The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (36 page)

‘You are aware of the slope of the Land, the rain coming down, his
relative size and strength. These things you understand as naturally
as you know how to chew and swallow, and as you must with magic.
Magic has rules that follow their own sense - those that might ignore the warmth of the sun, but could be affected by moonlight-‘

Isak held up a hand. ‘I’ve had these lessons already, I remember enough on the nature of magic. You’re starting to sound like those
excitable lecturers.’

Morghien stared at him curiously. ‘You don’t find the nature of
magic interesting at all?’

Isak shrugged again. Magic was intoxicating, exhilarating, to such
a degree the rest of the Land faded away. Talking about it was less so. It was like discussing sex. Some people got excited enough about it to
talk for hours on the subject. Isak could find no enthusiasm for just
talking.

‘Well, I shall say no more then, other than you must remember they
grow strong from illogical sources, that their image is often greater than their strength. There are some that are very powerful, but that is the same with men. You would not notice a man if he were not
remarkable in size or strength or skill. But if that same man went berserk, he could cause a shocking amount of damage, and if he attacked
a race that had never seen a man, he would terrify them.’

‘I think I understand what you mean. When I feel the presence of Nartis I’m paralysed…’ Isak trailed off, unable to describe the
sensation.

‘And that gives him strength over you. It is intentional - the Gods pro
ject a shining image because it inspires wonder. And the more you are
awed, the more powerful they grow; not only over you, but part
of what sustains them is belief and praise. Gods are made stronger by be
lief: that you see them as greater, and worship them accordingly,
that is one of the things that separates Gods from daemons.’

‘One of the things?’

‘That is not an encouraged topic of conversation. The state of my eternal soul is debatable in any case when much of my time is spent
hunting down followers of Azaer; I have no desire to be actively impi
ous on top of anything else. King Emin will know men who will be happy to have those discussions. For now, you should accept that a
daemon or ghost will try to terrify you, because then you open yourself
to it and lend it strength.’

He raised his hands to his face and rubbed his palms over his cheeks,
the rough skin rasping against his stubbled face. ‘I think it’s time for a practical demonstration.’

Isak stared in fascination, reaching out with his senses to feel the shape of what was happening to Morghien. The man started to hold up a hand to halt the Krann’s efforts, but it was not necessary: one look at Morghien’s features had been enough for Isak to draw back
hurriedly and grasp the ghost of Eolis at his hilt.

The man had changed. Subtle weaves of magic had smoothed out the lines of his face, softening the ruddy colour of his cheeks and
reducing the size of his nose. It was still Morghien, but Isak could see the features were now almost those of a woman’s.

His voice had altered too. ‘Keep your defences strong, don’t leave
yourself open,’ Morghien said, but a musical note had entered his previously rough voice.

Isak felt his mouth dry as he tried to respond, but then he remembered Morghien’s words. With an effort he could see past the glamour to
the man’s true features: and he was right, nothing had changed except for Isak’s perception. With a smile he dismissed the weaves of the projected image.

Morghien shrieked in pain. His hands flew to his face as though Isak had just slashed him with a knife. He threw himself off the log and crashed face-down on to the ground. Isak jumped to his feet in
alarm and Mihn rushed over with Vesna and Carel close behind. He
held up a hand to them.

‘No, get back - keep away from him. He didn’t attack me.’

They did not look impressed with the order, but they complied sullenly. Morghien remained on the ground as they moved away.

A tense silence fell. Isak could hear the keening of a hawk in the distance, and the skitter of dead leaves as a gust swept them up and settled a few on Morghien’s back, like the first effort to bury a man who was lying as still as a corpse.

At last he breathed out, sending a single leaf tumbling end over end. He took his hands away from his face with careful, deliberate movements and pushed himself up from the ground. His face was
disturbingly pale and calm, all trace of the Aspect gone, though his
cheek and eyebrow seemed to be trembling very slightly. Then he
breathed again and the calm was abruptly broken as he gulped down
air, his shoulders shaking with the effort.

‘I’m sorry,’ Isak began, ‘truly. What did I do?’

Morghien felt his way back to the fallen log again and pulled himself on to it. After half a minute, some colour returned to his face and
he began to explain. ‘The fault was mine. I should have explained
more of the nature of glamour. But there is no serious damage done.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I am. Seliasei was hurt rather, but I think it’s shock more than any
thing else. The glamour is part of what she is; a local Aspect is still
a God. It is not vanity, but part of her very essence. When you cut
through those weaves it was like slapping my face to distort my features - except I have a shape to revert to. Seliasei has only the image
of herself to define her. Without the strength to extend it to a physical form, any distortion of that image makes her forget who she is.’

Isak looked stricken. ‘I think I understand. I’m-Er, could you
apologise to her for me?’ He would have felt stupid saying that, but
for the glimpse of fear and pain on Morghien’s face. One thing he did remember was that death for a God was the loss of identity. A divine
force could not be truly killed, but as Aryn Bwr had shown with the
Crystal Skulls, it could be reduced to a voice on the wind, weakened
to the point of non-existence and capable only of remembering that
once it had been so much more. Isak had shivered at the prospect of
eternity like that: a sense of loss the only sliver of self left.

‘She will recover, but she will not come out in your presence again.

Even before that she was terrified of you. She’s a local God, an Aspect,
sharing some memories with Vasle and his view of history. They see
the present in a completely different way to mortals. To her, you are partly to blame for the death of Vasle’s brother, for it was partly you who proved Gods could be effectively destroyed.’

‘Ah. And then I did something akin to just that. I’m sorry.’

‘There’s more of a problem than that. She had agreed to touch your mind, to help you understand how Xeliath thinks you will be attacked. Now…’ Morghien’s voice trailed off. His eyes lost their
focus as if he were listening to a faint voice behind him. Isak watched
silently.

‘We can but try,’ he said aloud finally. Isak was burning to ask what
had been decided, but he’d caused enough trouble - and besides, he was too impatient to listen to more explanations.

‘Please, sit again.’ Morghien motioned Isak to the fallen tree. Once they were facing each other again, Morghien closed his eyes and started breathing deeply. When he looked up to Isak again, he appeared calmer, still himself, but ready for whatever lay ahead.

He reached out and touched his fingertips to Isak’s forehead. The
white-eye recoiled slightly, then leaned forward so Morghien wouldn’t
have to stretch quite so far. As he did so, Isak realised that the muscles
of his shoulders were rigid with anticipation, ready to strike out. He
made himself relax and opened his thoughts again.

A chill breeze touched his cheek, like the caress of winter fingers. He closed his eyes to focus on the smooth sensation as it trembled over his skin. A tingling began on his forehead where Morghien was touching him, trickling down through his right eyebrow and into the cheekbone. The delicate sensation grew in strength and Isak felt the
warmth of his body begin to seep from his skin. This time he was careful not to disturb the shade that was greedily leeching off him. What
ever it was, it lacked the strength to cause him any hurt, whether it was intended to or not.

In his mind, Isak was aware of an ancient odour - not actually unpleasant, but not enjoyable: the dry scent of a tomb, the smell of undisturbed years rather than a corpse, but still a dead place. The
prickle of ice increased, sliding its way down to his jugular.

Now Isak stopped it gently, reaching around the helpless spirit to bind it and keep it still so he could see what he was dealing with. It
still terribly weak, but it had drawn enough strength for the image
of a man’s face to appear in Isak’s mind. He could perceive features
etched in a white mist - a thin jaw, deep-set eyes, hair receding from a
smooth forehead: the first things the shade could remember of itself.
As with Seliasei, identity was the first concern. Once they had a
face, a name, a memory, it helped bring the Land back into focus for
them. Until a sense of self could be produced, desires and emotions
couldn’t matter because there was no reference for them. As the shade
struggled in vain, Isak felt a moment of pity. There was no malice in its desire for the warmth and strength of his body, only a desperation that Isak found achingly sad. Once he had cradled it for a while, Isak
realised he understood enough and ushered the spirit back to Morghien. As he did so he sent a thought to it, almost an apology, as it
fought his grip.
Let
go.
Life is
for
the
living.

As the misty shape faded away, a blackness leapt up from nowhere
and enveloped Isak’s mind. A stab of pain flashed through his head
as the invading spirit took him in its numbing grip and fed savagely
at his throat. This was no half-forgotten Aspect: Isak felt as if he had
fallen into an icy stream. Each time he moved he felt his strength
being sucked out of him. The cold kept flowing over his skin, drawing
out heat, drawing out life.

Isak began to panic as each breath grew harder, as his body faded
away into a deadened memory. Images of hungry eyes and long thin
fangs flashed before his eyes. He felt the Finntrail’s desire, its anger
and loss fuelling the enveloping strength. He was afraid of becoming that hollow.

Then Morghien’s words came back to him: such creatures
were
hol
low; their strength was partly what you gave them. This suppressed
the alarm clouding his mind. He looked again at the feeding spirit and
saw it was insubstantial. He saw the mist of its form and how easily he
could push through.

The numbing ceased as Isak reached out with his mind, ignoring the desperate, but now feather-light, retaliation. He reached out all around him and gathered the inky strands in tight. The Finntrail
struggled and raged, but it was powerless. With a furious scream the
shadow was expelled back to Morghien and the wanderer withdrew
his hand and smiled weakly.

The Krann didn’t meet Morghien’s eye. Looking round to his companions he saw Mihn, Carel and Tila watching as before. Nothing appeared to have changed, but Isak shivered slightly. The air felt cooler
than before, as if the night’s frost had returned. He rose and began to walk the ten yards to retrieve Eolis before stopping short suddenly.
He whirled around, but he could see nothing different - but it felt as
if they had been joined by another. Beyond the road the trees were
empty and quiet. The sky above held only a few birds, too distant to recognise, but still Isak felt uneasy. He wrenched the blade from its
resting place but didn’t sheathe it. The others gave him uncomfortable looks, but Isak ignored them, glad of the security Eolis lent.

An unheard chuckle crept out from the overhanging branches of
a yew. The birds nearby were startled into flight as they sensed ma
levolence all around. Only the wind heard and it swept away after the birds, dead leaves and damp crumbs of earth skittering away in
its wake.

‘Life is for the living? Sometimes I think you say these things solely for my
pleasure. Will you remember those words, I wonder?’

Isak opened his eyes and looked around in alarm. The last thing he
remembered was huddling close to the others in front of the fire, Tila
curled into the warm lee of his body and a skin of wine snug in his
hand. Now he was here - wherever
here
was. The clouded sky swirled
uncertainly above a rolling plain of long grass. A few moments ago,
he’d been surrounded by trees.

Dawn shadows covered the ground, but Isak couldn’t see the sun anywhere. He couldn’t even tell which direction was north - and he’d
always
been able to do that. It was as if he wasn’t in the Land any longer… and that thought chilled him more than the cool air.
He watched as a breeze rippled through the grass, but he felt nothing
on his skin. It reminded him of the palace he used to dream about,
otherworldly and uncomfortable.

‘With all your ability - all your potential - and it just takes a skin
of wine to open your mind. Typical.’

Isak jumped: behind him stood a girl, her beauty taking Isak’s breath
away almost more than the shock at her sudden appearance. Her skin
was as Morghien had described, as smooth and radiant as polished walnut wood, darker than anyone Isak had seen before, darker even than the Chetse desert clans.

While the Yeetatchen were their neighbours, living off the Parian
coast, there was almost no contact between the two tribes: most face-
to-face meetings had been on the battlefield - and those rivalled the
Great War for savagery.

Isak was mesmerised just by the sight of her: with such rich brown skin, her white eyes were even more astonishing. ‘You’re Xeliath?’
‘And you’re the cause of all my troubles.’

Isak narrowed his eyes, one hand moving instinctively to his side before he realised he was wearing just the rags from his life on the
wagon-train. Eolis was still hanging from his belt, but Siulents and his
fine clothes were nowhere to be seen.

‘Just a reminder, of who you once were,’ Xeliath explained. She
gave him a stern look, studying his reaction at the torn, dirty clothes.
Suddenly she broke out in a girlish smile and skipped over to plant
a kiss on his lips. Isak gasped in surprise. The sweet scent of her skin was
almost overwhelming. Instinctively he reached out and slipped
his hands around her waist, but she skipped back and the smooth skin
of her hips slid out of his fragile grip. Now her face bore a look of pure
delight.

‘Ah, it’s been a while since I could do that.’ She danced over to a mossy rise and sat. Isak scarcely noticed that he’d not seen the rise
earlier.

‘What-Ah, why?’

‘Why has it been a while? Well that’s your fault, but the story is a long one.’ From her manner, Isak realised that Morghien had been correct in her age. She was tall as any white-eye, with a healthy strength in those long slender limbs, but hardly past girlhood, for all
her remarkable beauty.

‘But I’ve never met you,’ Isak protested as he struggled past the
memory of her lips.

‘No excuse.’ Her tone was playful, but she clearly meant it. ‘I had
kissed quite a number of pretty young men before someone decided to
make you the Saviour-‘

‘Now wait,’ Isak snapped. ‘I’m no Saviour and I don’t intend to
be.’

‘What you intend has nothing to do with it!’ With the snap in
her voice came a distant rumble of thunder. Isak immediately realised
that the two were linked, and that they both could rage much closer.
Even female white-eyes had a temper bubbling under the surface.

Xeliath ignored the interruption. ‘What others intend is the matter
at hand. Unfortunately for all of us, you’ve become a nexus for those intentions.’

‘What are you talking about? I’ve been given no quest by the Gods.

Carel always says I’ve got the piety of a dead ice-cobra. Just why do people think I’ve been chosen to lead a crusade, or whatever other damn stupid idea they have?’

‘And therein lies the problem.’

Isak cocked his head at the strange girl. For such a young woman
she was amazingly confident and assured. ‘How did you learn Farlan
anyway?’ That was one of the things nagging at him about this girl: her accent was not just excellent, but native.

‘Can we please keep to the matter at hand? If you need an answer,
I didn’t, I can’t. I’m speaking directly to your thoughts. Whatever you
hear is how your mind chooses to represent those thoughts. This is
just a dream, Isak, your dream. The conversation is happening, but
this place doesn’t exist.’

‘Then how?’

‘I’m not sure whether I should tell you, but I don’t suppose you’ll
pay attention until you get an answer. You were Chosen last year; I
already had been. Lady Amavoq came to me in a dream. I wasn’t made
Krann or given a title, but my gift was rather special. Lady Amavoq
told me to watch over you. I was intended to be your bride and royal
assassin.’

‘What was the gift? Why only intended?’

‘The gift was the Skull of Dreams, the one owned by Aryn Bwr’s queen. That’s how I’m here: other than warded minds, I can enter
most people’s dreams - and once there, I can kill them. As for
intended,
well, things went astray there, but it’s only been since I met Morghien
that I begin to understand why.’

‘I’m now a prisoner in my dreams. When I accepted the Skull, my
fate was entwined with yours - but unfortunately, you have many fates…
and none. Either way, it was too much: it broke me. Oh Gods,
did it hurt - you’ve no idea just how much something like that could
hurt.’ She stopped for a moment, her pain showing in her face. Isak
didn’t know how to respond; he felt guilty for something that he knew
nothing about.

Xeliath shuddered. ‘For a moment, an instant, I saw a thousand futures ahead of me. The Skull stopped my mind being completely
destroyed; it cushioned the blow, somehow, but it could do nothing
to stop me screaming. I looked like I’d been struck down by madness.
She sighed. ‘My family believe I have been called as a prophet. Now I’m kept confined and drugged.’

‘And this is my fault?’ Isak couldn’t keep the incredulous edge from
his voice, but Xeliath gave no sign that she had noticed.

‘In a way. When I was following your mind, I found Morghien,
passing close by, and I entered his dreams out of curiosity. The man of
many spirits: he is well named. I found
more
answers than I’d expected,
and answers that I had
not
expected.’ She sighed. ‘There were so many
prophecies about the Age of Fulfilment - so many hands trying to affect the future - that it looks like they may
all
have failed.’

‘How? You’re not making any sense.’ He was beginning to feel
stupid: should it be this hard to grasp?

She smiled and patted the ground beside her. He sat, feeling the
soft ground give slightly under his weight, and Xeliath leaned against him, slender and frail, but curiously warming on his skin.

‘You know about prophets, yes? That they speak in riddles and
everything has to be deciphered? Well, they don’t see the future, they
see what is possible, and then those visions are translated according to the viewpoint of the scholars who study the prophet.’

‘So the scholars could be lying?’

‘If only it were that simple.’ Xeliath gave a rueful chuckle and took
his hand, patting it affectionately before interlacing her fingers with his and squeezing them. ‘Sometimes they are correct, sometimes not.
But you must remember that there’s a power in words, there’s a power
in belief. Men work towards what they believe - Gods are sustained
partly by the belief and devotion of their followers. You should know
that words can affect the Land - whether it’s logical or not, we see
the Land through words, stories and beliefs. The course of history itself can be shaped by these words. You might want to tell your father
that. Honestly, giving a white-eye such a name
…
it just pushed you
further from the intended path. He might find himself explaining his decision at the Gates of Death to an annoyed deity.’

‘I didn’t pick my name… and I still don’t get what is this to do with me.’ Now he sounded plaintive.

‘You’re at the heart of it all. “Saviour” is just a name, but it’s loaded
with enough power to affect those who are associated with it. Names
can be used by men and Gods towards their own ends. You’ve become
the centre of the prophecies of the Saviour, whether you like it or not,
but the laws of magic are not the same as those of nature.

‘Everyone with any power has tried to influence your birth, to create the man they needed. They failed. Between them they gave you the power to change the Land around you, to bend fate to your will, but they forgot the difference between nature and magic: when forces of nature meet, either one wins outright, or they cancel each other out.
When forces of magic meet, they corrupt and change each
other.

‘The result is that you have the power without the desire: no dreams of conquest, no grand schemes, just an emptiness of ambition. Destiny
has twisted about you and snapped.’

Isak took a deep breath. He had no idea what questions he should
be asking. His mind was blank.

‘I-How can I know you’re telling me the truth?’

Xeliath smiled, understanding his suspicion. ‘Well, first of all, you
recognise my voice don’t you? I was watching that first night in the
Tower - though I didn’t know where you were, I could feel your soul
entwined with my own. I’ve been with you since the beginning of this
new life of yours.’

Isak’s eyes widened in recollection and he opened his mouth to speak, but Xeliath placed a finger to his lips and hushed him. Then
she put her hand on his chest and pressed her fingers against the scar
there. ‘And I know you can feel it within yourself. You’ve been Chosen, yet you hardly care, do you? It’s not affected you: whatever sense of purpose you feel comes from your intelligence, not your instincts.

‘I-‘ Xeliath looked around suddenly, alarm flashing over her face.
Isak looked too, but he could see nothing in the empty landscape
- then he remembered this was just an image in his mind. He closed
his eyes and reached out cautiously.

It was as if there were two Lands, laid one upon the other. He could feel his friends asleep around him under a canopy of trees, and the grass, fluttering out on the plain. He focused on the dream
scene - and found the source of Xeliath’s concern. A shadow swirled
around them, like fingers of cloud drifting past the unseen sun. Isak recognised the sensation; it was what he’d felt on the battlements, at
Suzerain Fordan’s feast.

‘I must leave,’ Xeliath began, ‘don’t worry; I’ll deal with whatever
that is. Did Morghien give you letters for the King of Narkang?’
Isak nodded, his mind still on the shadow.

‘Give them to King Emin in private; he will explain in more detail-I don’t know him yet, but the King’s mind shines as brightly as yours
and he could be as important as you are. Shadows fear him. I will
come to you again, when I can.’ She hesitated, her confidence melting away as she stared up into eyes that mirrored her own.

Tentatively she drew herself closer, breathing in the scent of his
body, and placed a tender kiss on his lips. Isak felt her tongue flicker against his own, and then she pulled back. She looked sad.

Isak saw her completely open and vulnerable. The scar on his chest
burned with shame and lust. ‘Wait,’ he cried, feeling himself drifting
awake, ‘if I’ve broken your mind, then why are you still helping me?’

Now all he could see was the outline of her face against the starry
sky. The melancholy in her voice was almost more than Isak could
bear. ‘Because it’s what I am. It’s all I have left.’