The Rift War (4 page)

"Very good." Mrillis lifted his mug of tea in toast to her and took a long sip while the
others waited. "Let us begin with the basics. Whatever you cannot deduce on your own, we will
fill in the blanks. The essentials are that Quenlaque is real. Athrar Warhawk is real. As we speak
here, he sleeps in the Vale of Lanteer with Ynfara, his wife, at his side, still healing from his
mortal, magically enhanced wounds caused by the battle with Edrout. He is not Athrar's bastard,
incest-born son, but the son of the Nameless One and Athrar's sister, Megassa. Edrout is still
alive as well, gathering his power and his allies in the Wayhauk Mountains."

"But those mountains have been thoroughly explored," Shalara interrupted. "At least, the
mountain range that most closely matches the Wayhauk Mountains of legend."

"Yes, the mountains here in Moerta. I'm talking about the actual Wayhauk Mountains
that still stand today in Lygroes. The real Lygroes, which is much diminished in size from when
I was a boy, but still exists today."

"Exists where?" she asked, her voice strained nearly to a whisper.

"In the same geographical area of the Death Zone. The intense radiation that causes
those deadly currents in the sea and the turbulent weather is actually caused by a dome of
protective magic, established over Lygroes before the Nameless One was destroyed, and Athrar
was wounded to the very razor's edge of death."

"But-- That's only theory."

"No, it is truth. I know, because I have been there."

"And I was born there," Emrillian added. She grasped Shalara's hand when her friend
gave her a startled, disbelieving look. "Just listen to Grandfather, and depend on our friendship,
and trust us. It is the truth. The star-metal on your wrist and the
imbrose
coming to life
inside you is proof of that."

"No one can go there," Shalara said, her voice unsteady, as if she didn't believe the
words coming out of her mouth, but had to say them anyway. "Aircraft that try to map the Death
Zone are destroyed. Boats are wrecked."

"I don't go by air or by sea. I walk when I visit," Mrillis said.

"Grandfather," Emrillian chided. "Shar, there is a tunnel, hidden here on the estate, that
goes under the sea and comes out at the Tower of Bo'Lantier, in Lygroes. Grandfather visits, but
he has never taken me since he brought me here to live." She stuck her tongue out at Mrillis, who
barked laughter.

Shalara's color improved after that bit of foolery.

"That is because I haven't returned to Lygroes since I brought you here for safekeeping,
my dear. But we shall go soon." Mrillis' smile faded. "Sooner than we anticipated. Yes, I have
been very busy raising Emmi for the last sixteen years, since her life was threatened. Edrout has
been barred from finding the tunnel, by magic and by illusions, and by the dedicated troops of
Valors who keep him and his followers penned in the real Wayhauk Mountains. However, I fear
that we have traitors among the forces of Quenlaque once again, and they helped him attack the
fabric of the spells that protect Lygroes, by attacking the tunnel."

"It is the only weak spot, after all," Emrillian offered. "The dome is to keep all of
Lygroes in, and the rest of the world out, but the tunnel allows access between continents and
drills through the conundrum of time itself."

"Save that lecture for later," her grandfather admonished, waving a reproving finger at
her. "Suffice to say, when Edrout attacked the tunnel, he endangered Emmi, so I had to bring her
here."

"Why was she endangered?" Shalara asked.

"I was sleeping in a spell just like the one enfolding my parents," Emrillian said. "Of
course, not
with
my parents, but in the tunnel under the sea. Because Grandfather knew
I had to awaken first and prepare the way. You're probably very confused and you feel as if the
rug keeps getting yanked out from underneath you before you quite have your footing again.
Imagine how I feel, every time I remember that prophecies spoke about me before I was even
conceived."

"Prophecy." She slowly shook her head. "This sounds like those times when we take
identities from the lore and spent the entire conclave acting and talking like our personas, but...
This is real." She stroked her bow guard again. "What prophecy are you talking about,
though?"

"This world and time has never heard of the prophecy of the Lady Warhawk," Mrillis
said. "Just a little more information, and then we must send you out on an important mission.
When all this is done, you will be a Valor in truth, not just in play. You have the strength to
become one of the Ladies to the Queen of Snows, if that is what you wish."

He chuckled when Shalara perked up at that. "Now, here is the hardest part. Emmi
Rakkell is not her name. Nor is Illis Rakkell mine. We took names that would be easier to accept
in this world and time. Emmi is Emrillian Warhawk, daughter of Athrar Warhawk and Ynfara,
princess of Goarlotte, who was daughter of King Pirkin, who was grandson of Ceera, Queen of
Snows, and Mrillis the enchanter. Their daughter, his mother, was the Emrillian who hid the
Zygradon when Endor, son of the Nameless One, turned traitor. Emmi was named for her
great-grandmother. My daughter."

Mrillis sat back and clasped his hands in his lap, and simply watched Shalara as her face
blanked and her eyes went unfocused and she visibly digested what he had told her.

"So you're saying you're Mrillis? The one who made the Zygradon and Braenlicach, and
who put Efrin and Athrar on the throne, and defeated the Nameless One?" Her voice only
cracked a little.

"That is the simplified version, yes. Great deeds always take many minds and hearts,
working in harmony, sharing strength and skill and faith." Mrillis nodded, giving her that same
pleased smile Grego knew from the days when everything he knew as truth had been just fables
and lore and a fascinating game for a lonely boy.

"I figured out a long time ago," he offered, "you have to believe it all, or it's all
insanity."

"You're no help." Shalara stuck her tongue out at him, then a moment later barked
laughter.

"I'm sorry," Emrillian said. "We gave you too much to chew on. But time is of the
essence now, and we chose you years ago, to be part of our plan to defend Lygroes and
Quenlaque."

"There is no way to fragment the truth without losing much of it, and without it
becoming unbelievable," Mrillis added. "Shalara, will you trust us?"

"With this on my wrist?" She held her bow guard and started at it for a few seconds.
Then she took a deep breath, and her expression grew stern. "You're right, I have to accept it all.
And if it's all true, if it's all real, I can fill in a lot of pieces, the things you didn't say..."

Her eyes widened. "The project. The dome... Lore says a shield of Threads protects
Quenlaque. If the project succeeds, it will drain power from star-metal, and Threads are born
from star-metal."

"The chaos and destruction when the dome falls could send the rest of Lygroes into the
sea, or put Edrout in power," Emrillian said. She caught hold of both of Shalara's hands. "I ask
you as a friend and as Warhawk's Heir. Will you swear yourself to our cause? Will you take the
star-metal we give you, to empower other Archaics who carry
imbrose
, and bring them
with you to Lygroes, to join our war?"

"Warhawk's Heir." She nodded slowly, her expression going stern again. A moment
later she slid from the couch to kneel before Emrillian and tugged free the hand with the bow
guard, to press it over her heart. "I do swear. Take my oath, Emrillian Warhawk."

* * * *

Full night had fallen by the time they had made their plans and given Shalara two full
hours of intensive lessons in using her
imbrose
. Her magical talent extended to sensing
the condition of the body, meaning she would be a valuable healer, along with a touch of
kinetics.

Emrillian had suspected Shalara was a latent telekinetic, just because of her skill in
archery, unconsciously helping her arrow reach the target even when gusts of wind interfered.
She remembered the days of teaching Grego to use his
imbrose
and how hard he had
worked to have big, impressive talents. It had taken a long time for him to understand that his
flashes of insight were close to prophetic gifts, and his ability to communicate over long
distances and create light without torches were just as valuable as levitation or throwing blasts of
energy against the enemy, or teleporting, or healing.

Shalara took the star-metal trinkets Emrillian entrusted to her, to take to their Archaics
friends who had shown signs of possessing
imbrose
. The next step was for her to wait
for Karstis to get home from his emergency meeting, give him his star-metal browband, his
rudimentary lessons in magic, and the basic indoctrination needed to recruit him to the
Warhawk's service for real. The two of them would come to Liris in the morning for further
lessons, and then contact their friends throughout the following day, bringing them all to the
house for lessons. In two days, those who were willing to come would meet at the tunnel, to join
the household in crossing under the sea to Lygroes.

Those who refused to accept the truth and were frightened enough to be a danger to the
cause would have their memories blocked. Liris and his son, Lorran, who tended the stables,
were very good at memory spells.

Grego went home to pack and get a few hours of sleep before they left that night,
between moonset and dawn. Emrillian went to bed and used a spell on herself to sleep.
Otherwise, she would lie in her bed for hours, restless, her mind churning with fears and
questions, until it was time to dress and saddle her horse and go.

When the dream-memories came, Emrillian knew she dreamed, but she couldn't break
free. Once again, she was four years old, camping in the waystop in the tunnel under the sea,
waiting with her mother, Ynfara, for the great battle to end between the Warhawk's forces and
the Nameless One. She had been safely perched in her mother's lap, puzzling through the
fascinating maze of the letters Ynfara wrote on a slate, teaching her to read. She had just grasped
the idea that the little lines and curves and circles equaled real things--horses and dogs, fire and
bread. They told stories silently, in her head, if she put enough of them together on a long sheet
of parchment. Emrillian much preferred the stories her parents told her, either curled up with her
in front of the firepit in their quarters in Quenlaque Castle, or the stories her papa told her,
directly into her mind, when he was in the battlefield and she was still living at the Stronghold
with Aunt Meggi and Grandmama.

Still, she liked the puzzle, and she worked hard to remember the sounds that went with
all the letters Mama taught her, to create the words that drew pictures in her mind.

Then no matter how hard she tried to change the dream, events proceeded as they had
that day when Megassa attacked. The un-funny buzzing and bubbling and heat brushed up
against the very center of her, in her bones and the middle of her head. Child-Emrillian shrieked,
remembering the morning she had awakened, washed in those sensations, bleeding from her
mouth and nose and ears. The nasty woman laughed, deep inside her head now, as she had done
that horrifying morning so many moons ago. But this time there was no Aunt Meggi to hold her
and wrap all the Threads of magic around her to muffle the pain and the terrifying sensation of
being taken apart, bit by bit.

Child-Emrillian screamed, wriggled out of her mother's arms, and reached out with her
mind for the Threads, to find Aunt Meggi.

Then she stopped her struggles, the sound catching in her throat, as she realized that the
sensations didn't go anywhere. The buzzing and heat didn't dig into her bones and start to take
her apart, one cell at a time. It was like hearing the wind of a furious storm, but not feeling
it.

"It's all right, Emmi," Mama whispered, and drew her back to her lap. "It's just a bad
dream. We're safe, here. Megassa will never touch you, ever again."

Far away, the nasty lady screamed and raged, and then shrieked in pain. The heat and
buzzing and un-funny tickling went away. And a boy cried out in fury, his voice washing away
the sounds of the woman dying, burned and shattered by the very magic she had thrown at an
innocent child.

Emrillian partially roused from the dream, aware that Megassa had died when the killing
spell she directed at the child-Emmi had rebounded back on her. And that furious cry of the boy,
Edrout, over the death of his mother, transformed into the snarl of hatred and victory in a man's
throat.

Ynfara vanished from the dream, and the fire and all the supplies turned to dust and
darkness. Instead of being in the center of the waystop, Emrillian lay curled up inside a bubble in
the stone wall of the chamber. Edrout's voice reverberated, buzzing through thousands of leagues
of water and stone, penetrating the enchantments that kept her safely asleep, frozen in time,
shredding the Threads that cocooned her. She opened her eyes to darkness, and as she fumbled
for some way out of it, she found nothing but glass-smooth rock, unbroken, no seam or doorway,
everywhere she reached.

She screamed for Mama and Papa. She screamed for Aunt Meggi. For Grandpa Pirkin
and Grandma Ynessa and Grandmama Glyssani. She screamed longest for Grandpapa Mrillis,
because she knew he could do anything.

And all the while, Edrout laughed, and the buzzing that threatened the very rock of the
chamber surrounding her grew stronger, so it filled her bones. Emrillian tangled herself in the
blankets and the pallet that had cushioned her through centuries of sleep, and fell, banging her
head against the smooth, rounded side of her chamber.

She reached for the Threads... But there were none. All her life, there had been Threads.
Even though just before the great battle the Threads had thinned away to almost nothing, they
had still been there, giving her power. Giving her magic.