by Thomas Locke
Joelle said quietly, “Look behind you.”
Hyam turned to discover the spectral soldiers were saluting as well. The sight of that translucent formation, arrayed in ranks that carpeted the ridge with soldiers of smoke all saluting his fallen friend, struck Hyam hard.
The Elves sheathed their weapons and the spokesman asked, “The Ellismere fiend was not accompanied by a crimson one?”
“Thankfully not.”
“And when you struck the blow that felled it, the monster vanished into dust?”
“Not a speck remained, not a drop of blood, no sign it had been there at all except for the claw marks and our fallen friend.”
“This sounds like mage-work from the era we thought forever buried.”
When Hyam translated the words, Joelle responded in Elven, “And there was the attack on the glade about our home.”
“The trees sang to us of crimson force,” the Elf agreed, then sighed. “This is calamitous news. Darwain must be informed.”
“There is one thing more.” Swiftly Hyam recounted his dreams and finding the scroll.
This time even the Elves could not hide their shock. “A dragon? Truly?”
“Many of them. Resting like living hills upon an emerald isle. But only one tried to speak with me.”
“We have no record of any such . . .” The soldier stopped talking as they untied the burlap covering and revealed the scroll’s leading edge. “Wonder upon wonder.”
“The words here are Elven,” Hyam pointed out.
The soldier struggled to maintain his composure. “Once all the Elven kingdoms paid fealty to a realm north of Emporis.”
“Ethrin, the forest destroyed in the first Milantian attack,” Hyam said.
“There are tales of such scrolls, fashioned by forces long forgotten, left with the Ethrin rulers by the last of the Ancients. This is the first trace of Ethrin’s lore we have seen in a thousand years.”
“Take it,” Hyam said. “It is yours once more.”
The Elf stepped forward and ran one hand along the shimmering surface. “Emissary, your coming was truly a gift.”
12
Hyam led his company back down the ridge and through an avenue lined by his wispy warriors. As they recrossed the valley floor, he again felt the dread force, as if the crimson warrior’s army was only temporarily contained. As they approached Emporis, the plateau fronting the city’s main gates became deserted. Hyam heard the patter of footsteps and caught fleeting glimpses of heads peeping over the parapets. There was not a whisper of sound.
Hyam turned to face his silent troop and said, “I thank you for your company and your protection.”
Joelle’s voice sounded overloud in the quiet. “Their leader says, stand in open terrain, away from any glade or forest. Blow the Elven pipe if you have need of us. We will come.”
Hyam asked, “What is your name and rank?”
“He says that names are for the realm of the living,” Joelle replied. “And titles for those who still have the power to choose their fate.”
“How can I free you?”
“We are not yours to release. We failed in our duty. We pay the price.”
“But if I want to help you, as you helped me . . .”
“We are the lost. There is no help,” Joelle softly replied for them.
“There must be,” Hyam insisted. “Tell me what I must do!”
Their leader stepped closer still, until Hyam could see the close-cropped beard, the cavernous cheeks, the gaze from beyond the reach of time. They stood like that until the leader turned and signaled to his troop. The spectral force became mere wisps of fog, blown apart by a wind Hyam could not feel.
As Hyam and his company approached the city’s portal, a voice called from inside, “Are they gone?”
Hyam saw Joelle smile in response, then Shona rolled her eyes. He replied, “They are.”
A dandy in a wizard’s robe stepped from the shadows. “And here I thought I was a brave man.”
Joelle said, “Greetings, Connell.”
“My lady Joelle.” He peered over the ledge, down into the empty vale. “Might one ask who accompanied you?”
“Allies from an unexpected quarter,” Hyam replied. He had seen the young man in the company of Falmouth wizards but did not remember ever speaking to him before.
Connell was about Hyam’s age and wore tailored robes with magical symbols sewn into the fabric. He bowed low, arms extended like a courtier’s. “My lord Hyam, this is indeed an honor. Forgive my quaking knees. I have always been frightened by specters. Not that I have ever met one.”
Joelle said, “Connell has been appointed head of the Emporis wizards.”
“Only because I was the sole mage who asked for the job.”
“The Mistress Edlyn claims Connell was the most adept student she ever trained,” Joelle went on.
Connell stuffed the handkerchief back up his sleeve. “The Mistress grew a bit addled there before she departed.”
Shona bridled. “She most certainly did not.”
“And my heartfelt greetings to you, Miss Shona. You are dazzling as always.”
The younger woman sniffed and looked away.
“As pleasant and winsome as ever, I see.” He turned back to Hyam. “I asked Miss Shona to marry me. I was eleven. She was six. She refused my entreaty. I’ve never fully recovered.”
“You were a pest through my entire childhood,” Shona replied. “I see nothing has changed.”
Hyam said, “We are in need of baths and hot food.”
“Your servant, my lord.” Connell bowed a second time. “Welcome to the oldest of cities. But most certainly not the fairest.”
Everything about Emporis spoke of years beyond man’s ability to count. Age and danger seeped from the stones and infected the air. Soon as Hyam passed through the main gates and started down the central thoroughfare, he saw tight gazes on men and women alike. Most strode the yellow lanes with hands firmly grasping sword hilts or metal-tipped staves. Hyam had never seen so many weapons. When he commented on it, Meda responded, “A city once vanquished heals slowly. And the crimson mage was hardly the first despot to conquer Emporis.”
As Connell led them toward the ruined citadel, Hyam gawked at the desert garb of dusty robes and curved blades, beasts he could not name, stallholders hawking every manner of oddity. He breathed the pungent mix of spices and men and epochs and danger. His face stretched into the first smile he had known since leaving Rothmore Vale.
“A number of mages resented how fast Connell rose,” Joelle said. She pitched her words so all the company could hear, including Connell. It was clear the pair genuinely liked one another. “They claim he is favored because of his family, which leads the richest merchant clan in Falmouth.”
“Merchant and shipping both,” Connell said. “In truth, my family was enraged over my choice of profession. I’m the eldest son of the eldest son, and the first wizard my clan has produced in living memory. My father still calls me the black sheep.”
“Connell has proved himself the ablest of instructors,” Joelle went on. “The young people love him.”
“They don’t know any better,” Shona declared.
“Quite right,” Connell agreed. “Poor little lambs.”
Meda asked, “Why didn’t a more senior wizard want to come . . .” She answered her own question. “The orb.”
“Precisely,” Connell said. The conversation did nothing to dim his boyish enthusiasm. “They saw this posting as banishment from their source of power. But I was being restricted access. Had it not been for Trace, they would have made my life impossible.”
“Trace wanted a trusted ally in this position,” Joelle told Hyam.
The chief wizard of Emporis was tall and handsome, with the clear blue eyes of a midsummer dawn. He wore his blond hair standing straight up, like a yellow brush. His blond goatee ended in a woven strand as long as his thumb. He did his best to provoke—outrage, humor, attraction—a
ny response would do, Hyam suspected, so long as it was robust. Connell was everything Hyam was not and never would be. Hyam already liked the young man immensely.
When they passed through the citadel’s gates, the plaza fronting the palace was silent and empty of all save the morning shadows. Their footsteps rang over the stones like echoes in a man-made cavern.
Shona asked, “Where is everyone?”
“My students had best be at their studies. As for everyone else, no citizen of Emporis will set foot inside the palace keep,” Connell replied. “Our victuals are left in wicker baskets on the doorstep. Those who survived the red-robed Milantian want no contact with his former residence.”
Caleb spoke for the first time since entering the city. “Some of our tribesmen who visit Emporis claim the palace stones can be heard to scream on moonless nights.”
Hyam saw how the old man and his scribe had to force themselves forward, and offered, “We will gladly put you up at one of the city’s inns.”
Clearly the old man was tempted, but he asked, “And who then will make an account of the hero’s journey? You?”
Shona said, “I will serve as keeper of records.”
Caleb halted midway across the stone plaza. “You will travel with the emissary to the end of his journey?”
“That is my aim.”
“You promise to maintain a careful account of all that happens?”
“So do I vow.”
Caleb used his stave to salute the company. “In that case, I and my grandson wish you success with your quest and bid you farewell.”
When they turned away, Hyam asked, “Don’t you want a meal? A bed for the night?”
But the pair were already moving away. “I have no desire to take another breath within the shadow of the crimson mage’s abode. We will reside with clansmen who have made their homes in Emporis.”
Hyam called, “What of provisions for your return journey?”
“With the tales we carry, the clans will compete to host us.” The elder’s stave tapped loudly across the stones. “Farewell, Emissary.”
The company of twenty-six acolytes and seven mages hovered behind the chairs holding Hyam’s company and Connell. They were all present at Hyam’s invitation. Connell’s study was not crowded, however. The chamber was a full forty paces long and two dozen wide. The framed metal speaking portal on Connell’s office wall sparked, swam, and fashioned itself into a window that revealed Bayard and Trace and several members of the earl’s inner council. Hyam had never seen a communications mirror at work before, and the brilliant connection that spanned their weeks on the road was startling.
The earl spoke with the formality of a leader in council. “Greetings, Hyam. You are well?”
“I and most of my company, sire, thank you.”
Bayard was seated at the head of the council table. He smiled at his niece. “How has the road treated you, Shona?”
“I am learning, Uncle.”
“Your father is eager to speak with you when we finish.”
“And I with him.”
The Earl of Falmouth turned to Hyam and said, “Give us your report.”
Hyam’s account took well over an hour. Golden light lanced through the open window and turned the stone molten. Hyam heard crows greeting the coming dusk from the empty courtyard below. When he was done, and Bayard frowned in silent concentration, Trace asked, “What is your assessment of the dragon tongue?”
“It is incomplete.”
“How so?”
“Many words within our own language are meant to convey hidden depths or parallel meanings. The dragon’s speech takes this to a completely different level.”
Bayard said, “One word for many meanings. All languages have them.”
“Not like dragon speech, sire. At the end of the Ellismere scroll are the Elven words, ‘This speech predates the Ancients.’ I believe the language was seldom used. As in, the connection between Elves and the races who used this tongue was tenuous.”
Bayard demanded, “What of the two small scrolls—can you now translate them?”
“That I can. One is a treaty between dragons and men, Elves, and Ashanta. We are called to aid the dragons whenever they request, for whatever reason, however it may cost us, wherever we might be required to go. There is nothing written about dragons aiding us. In fact, they are commanded not to enter the three realms of men, Ashanta, and Elves.”
“Curious, that,” Trace mused. “Have you ever heard of such a thing, Highness?”
“Never,” Bayard replied. “And the other scroll?”
“Another treaty, worded exactly the same as the first. But who binds this one to the dragons, I have no idea, for the name for these people is not in the lexicon.”
Trace reflected a moment, then asked, “You have had no more dragon dreams?”
“Not since the night before we faced the beast in Ellismere Vale,” Hyam replied.
Bayard said, “The Ellismere beast was the result of Milantian magery?”
“The highland elders claim these very same monsters fought alongside the first Milantian hordes,” Hyam confirmed.
Joelle added, “Don’t forget the attack on our home.”
Trace said, “Our spies send us troublesome reports of darkness spreading through Port Royal and the king’s household.”
“I think we should assume they are all linked,” Hyam said.
Bayard asked, “Are the dragon dreams part of this threat?”
“It is possible, sire. But my gut says no.”
“And yet the dreams lured you to the valley where you fought the Milantian beast. And since you survived, the dreams have not returned.” Bayard mulled this over, then changed directions once more. “When do you meet with the scroll merchant?”
Connell replied, “Tomorrow morning, sire. The Ashanta banker is bringing him here.”
“Then we will expect your report at noon.” Bayard rose from his chair. “Shona, your father would have a word.”
Hyam rose very early the next morning. Their chamber had a small window, little more than an arrow slit. He padded across the stone and glanced up at a starlit sky. The moon was a hook of purest silver. Of the dawn there was no sign. Hyam dressed anyway. He would sleep no more that night.
Joelle sat up in bed. “What are you doing?”
“I thought I’d go watch the dawn from the citadel.” He had gone up the previous dusk with Connell and found the view fascinating.
“Wait and I’ll come.”
“You should rest.”
But Joelle tossed the covers aside and reached for her clothes. “Did you dream?”
“Not of the dragon. I dreamed of home.” Which was very strange. He could not recall the last time that had happened. “Not our cottage. My field.”
“The oval one in the forest,” Joelle said, dressing swiftly.
“It was as vivid as the dragon dreams. It was night. I saw the same moon as here. Like I had been taken there.”
Joelle sat on the bed and slipped on her boots. “Perhaps you were.”
“The field was fallow. No one has touched it since I . . . since the day I left.” He had a sudden image of newly discovered magical abilities being put to use, saving himself by opening a great fissure in the earth and sending warriors and their steeds plunging to their deaths. Hyam pushed that memory aside and refocused upon the dream. “I felt the power surge through me.”
Joelle stopped in the act of reaching for the door handle. “Then you must go.”
“Perhaps it was just the recollection of bygone days.”
“You would let this stop you from seeing if the dream holds a message for your future?” She gave him a chance to object, then opened the door and said, “We will go as soon as this quest is accomplished.”
As they stepped into the corridor, Meda pushed herself off the side wall. “Mind a bit of company?”
“Don’t tell me dreams woke you as well,” Joelle said.
“It was the
kids, up for an early meal and noisy as a flock of angry geese. Connell wants to get them into the day’s lessons before he departs with us.” Meda followed them down the long corridor and up the citadel’s winding stairs. When they arrived at the top, she added, “I like Connell. He puts on airs of a dandy, but I sense a deep affection for his charges.”
“And the students adore him, both here and back in Falmouth.” Joelle sidled up beside the officer, where they could peer out over a low point in the wall, and breathed the city’s air. “Hyam had a dream of home.”
“I do that sometimes. Always seems nicer than what I remember upon awakening. How was your region called?”
“Three Valleys.” Hyam faced directly east, where a first faint hint of greyish rose traced its way across the sky. “The planting festival will be over now and they’ll be entering into high summer. Early crops will be coming in soon, berries and corn and possibly wheat if the season’s been kind. If I was there I’d be working dawn to dusk and beyond. Weather is everything. Every time I meet a neighbor, we study the sky.”
Joelle was watching him now. “Do you miss it?”
“In truth, I haven’t thought of it in months. Longer.”
“Do you wish you had stayed?”
“Not even once since meeting you,” he replied.
She smiled at him, then turned back to the dawn.
The citadel had been largely destroyed when Hyam blasted the crimson mage into oblivion. Despite the tower’s stunted shape, the view was stupendous. Emporis crowned a high conical hill that stood well apart from its neighbors. The desert reaches opened like a vast pewter sea in the early light, silent and empty and beckoning. Hyam could see the faint indentation of the road used by the wilderness travelers. It called to him in a strange way.
The boundaries of Emporis had been set down in some lost epoch, marked by walls built from stones broader than a man was tall. The streets were narrow and winding, the crowds dense, the air thick. The city woke early and worked hard. Hyam heard the rhythmic sounds of hammers striking metal and breathed the pungent odor of lamb roasting over cedar chips.