The next morning the front door opened and the stream of sunlight woke the dwarf. Keira had lain back on the couch and managed to fall into a fitful sleep. Jorey and Rajamin entered the room followed by Magda.
“Keira!” Jorey cried out in concern.
Keira awakened. She held her arms up in the air to avoid the pain of blood rushing down into them. The agony on her face was apparent.
“I told you not to go outside!” Jorey shouted at her.
“She didn’t!” Attaris defended the young woman. “Enough of that! One got in here, and she saved my life.”
Magda frowned. “How did one get in?”
“I was tricked,” Attaris lied.
“You’re fucking lucky she’s okay,” Jorey snapped at him.
Rajamin went to Keira. “Here, give me your hands,” the short ratling priest said. She obeyed.
“Don’t you dare talk to him like that, Father,” she said coldly.
“It’s okay,” Attaris waived it off. “He’s just concerned. He’s your father.”
Magda shot Attaris a grateful look. She seemed to understand he hadn’t put their daughter in danger. Women’s intuition, he supposed.
Rajamin knelt and prayed to Daag and Keruhn. Keira’s eyes widened in amazement. “The pain is gone,” she said with wonder in her voice.
Rajamin unwrapped her dressings and chirped in disappointment. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why the gods won’t heal it all. Their ways are not our ways.”
She studied her arms. The skin appeared melted and warped, as if she had been burned years ago.
She held such a look of disappointment on her face. Her forearms weren’t too bad, but the backs of her hands and fingers were hideous. He saw the feelings of a young woman whose beauty had been crushed.
Despite the disappointment on her face, she did not voice it. Instead, she patted Rajamin on his furry rodent head. “The pain’s gone,” she said. “Thank you. The gods want me to remember this night. If that is their will, I accept it.”
For all of her eighteen years, Attaris thought, she was surprisingly mature. Attaris met Keira’s eyes, and they shared a moment of silent relief that they had survived the night.
They spent the day searching again for the sleeping dead. They found a few, but not nearly enough to account for the numbers that had been seen the previous night. Jorey called all residents to the town square, and they each did an accounting. Their number was down to six hundred, and Attaris knew the town was lost. No longer could they patrol the night. They had to go on lockdown like the towns in Roenti that still had living among their number. Curfew would begin an hour before sundown, and no doors would be open for anyone caught outside after nightfall. The risk of trickery was too great.
Slightly before noon, a rider on horseback arrived. He wore plain clothing and a dingy wool jacket. His brown hair just covered his ears, and black circles under his eyes bespoke of little sleep.
“Where is Mayor Jorey,” he asked.
Jorey came forward. “I’m the mayor. What’s your name?”
“Gill. I come from the village of Hamshire. Last night we lost three to vampire attacks.”
Jorey frowned. “Did you burn the bodies?”
Gill shook his head. “Only one. And we couldn’t fight the vampires. They’re still there. The village was searching for their sleeping bodies when I left. We need help.” Gill looked around at the people gathered. “I saw the burn pit outside of town,” he said, disappointment shaking his voice. “You can’t help us, can you?”
Later in the afternoon, two more riders from outlying villages reported the same thing. Contagion was finally spreading through Hammerfold.
“I’m leaving,” Rajamin told Attaris, pulling him and Jorey aside. “I’m sorry, but I cannot turn the tide here, and I must get back to the Church. It will need leadership to deal with the spread. It’s not just Kriegsholm that’s at risk.”
“No, you can’t leave us here!” Jorey said. “We need your magic! We need your faith.”
“You have priests here,” Rajamin said. “Three of them.”
“Their runes aren’t as strong as yours,” Jorey protested.
“Rajamin’s right,” Attaris sighed. “There’s more at stake now. We must hold the line in Kriegsholm, but we won’t turn the tide. We failed to extinguish and contain the outbreak. Now we must endure.”
“To what end?” Jorey despaired.
“For hope,” Attaris said. “I will stay with you as long as there is hope.”
Rajamin nodded. “I should go. The days are short.”
“Tell Hylda I love her,” Attaris said. “Tell her why I stayed.”
“She’ll understand,” Rajamin assured him. The ratling squeezed the dwarf’s hand. The two of them were almost the same height. “And you survive to tell her yourself. May Modhrin watch over and protect you.”
Suddenly overcome, Attaris embraced the ratling. “May Daag keep your path free and clear in the Light.”
Rajamin squeaked and Attaris released him. “Yes, well.” Rajamin said. He smiled, bowed, and then left.
Attaris turned and looked up at Jorey. “Let’s make sure everyone understands what to do tonight,” he said.
Jorey nodded and walked back to rejoin the others.
Attaris heard him mutter, “I’m supposed to be a baker…”
21 - Coffee Grounds
Kaldor stared down at the darkling woman kneeling before him. This was not at all what he had expected. First, he had hoped for many more Kaldorites to notice Erindil’s reappearance, find his code, and join him there. Second, the idea that the one who found him was a darkling, the same race responsible for incurring his wrath—no, Archurion’s wrath—upon the first Artalon startled him. But more than that, that this one darkling paladin would then present him her sword, and say immediately that she could not be his paladin anymore… no, this would not do at all. She obviously had a heart noble enough to seek penance.
“Keep your sword and stand,” he told her.
She raised her head and blinked her dark eyes at him. This was a night where no one was getting what they expected, he surmised.
“I don’t know what you did,” he said, “and I will hear your story. But for now, I have need of you. Don’t think you’re getting off that easy, and at least tell me what you did before abandoning your calling to the Light.”
She sheathed her sword and stood silently, waiting for him to continue. Gods, she was beautiful. She and the one behind her. And then there was Oriand. He was getting too old to be in the company of such women. He knew he didn’t look that old, but looking old and feeling old were two different things.
“Oriand,” he asked, “would you find some chairs for our guests and put on some tea? What time is it?”
“Almost eleven,” she said and went to do as he asked.
“Now,” he told the two women, “let’s sit with some spiced tea. I want to hear your stories. Both of them. And I suppose you’ll want to hear mine. And then we’ll need to ready ourselves for a journey into the desert.”
“The desert,” repeated the dark-skinned woman. “Why?”
“I’ll get to that. Now, first let’s start by telling me your names.”
Arda told her story, starting with leaving Kriegsholm and entering Traversham. Kaldor listened intently, and she held nothing back. Oriand sat on the sofa beside Kaldor, quietly sipping her tea without the faintest hint of emotion on her face. Arda confessed her murders of Traversham’s people, and then losing the will to fight in later towns. He saw Anuit watch the paladin intently, as if it were the first time she had heard this. The woman’s eyes softened from her previous coldness, and he saw only an expression of loving concern.
When Arda’s story reached the point where they’d met with Danry and Anuit, Anuit started to chime in. A sorceress and a paladin, what an unlikely pair. Kaldor questioned them on the smallest details, especially Arda’s last conversation with Tulley. He wanted to hea
r every word of Tulley’s argument.
When Arda relived the moment when she’d ended the life of her former mentor, tears watered her eyes, making their black pools glisten. When Anuit spoke about their decision to end Danry’s existence, Arda’s tears glinted down her cheeks, and she sniffled. She didn’t lose her composure, but her inner turmoil and sense of loss showed clearly on her face. Finally, when Arda recounted returning to Erindil to find Dart dismembered, she slumped, resting her elbows on her knees and hanging her head. Anuit reached over and put her hand gently on Arda’s back.
“Tell me about the tower again,” he said, “at the top of Taer Iriliandrel. Tell me about Aradma and Sidhna.”
They repeated the story, and he questioned them on every detail. When they finished once more, he only shook his head in sorrow.
“I see,” he said. “Sidhna is lost to Malahkma.” It was his turn for his eyes to moisten. “I knew her when she was an innocent girl, before we knew of dragons and their ways. I was in love with her, though she never knew it.”
They sat in silence for a while. He realized they were finished, and waited for him to speak. It was past two in the morning.
“Arda, you are not banished,” he finally said. “Your guilt and innocence in the Light is between you and the Light. Your grief and remorse is obvious. It’s not my forgiveness you need, but your own, and that will come in time. For my part, I need you at my side.”
She nodded, stood, and saluted him.
“Please, none of that,” he said. “Sit back down. I’m not Archurion any more. I’m just Kaldor.” Arda returned to her seat. “And,” he added, “I’m not a paladin, so don’t start treating me as your superior officer or some such nonsense.”
“Aradma said Archurion wouldn’t be in you anymore,” Anuit chimed in bluntly. She stared at him unwaveringly. “She said Valkrage lost his sanity when Eldrikura died.”
Madness. Yes, that made sense. “Eldrikura subsumed Valkrage’s personality by force,” Kaldor said. “The young elf resisted her presence long ago, but she would not sacrifice our purpose to him. She was always about the big picture. Ends over means. When she died, there probably wasn’t much left of his mind to heal.”
“And you?” Anuit would not be dissuaded.
He laughed. “If I were mad, I might not tell you. You’ll have to trust me on this. I embraced Archurion, and he remained second in my spirit. He complimented and supported me but did not overshadow my mind. He’s gone now. The last of his spirit in me has disintegrated.” A wave of sadness and loss overshadowed him. Outwardly, Kaldor sighed. “I miss that part of me. I am just Kaldor again.”
“You don’t remember anything then?” Anuit said, dismayed. “I have so many questions about Artalon, and the Shadowlord…”
“A human mind can only hold so much,” he replied. “Some things I remember. Some, the Dragon’s memories, I remember remembering.”
“I don’t care if that part of you is gone,” Arda said. “You are still Kaldor. You are the one that could hold Archurion’s essence and be his avatar. You are still the head of my Order.”
Kaldor gave a soft smile.
“Is Oriand an acolyte?” Arda asked.
Kaldor chuckled. “Goodness no. She intends to kill me.”
Arda and Anuit gasped. Oriand did not react.
“Why?” Arda’s voice was flat.
“It is a private matter,” Kaldor answered. “I asked her to wait and see if I could convince her otherwise.”
“Have you?”
“It is not yet decided,” Oriand stated. “Until then, I will serve him.”
“Serve him?” Anuit said incredulously.
“It keeps her close,” Kaldor replied. “Perhaps that is enough for tonight. I know you have questions, and I will share what I know. Tomorrow. Oriand, the shop is closed until further notice. It’s late, and I’m going to go to bed and think on what you’ve told me. Let’s resume at breakfast. We’ll eat late. We can leave for the desert after tomorrow. Oriand, please provide them some fresh clothes.” He thought for a moment and then said, “I apologize, we don’t have running water like they do in Erindil. Oriand will bring you both a wash pail, some towels, and soap, but I don’t have a bathtub, and the public bathhouses aren’t nearby. You really should visit those if you get a chance.”
“I’m sure a wash pail will be fine for now,” Arda said. “Thank you.”
Kaldor awoke the next morning before all of them. His mind raced, and he never did need that much sleep. He washed, then gathered a clean set of clothing, including loose, voluminous white pants that bunched at the waist with a drawstring and a robe-like shirt that extended to his knees. He took his wand in hand and laid out the collection of objects and trinkets his spell rituals required.
Magic was hard. Kaldor wasn’t sure that being a wizard was worth all the effort required to master and memorize its abstract formulas. If he had to do it all over again, he might pick a different profession. Like fishing. Or carpentry.
When he was young, he reveled in the power of his mind, and the real power that his mind unlocked. Anyone could be a wizard, he had learned, just like anyone could be an engineer. You just had to be smart enough. It didn’t require pacts or power granted from a god. It didn’t require initiation into magical streams and didn’t involve the channeling of power. All those required natural abilities, accidents of birth, or conferred power granted by another being. No, magic was there for anyone who was smart enough to figure it out. The problem was, you really had to be smart. Ambition wasn’t enough. So in the end, not everyone could be a wizard. In fact, now that he thought about it, most could not. There were very few wizards in the world.
Kaldor of House Tal Harun was brilliant. As a boy, it had been said his talent rivaled the legends of his family’s name-sake, the only High Wizard in ancient Artalon to refuse the lure of sorcery and break with the circle while his brothers and sisters made pacts with demons and were transformed into the first darklings. Like his legendary forefather, Kaldor’s mind calculated and saw things in ways that few others ever could. He remembered and catalogued details and deducted third and fourth order effects from their implications. Only Valkrage had surpassed him in raw mental talent.
Then there was Archurion. When the Archdragon manifested within Kaldor and they equilibrated each other into the avatar, magic became easy. Before turning over his power to the Champion, he had even learned to channel the Light’s magic directly, without need for spells or rituals.
He remembered the first time he had summoned fire, watching it dance harmlessly over his hands and fingers by a simple impulse of his will. That had been difficult to surrender over to Aaron. Even after he lost his channeling, however, he still carried the power of a Dragon’s mind. He knew spells and formula that in ten lifetimes as a man he would never have uncovered. Magical spells became almost second nature compared to what they had been before Archurion awakened within him.
Now all that was gone. What fragments of the Dragon’s magical formula Kaldor remembered no longer made sense to his mortal mind. He was still smart, just no longer dragon-smart. He was Kaldor the man again and back to the ranks of human wizards for whom magic had always been a struggle.
Still, he was Kaldor, scion of Tal Harun. Even in his human knowledge he was a High Wizard in his own right, rivaling the skill of many of the sidhe wizards.
He went through his morning routine of reinforcing the magic in his sphere of probability. Every spell performed came with a bittersweet feeling over the loss of how easy it had been for him when he’d been an avatar. He had come to take the Dragon’s presence and power for granted.
But he didn’t wallow in grief, nor did he regret his actions. He was not one to whine about what he had once had. He accepted it and focused on the future instead. However, that didn’t stop him from feeling the sadness of loss. Ironically enough, his teachings had initiated a line of paladins who could channel the Light directly. He lost his ability to channel whe
n he gave that power to Aaron and now relied exclusively on arcane magic.
Each effect took time to achieve. People saw wizards throw fire in combat and use spells to travel instantly between cities. People saw adepts walk on water and pull off other wonders. What they didn’t know was that the wizard started to do all those things long before they were witnessed. Every spell was a ritual.
It took ten minutes of concentration, focus, projecting magical sigils with his wand, and uttering the mercurial tones of magic to toss one ball of fire. Five minutes if the wizard was really good. Of course, that was useless if he actually needed a ball of fire against an opponent. A gunslinger wasn’t very well going to pause and wait while he got his fireball ready. So, most wizards’ mornings involved casting spells up until the moment of completion, bending the fields of possibility into the sphere of probability that emanated from the focal essence of the wizard’s soul. Only when the effect was needed was the final gesture performed or word uttered that would release the potential energy from probability to actuality, manifesting the spell in the world.
Because of the complex rites involved, every wizard required bags or a multitude of pockets to carry the trinkets and artifacts required by their spells. The rite would charge the trinkets, sometimes consuming them altogether. It all depended on the spell being cast. Most material components needed to be on the wizard at the time of the spell’s completion, even though they had been charged in the preparatory rite. The rite tied the objects to the wizard’s sphere of probability. If the wizard did something as simple as disrobe for bed, removing all such items from his close proximity, the spell dissolved from probability back into mere possibility, and the potential energy was lost. The rite would have to be performed again from the beginning.
A wizard could only hold so much potential energy in his sphere of probability. If he prepared all he could, and then realized he needed a different spell ready at a moment’s notice, he had to take the time to release the energy of one of the earlier spells back into possibility, and then perform the rite to ready the new spell. Of course, this meant that a wizard might know many spells, but he had to think ahead for the day and anticipate what he might need. He had more versatility than any practitioner of the channeled powers, be they runewardens or sorcerers, but he also had to be more deliberate in his planning.
When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set Page 62