by James Duvall
As the little lights faded, Sapphire felt the bracing cold again. It had never really left, but moments like these were a balm against all of life's little aches. Three plants she uprooted entirely and packed in soft oilcloth, rolled up in her satchel. She left the one that had first brought them to the aspen glade, finding she did not want to plunder it for its oil. Instead she paused before it, and nosed Dawn's intangible form. Together, they returned to the little shelter she had found, a little less than an hour away.
Mercifully, it was a mostly downhill trip, and already Sapphire felt the promise of warmth coming from the little cavern. At first, she had thought it to be just an alcove, something to hide behind to break the wind for a while and perhaps sleep if she could get the emberstones to stay lit in the wind. Inside, it was too deep and too round to be a natural formation. The roof was low, but manageable for a luminarian. Though it might have been too short for a human to stand without having to stoop to avoid bumping his head. In the center was a small vent to let out smoke from a fire pit, confirming Sapphire's suspicions that this was man-made. No, that wasn't right. This was a dwarven shelter, cut too precisely from the stone with a roof too low to suggest human construction. And there were dwarves in the Arden mountains, though she hadn't seen any aside from the few that had come and taken away the humans at the alchemy lab.
With all three emberstones burning cheerfully in the fire pit, Sapphire was at last able to warm herself and shake the stiffness from her limbs. Outside, snow began to fall in earnest, thick, puffy white flakes piling up quickly on top of the old. A strange sort of night had fallen, the snow dyed violet by the moonlight passing through the shardwall above.
The dwarven shelter was not immune, glowing softly with purple light that came in through the entrance and streamed through the vent over the firepit. The soot in the pit suggested coal was burned here with some regularity, and Sapphire wished the dwarves had left some. If they found her here, well, they would just have to understand.
Dawn circled around the patch of purple light. "Like a warp singer's eye," he said, making Sapphire chortle.
"I suppose it is," she said. Dawn always had such fanciful thoughts. From being cooped up in that tower for years and years with nothing to do but read books about places he couldn't hope to visit, she thought. Not without a personal bridger and a human escort, anyway.
"My brother used to tell me stories about them all the time," she went on to say. "He had the poem memorized by heart. I think it was his favorite story when I was a little shardling."
Dawn cleared his throat, then straightened his posture and began to recite the old verses with bravado, his face turning stoic and dark.
The night once strummed the trauma chords,
and they did lend an ear.
Now softly they sing the shadowed songs,
and wear the mask of fear.
Borne unto hateful darkness
their eyes yet brim with light
and in the still and starkness,
they stand watch against the night.
Dawn finished with a flourish and took a bow like an actor at final curtain. Sapphire thumped her tail and cheered. Dawn lifted his head, grinning at her from ear to ear.
"Yes, that's exactly how he told it," Sapphire said. She thought every young shardling must have been told the story of the warp singers. At least, everyone she had known back in Tandor shard knew it by heart. It was a pervasive legend among her kind, whispered about in the same way superstitious humans carried on about the Seven. She had been told by her brother, whom had heard it from their mother. Sapphire did not know who had told Amethyst, but it was a safe guess the story had been passed down from mother and father to daughter and son.
"Where did you hear the legend first?" Sapphire asked, bringing voice to her thoughts.
Dawn thought it over for a moment. "My father?" he said, sounding unsure. "I've read about them in books though. There are more references in the library than you might expect."
"More than the Seven?" Sapphire asked, cocking her head to the side.
Dawn shook his head. "No, not more than them. Most historical accounts are recorded by humans, though. Kings and queens and princes and important lords and ladies, mostly. They were not the sort of people that paid much mind to the goings on amongst their dragons."
Sapphire arched a brow. "Historical accounts?" she asked, emphasizing the word historical with skepticism.
The question brought a look of hesitation to Dawn's face, and he anxiously wrung his paws, avoiding looking her direct in the eye. This was a manner she did not see often in him. Did he really believe there were ancient warriors lurking in the shadows of the world, visiting terrible vengeance on the wicked and the damned?
When he finally did answer he spoke slowly and deliberately, choosing his words with care. "There are too many accounts of such a group to deny their existence entirely. Every account has a few similarities. Luminarians with abnormal strength and magical skill, and they always appeared at night. And... and then there's the color..." Dawn's poise faltered.
"The mask of fear," Sapphire finished for him. Purple. It was not surprising to find that purple had found its way into the warp singer legend. It was a color associated with dark magics and the accursed. It was so rare among luminarians that it only appeared in the Nightsong flight and even then by rumor. Sapphire's flight. Her own mother, Amethyst, had a midnight blue mane that at times seemed to be tinged with deep violet beneath the right light. Eventually others had taken notice of this and it had not passed without trouble. This was how purples manifested. Never so flagrantly as the legends supposed.
"Yes, that," Dawn said, heaving a sigh. His was the depths of how luminarians responded to the color. To most, it was the shadow of death. "I am not suggesting that there are actual warp singers with bladed tails and purple manes, but maybe for a while it was a tradition among brave, heroic luminarians that set out to defend those weaker. They might have painted their manes and spikes and horns with purple like a human warrior putting on warpaint. Surely that is not so hard to believe; that our kind can be brave?"
A smile came to Sapphire's face. "Maybe you are right," she said. "You are more well-read than I, and the analogy to warpaint is as solid an explanation as I have yet heard. I imagine Torch would like the idea. I can just see him charging off with his fur dyed purple."
She hummed softly to herself as she closed her eyes and envisioned her brother looking skyward, violet dyed into his fur and a sword strapped to his side. That was how she chose to remember him; courageous, even unto the end.
"I need to prepare the moon flowers," Sapphire said, nosing at Dawn's misty chin. "Get some sleep, okay? I'll want you to wake me up in the morning."
"Okay," Dawn said, sleepy-eyed. He yawned and stretched out languidly, arching his back and then slinking away. As he left the platform, shards away, his image faded and left Sapphire to her memories and her work.
Sapphire unpacked her books and turned to Carrol's entry on moon flower. To some alchemists it was called the lunar lotus for its tendency to only emerge at night and the flower which, when opened, bore a strong resemblance to the tropical water flowers. Carrol had written four chapters on healing herbs, devoting several pages to the procurement and use of moon flower in particular. It seemed to Sapphire that he was perhaps overly fond of the flower, taken in by its vivid blue petals, which Carrol had described in near poetic verse on more than one occasion. This made her worry that it might not be as special as Carrol had claimed. Alchemists often took on pet projects, and it was not uncommon to exaggerate the value of one's own work. Sapphire found the practice distasteful. Perhaps, she thought, this is why she made such a poor candidate at Bendrin University? She did not think like them.
"No, they could not have known that," she muttered. Vitriol bubbled in the depth of her heart, like black tar heated on the battlements. It nauseated her. They nauseated her. She took a deep breath and put her anger aside, focusing instead
on Carrol's writing.
One by one the vials of crystal water were carefully unpacked and inspected by their creator. Sapphire held each up to the light of a quartz glowstone, turning it slowly as she peered through it, looking for cracks. They had not frozen, and she had not expected that they would. It had been a very long time since Sapphire's crystal water was impure enough to freeze. Still she inspected each, even an alchemist at her skill level could make a fundamental error.
There was only enough room in the preservative crystal water solution for one of the moon flowers. Sapphire cut four of the petals free and put them into two of the vials. The third vial she used for several of the leaves. The rest of the ruined plant went back into the oil cloth. She would harvest the root later. Leaving the bulb of the plant attached prevented it from losing as much moisture and oils from the wound.
The remaining two plants were unlikely to survive the entire trip back to Havek Shard, but would produce seeds if cultivated properly in the lab before her departure. Moon Flower would make an excellent addition to her greenhouse back home. Her journeys were quickly filling it with a selection of herbs and flowers that would be the envy of any alchemist.
Mom would like these.
Although, moon flowers would not do much to improve Amethyst's reputation, given the exotic behavior.
When everything was packed, Sapphire curled up by the fire pit to sleep, her emberstones burning like little candles that produced more heat than a candle ought. They did much to nullify the bracing cold that pervaded the old dwarven shelter. In the morning she would awaken to the warmth of the dawn shard against her chest.
Chapter 11
The Mistwood
The Mistwood, Isla Merindi, Pendric Shard
While often there are historical records of what existed in a region prior to the Shattering, some lands are remarkably changed. Most famous of these is the black shard called Smoulder, named for the insidious dark smoke that emanates from all shardwalls that bound it. No historical record can account for this phenomena.
From Shardwalls, A History
Autumn in the Mistwood was like spring in most other places in that the plantlife was still green and vigorous, despite the season. The thick canopy of greenery above stood stalwart against the cold, long past when other trees would have dropped their leaves. The chill of winter pervaded the autumn air, and Timothy's breath came in little puffs as he found his way through the dark forest. It was sunny out, but beneath the trees the world was gloomy, bleak, and cold, like the quiet before a hard winter storm. Leaves rustled overhead and little rays of light would break through here and there, dappling the dark and peaty soil below. A breed of unfamiliar plant crept along the ground like phlox, blanketing much of the earth in leaves of such deep green as to appear black in the faint light. The leaves were all upturned to catch the little bit of light that did break through.
Timothy could see shardwall from where he stood. This was no great feat, most days. A tree had fallen here and left a great gap in its wake. Pale mushrooms of blue, grey, and tan feasted upon the corpse while dozens of saplings all vied for its once regal position. This was how it had been when the shardwalls rose. Mighty kingdoms that seemed destined to last til the end of days had been broken, struck down by the shardwalls the way lightning had claimed this tower of a tree. The histories spoke of these new kingdoms arising in splendor and glory, from the ashes of oppression to be reborn like the phoenix. They were not noble like the Seven, though. Most days Timothy saw them more like the dozen or so saplings. All pretenders trying to grow tall before another came along and overshadowed them, starving them of light until they fell to ruin like so many before them. Other days, they were like the mushrooms, feeding on the corpses of the fallen, the wretched, and the damned.
"So after we find these... items," Aebyn said, choosing his words carefully. Twice Timothy had asked him to stop referring to the treasures as treasures. The lighthound was curious to a fault, but learned quickly. It seemed, to Timothy at least, that Aebyn heard and understood the answers to his questions, and did not simply prattle on without purpose. "After we find them, there will be no more need to smuggle, right?"
This was not the first time Aebyn had tried to lure Timothy away from his illicit activities. The poor fellow was no good for conning, his motives transparent as glass.
Hell, he probably thinks this is a veiled attempt.
Trying to convince Timothy to join the side of the law had become a matter of daily conversation.
Going straight had crossed his mind many times before. Never more strongly than standing in that alleyway over Raimes's body. A funny thing, that. It was the most repentant he had ever felt, and yet he had done nothing wrong. Aebyn did not belong to Raimes. Raimes was dead because he had tried to murder Timothy and failed. By all rights Timothy himself should have been dead, having gone up against a bridger. It was dumb luck that he had survived Raimes's first attack. He could only thank the providence of the Night Warden for his survival beyond that, but why should the Seven take an interest in someone so small to the world as him?
"I suppose," Timothy answered, purposefully vague. Lying to Aebyn left a bad taste in his mouth and so he avoided it with the sort of graceless manner that could only fool a dullard. The truth was there had never been an actual need for he and Christopher to engage in smuggling. It was Christopher, not Timothy, who was so heavily burdened with his father's debts. These were substantial but not unmanageable. Christopher's father was the drunkard, the wastrel that had squandered his inheritance and left the Trammel family bereft of all but a memory of better times. It was a simple and unfortunate fact of lineage that had the creditors looking to Christopher to repay loans outstanding against a dead man's estate. Timothy had known him since as long as he could remember, and that loyalty compelled him to stay. He had no ambitions of his own. Wealthy men sat in their manors and made laws to keep their lessers in check. That included him. Why play by their rules? He had never brought in anything that would harm another. Spices, fine cloth, spirits and liqueurs. All needlessly banned or placed under the tariff to protect those above.
Aebyn did not respond, growing quietly pensive as the three of them made their way through the dark with Willoughby and four crewmen following close behind. Christopher did not often join in on these conversations. It was his contention that the gryphon should remain quiet unless spoken to. No doubt a throwback to the days of living in a manor with servants at his beck and call. His father's death had brought that life crashing down.
The compass needle pointed toward the gate back in Nothnor. Set beneath it, so the needle could sweep past without striking it, was a thin bar that indicated the distance from the gate. It was just past the second notch, which, according to the map of Pendric Shard, put the expedition somewhere on the southwest edge of the Mistwood. It was big enough that it might take four days to cross if they could keep a straight bearing, but they risked the journey taking far longer if they kept getting turned around without the sun's position to keep them on course. The compass would help, but could only tell them they were following the wrong bearing when they had it out. Following the river from the forest's edge was a more certain route.
"We'll make for the river and follow it up through the center," Timothy said, pointing it out on the map. The map depicted a river that wandered lazily through the Mistwood, following the gently sloping contours of the land. The mapmaker had added several annotations to the Mistwood. A series of small crosses marked the locations where bodies had been found, ripped apart by manticores. The dates of these were all fairly old. Another note promised death to anyone that stayed in the Mistwood after dark.
Timothy squinted into the darkness that loomed a few yards away in every direction, wondering how anyone could tell the difference between night and day here. The forest seemed to go on forever in all directions, but he saw only shadows. A manticore, perhaps even The Ash Strider himself, could follow just feet behind them and they would never see
him. There were no other options. Faralon's journal described a place along the river that could not be reached in a single day's hike.
Watch for the Night River, the journal said. There were no other details as to what that might mean or be, but it seemed to Timothy that being near the river at nightfall was as good a place as any to start. The journal had been right about the alchemy lab. Aebyn had found the bruskwood chest, emptied by the least likely of creatures. It was such a surreal outcome for the first expedition that Timothy could only marvel at the oddity and laugh. Christopher was not nearly as impressed and had gone around for the rest of the week in a sour mood. This new expedition had lightened his mood considerably, with the promise of another treasure looming only two days ahead.
That night the Stormbreaker's crew made camp on the edge of the Mistwood. Aebyn went off on his own for a while and came back with a few rabbits he had caught, which Timothy made into a stew while Christopher charted their progress on the map. It was not completely necessary, as the river came out of the Mistwood here. It would travel east several miles before drooping toward the south, eventually pouring into the Sea of Lights on the island's southern coast.
"Interesting that they built Nothnor on the southwest side," Christopher commented. His eyes were on the relatively short distance between Nothnor and the mouth of what the map called the Idon River. It was sourced far to the east, forming from several tributaries out of the mountains surrounding Mt. Idon, where the dwarven kingdom of Maronar lay hidden from the day and the night.
Timothy shrugged, tasting the stew before ladling out some for Christopher, and then Aebyn and himself.
"Chow time boys," Willoughby said, rubbing his hands over the fire. He bent over and carefully ladled himself out a bowl. Mealtime was the only time Willoughby seemed quite so careful.