The sun dipped into the west, its red-hued rays seeming to melt the crystal windows into liquid fire. The crowds began to depart, heading for a warm hearth and cold ale. Alise was now one of the few people left in the street. She drew her hood up over her red hair, wrapped her cloak around her body, for the evening air was growing chill. Selecting a shadowy area near the iron fence at the north end of the palace, she stood against it, tried her best to blend in.
She had a pricking in her thumbs that something was wrong. Would they take Shadamehr and the others to the prison-fortress located on an island in the middle of the Arven river? She tried to remember what route the guards used to transport prisoners to the fortress. She wondered if she should post herself there or continue to wait here. She had about decided to leave, but she didn’t.
Something kept her here, at the north end.
She had noticed before this an empathy developing between herself and Shadamehr, an empathy she disliked, for she could never make it work to her advantage. The empathy worked only to his. He never knew when she was in danger, but she always knew when something bad had happened to him.
She stared at the palace windows with an almost suffocating feeling in her breast and then she heard the sound of shattering glass.
Two bodies shot out of a fifth-floor window. Alise knew instantly that one of those bodies belonged to Shadamehr.
Alise could not move. Her heart ceased to beat. Her hands went cold, her feet numb. She knew he must die, his body broken on the stones, his head split open, and she could do nothing but watch in shock and in horror. She didn’t notice the other person falling with him. Her eyes were only for Shadamehr and in that moment that she thought he was going to die, she whispered to him that she loved him.
As the words left her mouth, Air magic reached out a hand and caught hold of Shadamehr by the scruff of his neck. The magic held him suspended in midair for an instant, then gently lowered him, his long hair floating in the breeze, the sleeves of his shirt fluttering. Shadamehr’s feet touched the paving stones with a gentle thump. The other person, the Trevenici, landed next to him and almost immediately collapsed.
Alise’s heart started to beat again, her terror changed instantly to outrage. He’d done this for a lark, never mind that the fright had taken ten years off her life and probably made her red hair go white.
“I take it back,” Alise muttered angrily, “I don’t love you. I have never loved you. I’ve always despised you.”
She was not the only person to hear the sound of glass shattering or see the astonishing sight of a nobleman and a Trevenici drift to the ground like thistledown on a spring breeze. The Imperial Guards at the front gate saw and heard. As stunned as Alise, they were slower to react.
Shadamehr looked around and she knew he was looking for her, confident that she would be there when he needed her. She cursed him for being confident and cursed herself for being there.
Pressing against the iron bars, she waved her hand, but he had already spotted her.
“Get us out of here!” he shouted, helping the Trevenici to his feet.
Just like that. Get us out of here.
Alise ran through the catalog of Earth-based spells she had memorized. Even as she did that, she knew what spell she had to use and it wasn’t Earth-based. She detested using Void magic. She disliked the pain and the weakness and sickness that went with it. To add to her trouble, the spell she cast would be immediately recognized as a Void spell. Any magus happening to see it would know it for what it was and would alert the Church authorities.
To save Shadamehr, she would hurt herself, make herself sick, and place herself at risk of arrest. But then, as Rigiswald had said earlier, what else was new?
Calling the heinous words of the spell to her mind—words that felt like bugs crawling around inside her mouth—she rested both her hands on the iron bars and spoke the magic resolutely.
The iron bars began to rust. The corrosion spread rapidly, running up and down the iron. Alise moved her hands to two more bars and spoke the spell again. A wave of nausea swept over her. Feeling dizzy, fearful she might lose consciousness, she was forced to pause until the sick feeling passed. She clung to one of the bars until it disintegrated and hoped that four missing bars would be enough. She lacked the strength to do more.
The bars corroded rapidly. A large hole gaped in the iron work with a pile of rust beneath. Alise tried to call to Shadamehr, but she didn’t have the energy. He wasn’t watching. He had his back turned, looking up at the palace. One of the elves, the Wyred, came flying gracefully out of the window, landed in a flurry of robes alongside Shadamehr. Last came Damra, the Dominion Lord. Her silver armor caught the rays of the setting sun, she was bright as a meteor falling from the heavens. She alighted delicately as a bird on a bough.
Shadamehr turned. Seeing the hole in the bars, he pointed at it, and the four began to run toward it. The guards had figured out by now what was happening. They broke into a run, but they were a good distance away, clear back at the gate that stood opposite the center of the palace.
Raising her penny whistle to her lips, Alise blew three long notes. Instantly, other whistles answered hers. Some were near, some were distant, but Shadamehr’s men were listening and they were already on their way to his aid.
Looking back, urging them to hurry, Alise saw with alarm that Shadamehr was having difficulty keeping up the pace set by the others. He had his hand pressed to his side and although he ran gamely, his steps faltered. At one point, the Trevenici youth halted to see if the baron needed help. Shadamehr grinned and waved him on.
“This is no time to play the fool, my lord,” Alise growled in her throat. By the gods, did the man take nothing seriously?
“Can you do something to stop the guards?” Alise asked the two elves as they reached the hole in the bars.
The Wyred spoke his magic and waved his hand. The shattered glass lying on the paving stones lifted into the air, flashing red with the sunset. The elf made a motion with his hand, caused the glass to start to swirl. The glass whirled about, faster and faster. Another motion of the elf’s hand sent the whirling cyclone of broken glass heading straight to intercept the guards.
Shadamehr reached the gate. He had to stop to catch his breath and then Alise saw that she had misjudged him. He had not been clowning. The side of his shirt was covered with blood.
“You’re hurt!” Alise cried.
“A scratch, nothing more,” Shadamehr said, straightening and giving her his usual infuriating smile.
Five of Shadamehr’s men came dashing up, penny whistles in hand.
“What about the pecwae?” Shadamehr asked immediately. There was an odd catch in his voice, as if he were in extreme pain. He pressed his hand over his side. “Where is Ulaf?”
“I ran into him on Glover Street, my lord,” one reported. “He said he was on the trail of the pecwae. They were only about a block ahead of him. I asked if he needed help, but he said no, they knew him and trusted him. He said that he would bring them to the Tubby Tabby and I was to meet him there, but that was over an hour ago. I waited for him at the Tabby, but he never came.”
“Damn,” Shadamehr muttered. He glanced back in the direction of the broken window, and Alise was alarmed to see a shudder run through his body.
“You’re hurt worse than you think,” she said, putting her arms around him. “I could use my magic to heal—No, damn! I can’t! Not after I’ve cast a Void spell—”
“No time anyway, my dear,” he said, and then caught his breath. Sweat broke out on his forehead. “Damra, you and Griffith go to the wharves. I have an orken ship waiting there. The orks know you. We’ll join you as soon as we recover the pecwae.”
“We don’t like to leave you—” Damra began, looking at him in concern.
“I’m in good hands,” said Shadamehr with a smile for Alise, a smile that tore at her heart. His face was livid, he was gray about the lips. “You are in danger here. The magi will be search
ing for two elves and you must admit that the two of you stand out in a crowd.”
Damra looked as if she was going to refuse his suggestion.
“You have more than yourself to think about, Dominion Lord,” Shadamehr said quietly. “You carry the hope of your people. That hope is in danger here.”
Damra had only to glance about her to know he was right. Caught in a whirlwind of slashing glass, the guards stumbled about, trying to shield their faces from the shards. Horns were blowing, the alarm had sounded. More guards were coming. Damra had driven the High Magus into a corner with the lightning whip, but she was free now and would be tearing after them in a towering rage.
“What happened in there, Baron?” Griffith asked, with a gesture at the palace. “What made you alter your plans?”
Shadamehr hesitated, then spoke to them in Tomagi. Alise couldn’t understand his words. The elves stared at him in dismay. “So you see,” he finished, “you must go—quickly!”
The two elves regarded him with concern. He looked extremely ill.
“The Father and Mother be with you, Baron,” said Damra at last. “The Father and Mother be with Vinnengael.”
Glancing back up at the window of the Imperial Palace, Shadamehr looked away.
“There is no one to help Vinnengael,” he said. “Not even the gods.”
Damra clasped hold of her husband’s hand. Their images wavered for a moment, then both the elves vanished, their magic cloaking them in shadow.
“Let’s get out of here before company comes,” said Shadamehr to his men. He kept hold of Alise’s hand. “Split up. Meet at the Tubby Tabby. Keep an eye out for the pecwae and for Ulaf.”
The red glow of sunset lingered in the sky. The sun’s fire dimmed in the crystal windows, wavered like the glow of dying embers. One window, the broken window, was an empty black. The Temple and its attendant buildings cast deep shadows. Shadamehr’s men departed, taking to their heels, their racing footfalls pounding loudly on the pavement, drawing off pursuit from their injured lord.
By the time the guards reached the gaping hole in the iron fence, they could find no sign of the miscreants. The Imperial Cavalry arrived, the officer shouting orders for the soldiers to split into groups, turn the city upside down and inside out in search of Baron Shadamehr and an elven Dominion Lord, outlaws who had dared lay hands on the young King.
Shadamehr, Alise and Jessan plunged into a shadowy byway. They dashed down one street, ran up another street, turned down a side street, darted into an alley. At the end of the alley stood a tavern. Shadamehr thrust open the door, ushered his friends inside.
Alise blinked, trying to make the adjustment from darkness to the bright light. Shadamehr did not give her time, but hustled her along. She had an impression of warmth, of the strong smells of beer, sweaty bodies, tobacco smoke and pea soup. Alise stumbled over chairs and feet, tripped over her robes. Shadamehr shouted at the barmaid, who shouted back and gave him a nod of her head. Making certain that Jessan was keeping up with them, Shadamehr herded them toward a door in the back of the tavern.
The door opened. A dark room swallowed up Alise. The door shut behind her. The room was pitch black. She couldn’t see a thing and was about to ask Shadamehr why he hadn’t thought to bring a lantern when there came the sound of a chair scraping across the floor and then a heavy crash.
“Shadamehr?” Alise called out, terror-stricken.
“He’s over here,” said Jessan.
“Jessan, we need light!” she cried desperately.
Reaching out her hands, cursing the darkness, Alise took a step forward and tripped over Shadamehr’s legs. She knelt down beside him and placed her hand on his neck, feeling for a pulse.
His skin was cold and clammy, his heartbeat was wild and erratic.
“Shadamehr!” she cried to him, but no answer came to her from the darkness.
Epilogue
Patrols of soldiers searched the city of New Vinnengael without luck. Admittedly theirs was a daunting task, like trying to find a baron in a haystack, as one wit stated grumpily, but they kept at it, if somewhat half-heartedly. Rumors now spread among the soldiers that an enemy army, sprung from the Void, threatened the city. The terrible rumors bred like maggots in rotten meat and soon all of New Vinnengael was in an uproar, with people rushing out into the streets to hear the latest prediction of doom, further hampering the efforts of the patrols in their search for Baron Shadamehr and the outlaw elven Dominion Lord.
Adding to the hysteria, word went around that a monk from Dragon Mountain had arrived in New Vinnengael. Someone immediately recalled that a monk had ridden into Old Vinnengael prior to that city’s destruction. Panic ensued.
Inside the palace, the battle magus Tasgall, his sight restored, argued with Most Revered High Magus Clovis. The battle magus believed Baron Shadamehr’s warning. Tasgall was going to report to the Battle Magi and the High Magus would do well if she opened her eyes to the truth. He pointed to the north, where a sullen red glow lit the horizon.
Furious, the High Magus accused him of siding with rebels and thieves. Their argument ended abruptly when a Temple magus came rushing in to announce in breathless tones that one of the monks from Dragon Mountain had entered the city.
The High Magus went all pale and flabby. Tasgall stalked out.
In the excitement, no one remembered the King until a servant found him and took him to his room. The child asked what was happening, but was told that all was well. They fed him his supper and sent him to bed.
The child pretended to sleep, but the moment the servants departed, he threw aside the silken sheets. Climbing out of bed, he went over to stand in front of the window.
A voice spoke inside the child’s head.
“Well, and what have you to report?”
“A monk has arrived from Dragon Mountain, my lord. The monk came this night. They have given him a room in the palace.”
There was silence inside the child, then the voice replied, “That is gratifying news, Shakur. Immensely gratifying.”
“I thought you would be pleased, my lord.”
“It almost makes up for the fact that you have once again lost the Sovereign Stone.”
The child reached his hand beneath the long, white nightgown that he wore to bed. The small hand of the eight-year-old caressed a knife made of bone that he wore strapped to his waist.
“They will not get far, my lord,” said the boy in his childish voice. “They will not get far.”
Acknowledgments
The world of Sovereign Stone came from the mind and heart of renowned fantasy artist, Larry Elmore. We want to gratefully acknowledge his creation and his continued help and support as we bring his vision to life with our words, as he brings it to life with his art.
We would also like to thank the people of Sovereign Press, producers of the Sovereign Stone role-playing game, who have worked with Larry and with us to share this world with those intrepid adventurers who want to explore it and have adventures of their own. In this, we gratefully acknowledge the contributions of Don Perrin, Tim Kidwell, and Jamie Chambers. We want to acknowledge Jean Rabe and Janet Pack for their work on the taan and artists Stephen Daniele and Joy Marie Ledet for the interior art in this book.
Finally, we would like to thank our editors, Caitlin Blasdell and Jennifer Brehl, for their wisdom, their patience, and their own adventuring spirit!
—Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
About the Authors
Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman are the New York Times-bestselling authors of more than thirty books, including Dragons of a Vanished Moon; the Sovereign Stone Trilogy; the Star of the Guardian series; the Death Gate Cycle; the Darksword Trilogy; and the Dragonlance series. For more information on the Sovereign Stone Trilogy and the Sovereign Stone game, please go to www.sovstone.com.
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The Sovereign Stone Trilogy by
Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
WELL OF DARKNESS
GUARDIANS OF THE LOST
JOURNEY INTO THE VOID
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Copyright
Thanks to Joy Marie Ledet for the artwork on the part and chapter openers, and Stephen Daniele for the interior map.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
GUARDIANS OF THE LOST. Copyright © 2001 by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman, and Larry Elmore. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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