Caught up in Galani’s distress, Valea could not tell how long they lay there. The crying might have gone on, but a pair of hands suddenly took hold of the elf’s arms, guiding her up gently.
Gloved hands.
Even in such dark, it was impossible not to recognize the ethereal figure.
“You’re injured,” commented Shade almost blandly. “Your cousin had no such right.”
Curiously, the fear that Valea had sensed in Galani earlier had vanished. The enchantress sensed some lengthy passage of time since her last visitation, but how much, she could not say. Now the elf looked at the murky form as if having found her champion. Galani’s changing mood affected Valea’s own. For all the evil he had performed, Shade had also done much good. He was as revered as he was reviled. If the present scene was any indication, Tylan was an agent of light . . . and someone who had already touched Galani’s heart.
“Tylan . . .” murmured the elf. “It’s been so long.”
“I had . . . matters to attend to.”
With a suddenness that caught both Shade and Valea unaware, Galani buried her face in the voluminous robes of the warlock. Shade hesitated for a moment, then put his arms around her as one might do for a child.
“What is he becoming?” she begged of the hooded figure. “What is his work with that-that thing he brought back from the Legar Peninsula-doing to him?”
She remained silent for a time, then answered, “You mean the Wyr Stone? It is a dangerous artifact. I warned him of that when he first asked me of it. It all but destroyed the Garoot. He plays with powerful forces . . . but the rewards will benefit all elves if he succeeds.”
“At the cost of his own life? Our people have no desire to rule the land! They are satisfied with their privacy!”
He carefully pushed her from him. The blurred face fascinated Valea as much as it did the elf. A light seemed to radiate from it, allowing one to see the vague details, but never the complete picture. To Valea’s mind, Shade had once been a pleasant-looking male. Not so perfect as Kyl, but better still in other ways.
And what sort of thoughts are those? she suddenly asked herself. Bad enough she had suffered such an infatuation for the future Dragon Emperor . . . now Valea entertained notions concerning an unstable, unpredictable warlock who had more than once nearly destroyed the entire continent.
But Galani entertained similar notions. Before Shade could speak, a slim, golden-clad arm reached up to his murky visage. Perfectly-formed fingers stroked his cheek.
Shade pulled away, but not immediately. “You know the news I brought your cousin. The Dragon Kings have declared among themselves that the elves must be brought to destruction. They distrust your magic. You’re the strongest race other than them at the moment-”
“But what of your people? The humans? Surely they-”
A harsh laugh escaped the warlock. “My people? Galani, the Dragon Kings are much more my people than the humans are!”
Valea did not understand his comment and certainly her host did not. The sorceress wished that she could do more than observe, but this was after all a memory, a playing of events long past. She could no more truly interact with it than she could with the characters in a book. The last time had clearly been a fluke.
“The Wyr Stone . . .” Galani’s voice went cold. “How I wish he had never found that abomination!”
“But it is the key to your people’s salvation. You may trust me on that.”
Again emotions that reminded Valea too much of her feelings toward Kyl surfaced. Galani took one of the gloved hands in her own. “I trust you, Tylan. At times I trust you more than I do my cousin these day.” She suddenly took his other hand. “Dance with me.”
“Dance with you?” Shade blurted, the legendary warlock clearly as dumbfounded as he had possibly ever been. Valea shared his astonishment. One did not ask someone like Shade to dance.
“I miss the life I had before I chose to come here. I miss the times I had with Arak, who is now an utter stranger to me. Yes, please. Dance with me,” Galani begged, nodding once. As she did, the wind suddenly came to life . . . and with it also came a gentle music, the music of the stars and moon, of peace and love.
The elf drew Shade forward, not permitting him escape. She guided him around, showing him how the music flowed. The robes fluttered, but they seemed to do so in time with the notes.
Galani and the warlock danced . . . and so Valea danced with Shade also.
She had danced with Kyl, but somehow those times paled with this. Kyl danced like a drake, moving with perfect but martial steps. The tall figure before her danced differently, his movements not only following the music, but adding to it a hint of something else. Shade danced as one more than well-versed in the art; he danced as someone who loved life to its fullest.
If Galani’s cheeks grew crimson, Valea thought that surely it was because of her, not the elf. Something in Shade now touched her, drew her to him as she had never been drawn to anyone. She looked into the hood, saw a bit of the vague features, and desired truly this time to see the face that should be there.
She raised a hand to his cheek. She, Valea, not Galani.
But at that moment, two silent forms leapt over the hedge to their right.
Shade threw Valea/Galani to the opposing side just before the figures overwhelmed him. Valea had a glimpse of an armored fighter wielding not a sword or ax, but rather a staff with a curved, open end that glowed faintly.
With a hiss, the first attacker slapped the curved end onto the back of the warlock’s hooded neck. Shade howled when the peculiar weapon touched him, then dropped to the floor.
Without thinking, Valea cast a spell. A burst of light illuminated the intruders-savage, fork-tongued drake warriors with a faint purple tint to their otherwise dusky green forms. Startled by the intense glare, the one wielding the magical weapon dropped it-just before the sorceress’s second spell threw him into the foliage.
The other drake charged at her, a short sword drawn. He leapt with a speed Valea had never witnessed in drakes wearing a humanoid form. She wondered why the pair just did not transform into dragons or at least cast spells, then forgot such questions as she defended herself.
In her eyes, lines of force suddenly crisscrossed over every part of the visible world. As she had been trained by her parents, Valea drew from the nearest, touched upon the natural magic and pulled it within herself.
The drake swung at her, crimson orbs glowing malevolently within the false dragonhelm.
Pure magical force threw him into the air, threw him beyond the maze, and even beyond the grounds of the Manor. Unwilling to slay, Valea sent him far away, so far he would be no trouble for months to come. It would take him that long simply to reach his own master . . . who would not be so gentle after such an abysmal failure.
As the spell waned, a garbled, horrific sound made the sorceress turn back to the first drake. To her horror, she saw him struggling futilely to free himself from a hedge that seemed determined to devour his armored form. A gauntleted hand tore uselessly at the enshrouding limbs of the tall plant while the other stretched forth in desperate plea to the figure nearest.
But Shade did nothing as the hedge inexorably pulled its victim within.
Valea charged forward, but the warlock blocked her with his arm. The drake let out one last hiss . . . then the hedge enveloped him, leaving no trace.
“The master of the Libraries delved well and deep for this treachery,” Shade uttered.
At first, Valea did not know what to make of his words, for why her parents’ friend the Lord Gryphon would send drakes to attack the Manor was beyond her . . . but then she recalled that the leonine ruler of Penacles, City of Knowledge, did not yet even exist. The sorceress also recalled the colorings she had seen when the light had been strongest, a faint purple tint to the green scale.
Purple . . . the color of the Dragon Kings who had ruled Penacles until the Turning War, two hundred years prior to Valea’s birth.
Shade waved one hand at the hedge that had devoured the drake. The foliage shimmered briefly, then resumed its normal appearance.
“But how-” Valea stammered. “It’s impossible! How can they pass through the barrier?”
The shadowed visage turned to her. “It is said that any answer can be found in the books of Penacle’s magical libraries . . . if one knows how to phrase the question.” He leaned forward, a specter that suddenly blanketed the night. “You are well versed in power, Galani. My gratitude.” He took her hand. “One would say your power rivals even that of Arak. I am surprised. You have said your powers were minute.”
Only then did Valea realize what she had done. She controlled the elf’s body again. She had made the decisions, defended them both.
She had altered the memory.
Or had she? Perhaps her actions had just been akin to those that Galani would have chosen. Surely it was not possible for her to-
“What is it? What happened out here? Galani! Where are you?”
Shade’s hood lifted. “We are here, Arak!”
A green glow rose from elsewhere in the maze and the hedges before them abruptly separated. Hand up, Galani’s cousin stalked toward them, eyes surveying everything in search of a foe.
“What happened? I heard shouts and felt spellwork!” He seized Valea, practically tearing her from the warlock’s grip. “Cousin! Are you all right?”
“She is well . . . and quite capable, I might add.” Shade pointed at the ground, where the peculiar weapon used by the one drake still lay. “A possession rod. Designed to make its captive pliable through pain. I believe it was meant for you, not me. Lord Purple planned well, but did not take in account my resilience.”
The elf was aghast. “Penacles? There were drakes here? Within the barrier?”
“You know that of all the Dragon Kings he has the wherewithal to find a way inside. Fortunately, some sacrifices had to be made. Neither drake could shapeshift or else we would have been overwhelmed by dragons. The two could not cast spells, either, I believe. They must have seen your cousin run out to the hedge and assumed when I joined her that I must be you.”
“‘Ran out to the hedge’ . . .” Arak stared down at Valea, who chose to say nothing. A look of contrition spread over the male elf’s countenance. “Galani, I am so very sorry. If I-”
“They must be after the Wyr Stone,” Shade interjected.
All thought of apology vanished from Arak. “You think so?”
“What other reason?”
“Then . . . my decision is made for me. Their tyranny must come to an end.”
Valea desperately wanted to ask what the Wyr Stone was and what it would do to the Dragon Kings, but suddenly her head pounded horribly. She swayed and would have fallen if not for Arak suddenly catching her.
“Galani! Galani! Gal-”
“Mistress Valea! My lady! Please awaken!”
Moaning, Valea opened her eyes. A rounded, elderly woman in brown, one of the human servants, leaned over her. The woman’s face was flushed and she had obviously been trying for some time to awaken her mistress.
“Cora . . . what’s . . . what’s wrong?”
“Mistress Valea! ’Tis nearly dinner! You’ve slept all night and all day!” Cora felt the younger woman’s forehead. “And you’re cold to the touch! Do you feel ill?”
Her head throbbed and Valea felt hungry, but otherwise she seemed all right. She told Cora so.
With an expression worthy of Lady Bedlam, the senior household servant shook her head. “Well you’ll still stay in that bed while I get someone to bring you some good broth. If you can down that, we’ll see about hardier food. Wouldn’t do for your parents to come home to find you on death’s door, would it?”
Knowing better than to argue, Valea lay back on the pillow, watching as Cora fussed about for a moment before departing to find her mistress some healthy food. The young sorceress marveled for a moment that she with all her trained and natural skills still had to rely on someone without a single iota of ability when it came to magic.
Thinking of magic drew her back to her dream . . . or whatever it had been. Cora had said that she had slept through most of the day! What sort of dream would cause that? It was surely no coincidence that it had concerned the very characters out of the Manor’s ghostly memory.
She bolted upright in bed. Had she somehow become tied to that memory? But why . . . and how?
And what would happen when she next went to sleep?
V
The night stretched long. Too long, as far as Valea was concerned. Candle in hand, she strode through the high halls of her home, passing without gazing at wall tapestries collected by her mother or vases and other decorative gifts given to both her parents over the years. As the foremost wizards of the lands, the Bedlams had as many friends as they did enemies and among the former were some of those most influential. A three-foot tall rearing steed made of onyx and reminiscent of Darkhorse stood atop a pedestal to her right, a recent present from the ruler of Zuu, Belfour. The people of Zuu had an obsession for horses and their sculptors could fashion the most marvelous, intricate statues of the equines, but even this, a favorite of Valea’s, did not distract her.
She did not want to go to sleep. Having done so all day should have aided her in that regard, but there had been no rest in that slumber. The dream had sapped her of her strength as if she had actually expended herself physically. Valea still wanted to investigate the events behind the apparitions and the dream, but on her own terms.
Once more she stopped in the library, this time to research what history of the Manor her father had chronicled. Valea already knew that there would be no mention of an elf called Arak nor of his cousin Galani. What she did seek, however, was any mention of an artifact called the Wyr Stone. Clearly it was of great significance, if both Arak and Shade had believed it useful against the Dragon Kings.
For the next hour, she thumbed through the first journal, finding reference to other past inhabitants but not to the object in question. Discarding that tome, the crimson-tressed sorceress seized a volume related to the Dragon Masters, a band of wizards and other spellcasters of whom her great-grandfather, Nathan, had been one of the foremost . . . as had been her mother. Gwendolyn Bedlam had put down with quill all that she could recall of her days as part of the group that had attempted to oust the drakes from rule . . . even her love for her husband’s grandfather.
The story made for fascinating reading and Valea had pored over it more than once in the past, but now she hunted a specific section. Somewhere there had been made mention of the artifacts that the Masters had sought for their grand purpose and Valea wondered if perhaps one of them might be the one she hunted.
The candle sank into a waxy puddle as she perused page after page, finding nothing. One passage briefly seized her attention, for it spoke of a possession rod, but little more could Valea discern from it.
She rubbed her eyes, squinting more and more as the candle became less useful. Her father had raised her to use magic judiciously, not for every whim or minor physical activity, but Valea realized that soon she would be attempting to read in utter darkness. Raising her hand, she cast a minor light spell, one that surely her father would have seen as a very miserly use of her abilities-
A face stared back at her from the other side of the desk.
“No!” Startled, Valea pushed the chair back . . . and fell with it. She caught herself at the very end, preventing a possible broken neck but promising many bruises.
Rolling away from the chair, Valea amplified the light spell, filling the library with almost blinding illumination. Ceiling-high shelves filled with book after book, scroll upon scroll-all carefully collected by not only the Bedlams but some of their predecessors-revealed themselves to her, but of her intruder there was no trace.
Rising, Valea hurried to the doorway, but saw no sign. She frowned, recalling what she could of the face-and her mouth dropped.
&nbs
p; Arak.
Yet, there had been something else about him, some details about his elven visage that had only partly registered. He had not been as she had seen him initially-tall, handsome, foreboding. What had changed?
She turned back toward the desk-and this time gasped as Arak once more glared at her.
Now Valea saw with horror what was different about him. He still retained elven features, but they had also become something different, something reptilian.
Arak moved, but he did not walk toward her. Rather he stared past her, his mouth working as if speaking to another in the room. Then the elf, his garments misshapen as if his body was not entirely normal any more, darted toward the far wall . . . and through the very shelves.
At the same time, feminine sobbing echoed through the corridors outside.
Valea stood momentarily torn between investigating the apparition in the library or pursuing the ghostly sounds beyond. When Arak did not reappear, she finally abandoned the chamber and hurried down the halls, wondering why no one else came in response to the anguished cries.
Not at all to her surprise, the sobbing led her back to the staircase.
Once more the elven figure bent down and once more blood pooled beneath. This time, Valea did not reach out, hoping that by holding back she would see the vision do more.
It did. Rather than finally crumple to the floor, it rose. In one hand something glittered despite no other light, a dagger fine and silver whose end was drenched crimson.
The female elf-surely Galani-shifted back toward the staircase.
Valea stared at her own face.
No . . . not exactly her own. Much akin to hers, save that the features were better defined, far more graceful. Valea’s face without imperfection.
Yet another gasp escaped the sorceress at this revelation . . . and suddenly the spectral figure looked her way.
“I had to do it, didn’t I?” Galani asked her.
The elf’s wound finally proved too much. She doubled over, the dagger dropping from her failing grip. Valea reached forward, but her arms caught no body, for Galani’s ghost vanished even as death claimed it not for the first time.
Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III Page 78