“There is a way,” Faxon said quietly.
“No.”
“Adamon, it is the only way.”
“I won't do it, Faxon. You ask too much.”
“I ask only for what is required. I offer myself in tribute.”
“What?” Wynn was lost. His mind adrift on uncertain seas. “Faxon, what are you talking about?”
“Every grant must be repaid,” Adamon repeated, his voice harsher than before. “Faxon means to trade his life for hers. To use the power of the Lyr to take his life and restore hers. And that's not all he asks. The spell is extremely hazardous to the mage acting as the conduit. Some never recover.”
“Faxon!” Wynn gasped. “No...you can't. We need you. We need both of you. How are we going to save the city? How are we going to save the Imperium?”
“Tia will have you,” Faxon said and Wynn felt his hand on his shoulder. “I have faith in you.”
The weight of those words seemed to sink like lead in Wynn's belly. They wouldn't be enough. He was skilled, but he'd never match Faxon's raw talent in controlling the forces of the Quintessential Sphere. Tiadaria would need him. His mind turned suddenly back to Ethergate. Standing in the road, Zarfensis's claws around his throat, unable to do anything but wait for death to come. Waiting for Tia to save him.
“No,” Wynn said suddenly. “Me. Take me.”
“Wynn--”
“Faxon, no. Tia will need you. Who knows how long I'll be cut off from the Sphere? I don't know what they did to me and neither do you. You'll need Tia. She needs me now. Take me.”
“I haven't even said I'll do it,” Adamon roared.
“You will.”
“Why is that, Master Wynn?”
“Because you love the Imperium enough to become an inquisitor, Adamon. No matter what you think of Tiadaria, or the Captain, or of me, or of rogue mages, you won't let the Imperium fall when there is anything you could do to stop it. You may be an ass, but it's not in your nature to sacrifice everyone for an ideal.”
In the long pause that followed, Wynn was almost sure that Adamon would still refuse. Finally, there was a gusty sigh beside him that told him Adamon had accepted the responsibility.
“Wynn,” Faxon said urgently. “Don't do this. We'll find another way.”
“There is no other way. Tia's out of time. We're all out of time. Get me to the hospital. Who knows. Maybe I'll make it out of this.”
“You won't,” Faxon's voice was sorrowful. “But I'll make sure everyone knows what you did here today.”
Wynn swallowed a sudden lump in his throat.
“Quickly, Adamon,” he said. “Time's up.”
The words that Adamon spoke were unlike any that Wynn had ever heard. He knew the clerics had a language all their own, words of command that came down from the Lyr and the forces of life and light that it drew its power from, but he'd never heard them spoken. In fact, spoken was the wrong word. What came from Adamon's lips was more of a sung prayer to the power of the Sphere.
A warmth began in the center of his chest and spread out to his extremities as he listened. Wynn thought of when he was young, when his mother would lower him into a warm bath. She'd sing to him then, as she bathed him. He could almost hear her voice now.
He closed his eye, following the voice into the ether, allowing it to carry him up, lift him out of his body. Everything seemed to fade away. The only thing that was left was the sweet melody his mother was singing, leading him into the infinite expanses of the Etheric Sphere.
The voice faded away, an echo of an echo. For the briefest of moments, Wynn was apart from everything and a part of it all. He stood behind himself and took in the room. His hands were still on Tiadaria, holding the makeshift bandages in place. Adamon was beside him on one side, still chanting the words that were channeling his life into Tiadaria. Faxon was on the other, his hand still on Wynn's shoulder.
Tiadaria's body spasmed and Wynn felt faint. He saw Tiadaria's hand move and he knew he could let go. And he did.
CHAPTER NINE
Tiadaria awoke in the middle of a field. She sat up, her head spinning. The ground was oddly soft under her, spongy almost. Climbing to her feet, she glanced around the clearing. Tiadaria knew exactly where she was. This was the training field near the cottage in King's Reach. It was different though. The colors of the trees and grass were muted, pale imitations of their normal vibrancy. What struck her most was the lack of sound. There were no insects buzzing, no birds singing, and no rustle of wind through the trees. All was still and quiet.
“I was wondering when you'd get here, little one.”
She whirled and saw the Captain, not the weatherworn corpse, but the actual Captain, hunkered down in the grass a short distance away. Tiadaria wanted to run to him, but something stopped her. A hazy memory she couldn't quite put her finger on.
“Where are we?”
“The training field,” the Captain chuckled. “I'd have thought you'd have recognized it by now, little one.”
“There's something wrong. It's different.”
“Different isn't wrong. Just different. The Etheric Sphere is a pale imitation of the physical world, in an almost literal sense. Things here are very 'almost'.”
Tiadaria's gut went cold, the hairs on the back of her neck seemed to stand on end.
“Are...are we, 'almost'?” She didn't really want an answer to that question, but knew it had to be asked.
The Captain nodded.
“Almost dead, or almost alive. Depends on how you look at it.”
“And so we're here?”
“It would seem so,” the Captain agreed. “I think it's a place that we both took comfort from in life. Only fitting that we should return here when we are both so close to death.”
The memory that had been evading her materialized. The agony of his blade flashed through her and she clutched her stomach. Then it was gone. She was surprised to find the ugly wound there, but no pain to accompany it. Tiadaria prodded the edge of the ragged gash with an exploratory finger.
“You can remember the pain you felt in life, little one, but you'll feel no pain here. In time, you'll forget the wound and it will fade. Or you can choose an entirely different avatar. Boundaries are fluid in the Sphere.”
“You killed me,” she said, her voice soft and ragged. “How could you? I thought--”
“The thing that killed you isn't me. Not really. It has my memories, my thoughts, my skills and knowledge, but it isn't me. It is forced to obey whatever commands it is given by the magic that binds it. Without free will, the construct isn't me. It, like this place, is a pale echo of what I was.”
“I thought you might be able to break through, to save me.”
“Then you were doomed from the start, little one. The only one who can save you is yourself. Didn't I teach you to stand on your own? That you, and you alone, are the only person on all of Solendrea that you can be certain of?”
“You did.” She faltered, looking out over the clearing and its static trees. She'd have given anything to see a single bird on a branch, or a bee buzzing about the sallow wildflowers that dotted the grass. “But it's lonely.”
“Our lives are solitary, Tiadaria. We are unique. We alone can stand against some that would seek to tear down the Imperium and its people. In our prime, we don't have time for others. Our duty won't permit it.”
“I thought I could have both.”
“Unlikely,” he snorted. “Remaining vigilant requires all our time and resources. Other relationships consume those valuable resources. Think about what brought you here. How much of what you've seen could you have prevented, if you had seen it? How much could you have changed if you'd have been present?”
“I never wanted this!” she screamed. “I was just a girl. You made me into what you thought I should be, I never had a choice!”
The Captain shook his head.
“You never had a choice, but not because I took it from you. Would you, could you, stand
idly by while the Imperium falls? If you want a choice, make it now. Walk away.”
Tiadaria stood and stared at him. What was this madness that he was speaking? How could she just walk away? How could she allow hundreds or thousands of innocent men, women, and children die just because she wouldn't take responsibility for their safety?
“I--”
“You can't. No more than I could. We are breeds apart, Tiadaria. It was your destiny to come to me that day on the executioner's platform. You were guided by the hand of the Primordials. They had a plan for you. The only choice you ever had was the one you make every day: walk away and let the evil win, or accept your responsibility and fight for good.”
“I'm almost dead. You said so yourself. How can I fight for good if I'm dead?”
“The Primordials move in mysterious ways, child. I suspect that, even now, the others who have accepted their fates are finding a way to return you to the physical realm.”
That thought spurred a sudden panic in Tiadaria. She was so tired. She wasn't sure she wanted to go back. Here, the pain was over. There, more pain was a certainty. She'd hurt so much for so long.
“What if I don't go back? What if I stay here? I can do that, can't I?”
“Of course,” the Captain nodded. “There are few things that can compel a soul to act against its will. You've seen one of them. Powerful magic of the Dyr binds me to the rotting flesh that was my body. Those that love you won't turn to the Dyr. They'll do what they can to save you, but it is ultimately your decision. You can rejoin or abandon them as you will.”
Tiadaria winced. The Captain's spirit had the same direct, blunt way of putting things that cut directly to the heart of the matter. He was right. If she chose to stay, not only would she be abandoning her friends, but she'd be walking out on everyone who needed her help. She wanted to see Faxon and Wynn again. She wanted to stand beside them in battle again.
“I want to go back,” she declared.
The Captain chuckled.
“And here you were just complaining that you didn't have a choice. You don't have a choice in this either, little one. Your friends will either find a way to save you, or they won't. You can't just decide to go back and make it happen, any more than I could decide not to return to my body.”
“Oh.”
“Your friends are very resourceful. I'm sure they'll succeed.”
“What about you?”
“I'll stay here. What inhabits the construct is just a part of my spirit, not all of it. I'm stuck between worlds. Half in yours, half in this one. If you make it back out, I want you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“When you face my construct again, and you will, destroy it. Make sure there is nothing left. I have no desire to be imprisoned again against my will.”
Tiadaria shivered.
“I'm not sure I can, Sir. It's still you.”
“It's not. It is an empty vessel filled by a poisonous spirit. I need you to promise me, little one. Promise that you'll destroy it and free me.”
“Okay.”
“No, I need to hear the words.”
“I promise, Sir.”
Tiadaria swooned as a curious feeling overtook her. She looked up and found that she saw the Captain standing at the end of a dim tunnel. It felt as if she was being dragged backwards through the ether.
“Sir?”
“I suspect your friends have found a way,” the Captain said, smiling.
She realized that this might be the last time she ever got to talk to the Captain she knew. Their last few moments on the battlefield at Dragonfell had been fleeting. There were so many things she'd wished she had said in the years between.
“Sir!” she called. “I loved--I love you.”
“And I loved you, little one. Remember your promise.”
Before she could say anything else, she was tumbling through blackness. All sense of her body was gone, buffeted through all of time, space, and existence as she fell. And fell. And fell. She seemed to fall for days before she noticed a pinprick of light in the distance.
That singular dot was what she focused on, willing herself toward it, out of it. To emerge into the physical world where her friends needed her and she could fulfill her destiny.
Closer and closer she got to the light. It seemed to surround her. It lifted her on its back and carried her across the endless expanses of darkness she had fallen through. Faster and faster they went, until it seemed as if she and the light had merged, hurtling through the darkness.
With a gasp, her eyes snapped open and she looked into Adamon's pale, waxy face. With a groan, he collapsed beside her and she felt strong hands help her sit up. The hands went to her cheeks, turning her face toward someone she'd recognize anywhere.
“Faxon!”
“You're alive!” he cried, crushing her to him, threatening to force all the air out of her. “I can't believe you're alive.”
She managed a rusty laugh.
“I won't be for long, if you don't stop crushing me.”
Tiadaria slipped a hand inside her tunic, gingerly feeling the spot where the Captain's blade had entered her. There was nothing. No pain, no blood, no scar, no indication that she had sustained a wound that could have easily taken her life.
“How--” she began, but Faxon shook his head.
He was hunched over someone else on the floor. Tia didn't remember anyone else being there, so she skittered around Faxon's side to see who else was possibly injured.
The sleeves had been torn from the poor soul's robes. Maybe they'd bled him too, in the same way they'd taken her blood to reanimate the Captain. Her eyes flicked up to the face and what she saw brought everything rushing back.
It was Wynn. Of course, it was Wynn. He'd been there with her, he'd watched her execution. How could she have forgotten? The middle of his robes were drenched in blood. His skin was so white that it was a stark contrast to even his normally pallid complexion. A thin sheen of sweat coated his face.
“Oh no,” she gasped. “Wynn, no. Please, no.”
Faxon scooped the young man up in his arms, like a father would carry a sleeping child. He turned troubled, mournful eyes on Tiadaria.
“I need you, Tia. We need to get both of them back to the hospital and I can't do it alone. Then we have to figure out how we're going to save the city.”
Tiadaria took stock of Adamon's state for the first time since she had recovered. He seemed to be unconscious, his eyes shut tight. However, he was making a low, almost inaudible groan. Bending down, she drew on the power of the Sphere and hefted his body over her shoulder. He was much slighter than she would have expected. His frame was thin under his thick robes.
Faxon nodded to her as she lifted her burden and they slipped through a broken wall out into the night. It was easy to see in which direction her captors had fled. There was a trail of motionless bodies that bore the telltale wounds of claw and blade.
The gentle breeze blowing through Dragonfell brought the smell of smoke. The horizon was dotted with the orange glow of fires burning throughout the city. Though it was the middle of the night, people dashed through the streets, seeking solace from the panic that seemed to be infecting every living thing.
Tiadaria's eyes lingered on the trail of bodies and Faxon shook his head.
“Later,” he grunted curtly. “Hospital now.”
Faxon strode off without looking back. There was a small part of her that worried that if they left the trail now, it might be much harder to find later, but a larger part of her screamed that they had to save Wynn, no matter what it took to do so. The Captain was wrong. She needed Wynn and somehow, some way, she'd make it work. She could be loyal to Wynn and to herself. Destiny be damned.
Even as she thought those thoughts, her mind turned to the situation in the city. The Captain's lich was on the loose. It had his thoughts and his memories, the Captain had said, but it wasn't him. That meant that instead of protecting the people of Dragonfell, he'
d be doing the opposite of what he'd done in life. He'd be trying to do as much damage as he could in as short a time as possible. He'd want to spread panic and demoralize.
The palace. He'd be heading for the palace. Tiadaria was sure of it. There were few things as recognizable or iconic as the palace of the One True King. If the Captain were to take the palace, the cost in panic among the citizens could be nigh insurmountable.
Tiadaria was so lost in her head that she almost didn't realize that she and Faxon had arrived at the hospital. All her tactical analysis and planning faded into the background as they carried Wynn and Adamon into the surging sea of hysterical bodies.
Cleric and healer alike were overwhelmed. It seemed as if there was someone wounded or dying everywhere they turned. They might have spent the rest of the night trying to find care for their charges if it weren't for Faxon's powerful bellow demanding instant obedience from the nearest cleric.
The very frazzled, white-haired woman who took Wynn from Faxon's arms promised him that they'd be well taken care of and disappeared behind a nearby curtain. A healer took Adamon from Tiadaria's shoulder and then she and Faxon were promptly forgotten. The flood of people ebbed and flowed around them, oblivious to who they were or what they were doing.
Tiadaria was glad to get back outside. Inside the hospital had been an oppressive wall of heat. At least outside, it was cooler and easier to breathe. Faxon stopped at a basin outside the door and used water from a jug to clean the worst of the blood from his hands. The worst of Wynn's blood. She looked at her own palms and found them remarkably clean for everything she'd been through. Even the cut where they'd bled her for the ritual was little more than a faint white line. Adamon had done well.
“Okay,” she said, proud that her voice didn't shake when she spoke. “So where do we go from here?”
#
Tionne wrenched her hand free of Nerillia's grasp. She planted her feet in the center of the street. She wasn't going to run. Not now.
The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3 Page 49