“When you have lived in the caverns of the world as long as I have, you can tell,” Hobbler said. “Now, I don’t know about you gents, but I’m hungry and if we start moving now, we’ll get back to Warrenvale in time for breakfast.”
Fenelon sighed. “Once we leave Warrenvale, I suspect we should gate back to Blue Oak straight away.”
“Why?”
Fenelon frowned. “Call it a hunch.”
“Something from your dream?” Gareth asked.
Fenelon nodded. “Yeah, in a way. I want to make sure Etienne and the others got there all right.”
Gareth nodded. “So what did you learn down there in the Stone Forest?” he asked as he got up and started to gather his pack for the journey back.
“That there is nothing we can do at this point,” Fenelon said. “According to the Hidden Ones, the Circle of the World has already begun to turn. There will be dark times ahead for Ard-Taebh.”
“All because of Ronan taking Alaric to Garrowye?”
“All because Ronan is not what we thought he was,” Fenelon said.
“That Ronan is a demon?” Gareth asked.
Fenelon looked up, startled. “You knew?” he asked.
“I suspected,” Gareth said. “I just never had the proof.”
“He is not even Ronan, they said. Ronan set the demon free from a Soul Stone and it consumed him and became him, according to the Keeper of Knowledge. They also said that if Ronan had made Alaric walk through the Gate Stone to get to Garrowye then he only had one purpose in mind. Revenge.”
“Wonderful,” Gareth said. “Then we had best get back and start letting the Council of Mageborn know that there might be trouble brewing.”
“Exactly,” Fenelon said. “By the way, have you ever heard of the Twice-Blooded Once-Born in any of your travels?”
Hobbler was collecting his tiles, but the Dvergar stopped and his face brightened. “The Champion of Light.”
“What?” Fenelon threw a sharp look at the Dvergar.
“Oh, you short-lived long-legs,” Hobbler said. “You’re too young to have heard the tales of the last Darkening. When the Shadow Lords ruled, the White One and her followers supposedly bred a being of great power who was twice blooded.”
“Twice blooded?” Fenelon said. “What does that mean?”
Hobbler shrugged. “Afraid that’s a part of the tale I never heard. But the Twice-Blooded Once-Born is the last hope of all races. Without this Champion of Light, the dark powers will win and the hope of all races will die.”
Fenelon wanted to ask more. This was starting to intrigue him.
“All that aside, we cannot help Alaric. He is lost to us,” Gareth said. “So we might as well go back and see what we can do to stop Turlough’s mad plan to execute Etienne and the others—and you.” Gareth pointed to Fenelon. “Remember, he still wants your head as well.”
Fenelon reached up and touched his own throat in dismay. That was not a reminder he needed just now.
SIXTY-FOUR
It seemed to Alaric that he was wasting his time trying to get an answer. Everyone he spoke to, from lowly stable hand to household steward, and all the folk in between had the same response. He should not look for the Elder. The Elder would find him when the time was right.
He wished Ronan would stop hiding and help him cipher what they meant, but no matter how much he begged, the bard stayed hidden deep inside him, and Alaric was starting to wonder of what the bard was afraid. There had been times before when Ronan went quiet, but never for this long.
“Perhaps, he fears you will find the truth disturbing,” a familiar voice said.
Alaric had been pacing across one of the many garden paths when he heard those words. He stopped and turned towards the source.
In spite of the shadows, the vision of white dazzled him so that he had to raise his hand over his eyes. Mage eyes adjusted, however, and revealed the shadows caused by an archway of stone. Beneath that on a bench of white marble, sat Master Fion. The Dvergar’s short legs dangled over the edge. He held a staff of white wood in one hand, using it to balance. And he wore that infuriating smile that Alaric was starting to hate in all these people.
“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Alaric asked. He glanced around, but saw no sign of the creature Sedar.
A large meaty hand motioned Alaric forward. He frowned and stepped closer.
“I see what is in you,” Master Fion said. “I have seen it all along. I know the burden you bear, a burden you would just as soon have never found. I know what has been stolen. What has been lost, and what could be gained.”
Alaric put a hand to his own chest and stepped back. “How can you possibly know?”
“Because I am the Elder you seek,” Master Fion said. “Or better yet, it is time for me to seek you.”
Alaric felt dizzy as something swirled in the back of his mind, stirring in the darkness like a bear awakened from a long sleep. The overwhelming scent of cinnamon burned in his nostrils. And the ring on his left hand grew cold as ice. His whole body was growing heavy, forcing him to sink to his knees.
Ronan? he thought.
It was Ronan...or at least, it felt like Ronan, but the essence within Alaric had a new fury as well, and it clawed its way to the surface almost like a badger scrambling out of a muddy den. It was Ronan, and yet it was not the bard he had come so used to battling. It was something more, something stronger, something as ancient as time. The burn of demon essence was there as well.
“Help me,” he said, looking up at Fion.
“I cannot,” the Dvergar said and did not move. “The Balance forbids it.”
Alaric became aware of darkness pressing down on him now, pulling him apart and stealing his consciousness. He fought against it, determined to stay in control. But Ronan was proving strong. And before Alaric could shout a warning, he felt the bard’s essence charging through every nerve as though Alaric were the intruder in his own flesh.
And then, he felt his own hand reach and snatch at his chest. Flesh and cloth were torn away. Alaric gasped in surprise. Why was this happening? Why was there no blood?
“Too long!” he heard Ronan roar with his voice. “Too long have I dreamed of this moment. I was your first and most favorite, yet you destroyed my flesh, hid my bones, put me into darkness and left me there to mourn... But now...I will have my revenge!”
Alaric saw the dagger come out of his chest. A shard of something crystal-like...the thing he had taken in his dream...that Culann had taken from Talena. It was now in Alaric’s hand, and he was surging to his feet, raising it over his head. With a shout, he dove at Master Fion who did not move.
Alaric screamed inside himself. Ronan! Don’t!
But Ronan was beyond hearing. His essence was in command, and Alaric was nothing more than a witness. Still shouting in Alaric’s voice, Ronan drove the point of the crystal at the Dvergar’s heart.
Yet the blow never fell. Alaric heard the scream of another—two others. One he recognized as Vagner. The other was the creature Sedar, and both of them descended on him from above. Demon essence washed everything in a bitterness. Sedar struck Alaric hard and fast from the side, and he knew he was going to have broken ribs from that. To his surprise, his body sprang upright again, brandishing the dagger and lunging at Sedar. Vagner moved in as though to keep them apart, but Ronan screamed Vagner’s True Name and drove the demon away with the blast of unbridled pain.
No, no, no! Ronan, stop!
Alaric kept screaming it from inside himself, but for all his objections, Ronan refused to stop. The bard was once more driving Alaric towards Fion. Sedar moved into his path, and before Alaric could stop himself, he shoved the crystal dagger deep into the White Demon’s chest.
An unearthly howl filled the air. Sedar went down writhing in pain, but it was not the demon who screamed. It was Master Fion, and the sound that the Dvergar issued was the roar of thunder off the mountains, of water rushing down rivers, of infernos blazing in a
hearth and wind in a gale and earth crashing down in a quake.
Alaric fell now, his body dropping, his arms going over his head as though to protect himself. The archway was filled with whiteness that expanded and billowed and grew. Fion looked much taller, and then the Dvergar began to shift, his stubby, broad figure becoming the slender wraith-like figure of a woman with long white hair who threw back her head and screamed. It’s she! he thought. It’s the woman in the caverns!
The woman whose statue was in the tunnels. The one Ronan had called She Who Sits At The Center Of All Things... The White One.
Alaric wanted to watch what was happening, but Ronan was still in command, and he was ordering Alaric to scramble away as fast and furious as possible. The whiteness of the woman was expanding beyond the space of the arch. She stepped out of it, her opalescent eyes brimming as she knelt at Sedar’s side and drew the crystal dagger from the white demon’s chest.
Ronan forced Alaric to his feet as several guards came running and blocking the way. Among them came King Culann and Halathor, both of whom pushed their way to the front. Ronan did not stop. He crashed into the crowd of men, desperate to put as many of them between him and the woman as possible.
Perhaps it was because Ronan was so intent on escape that he did not stop Alaric from glancing back. The White One was putting one hand over Sedar’s wound, and from her hand issued a glow of golden light. Vagner was crawling back over, watching the scene intently, as though he cared what happened to the white demon.
And it was then that Alaric ran full tilt into a wall of air. He heard Ronan curse. Where the spell had come from, he could not say, but the power with which he hit it was enough to knock him flat on his back. It also knocked Ronan’s control of his flesh free. For moments, Alaric had no idea who was in charge because it hurt and he did not want to claim the body as his own. But then, he knew that control was his by the presence of the unrelenting pain. Carefully, Alaric crawled back onto his feet, staggering to keep his balance as dizziness threatened to overwhelm him.
He turned back in time to see Sedar once more lunge to its feet. But how! It was dying and... Before he could think what it meant, the white demon dove at him, shrieking like a fury. It looked more male than female as it descended on him.
Then there was nothing more to think about because the weight of the creature crashed him to the ground. His head slammed the marble flagstones with excruciating pain, and then the world went black.
They made it back to Warrenvale after a long walk. Gareth thought he would never be so happy to see that place again as he was now. He reminded himself that it had been years since he had carried Fenelon at all.
Hamlin Gobbler took one look at the three weary travelers who crawled out of his cellar and smirked.
“Will you be needing a room for the night?” the old Dvergar asked.
“I think we need to go on,” Fenelon said, and there was a disturbing plea to his gaze.
Gareth nodded. “Give us some food, and then we will be on our way.”
Hamlin Gobbler nodded. He had a young lad who looked more like one of the Hidden Folk go and fetch them soup and bread. And once they had their fill, they left.
“We should try to gate to Blue Oak,” Fenelon said.
Gareth was not sure he agreed that such a spell would work from here. Still, Fenelon’s urgency was becoming his own. So once they were outside the gates of Warrenvale, looking up at the great canvas of night stretching swatches of stars high above the steep cliffs, Gareth tried to draw power.
To his surprise, it came to him as though understanding his need. Fascinating, he thought. He would never have believed it possible before. But now there was power lending its essence to him, and he was not going to pass up that gift. He wove it into the making of a gate spell that would take them to the roots of Blue Oak.
The gate spat them out on the broad bit of ground near the giant tree. When Gareth looked up, he saw that the sky was still shadowed, but it was more like the latter part of the gloaming than the dark of night. We might not be able to get a platform at this hour, he pondered.
They wandered around to the main section of the tree. Fenelon was looking less worn and more anxious now. And indeed, there was no platform waiting. Only a couple of guards who shrugged and said that one could try the stairs if one were so inclined.
Gareth was not. “We’ll have to gate ourselves up,” he said, and selecting a private place to do so, he opened a gate to the platform where the inn he had used before was.
They stepped out onto the wooden streets. There were still people about, but no one noticed two men and a half-kin Dvergar in the shadows.
“So, where to now?” Gareth asked.
Fenelon frowned. “She’s not here,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Etienne is not at this inn,” Fenelon said. He looked as though he were concentrating mage senses elsewhere. “She’s in one of the lower inns on the Great Limb.”
“Rather expensive those places are,” Hobbler said.
“She’s a lady whose tastes can run to the better things in life,” Fenelon said. “Come on. I think I know which inn she will be in.”
“Good,” Gareth said. “Because I am getting tired of running all over the place. I want a bed and I want it now.”
“Didn’t you get any sleep?” Fenelon asked.
“Only after you fell asleep, but you woke me up when you were grumbling in your dreams... You never did tell me what you dreamed.”
“Does it matter?” Fenelon asked.
Gareth shrugged.
They made their way up and down various stairs until they reached the Great Limb, so named because it was the largest limb of the tree. More than one fancy inn housed guests here. Fenelon went straight to one called The Acorn Corner and stepped inside...
And froze.
“What’s wrong?” Gareth asked.
“Don’t you feel it?” Fenelon said.
Gareth barely stretched mage senses when a familiar essence assailed him. “How?”
Fenelon said nothing. He went bolting for the nearest stairs and racing up them. Gareth and Hobbler could do no more than follow.
Several flights up, Fenelon was standing before one of the doors. He looked at Gareth, then put his hand to the door and pushed it open.
“Well, well,” he called. “Someone having a party, and I was not invited... Hey...gently, my friends!”
Gareth bolted the last few feet and scrambled into the room.
A party was hardly this grim, he thought as he glanced over the scene. Etienne and two young mageborn were tied and gagged and sitting in chairs. A number of battlemages filled the room as well, and two of them were grasping Fenelon’s arms, holding him before Turlough.
“Well, it is about time you all arrived,” the High Mage said. “So where is he?”
“Who?” Fenelon asked.
Turlough took a deep breath. “Oh, you know good and well whom I speak of,” he said. “Where’s your demon loving friend?”
“Gone,” Fenelon said.
“Gone?” Turlough glared and glanced over at the door as Gareth was edging into the room with Hobbler close behind. “What is that?”
“Oh, Turlough, have you not met Hobbler Halfkin?” Gareth asked.
Hobbler bowed nervously.
Turlough rolled his eyes. “And what is he doing here?” the High Mage asked.
“Well, he was trying to lead us to the place where we thought Alaric might be, but apparently, the way is blocked and there is no way we can get there, so we came back.”
Turlough shook his head. “Send him away. He is not part of this conspiracy. But the rest of you will go back to Dun Gealach with me to face the Council and answer for all the trouble you have caused...especially you, Fenelon! I told you that if I ever had a reason to get rid of you, I would use it.”
He turned and looked at his assistant Lorymer. “We will prepare to leave on the morrow,” he said. “Have them a
ll bound and gagged so they cannot escape.”
Gareth turned in time to see Hobbler slip out the door before one of the battle mages put a hand on Gareth’s shoulder and guided him over to a chair.
SIXTY-FIVE
Alaric awoke to white all around him. So much white, he covered his eyes to keep from being blinded by it. His limbs felt stiff and unwieldy as though he had been tied down, but after a few minutes of wriggling various parts, he knew he was not bound.
He was, however, in a great deal of pain. It was though he had been torn apart and scattered about in pieces. His awareness had more than one dimension to it at the moment.
Cautiously, he lowered his arm, blinking at the brilliance which slowly began to fade.
At first, he thought he was still in the palace of white marble. But then it occurred to him that he was unable to make out the edges of anything around him. In fact, there were no edges. He was on a flat surface, but everything seemed hazy and unnatural.
Then he became aware that he was inside what looked half of a giant sphere. And the sparkling white that was around him stirred and shifted as a living thing. He blinked, sitting up in spite of the fact that his body ached and his head spun.
Where am I? he thought.
“You are between,” a voice whispered, echoing all around him.
“Between what?” he muttered aloud, his voice echoing. “Vagner? Ronan?”
“They are in the Without,” the voice said more clearly. “For the Balance of all, this must be.”
“Who...are you? Where are you?”
The white stirred more, rising and undulating. And as Alaric’s eyes adjusted, he knew that what he was seeing was not lights or mist, but a dragon, immense and white, with eyes like opals. Only then did he realize he was not inside a sphere, but that his surrounding was the dragon itself. The creature was coiled in a circle and sheltering him under one of its wings, and the movement was its enormous head. It shifted to look straight at him.
“You do not know?” the dragon asked. “After all, you did try to kill me.” There was a hint of amusement in those words.
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