Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (108 page)

“Remember . . .”

And so the stone . . . and through it, the Manor . . . did. But because of the immense power of the Wyr Stone, not just the memories of Galani were saved, but so many, many others after also. And with the peculiar properties of the artifact, even
older
memories were suddenly resurrected, adding further to the ancient edifice’s growing legion of ghosts.

Valea blinked, realizing that she had envisioned all this too clearly for it simply to be her imagination. She had just been told what Arak had done . . . and she knew that she had been told by Galani.

Forever bound to the Wyr Stone, forever bound to the Manor because of it, Galani was now a part of each as much as they were a part of her. Her physical shell remained, but she had become, in a sense, much, much more.

Which explained perhaps further why Valea, who had been born in this place, so resembled her.

She felt a sudden urge to depart and wisely followed it. Almost in the blink of an eye the youngest Bedlam stood once again before a very real, very solid bookcase. Recovering her equilibrium, Valea touched the wall, but this time found it as solid as the stone it was. It did not surprise her that she somehow knew that never again would she journey below or that those particular ghosts had vanished forever.

A DAY LATER
, Lord Gryphon contacted her through a spell. The proud, avian head peered at her from within her mind.

“I hope I find you well, Valea Bedlam.”

“Yes, my lord . . . and you?”

“Good enough. Some matters I won’t trouble you with.”
He cocked his head to the side.
“I fear, though, I have only disappointment for you.”

She had been at her desk, still writing down all of which she had been a part. The journal was a personal one and would not be seen by her father unless she deemed it necessary. “Disappointment?”

“I find no mention of an Arak, as I suspected. I’m sorry.”

“I did not expect you to. My thanks, though.”

He was not finished.
“Then there is the Wyr Stone.”

Her attention was absolute. “Yes?”

“Nothing but a myth. I thought I recalled mention of it. I looked in my old journals from my mercenary years . . .”
He shrugged.
“We old campaigners like to look back at the wars fondly . . . once they’re long over. Anyway, the subject of the stone came up once, but I had it verified by the best of sources that it was futile to go searching for it since it did not even exist.”

Valea barely held back a tired smile. “The best of sources? You’re sure?”

“It was your great-grandfather, Nathan . . . and he had queried Shade himself on the subject.”

For a moment, the sorceress was speechless. Quickly recovering, she thanked the lionbird for his diligence, then bid him farewell.

Shade himself.

It had remained a mystery to her why she had been the one who had been able to touch the Manor’s memories after so many attempts by her father and others. Now she thought she knew. Perhaps Galani had reached out to her other self, her
reborn
self. Perhaps she had been trying to send a message, a warning. Perhaps another stirring presence had awakened her.

Darkhorse . . . Queen Erini . . . they had seen him perish. Everyone was certain that Shade was finally at peace.

Valea looked up to the walls, whispering, “He isn’t dead, is he? He’s been resurrected again, hasn’t he?”

The walls did not reply . . . and that in itself told her the answer.

Closing the journal, the sorceress stared out her window at the lands of the Manor. Somewhere far beyond, Shade moved about again. The question remained, however,
which
Shade? His last incarnation had been a chaotic one, both evil and good combined. He had even seemed to regain some of his true self at the end, so Darkhorse had said.

A face came unbidden to her, but not Kyl’s. This was a more human face. The face behind the legend, behind the curse.

“I will find him, Galani,” Valea whispered. “And I will do whatever must be done.”

And if that meant killing him again to finally give him peace, she knew that she would do even that.

It was time for
all
the ghosts to be laid to rest.

STORM LORD

Madness is a matter of perspective

I

THE WIND HOWLED
like a hundred hungry wolves. The rain poured down in such torrents that it seemed the world’s oceans sought to drown the land. Crisp crackles of lightning flashed from the sky, some of them darting precariously near to where he rode. His brown steed struggled to maintain its footing as it raced over the slippery hills constantly rising ahead, but he paid no attention. All that mattered was the rendezvous.

The chill night air forced him to bundle his long, gray travel cloak over his head. He could have used magic to protect him from the elements, but that would have risked discovery. In this benighted realm, absolute power rested in the hands of a ruler gone mad.

And there was nothing more dangerous than an insane Dragon King.

The hood barely covered his chiseled chin, his high cheek bones, clipped nose, and brooding, brilliantly blue eyes. Other than the eyes, which he had altered to fit another’s tastes, his facial features were those with which he had been born. He had inherited most of his looks from his beautiful mother, but his reckless traits and skill with magic were more those of his father, the bravest, most powerful wizard he knew. With his golden hair—pure save for the wide, silver streak that marked him as a wizard—he looked like a prince out of a fairy tale, his pale shirt, forest green pants, and knee-high leather boots adding to that valiant image.

His mount stumbled, momentarily throwing him off-balance. He reacted instinctively, using just a touch of power to right himself before the wet saddle could make him fall. A whispered curse escaped him immediately after; even such a spell dared too much.

Then he forgot the risk he had just taken, for, at that moment, through the downpour he saw his destination. The old hut lay nearly obscured by the thickly wooded hillside. The tendrils from the huge willows draped over the crooked, black structure like grasping fingers seeking to crush what remained. The dilapidated structure looked like the last place where anyone would dare to meet, especially in the midst of such violent weather.

And that was just as the two of them had planned.

He brought the horse to a natural alcove in the hill. Another, darker mount whose reins had already been bound to an outcropping within snorted as they approached. The rider whispered soothing words to the second beast, then tied the reins of his own steed to the same outcropping.

The hut quaked as he cautiously pushed open the creaking, rotting door. The darkness within did not disturb him, for he knew the danger of any illumination being noticed here.

Lightning crashed, revealing briefly the lack of any ornamentation or furniture in the old structure. He had long concluded that it had served only as a way station for messengers or perhaps an old guard outpost. When the occupants had abandoned it, they had taken with them everything of value.

Another bolt filled the lone room with white light—and in the far corner, he saw her waiting for him.

“Aurim . . .” The voice was low, melodious, and sent his heart racing.

Her features were slightly elfin, but overall more full, more human. Her long, flowing hair was nearly as golden as his own. The deep brown riding outfit she wore—blouse, shin-length skirt, and tapering boots—accented her curvaceous figure perfectly. Over her shoulders the young woman wore a green travel cloak similar to Aurim’s own.

Despite the darkness, he could readily make out her eyes. They seemed to flare with life whenever she reacted to something—yet they were not always the same. Sometimes they were bright emerald, other times gold. On a rare occasion, Aurim had seen them become as bloodred and inhuman as those of a reptilian Dragon King.

Not a surprise, truly, considering that she was the daughter of one.

“Yssa . . .”

They fell into one another’s arms with a passion built up by the two weeks since last they had dared sneak out of their respective domains. He was the son of the most prominent line of wizards, the Bedlams, and both his father, Cabe, and his mother, Gwen, had saved the Dragonrealm more than once from threats within and without. Yssa, on the other hand, was the half-human daughter of the Green Dragon, the Master of the Dagora Forest, and one-time ally of the Bedlams. But something had come between the wizards and the Dragon King and now the Bedlams treated both the father and the daughter with mistrust.

Which made Aurim’s and Yssa’s growing love for one another a terrible trial for both.

“Did you have trouble slipping out?” she asked.

“No, Father was away with Darkhorse and Mother had her own obligations. They think I’m visiting elsewhere, anyway. What about you?”

Yssa looked down. “My sire’s illness makes his heir more watchful . . .” The Dragon King had become weakened in the eyes of his kind, especially his son, Yssa’s half-sibling and a full drake.

“I’m sorry . . .” Aurim had, for a time, been part of that invading force, his will controlled by the malignant demon Yureel, the true power behind Zuu’s monarch, the Horse King. He still felt some responsibility for the terrible wounds Yssa’s father had suffered even though he had not had been directly at fault.

“All will work out . . . even for us . . .”

They held one another close, forgetting for the moment the terrible complications in their lives. Now, the world consisted only of the two of them.

Outside the storm raged, shaking not only the hut, but the hills surrounding it. The black clouds shook and twisted as if alive. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed over and over again. The rain poured down with more malevolence, threatening to wash away everything. Yet, ensconced in the hut, their minds only on one another, Aurim and Yssa paid scant attention to the violent storm.

But had they looked out at it, they might have found much to interest them—for if either had stared at the furious clouds, looked deep into the tempest itself, they would have noticed that the storm
stared back
at them.

II

HOW COULD HE
be so foolish?
she asked herself again as she rode along the narrow ridge. Above her, a clear, starlit night greeted her, but just ahead she could already hear the boom of thunder, the crackle of lightning.

The border of Wenslis lay only an hour’s ride away.

She reined the mare to a halt, staring in the direction of the other kingdom. That a storm raged over Wenslis despite the open heavens here did not surprise her in the least. Foul weather often swept over Wenslis, for was it not a symbol of the absolute hold its master had on the land?

Dragon Kings forsook the names they bore when they took up rule of their realms. Whatever title he had gone by long ago, this one was now known as the Storm Dragon. He wielded primal forces that shook even the neighboring lands at times. But wielding such godlike powers had eventually brought this reptilian monarch to the brink of madness and beyond. Now, he truly imagined himself a deity, if only of his own drenched kingdom.

Lady Gwendolyn Bedlam pursed her lips. A cascade of fiery hair accented by a deep streak of silver tumbled down both her back and her chest. Her emerald eyes gleamed dangerously at the thought of what might happen to her son. In truth, she looked no older than Aurim, her firstborn, a gift of her powerful wizardry.

The form-fitting riding outfit matched perfectly her eyes. The enchantress sniffed the air, her upturned nose sensing more than smells. Gwen could feel the powerful forces at work, but among them she noted something else, something only she and perhaps her husband had the skill to detect.

Aurim had ridden this way. His distinctive magical trail continued on to the northeast. She frowned again. There was no mistaking that he had entered Wenslis.

With growing anxiety, Gwen urged her horse on. Yssa was to blame for this. The Green Dragon’s daughter had seduced her son as she had tried to once do to Cabe. How long it had been going on, she did not know. Only an argument with Aurim’s sister, Valea, had caused the truth to come out. In an attempt to avert some of the fury directed toward her, Valea had pointed out her brother’s own transgression.

Gwen had ridden off that same day.

Only a few hours out, she had used divination to seek his path . . . and then had made an even more horrible discovery. Against all common sense, he and the half-drake had apparently chosen an area just inside the border of Wenslis for their clandestine meetings. She understood the illogical logic of the lovers; who would seek them in such a foreboding land? Yet, to place their lives in such jeopardy made no sense at all . . .

If only I can find them before the Dragon King notices their presence! That vixen! This is her doing . . .

Trying to calm her heated thoughts, she concentrated on Aurim only. Yssa could handle her own affairs. The Green Dragon had been one of Gwen’s early mentors, but he had betrayed her trust and it seemed the daughter followed the parent’s trait.

“Focus!” Gwen hissed at herself. Aurim. She had to think only of Aurim.

Still the night sky directly above stood as cloudless as possible, yet just ahead the storm raged. Gwen drew her travel cloak tighter as she neared the border.

The moment she crossed the invisible line separating Penacles from Wenslis, the full fury of the tempest fell upon her. Her horse whinnied in shock, then stumbled. Gwen twisted the reins, regained control. The mare quieted.

Ahead of her, the enchantress made out the dark shadows of trees and other vegetation. It amazed her that anything could grow here, but Wenslis had more vegetation than she had ever imagined. As she passed the first trees, she identified them as willows, not a surprise in such a wet landscape. Still, plants were one thing; people were another. How did the humans and others serving the Dragon King survive the almost perpetual rain?