Emissary

by Thomas Locke

  He opened the sack and pulled out the orb. It pulsed gently in his hands, like a lantern whose flame was not quite ignited. The glow was enough to push the horse back two steps and cause his dog to whine. “Steady, the both of you.” He balanced the orb one-handed and pointed to the earth. “Stay, Dama.”

  He turned and followed the flow of the unseen river. He could sense his destination up ahead, two hundred paces, perhaps a bit more. The dog barked once as he moved away. Hyam called back, “Stay!”

  The orb’s light grew ever stronger. There was an unclean tint to the glow, which cast the valley floor in a dismal shade of pinkish grey. Hyam wondered if he should be worried by this, how he carried a receptacle of the witches’ vile intent. But there was no danger here, at least to him. Of that he was utterly confident.

  He arrived at the spot where the vein he followed met a juncture with a far more powerful course. He realized that the vein he tracked was a mere creek in comparison to this unseen river, vast and deep and broad. The orb was almost blinding in its brilliance now. The light no longer pulsed, or if it did, his eyes were no longer able to discern any change. And still it grew in force.

  Hyam stopped in the middle of the crossing and felt the power rise up to join with his body. There was an immense elation to the event. What he feared had been lost when he departed his oval field now surged through him with an intensity he had never imagined possible. The orb was a conduit for the force flowing beneath him, and he held the power to transform this force, redirect it, utilize it.

  He willed this energy to cleanse him of the witches’ brew. Even before the thought was fully formed, he felt the power wash over him, drenching him in a potion of undeniable force.

  As it happened, he understood now that the same cleansing force could be applied to the orb itself. When he felt the final vestige of their tainted swill leave him, he reoriented the power, willing it to transform the globe itself.

  Hyam could sense the change, as though the orb was connected to him through the act of cleansing. In a flash of insight he realized this was the purpose behind the witches’ alcove. They sought a destructive power and linked themselves to the orb through pain and fear and destroyed lives.

  Hyam felt the river flow up and through him, until he and the orb were linked as tightly as the bones of the hands that held it.

  The light grew and grew, until he could see the illumination through his clenched eyes. There was neither danger nor thought in the moment, and yet there was an ability to reach beyond the place and the time and comprehend. And still the light grew, the intensity so great it painted every thought with brilliant clarity. Hyam opened his eyes and saw himself bathed in a radiance that defied the night, filling the entire valley with a silver-violet luminosity.

  Spurred by the need to resume his journey, Hyam reluctantly stepped away from the point where the rivers joined. The light gradually faded. Yet even when he stood once more surrounded by rocky silence, Hyam’s senses remained open, intensely aware.

  He returned to the horse, tired yet replete. Dama danced fretfully back and forth, clearly sensing the change and uncertain whether to approach. “Here, girl. Come.”

  She loped forward, whining as she skipped about his legs. Matu pawed the earth as Hyam stepped to the saddle. And there he paused, examining the orb. Seeing it clearly now.

  The globe was astonishingly light. It might have actually not weighed anything at all. Hyam could not quite reach his two hands completely around it. Deep in its depths were tiny flickers of light, tight sparks that came and went in regular flashes. He felt the remarkable bond, a fusion as deep as sinew.

  But what held him most was the orb’s color. It glowed a deep, rich violet. In certain lights it appeared almost black.

  21

  After the failed attempt to break through the Long Hall’s portal, Joelle’s days grew crowded with memories. For the first time since her arrival, she did not forcefully shove them away. There was no longer any reason. She assumed the thoughts of her parents were driven by how she would soon join them in death. It was only a matter of time.

  Three things had united her parents most of all—their love for each other, Joelle, and their love of silence. Her mother could go weeks without speaking a word. And yet Joelle had loved her company, for her mother’s silence had been sparked by a force as strong as any mage-heat. Joelle’s mother was a telepath, and the most she ever spoke was in preparing her daughter for the gift’s arrival. Which should have come during her eighteenth winter but did not. Instead, Joelle’s awareness grew, this ability of hers to see beyond physical limits. Joelle took this to be a living sign of her tainted blood.

  Her father was a hunter. He had supplied game to his wife’s clan, and thus they had met, fallen in love, and broken a thousand years of restrictions. And so her mother had been banished. Soon after, Joelle had arrived. The young woman now imprisoned for the crime of being born.

  Twice more Joelle sought to break through the Long Hall’s portal, weaving her spells in the moonlight and flinging her sparkling blades. She was certain now that Trace observed her. She intended to confront him, demand to know why he simply did not release the door spells and allow her to flee. But Trace had taken to avoiding her. He did not even attend his classes. As though he was waiting for something. What, she had no idea. But Joelle began spending much of her nights in the library. Several times she sensed the fleeting presence of an observer. She assumed it was Trace, who no doubt thought she searched for more powerful spells of warcraft. But he was wrong. She had another target in mind altogether.

  She was only sleeping a few hours each night, between the library and the memory assaults. Joelle was therefore very surprised by how the moment came, in the breath between sleep and wakefulness. Then suddenly she was free for the first time since attacking the portal.

  Free, yet not free. For as soon as she emerged, she was swept up and away. Through the tiny crack in the wall, across the moonlit expanse, up, up, and away . . .

  Back to the place she had hoped she would never see again.

  Joelle stood upon the desert ledge. The valley separating her from the ancient city was cast in the silver glow of a waning moon. The world was empty, silent, and yet she could sense the approach of that same dread presence.

  The clarity of her vision was such that not even night could hide away the crimson mage. His arrival was marked by a bizarre cloud of metallic insects. Long before they tightened into the shape of wizard and cloak and staff and orb, she knew it was him. She wanted to flee, or at least turn away, but the same force that had brought her here gripped her with relentless strength. She saw how the buzzing insects flitted beneath the cowl, as though fashioning a face she hoped she would never see.

  The hand holding the orb raised, and the crimson mage was joined by a contingent of ghostly warriors. This group held to no strict rank and made no sound as they marched. How could they, since they had neither body nor physical form. They were as vague as the moonlight, as silent as the death they wore. They drifted up and onto the distant ridge, where before, the knights had sat and drank and enjoyed the slaughter.

  The wizard pointed his staff down into the valley, and at that moment a second horde rose from the valley floor. Instantly Joelle knew them to be the defeated warriors who had raced down the hillside to their doom. The new ranks of ghoulish soldiers quietly slipped down the ledge, down into the valley where their fellows waited. The wizard lifted his staff, and the army sank into the rocks and vanished in a final few wisps of fog and remorse.

  Then the mage noticed her.

  Joelle felt his furious perception like a fist to her soul. She fought against the force that gripped her still, knowing he was about to lift his staff and send the ghostly hordes against her . . .

  In the far distance an illumination rose, a light so intense it pressed the mage back a step. For once she was not the one assaulted, because for Joelle the light carried a sense of inexpressible joy.

  She
knew with the certainty that such journeys carried that this was why she had come. She was meant to see this. The light was intended for her.

  And with that awareness she was lifted up, up, and drawn away. But not back to her stone chamber. Instead, she flew across the vast distance to a different desert, a different valley, one filled with a light that sparked her soul in a way she could not fathom, much less name.

  There at the valley’s heart stood a man. At least, she thought he was both male and human, but the light was so intense all she could really see was his silhouette. He held something aloft in both hands, his arms stretched high above his head, his back arched almost painfully, and then she realized . . .

  The man was in ecstasy.

  He reveled in the power that gripped him. He was flooded with an elation so potent Joelle felt it as well, as though she could communicate with him not through words but through pleasure.

  She wanted to reach out to him, to ask him who he was and whether he would help her . . .

  The instant the thoughts took form, she was drawn away. The break was as intense as a slap to her psyche, as though she had been caught in a wrongful deed. All the way back, across meadows and valleys and forest, she argued with the force and fought its relentless grip. How could she be expected to refuse help from whatever quarter she could? How could she not strive to break free?

  22

  Hyam reached the city of Havering in the steamy mid-morning heat. The grand city used the arid hills as a natural barrier. As Hyam descended the final stretch, he surveyed the lush green of a cultivated world drenched in rain and wealth. Clouds blown from the distant sea met the Galwyn peaks and deposited their water upon the first ridges. On the city’s far side flowed a river that shared the city’s name. The River Havering was almost as wide as the Three Rivers valley. The city itself was vast and very rich. Hyam turned off the empty Galwyn trail and joined with the caravans and the merchants and the farmers who crammed the main route. He was weary in his bones. The horse was lathered and salt stained. Dama limped slightly. They pushed on because he insisted. Hyam was near collapse and needed a place where they could be genuinely safe, at least for a moment.

  He selected an inn by asking a wealthy caravan master, who pointed out a house that at first sight appeared to be a manor set within its own protective walls. But on closer inspection, Hyam saw that the walls were mostly decorative, and a small golden signpost dangled discreetly above the main gates.

  Before descending the final ridge, Hyam had donned the remaining outfit made for him in Melcombe. As Hyam had hoped, his attire attracted no questioning attention. Before he had climbed down from the saddle, a young stable hand rushed forward and knuckled his forelock. “Welcome to the Three Princes, sire. May I take your steed?”

  “I will want to attend to his needs.”

  “Certainly, sire. This way, if you please.” Clearly the youth saw nothing out of the ordinary in a wellborn seeing to his mount. He led Hyam into the stable’s welcome shade and pointed at an empty stall. “Will this do, your lordship?”

  “Fine.”

  “Will your honor be staying with us?”

  “Is there a private room?”

  The lad hesitated with what Hyam took as a practiced delicacy, then said, “Because of the festival, a private room will be costly, sire.”

  “I will pay.”

  “How long does his honor expect to be staying?”

  He had no idea, so he replied, “For the duration of the festival.”

  “One moment, your lordship, and I’ll go ask.”

  Hyam unsaddled the horse and filled the byre with oats and two armfuls gathered from a pile of fresh-cut grain, then as Matu ate he brushed and curried the horse’s flanks. He knew the stable hand would do a better job, for Hyam was so exhausted he could barely lift his arms. But he wanted Matu to know his gratitude in the only way that mattered. In truth, Hyam would have been happier collapsing into the straw beside his dog. But when the servant returned and announced that Hyam might have their last private chamber, he unlashed his satchel and the bundles and instructed the youth, “Treat the animal as you would your own, and I will treat you just as well.”

  “You can count on me, your honor, sir.”

  “Come, Dama.”

  Other guests sat or lolled about tables set around the central courtyard. They watched him with careless ease and murmured too quietly for him to catch the words. Someone laughed. A young woman scurried out the central door and hurried over. “Might I carry your satchels, sir?”

  He handed over everything save his sword and the sack holding the orb. “I need a meal.”

  “The kitchen fire is still alight, good sir. Cook can fry you up a late breakfast.”

  He felt the saliva spurt at the prospect of hot food. “Tell him to hurry.”

  “That I shall, sir.”

  Another woman stood by the entry, her smile not rising to her gaze, which took the measure of him and decided that here indeed was one who could pay. “You have ridden a long way, good sir.”

  “Too long and too hard.”

  “Then you’ll be pleased to know you’ve made it in time for the tournament.” She ushered him inside. “Welcome to the Three Princes.”

  “Tournament?”

  She both led and followed him down a flagstone hall. “The royal joust begins at dawn.”

  “I am not here for such.”

  “Then why . . .” She went quiet as he fumbled with his purse and drew out a gold florin. Her eyes widened in greedy satisfaction. “I’m certain your honor has good reasons of his own.”

  “Food,” Hyam ordered. “Then a bath. Hurry.”

  Joelle’s thoughts often returned to the desert valley and the man so cloaked in bliss and power she could not make him out. She felt an uncommon yearning rise with each recollection, as though here was something she could neither comprehend nor grasp. She felt as frustrated by the sensations as she did when a spell did not form to her liking. Even so, the memories refused to be pushed away. They clouded her vision at times, even when she was most intent upon learning, or practicing with her spell-cast knives, or searching the scrolls, or trying to sleep, or rising from dreams to wakefulness . . .

  These moments of liberation seldom came night after night, but for the third dawn in a row, she was drawn out of herself. Joelle hovered there for the longest moment, but she was not forced anywhere. Instead, she could go as she wished. Another breath and she was away.

  Her escape point was a singular mystery, a pinprick opening where the mortar sealing the portal to the wall’s stones had fallen out. Joelle only discovered it by being drawn through it by the guiding force. Even now, after three years of such momentary freedoms, she had to hunt to find it. She poised ghostlike by the portal, feeling the force that secured it more clearly than ever, and searched for the crack. Then she slipped through the seam, flew across the meadow, and entered her home. The one place she had ever belonged.

  The glade neighboring the Havering Long Hall was hardly deserving of the title forest. She had been raised in a realm of green so vast a traveler could spend ten days on the road and not pass from one boundary to the next. But this was enough for her, and though her lungs remained bound by stone and spell, she sensed the forest’s energy and flavors. She exulted in the joy of belonging.

  This time she was not so much drawn away as having her attention redirected. For a brief instant she was able to look out over an impossible distance, out to where a desert city rose upon a silent ridge.

  Then she became aware of another presence. The new scent assaulted her with the force of an angry tempest. The distance between them was great, but it did not matter, for in that brief instant, shorter than the space between heartbeats, Joelle knew that she was being hunted. The crimson mage stood upon the stone citadel rising from the heart of that ancient yellow city. Searching.

  And this time, the crimson mage knew she was there.

  Even as the panic rose, still she w
as amazed at how she could be in the glade by the Long Hall meadow and peer out across a measureless distance. She saw with crystal clarity the crimson mage raise his staff and point it in her direction, as though the distance mattered less to him than it did to her. And when the orb attached to the tip of his staff began to glow, she saw the cloud of black insects fly from beneath his shadowed hood and swarm toward her.

  Though she was well separated from her heart, still she could feel the surge of panic strike a frantic drumbeat in her distant chest. Joelle fled back, away from the forest and across the meadow. She arrived at the wall just as the first faint tremors of the incoming swarm drilled into her being, a sibilant rush of death and terror. She clawed at the stone, searching frantically for her way through. But in her panic she lost the place. Or perhaps it was hidden from her. Possibly she had been granted this final glimpse of her beloved woodlands before being torn apart by the metallic horde.

  She risked a glance behind her and would have screamed if she had a voice. The cloud was so vast that it blocked the rising sun. The insect wings glinted bronze and russet in the dawn. Swarming. Attacking.

  Then she found it. She rammed into the tight seam, her haste so great she fled across the courtyard before she was even aware she had made it through. Joelle turned back in time to see the swarm’s assault.

  The cloud slammed into the outer wall and the mage-force that rose above it. She had never realized until that very moment how the Long Hall’s barrier was shaped like a dome, curving smooth and steady above the watchtower. She saw the insect horde strike and create the webs of power just as her knives had fashioned upon the portal.

  But Trace was not there to silence the watchtower’s bell. It rang now with the fierce alarm of having waited centuries for this moment. Again and again the bell struck, the sound causing the very stones to vibrate. As they did, the watchtower flamed to life, transformed from granite to fire, gathering force like a giant’s wand, then shooting it out in bolts of fiery power, piercing the barrier and the cloud both.