master of this domain. Valea tried to speak, but her host’s own startlement kept both frozen.

Not at all sensing his cousin’s mood, Arak reached out an arm toward the newcomer. “Cousin, permit me to introduce the most ardent supporter of my efforts, a fellow exile whose aid in my work has been invaluable! Galani, this is—”

The figure, a tall man in leather boots and wearing flowing—almost living—robes of black, reached forth a gloved hand to take Valea’s own. He interrupted Arak’s own introduction, saying, “Call me Tylan . . . this time.”

Through Galani, Valea stared and stared at the imposing form, stared mostly at the face . . . or where the face should have been. Beneath a voluminous hood, she caught a glimpse of brown hair and a streak of silver. However, beneath that, the face remained just out of focus. No matter now hard her host or she tried, it never quite defined itself. Eyes could be made out and a mouth and nose, but seen as if in a fog or through water.

And the gasp that escaped belonged to Valea, for she, if not Galani, knew whom she confronted. The name burst forth, with its uttering the sorceress’s entire world turning into a blur worse than that beneath the hood.

“Shade!”

IV

“MISSSTRESSS VALEA! MISSSTRESSS, pleassse!”

Valea blinked, realizing her eyes had closed. She moved her head, only to feel a hard surface beneath. Above her, a blinding light coalesced, becoming a candle in a brass holder in the hand of a very distressed Setera.

The drake put the candle holder down, then knelt beside her mistress. Valea looked around, saw that she lay at the foot of the staircase and that the first hints of daylight had just begun to creep in through the windows.

“Are you well?” hissed Setera. She touched the sorceress’s hand. “Missstress! You are cold!”

That was not a great surprise to Valea, considering that she had been lying on the floor all night in only her gown. She rose quickly, then regretted her swiftness when her legs nearly buckled.

Setera kept her from slipping. This close, the drake’s much hotter, more rapid breathing quickly warmed Valea up.

“What—what are you doing here?” Valea asked her.

“I heard a noissse . . . a gasssp! And sssome word or name!”

Shade
. . . She remembered calling out his name, but that had been in the dream.

Recollection of what she had experienced suddenly made all else insignificant. Valea had done something her father had never managed, to reach into one of the memories of the Manor and experience a part of its reason for existing. The elves Arak and Galani and their dealings with the warlock Shade . . . small wonder that the ancient edifice would have such an encounter burned into its core.

Gently shaking off Setera’s concern, Valea hurried to her bedroom. Her mind raced over and over the scene and the final instant. She knew of Shade, of course, even though she had never to her memory met him. When last he had appeared, it had been when then-Princess Erini had been on her way to marry Melicard I of Talak. The hooded spellcaster had nearly brought that situation to ruin, but in the end had not only aided the new queen with her fledgling magical skills, but had also prevented Talak from being overrun by one of the Dragon Kings. At the time, it had been assumed that it had finally cost him his life . . . but then Shade had died many, many times before.

Her father believed Shade to be as old as, if not older than, the drake race, which had itself seemingly come out of nowhere far in the past. Cabe Bedlam suspected that Shade was the last of the human race’s precursors, the legendary and sinister Vraad. Refugees from another world, if his research was correct, they had colonized briefly what was now the Dragonrealm . . . and then vanished as a civilization.

If Shade was an example of the might of Vraad sorcery, he was also an example of their arrogance and self-destructive natures. From the stories her father had told her, Shade had early on attempted some mad immortality spell, a spell driven on by a more than normal fear of death. He had succeeded in a horrific fashion, much to his dismay. Shade
could
die, but each time he did, he instantly resurrected far away . . . and returned not at all the same man he had been prior.

Each incarnation of the warlock emerged with a splinter personality, one that sought final domination of Shade’s body. Worse, those personalities swung from light to darkness depending on the previous one. Her own parents had faced Shade as friend and foe and only the intercession of Darkhorse, the phantasmic creature from the Void and a loyal friend of the Bedlams, had prevented Cabe’s death.

Entering her chambers, Valea went to a basin and washed water over her face. The cool liquid brought her senses nearer to normalcy. She had seen Shade, yes, but only a memory of him. This Tylan, this variation of the faceless warlock, was as dead as the elves.

But what was the secret behind the ghosts she had encountered and the memory she had lived through? For that matter, how had Valea actually made contact with the vision? She had wanted to comfort the dying figure—a foolish notion in retrospect—but that alone should not have enabled her to experience Galani’s past. Never in her father’s records had there been any comment on such an experience.

But never had there been recorded a vision that included the appearance of Shade.

With her mother abruptly departed, Valea could not immediately look into the episode, as she first hoped. Running the Manor demanded her attention. There were overseers, of course, but they still had to have approval on certain matters. There was also correspondence to receive, for her parents kept in touch with friends and allies throughout the continent. One scroll spoke of bustling activity in those lands in the northwest held by the drake confederation, a loose-knit realm populated by the survivors of several clans whose masters had perished. An unmarked drake named Sssaleese commanded them, but his hold was said to be precarious at this time.

Valea put the scroll aside. Her father investigated other rumors near that vicinity. Had he been alone, she would have worried more, but Darkhorse carried him and together they were a team unbeatable.

The day passed much too swiftly and by the end of it Valea found herself worn out. She was rarely left in charge by herself, her brother generally taking that role when their parents were away. There had scarce been a moment when thoughts of her encounter had not been on her mind, but the duties of the Manor had prevented the sorceress from ever thinking them through. Only when she sat down to eat her supper in her room, her view from the terrace the sweeping, green lands protected by the barrier, did Valea finally begin sorting through matters.

It had taken only the touch of her fingers for her to enter the memory. Logic dictated that she should be able to do the same next time. The only question remained when that next time might be. The ghosts of the Manor did not necessarily come at her beck and call. It might be days, months, or even years before she had such luck again.

And yet . . . that night found Valea once more ensconced near the staircase, this time her garments warmer and her determination a hundredfold stronger.

Every creak of the building, every whisper of the wind, sent her sitting up straight, certain that the apparitions had returned. Each time, though, Valea faced only disappointment. The hours of darkness moved on in quick order, morning rapidly approaching.

Bleary-eyed, she abandoned her post just before the first gray light of predawn. That the visions might materialize during the daytime Valea had already taken into account, but she had felt certain that her best chance would be at night. Her assumptions now shattered, the young sorceress pushed back her unkempt hair and retired to her quarters for a few hours respite. The Manor could run itself for awhile.

Unbidden came images of Kyl, his exotic, inhuman features twisted into mirth. What a sight she would have been to him now, so disheveled. Biting her lower lip in bitterness, Valea threw herself onto the plush, down bed and buried herself in one of the pillows. Perhaps when she woke she would be able to make some sense of her foolishness . . .
all
her foolishness. Even the ghosts had let her down. Even they—

The hand slapped her harshly across her face. Stunned, Valea could do nothing but stand where she was and try to understand what had just happened.

“I warned you about saying such things again! If you must repeat their prattle over and over, cousin, you might as well just go back to the forest where you belong!”

Her cheek still screaming from pain, Valea watched Arak stalk away, the elf in a mood so foul he looked ready to kill. Valea—or rather Galani—shivered uncontrollably, something for which the young enchantress could not blame her. Then, tears pouring, the female elf turned and ran through the marble and wood halls, past a dark, empty ballroom and along corridors lit only by dying torches. If the Manor reflected its inhabitants, it certainly now reflected the mood of Galani’s cousin.

Out of the Manor and into the moonlit garden they ran. Valea stared at the looming maze, now seeming to call to her. Her elven host heeded that call, darting in among the high hedges without any care.

Valea felt each scratch as Galani ran relentlessly through the dark passages. The elf’s eyesight was better than her own, but even Galani’s eyes revealed little more than hulking shadows and twisting limbs.

Finally running out of breath, the sorceress’s host collapsed onto the soft ground near a bench. Valea gasped along with her, finding it impossible to tell who was more exhausted. The tears continued to rain down.

Caught up in Galani’s distress, Valea could not tell how long they lay there. The crying might have gone on, but a pair of hands suddenly took hold of the elf’s arms, guiding her up gently.

Gloved hands.

Even in such dark, it was impossible not to recognize the ethereal figure.

“You’re injured,” commented Shade almost blandly. “Your cousin had no such right.”