The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (46 page)

‘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 anything 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. Whatever 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 was 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
hollow; 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 malevolence 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.

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 Farlan 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 stem 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.