by Alec Hutson
The summons came in the form of a prim young servant wearing a shimmering satin doublet emblazoned with the dragon of Dymoria. His eyes had seemed to be fixed on a point just above Keilan’s head as he commanded him to immediately attend the queen in her study. There was an audible intake of breath from the other apprentices sitting around the table, and Sevanil even dropped his wooden spoon into his porridge bowl, splashing the hem of Karik’s sleeve.
With his breakfast sitting like a stone in his stomach, Keilan swallowed hard and pushed himself away from the table. He forced himself not to glance back at his friends as he followed the servant out of the small hall near the kitchens where the apprentices usually took their meals, and through the passages that led from the wing of the palace that housed the Scholia and into the section set aside for the royal apartments.
Here the stone was older, pitted and worn, and in places it looked to have even been scarred by ancient fires. How many times had men fought and died in these halls, or assassins slipped through the shadows cast by flickering torchlight? Keilan wondered if sorcery could be used to summon forth the ghosts of past events, like an echo returning from a well. If it could, he would wager these halls would have more than a few interesting stories to tell.
The corridor they followed emptied into a courtyard decorated by a collection of worn statues that Keilan recognized as representing the various Aspects of Ama. One was a fierce warrior, brandishing a broken sword at the gulls jostling for space along the higher battlements; another was a mysterious robed figure with arms outstretched, features hidden in the depths of its cowl. Evidently these statues had not been very well cared for, as many were cracked or stained by lichen, and a few were even missing limbs or heads.
They passed between the statues, approaching a tall domed building with an imposing set of doors carved with a faded sunburst. Huge, round windows of colored glass were set above this entrance, each faceted ring growing smaller and more intricate until they reached the center, a perfect disk of pale, white metal. It looked to Keilan like the temple of Ama in Theris where Vhelan and the Dymorian rangers had given over the wounded paladin to the surprised mendicants.
“The queen follows the Light?” Keilan asked the servant as they approached the ancient building. The very thought seemed preposterous.
The servant shook his head. “No. This temple is a relic from a much earlier time. It was built by one of the first d’Kara kings, after he had been converted by wandering mendicants. Despite the king’s fervor, the faith never took root in Dymoria, and the temple stayed empty for centuries. The queen repurposed it as a shrine to her own god a few years ago.”
“Her god?” Keilan hadn’t seen anything else in Saltstone or the Scholia to suggest that the queen was devout.
The servant pushed open the large doors and motioned for Keilan to enter first. “Yes.”
His breath caught in his throat as he slipped inside the ancient temple. Between the pillars that supported the ceiling’s soaring dome high shelves of gleaming black ebonwood had been constructed, filled with books of every size and shape. Tall ladders leaned against the shelves, many of which reached nearly three times the height of a man, and a wizened little person – male or female, Keilan couldn’t tell – clung to one of them, sifting through the books cramming one of the highest shelves. In the center of the temple, upon a dais that he assumed had once held some kind of altar, was a black table covered with unrolled scrolls and open books. The light from the circular stained-glass window above the entrance bathed the table and its jumbled mess in a faint rainbow of colors.
A young woman sat at the table, her head bent over a large, leather-bound grimoire, absently twisting a strand of red hair around her finger. With a start Keilan realized that this was the queen herself, and he quickly dropped to one knee, his heart hammering in his chest. He had met Cein d’Kara only once before, in the audience chamber when he had first sworn allegiance to her throne. At that time she had been dressed in a shimmering red gown, a diadem of emeralds the size of swallow’s eggs glittering in her hair. But here she wore only a simple blue shift, he could see no jewels at her throat or on her brow, and she wasn’t caked with whatever cosmetic had given her the appearance of living stone.
She glanced up as the servant softly cleared his throat. Her eyes met his, and the ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Keilan Ferrisorn,” she said, in a voice far different than the one that had filled the audience chamber, “I bid you welcome.”
Keilan ducked his head, hoping she couldn’t see the blush burning his face. How could he be here, in the presence of a queen? “I am at your service, Your Majesty.”
“Stand and approach,” she said. Keilan climbed to his feet, his gaze still fixed on the tiled floor.
The queen sighed. “Look at me, Keilan.”
With a great effort he lifted his eyes. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I don’t . . . I’m not accustomed to coming before royalty.”
“I’d say you’re handling it all very well. At the beginning of the summer you were a boy from a small fishing village. Since then you’ve explored a ruined city infested with black sorcery, slain a demon who wore the skin of a man like a cloak, and communed with the spirit of the Barrows. Now you stand before a queen. Honestly, I feel that this should be almost boring, given your accomplishments.”
Despite the lightness of her tone, Keilan’s palms were slick with sweat. “It is not, Your Highness. Everything that has happened to me occurred while I was trying to come here, to your court. I feel like what came before was but the prelude, and now my real story begins.”
The queen watched him in silence for a long moment. “That is an interesting thought. It implies that we are all part of some grand tale, directed by some higher power for the whims of others.” She closed the large book in front of her, raising a cloud of dust that glittered in the light slanting down from the window. “I reject such a notion.”
Cein d’Kara rose, placing her splayed hands on the gleaming black wood of the table. “We make our own destiny. Believing otherwise abdicates responsibility for what happens, and I refuse to do that. Failure or glory, the result belongs to us. Do you understand?”
Keilan felt dizzy, but he managed to nod. “I . . . I think so.”
“Good. We are the harbingers of a new age, Keilan. But before we can shape the future we must know what happened in the past. That is why I summoned you here today.”
“You did?”
“Yes,” The queen swept out her arm, indicating the scrolls and books spread across the table. “Do you recognize these?”
Keilan approached slowly, still hesitant to get too close without her permission.
With a frustrated sigh the queen came around and grabbed Keilan’s arm, pulling him next to the table. “Everyone acts like I have the plague. Now look.”
A few of the books were familiar, Keilan realized, as he noticed the two slim volumes written in High Kalyuni that the spirit of the Barrow had bequeathed to him. “Those are the ones I brought out of Vis.”
“Yes.” The queen picked up The Dream of the Warlock King. “And that you were given these two books I find very interesting.”
“Why is that, Your Highness?”
She opened the book, carefully turning its cracked and yellowing pages. “Because I have been searching for this book for many years. In fact, only a few months past I traveled to Vis to try and find it in the Barrow, but the spirit refused to give it up to me then. And now you appear, bringing it to my court. What does it mean?”
“Perhaps the spirit decided you should have it after all?”
“But why? I wanted the book because it is referenced in other sources as the definitive account of the sorcery that the old Warlock Kings of Menekar employed when they tried to achieve immortality, before the Pure cast them down. And now it arrives on the heels of another echo from the past, another
link to the sorcery of ever-lasting life . . .”
The queen set down the book and stared intensely into Keilan’s eyes. “I need to know what is in these books. The scholars of High Kalyuni in Herath are fumbling incompetents, and I do not have the time to invite one of the seekers from the Reliquary who specializes in the history of the Imperium to come here. I’ve looked at what you translated on the road from Vis, and it is far better than anyone else I’ve given that task to has produced. I want you to continue what you started. Every day when you finish your lessons in the Scholia you will come here and assist me. Do you understand?”
Keilan nodded, swallowing hard.
“Good. Then you may go.”
He bowed deep, his mind whirling, and turned away . . . only to nearly collide with a man who had come up behind him, and was staring with the same look of surprise Keilan felt. He didn’t appear to be a servant of the queen – his clothes were fine, but he lacked the deferential air Keilan had noticed almost everyone in Saltstone carried. He had a tangle of sandy hair and piercing blue eyes. At his side was a sword with a blazing jewel in its pommel, the first weapon Keilan had seen in the queen’s presence.
“Ah, Jan. You’re late.”
The man kept his eyes on Keilan, his shock still plain. “I am sorry, Your Highness. I was in the gardens, and the servants had trouble finding me.”
“Very well. Jan, I wanted you to meet Keilan Ferrisorn. He is the boy with the gift that my magisters recently brought to Herath. It was he who the spirit of the Barrow gave the books I’ve been trying to have translated.”
Jan looked Keilan up and down slowly. “Surely, my Queen, you can see the same thing that I can.”
The queen slipped into one of the chairs, resting her chin on her laced fingers. “I believe so, but I wanted to hear it from your lips first.”
“The boy is a Talent.”
A satisfied smile spread across the queen’s face. “I thought so. He looked to me just as you do.”
“And the same as how you look to me,” Jan said.
“A Talent?” Keilan whispered, feeling himself blush under the scrutiny of the queen and the strange man.
Jan nodded. “Yes. Those with Talent and some training can always recognize each other, unless great pains are taken to hide the trace of sorcery. While one who is merely gifted is a flickering candle flame, Talents are like torches blazing in the blackest night.”
The queen drummed her fingers on the table. “An untrained Talent arrives in my court bearing two books of ancient knowledge I have long sought, both written by someone with whom you are very familiar with, Jan. The spirit is trying to tell us something important.”
“I think it is trying to tell us to beware of Alyanna and her schemes.”
Keilan’s ears perked up at the name. “Alyanna? Alyanna ne Verell, the writer of those books?”
The queen and Jan glanced at him as if they had forgotten he was still there. “Yes,” the queen said, watching him carefully.
“She’s alive?”
There was a long pause, and then Jan answered. “Yes.”
Keilan blinked in surprise. “But the books looked so old. No, they must be ancient, from before the cataclysms, at least. How could she still be . . .” Pieces slid into place in Keilan’s mind. “The book is a treatise on the sorcery of achieving immortality.”
Jan and the queen shared a long look. “Well, you’re no fool, Keilan,” Jan said with a sigh. “Yes, Alyanna achieved what the Warlock King of Menekar could not.”
“How?”
Jan pinched his brow, as if the question pained him. “I don’t know. Or perhaps I do, but . . .”
Both Keilan and Jan jumped as the queen struck the table hard with the flat of her hand. “I must know what secrets are in your head! Everything I’ve built here in Dymoria might depend on it!”
Jan spread his arms out helplessly. “I know, Your Highness, I’m sorry. I . . .” something dawned in Jan’s face, his eyes widening in excitement. “Wait! You said you could feel what was blocking my memories shift in my mind when you tried to push it aside?”
The queen nodded slowly, and Jan continued. “There is something else that is special about those with Talent, outside of their great power and the ability to summon sorcery without relying on incantations and gestures. Unlike those who are only gifted, Talents can share their strength between themselves. Many of the greatest acts of sorcery were accomplished by powerful, Talented sorcerers linking their magic together. Perhaps if you could draw upon Keilan’s strength you could destroy the prison holding back my memories!”
The queen glanced at Keilan dubiously. “But he is so young, and untrained.”
Jan clapped Keilan on the shoulder. “He just needs to open himself to you and allow you to draw from the well of power within him. It is simpler than you think, as you will be the one actually shaping the sorcery.”
Keilan’s head was truly spinning now as he tried to understand what Jan and the queen were proposing.
“Why do you not lend me your strength, if all Talents can do this?”
Jan shook his head at the queen’s question. “I cannot, if the spell is being performed on me. It would rip my mind to shreds, channeling power out of me and then feeding it back inside. Such loops are impossible.”
The queen was silent for a long moment, watching Keilan. “Very well. I need to make some preparations. We will try tomorrow night.”
Keilan felt his knees wobble at the queen’s words. How could this be happening?
The trees were singing to the stars.
It was a lament, Alyanna decided, as she stood in the clearing and listened to the mournful dirge rise and fall. At first she thought the sound came from the gusting of the wind, perhaps even that these trees were hollow like giant pipes, but as she watched the branches sway and tangle above her she realized that their movement was disconnected with the constant wailing. Could a tree feel sadness in this place? She imagined idly that they envied the cold beauty of the stars, fastened far above her like jewels in the Void’s terrible emptiness.
Vast and ancient, the trees towered over her, their scarred trunks crusted with patches of luminescent moss. She glimpsed creatures in the darkness scurrying along the boles and branches, their eyes glimmering when they caught what little light there was.
Suddenly, as if the forest had taken an indrawn breath, the trees quieted. Alyanna listened intently to the silence, waiting. For a moment all was still, and then there was movement above, beyond the canopy, a great shadow that stalked with inhuman grace across the night sky, occluding the blazing firmament. It paused, as if it sensed her presence below, and a thrill of apprehension made her shiver. Then it continued on.
After it had passed, the song swelled again, rising with renewed vigor to the heavens. In response, bright glittering threads of light began to fall from the sky, twisting slowly as they drifted down. Were the distant stars unspooling, like balls of fiery twine? She watched as some became caught on branches, the tree-animals shrinking away from them, while others continued on to the ground, where they writhed in the grass like shining serpents.
“What is this place, Weaver?”
Alyanna turned to find Demian standing in the forest clearing with her, gazing at the falling threads uneasily. She plucked one from the air, letting it wrap around her arm.
“This is my dream, Demian. Welcome.”
The shadowblade stepped away from one of the threads as it groped blindly toward him. “You have a vivid imagination.”
Alyanna laughed, and the sound sent a rainbow of colors shimmering up the trunks of the trees nearest to her. “Others have said the same.”
“This is a new aspect of dreamsending, is it not? I have never heard of a sorcerer pulling others into their own dreams.”
“It was an experiment, and it seems to have worked. Unless
, of course, you are simply a figment of my mind as well.”
Demian offered a tight smile. “I am real, I assure you.”
Alyanna unwound the thread from her arm and let it fall. “Good. Events are moving rapidly now, and I need your assurances that everything is ready.”
“Ready for what?”
She ignored his question. “Have you arrived in Herath?”
He nodded curtly. “We have. And as you told me to, we’ve taken a room in the closest inn to Saltstone, on the Slopes, only a stone’s throw from the outer gates and with a view of the fortress.”
Alyanna gestured, and in an eyeblink a mound swelled from the forest moss, shaping itself into a crude chair. She sank into it, watching him closely. “Tell me what you’ve found in the city. Can you sense the queen’s Talent?”
“Not . . . directly. But there are traces.”
Interest sparked in her face. “So she’s discovered how to hide her Talent, but not all the residues from her spells. Well, that is to be expected – rubbing every sorcerous blemish from the world is difficult, even for us. But it suggests that she is not as far along in her learning as I had feared.”
The shadowblade shook his head. “You misunderstand. It was not I that noticed the stain of her magic. It was the paladin.”
That disturbed her, and Alyanna found to her surprise that she was holding a clump of the chair’s moss in her hand. She didn’t even remember pulling it loose. “Tell me.”
“We were on the road leading to Herath, perhaps a league out from the city. The Pure was riding in front, and he suddenly reined up his horse and turned to me in confusion. He had sensed something strange – across the road was a kind of sorcerous filament, an invisible tripwire of sorts. It was ingeniously wrought and virtually undetectable, even when I knew something was there. I would not have noticed it without it being brought to my attention by the paladin. I walked between the shadows to avoid it, and so I do not think the queen knows that I am here.” An emotion passed briefly across Demian’s guarded face. Respect? Awe? “It was beautiful, Weaver. You would have appreciated the subtlety and the magnificence of the spell’s composition. I have not seen an original sorcery such as this since the sundering of the world.”