The Swan opened her eyes and climbed to her feet. "What happened?" She looked as if she'd been woken from a bad dream. "The last thing I remember were the lights coming on."
"Lesson number one," said Bulcrist, driving Ilien's attention away from the fading rune before him. "Nihilic has many benevolent uses." With that he turned and made his way up the wide, stone stairs, his magical light pursuing him as he went. "Come! The real Ledge Hall awaits!"
Pedustil chuckled. "I think he likes you."
Windy looked worried, but Ilien took her by the hand. "Come on," he said as they trailed after the still chuckling Gorgul, leaving the blackness of the lower level behind.
The Swan, bringing up the rear, muttered in the dark, "It's not like me to startle so easily. It must be the close quarters and all. We birds are meant for the open sky, you know."
The climb upward proved no easy task. Ilien thought the spiral staircase leading to Windy's room back in Evernden had been long. These stairs, though less steep and far broader, soon had everyone gasping for air. Thankfully, there were many wide landings where they could stop and rest, each with stone doors opening into other night-filled rooms. As they plodded farther up, the heavy air began to lighten and the dank smell of the lower levels faded. The stone stairs beneath their feet grew smoother, as if more care had been taken in their fashioning the farther up they climbed. Just when Ilien believed his legs would give out for good, they stopped. The polished stone landing they gathered upon glistened in the bright light of Bulcrist's magic. The great double doors before them were intricately carved with strange runes.
A low growl reverberated around the wide stone landing. To their left an open archway stood filled with blackness. The growl sounded again, and was joined by a second, more menacing sound—the gnashing of teeth. Everyone froze, including Pedustil. Only Bulcrist remained unruffled.
"There's no need to fear," he said. He approached the open doorway, and the light from his spell spilled into the room beyond.
Two massive wolves, grey and bristling, stood stiff-legged in the slanting light, their yellow eyes flashing. On seeing the strangers, they lunged forward. Ilien and Windy fell back against the wall. The Swan scuttled down the stairs. The wolves raced forward, their teeth bared between slobbering jowls, but when they reached the doorway they stopped with a yowl and shrank suddenly back. Bulcrist smiled and reached beneath his robes. He withdrew two small pieces of dried meat and cast them into the wolves' room.
"Good girls," he cooed. He turned to the others. "They are my watch dogs. But they cannot pass the doorway while I am here. As I said, I don't use this entrance often, and I need to be sure no one else does either. They're Fenland wolves, you know. Very vicious." He waved the wolves away and they obediently slunk back into the shadows.
Ilien peered after them into the darkness. "Do they live in there?"
"Of course," replied Bulcrist. "There was a time when I let them roam the lower levels, but they were getting sick from eating too many rats. Now I confine them here, and a spell controls the rat population. I take them for walks now and then." He turned back to the doors before them.
Pedustil blew steam into the wolves' lair. "Nasty brutes," he declared.
"Don't mind our Gorgul," said Bulcrist. "He's just mad because my wolves have a fondness for lizard."
Pedustil snorted. "They'll keep their distance if they know what's good for them," he said.
Bulcrist laughed and pushed the doors open. "Ledge Hall proper," he announced.
After the dungeon-like atmosphere of the lower levels, the magnificence of the enormous hall before them awed everyone to silence, including Bulcrist. The chamber was enormous. The polished marble floor stretched before them like a vast, glassy lake. The towering walls were of fiery red carnelian, rising to meet the high-arched ceiling, an impossible dome of blue and white jasper. The all-pervasive light of Bulcrist's Nihilic spell set the room ablaze in color.
A dazzling sky above a valley lake at dawn, thought Ilien.
"It's incredible!" said Bulcrist.
"You act as if you've never seen it before," said Windy, craning her neck to take in the sky-like expanse above her.
"Not like this, I haven't. I really must remember to light it up more often."
Ilien, too, was impressed, despite the growing dread that had taken root in his chest at the NiDemon's admonishment in the cellars below. He was to be Bulcrist's apprentice. He was to learn Nihilic, the untrue language. The idea of it threatened to turn Ledge Hall's kingly grace dark and foreboding. Yet deep inside him, down past the fear and hesitation, there lurked a disturbing eagerness. He would also learn the answers to his questions. Here he would find out who he truly was.
"Come," said Bulcrist. "I will show you to your rooms. Then we will dine. Tales are best told on full stomachs." He led them across the great room, and the weary band of travelers followed reluctantly. At its far end stood a set of small double doors set in the center of a large wall. Above the doorway, and to either side of it, were drawn strange silver marks. They appeared to have been made by humans fingers.
"Finger painting?" remarked Windy, her disapproval of the decor evident in her voice.
Bulcrist smiled and gazed at the collection of differing marks as if they were a master work of art.
"What's this?" asked Ilien. He stared down at a small stone basin filled with fine white sand. He reached out to trace a finger through the sand, but Bulcrist stopped him.
"No touching," he said, staying Ilien's hand with his own.
Ilien winced at the NiDemon's hard grip and pulled his hand away, rubbing at his wrist. "Is it dangerous?"
"It can be," was all Bulcrist would say, and he opened the doors and led them through. As Ilien followed, he looked at the myriad of silver marks on the wall. One caught his eye, for he'd seen it before. It was the same mark Bulcrist had traced in the air to conjure up his magical light. The marks on the wall were runes. Magical runes. He glanced back at the strange, sand- filled basin, but before he could wonder what it was, they moved into the hall beyond and the doors closed behind him.
"To your rooms," said Bulcrist. "Then dinner. Come."
Chapter V
Tales and Treachery
Ilien's room seemed small and plain after the sheer size and grandeur of the Great Hall. In truth it was far larger than he was used to. It's bigger than my entire house back in Southford, he thought. At that he grimaced. He had been gone nearly a week now, and thoughts of his worried mother overwhelmed him again. So much had happened in such a short time. In less than a week he had watched Gallund fall in the marshes, been hunted by wierwulvs, been attacked by a Groll, had faced the NiDemon Philion and been witness to the slaughter of thousands of men and Giants in the battle at Greattower. And yet so little had changed. Despite all he had been through, he was still just a boy from Southford who was worried about his mother. He had to get word to her somehow, to let her know that he was alright. He vowed then and there to broach the subject with Bulcrist, and insist that a message be sent.
He turned his attention to his bedroom. Two oil lamps bathed the room in a soft orange glow, as Bulcrist's magical light had followed the NiDemon out the door when he left. After the extraordinary illumination of the Nihilic spell, the lamps seemed inadequate, though they provided enough light for Ilien to explore his surroundings. The first thing that drew his attention was the small sand-filled basin against the wall by the door. It was identical to the one in the Great Hall, though the wall here was devoid of painted runes. He approached it, mindful of Bulcrist's warning that it could be dangerous. The fine, white sand lay undisturbed. The basin was two feet square, and shallow, the sand no more than a few inches deep.
What could it be? he wondered. The urge to trace a finger through the sand came over him. Then he realized . . . that's exactly what it was for. Tracing! Tracing runes!
"It's for practicing Nihilic runes," he mumbled. He held his hand over the sand but did not disturb it. "Ho
w odd." He remembered the rune Bulcrist had drawn to create light. An E with a tail. It was a simple rune, and he knew he could draw it if he tried. But how did tracing a rune in the air bring forth magic? With the True Language, the words themselves held power, for they were from the very language of the Making, the Language of Creation. Or so he'd been told. But the magic of Nihilic lay in symbols, not speech. How could writing a symbol call forth power? Where did the magic come from?
He let his hand linger over the smooth sand, resisting the urge to make the rune for light. He looked around. It was a bit gloomy in his room. A little more light couldn't hurt. Before he could give himself the chance to change his mind, he speared a finger into the sand and traced out the rune.
Nothing happened. He studied the rune he'd made. It looked exactly like the rune Bulcrist had traced in the air, so why wasn't it working? What was he doing wrong? He stared at the wall in thought. Perhaps it had something to do with how he made the rune. It had been dark when Bulcrist had formed the Light rune, so Ilien didn't see him make it. He had seen him make the Illusion rune out by the cliff, though, and the NiDemon's hand had moved in a single, fluid motion. That had to be it. He had to draw the rune with a single sweep of his hand without lifting his fingers from the sand. That should be easy enough, he thought.
He looked down at the basin. The rune he had drawn earlier was gone. The sand lay undisturbed. It wants me to try again. He pictured the rune in his mind, an E with a tail. It came to him that it would be impossible to trace the rune with one finger and keep the motion smooth and fluid. Placing three fingers into the sand, he pulled his hand to the side and down, creating the rune in one deft stroke.
The room jumped with light! Every corner and crevice was filled with an unearthly brightness. He had done it! A giddy fear replaced his triumph, an aching guilt mixed with glee. Distraught, he shouted, "What am I doing?"
The magical light went out, and he stood blinking in the dim illumination cast by the oil lamps. When he looked at the basin, the rune was gone. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. What had he done? He had practiced Nihilic magic. And he had enjoyed it.
"Your room is so much nicer than mine," came a voice.
Ilien jumped. It was Windy, standing in the doorway dressed in a flowing black gown that fell in a soft cascade to her feet. Her hair was tied up high, as it had been the first time they'd met, when she had saved him from the wolves in the forests outside her kingdom. This time she didn't look at all like a boy. Ilien found himself staring at her, then looked quickly away.
Windy noticed his embarrassment and said, "Tannon has an entire wardrobe filled with clothes my size."
"Since when do you call him Tannon?" asked Ilien.
Windy walked into the room, the hem of her gown whispering on the polished stone floor. "I hate the name Bulcrist. Tannon is so much nicer. Look at your bed! It's huge!"
Ilien followed her gaze. His bed sat against the far wall, and it was huge. It could easily sleep five people. Windy ran past him, sprang into the air, and thumped onto the bed, her dress flying everywhere. She blushed, got up, quickly rearranged her gown, and sat back down with a sigh. "Everything is so big here. Why do you think that is?"
"I don't know," said Ilien. "Maybe—"
"There it is!" cried Windy, jumping to her feet and racing past Ilien. "Your wardrobe! See, it's full of clothes your size." She threw open the wardrobe doors. A single change of clothes hung within—a pair of black pants that looked too large for Ilien, and a black tunic with a torn hood. "Oh," she stammered. She looked at her new black gown, then at Ilien.
Bulcrist appeared in the doorway, startling them both. "Don't you look beautiful," he said to Windy with a smile. Windy visibly blushed. "Isn't she beautiful, Ilien?" Without waiting for a reply, he said, "I'll return in ten minutes. We'll be dining upstairs." He glanced at Ilien's near-empty wardrobe and added, "Feel free to come as you are." Windy suppressed a laugh and Bulcrist left, closing the double doors behind him.
"He's rather charming, for a NiDemon," said Windy. "After what happened at Greattower, I thought all NiDemon were cruel and heartless, but Tannon is kind of sweet."
"Sweet?" cried Ilien. "Sweet? Don't forget that he's still a NiDemon, Windy. NiDemon! As in the opposite of Nomadin, as in he's not a good old chap! And he's definitely not sweet!"
"Ilien Woodhill," replied Windy, raising an eyebrow. "I do believe you're jealous."
Bulcrist was punctual, if not still irritating, as far as Ilien was concerned. Ilien was beginning to dislike the NiDemon even more than he had before. There was something unnatural about him. At times Bulcrist appeared to be a young man of perhaps twenty years of age, yet at other times he looked older, more middle-aged, like he did now. Ilien had the feeling that the NiDemon was hiding something from everyone, hiding something with magic. And though Ilien had unwittingly been able to see through his magic at the front gates, he couldn't do so now. For the time being he would keep his suspicions to himself. He needed to learn more about Bulcrist, and himself, first. There would be time to shine light on the matter later.
Dinner was served upstairs in the smallest room yet. Compared to the rest of Ledge Hall, it seemed like a closet. The tiny table was set for three. The Swan and Pedustil were nowhere to be seen.
"Where are the others?" asked Ilien, noticing that two chairs had been placed side by side, while the third sat opposite them. "Won't they be joining us?"
"I'm afraid not," replied Bulcrist, pulling one of the adjoining chairs out and smiling at Windy. "It's really more of a sit down dinner."
"But I'm sure the others are hungry."
"Ilien," said Windy, taking the proffered seat with a curtsy. Ilien had almost forgotten that she was a princess, but was quickly reminded. "We are guests here. And my father taught me never to question the host."
Ilien rolled his eyes.
"Besides," said Bulcrist, "I don't think your friend the Swan would like the entree. We're having roast duck."
Ilien took his seat across from Windy and Bulcrist.
Dinner was eaten in silence and consisted of an appetizer of escargot (snails! thought Ilien) which Ilien did not eat but Windy cherished as if they were some sort of delicacy, roast duck accompanied by an orange demi-glaze (which Ilien begrudgingly admitted to himself was delicious) and wild carrots. When they were finished, Bulcrist sat back and regarded Ilien with a hint of a smile. On a whim, Ilien reached out with his mind and tried to read his thoughts. He was met with an icy silence. Bulcrist stretched his long legs out under the small table. They were so long that his feet reached past Ilien on the other side. Ilien regarded the NiDemon's black boots with disdain, and thought of all the questions he wanted to ask. He still didn't trust Bulcrist, and had little faith in the answers he might receive. He needed to be cautious. But where to begin?
"Here you are," said Bulcrist, interrupting Ilien's thoughts. "And what a pickle you're in. There's so much you want to know. But where do you begin?"
Ilien stiffened. Though he couldn't read Bulcrist's mind, he was reminded that the NiDemon could surely read his.
"Let me start from the very beginning," continued Bulcrist. "A tale is in order, a long tale which I will condense so that you don't grow bored. You want to know who you are. You want to know where your father is and how I can help you rescue him, and more importantly, why I would help you rescue him. He is Nomadin and I am NiDemon, after all."
Windy looked as if she might say something, but remained silent.
"What about the Swan?" asked Ilien. "Shouldn't she hear your tale?"
"She knows it well enough, though I doubt she believes it. No. The two of you are all the audience I need." Bulcrist pushed his plate aside and folded his hands before him. "I'll ask that you don't interrupt me," he said. "This will not be a conversation. This will be a lecture, a lecture on the truth hidden and twisted by those who know it best for reasons you will discover if you pay attention. The fact that you are even here to listen to m
y tale is no small matter."
Bulcrist fell silent, waiting for his students to interrupt and ask why. "I'm glad to see that you're good listeners," he said with a smile. "You see, only a handful of Nomadin children have ever set foot in Ledge Hall. Most never lived past their first birthday. The two of you have beaten the odds."
Again he stopped his narrative. Ilien and Windy acted like students in after-school detention, silent and mindful. Though Windy probably never heard of detention, Ilien knew the feeling well.
"You both would have been dead long ago if it hadn't been for your parents," said Bulcrist, inspecting his fingernails.
"Both?" said Ilien, suddenly understanding what Bulcrist was saying. "What do you mean, both?"
"Ilien, this is supposed to be a lecture," said Windy, but then her eyes lit up and she looked at Bulcrist. "What do you mean, both?"
"I told you there were others," answered the NiDemon. "You are both Nomadin-born."
"That's impossible!" said Ilien, gripping the table. "No offense, Windy—but that's impossible!"
Windy she sat in shock. "He's right. That is impossible."
"Hold on a minute," said Ilien, pushing back in his chair. "Tell me she's not my sister."
Bulcrist laughed aloud. "Why? Are you hoping to date her soon?"
Windy raised an eyebrow.
"Don't worry yourself, young Ilien," said Bulcrist. "There's little relation aside from your both having magical parents."
"But my father is anything but magical," countered Windy, still trying to grapple with this new revelation. "He is the most ordinary man alive."
"Your father is the King of Evernden," stated Bulcrist.
"You know what I mean. He doesn't even like magic," replied Windy. "And how do you know who my father is, anyway?"
"He can read your mind," said Ilien.
Bulcrist smiled slyly. "Don't worry, princess. I won't divulge all your secrets."
Ilien stared at the table in thought. "Wait. How do you know she's Nomadin-born? You can't learn that from reading her mind if she doesn't know it herself."
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