Journey into the Void

by Margaret Weis

  Here was the mystery. Alise was tainted by Void to such an extent that he found it difficult to understand how she had managed to survive. Her skin should be covered with welts and pustules, the toll required of those who wield the magic that is powered by one’s own life energies. Alise’s skin was smooth and unblemished as fresh milk.

  Griffith could find only one possible explanation for such a phenomenon. Tucked carefully in the bodice of her chemise was a large, polished turquoise, blue as the sky and glittering with silver striations.

  Griffith would have liked to talk all this over with Damra, but she had spent a restless night, talking and muttering in her sleep, and he had no thought of waking her. He himself was feeling rested and well. The ork medicine had settled his stomach, but he did not yet have his sea legs, as the orks termed it. They walked the rolling deck with ease while he stumbled about like a drunkard. He even found himself wondering what there might be to eat.

  He was directed to the galley, where he nearly pitched headfirst down a ladder. An ork grabbed him in the nick of time, saving him from breaking his neck. Griffith was given some brown bread, which he took back with him up top, to stand in the bright sunshine and watch the distant shore slide past.

  “We are making good time,” said Captain Kal-Gah, and he eyed Griffith approvingly. “The wind is from the north. An ‘elf wind.’ I am glad now I brought you on board.”

  Griffith could have told the captain that the wind blew generally from the north this late in the year and that the elves had nothing to do with it, but he kept silent on that score. Knowing the orks from having lived among them at Shadamehr’s, Griffith was confident that he would be blamed for something before the day was out. He didn’t mind, therefore, taking credit for the wind.

  “How far are we from New Vinnengael?” he asked.

  “Far enough,” growled the captain, “to be safe from the foul snar-ta.” He grimaced as he spoke, his lip curling in disgust.

  Snar-ta. Orken for “eaters-of-flesh.” Kal-Gah was referring to the rumors that had circulated among the baron’s people that the taan were known to eat the flesh of their enemies. They were supposedly particularly fond of ork.

  “Have they attacked New Vinnengael yet, do you think?” Griffith asked, trying to look northward, into the wind, and finding it difficult.

  Captain Kal-Gah shrugged. “We have seen no smoke of burning. But that doesn’t mean much, since the city is made of rock.”

  He turned back to his sailing, obviously not interested in the fate of a city and a people he considered his enemies.

  The wind was crisp and biting and blew right through Griffith’s woolen cloak and the robes he wore beneath. He made his staggering way to a part of the deck out of the wind and warmed by the sun. He munched on his bread, taking care to share with some of the seagulls in thanks for their assistance with the omen, and looked up to the white mass of sails spread above his head, the intricate tangle of ropes, and the tall, straight masts that seemed to brush the heavens. He marveled at the skill and dexterity of the orken sailors and thought to himself that this was truly wonderful.

  He was happy and relaxed, and he knew the reason why. For the first time in many years, he wasn’t responsible for anything or anybody, not even himself. True, an evil force searched for them, but, for the moment, the eyes of the Void were focused on New Vinnengael. The orks had the running of the ship and would not welcome his interference. His friends were safe and seemingly well; the taint of Void would wear off in time. His dear wife had been troubled during the night, but she slept easily now. He had nothing to do, nowhere to go, except where the wind took him. The last time he’d known such peace as this was in his childhood, after the Wyred had come to claim him.

  Griffith had been four years old at the time. A precocious child, one of seven boys born to a minor noble. Griffith had known from the time he’d developed the ability to reason that he was different from his siblings. Quiet, introspective, he took no part in the games of competition and combat in which his brothers delighted. He stood apart, watching from the sidelines.

  His brothers badgered Griffith constantly to join in their mock battles, and grew angry when he refused. Griffith detested noise and rows. He moved and spoke quietly, so quietly that his mother complained that she often forgot he was around and was startled to find him underfoot. His father, a warrior born, sided with his brothers and accused his mother of coddling the boy, while his mother accused the rest of bullying him.

  Lonely, miserable, Griffith remembered well the night the Wyred came to take him away from his home, to take him to freedom.

  Most children are terrified of the black-clad figures who creep into their rooms at night and steal them from their beds. Such children must be calmed with spells, lulled into a magical sleep. Not Griffith. He knew the moment he woke and found the black-masked figures bending over him who they were and why they had come. He never spoke a word, but lifted up his arms to the man, who gave a smothered chuckle.

  “We were right about you, I see,” he said, his words sliding softly through the black silken mask he wore over his face.

  Strong arms clasped Griffith securely, bore him out of the bed he shared with his brothers, and took him to Ergil Amdissyn, the so-called floating castle that is the fortress of the Wyred. Griffith would not see his family for over eighteen years. When he was finally permitted to return, his elder brother told him bluntly that his father had been relieved to find that the Wyred had stolen away his effeminate son. This same elder brother, who was now head of the family, arranged a marriage for his younger sibling, but made it clear that Griffith was not welcome in the family home.

  Griffith did not miss his family. They had given him two precious gifts: life and Damra, and he had repaid them for both by saving this very elder brother from assassination. His family did not know the truth, of course, for the Wyred work their magic in secret. Griffith was glad they didn’t. It was so much more fun to listen to his brother’s tale of his heroic exploits and smile in secret, smug in the knowledge of what had really happened.

  Griffith could still remember his first sight of Ergil Amdissyn. He did not know how long he rode, clasped in the strong arms of the Wyred mage, whose task it was to steal children gifted in magic. He remembered sleeping and waking and sleeping again, but whether it was one time or a hundred, he could not recall. The Wyred and his companions never spoke to the child, after that first comment, for one of the first teachings for a young mage is to learn to listen to the silence. Then, one morning, the Wyred roused Griffith from his slumbers and pointed a black-gloved hand.

  The location of Ergil Amdissyn is a closely guarded secret of the Wyred, who swear never to reveal it on pain of dishonor, death, and imprisonment: dishonor for the House, death for the wizard, and eternal imprisonment of his soul in the terrible prison house of the dead. But it is not fear that has kept the tongues of the Wyred sealed for centuries. It is pride. Pride in themselves, pride in their work.

  Ergil Amdissyn is a fortress built into the peak of a mountain of white granite. According to their history, the fortress was built for the Wyred by the legendary dragon Radamisstonsun, who, in return for a favor done for her by the Wyred, used her powerful Earth magic to carve the inside of the mountain into a fortress, hidden and impregnable.

  Ergil Amdissyn does not truly float, but only appears to do so, as on the morning Griffith first saw it with the coming of a brilliant dawn. The mountain rose up from out of the cloud-covered waters of a lake fed by hot streams, so that steamy mists drift perpetually over the lake. It seemed to Griffith that the fortress floated on a fiery red-and-gold-tinged cloud. He stared in awe with the feeling that, at last, he had come home.

  Griffith thrived in the strict and studious atmosphere of the Wyred schools, unlike some children, who could never get over their longing for home. Such children usually sickened and died, to be buried in the vaults beneath the mountain. Other children died during the schooling, for the training
sessions were arduous and dangerous, meant to weed out the weak, both in mind and body. Those boys and girls who survived went on to become some of the most powerful and skilled magi in Loerem.

  Unlike the Revered Brotherhood of the Temple of the Magi, the Wyred do not prohibit the use of Void magic. Although the elves abhor the Void, they understand that it has its place among the four elements, and they encourage their members to study it in order to be able the better to fight it. Some Wyred, such as Griffith, are allowed to choose to make the Void and those things pertaining to it a serious study. Griffith’s area of expertise was centered on the Vrykyl, and his thoughts naturally drifted from nostalgic reminiscences of his years spent at Ergil Amdissyn to his studies of the Vrykyl and Shadamehr’s dire news that the young king of New Vinnengael had been murdered and his body stolen by one of these foul creatures of the Void.

  Griffith was musing on this, and, recalling that Shadamehr had been wounded in the palace, the elf thought that he could at last explain the cause of the Void taint that afflicted both Alise and Shadamehr. Feeling a soft touch upon his arm, he turned to see his wife.

  “Do I interrupt you?” Damra asked.

  “My thoughts were dark,” he said. “I am pleased to have them dispelled. How are you this morning? You spent a restless night. Were you troubled by disturbing dreams?”

  “One might say I was troubled by a disturbing awakening,” said Damra ruefully. She did not stand close to the railing, as did her husband, but kept a wary distance, casting an uneasy glance at the rushing water that spread out in a wide V-shape from the bow.

  “I wish you would step away from there, my love,” she added nervously. “I do not think it is safe.”

  Griffith smiled to himself, but did as his wife asked. He walked back with her to the very center of the ship, drew her over to sit beside him on a wooden chest.

  “Silwyth came to see me last night,” said Damra.

  “Truly, that must have been a disturbing dream,” said Griffith.

  “It was not a dream,” said Damra. “He was here, onboard the ship.”

  “My dear—” Griffith began.

  “I know it sounds crazy. I thought I was dreaming at first, but he spoke to me and put his hand on my wrist. He was as close to me and as real to me as you are right now.”

  Griffith was dubious, perplexed. “I do not doubt you, my dear, but how—”

  Damra shook her head. “His skin and clothes and hair were wet, so I assume he must have swum from the shore, but how he managed to elude the orks or find his way to me is a mystery I cannot explain. But then, Silwyth himself is a mystery. He was once Dagnarus’s most loyal servant. If it were not for the fact that he freed you from the Shield’s prison and gave into my keeping the elven portion of the Sovereign Stone, I would not…I do not…And yet…”

  She halted, unable to express herself, and shrugged helplessly. “I know I’m not making any sense, but then nothing involved with Silwyth makes sense. And yet, it seems that I am supposed to trust him.”

  Damra cast a sidelong glance at her husband.

  Griffith smiled ruefully, and he shrugged. “What can I tell you, my dear? That he might be part of some elaborate conspiracy? That he has done all this to earn our trust with secret plans to destroy us?”

  “The last seems most likely,” she said grimly.

  “Why, what did he say to you?”

  “That the power of the Void is ascendant,” said Shadamehr. “That no one can stop Dagnarus from gaining the Sovereign Stone, and when he does, he will rule the world as a demigod. That the only way to prevent this is to bring all four parts of the Sovereign Stone to the Portal of the Gods and there join them together. Am I right?”

  Damra and Griffith looked up at him in astonishment.

  “How did you know that?” Damra gasped.

  “Because another of Dagnarus’s servants told me the very same thing,” said Shadamehr gravely.

  WHO SPOKE TO YOU?” DAMRA ASKED, HER ASTONISHMENT increasing.

  “Dagnarus’s Void sorcerer, Gareth.”

  “Last night?”

  “Yes, while I was asleep. I kept thinking it was a dream, but my dreams very rarely make sense. I show up naked in the royal court, tumble off bridges into ravines, or I’m chased by hordes of beautiful women, that sort of thing.”

  “Are you never serious, Baron?” Damra demanded coldly.

  “I’m serious about this,” said Shadamehr. “Or trying to be, at any rate. This dream—if that’s what it was—was very realistic. We had a conversation, Gareth and I. At one point, I told him he was dead and at another point he informed me that I was the bearer of the Sovereign Stone. We conceded both points. I was in the ruins of a city that I knew immediately was Old Vinnengael, although I have never before been there, and I was in what I believe to be the Portal of the Gods.”

  “And Gareth told you to bring the four parts of the Sovereign Stone together—”

  “—in the Portal of the Gods,” said Shadamehr.

  “Strange,” said Damra, staring out at the sun-sparkled water. “Very strange.”

  “You were heavily tainted by Void magic, Baron,” Griffith pointed out.

  “What?” Damra stared back at the baron, her gaze dark and suspicious. “What do you mean, he was tainted by Void?”

  Griffith appeared sorry that he had spoken.

  Shadamehr glanced at him, glanced away.

  “It is a long story,” he said briefly. “And it has nothing to do with what we are discussing.”

  “It might,” Damra persisted, her tone severe. “A servant of the Void came to speak to you while you were tainted with Void. You expect us to give credence to what he said?”

  “A servant of the Void came to speak to you, and you believe him,” Shadamehr returned. “Or does Silwyth not count because he is an elf?”

  Damra jumped to her feet. “You had no right to eavesdrop on our conversation,” she said angrily.

  “Then don’t hold your conversations in the open air in the middle of the deck,” Shadamehr retorted. “Orks aren’t deaf, nor are they stupid. They travel all over the world, and some speak fluent Tomagai.”

  Griffith put his fingertips and the tips of his thumbs together to form a V-shape.

  “What is that?” Shadamehr demanded impatiently.

  “A wedge,” said Griffith, “being driven between the two of you, the bearers of the Sovereign Stone.” He looked from one to the other. “A wedge of Void make and design.”

  Damra’s pale cheeks flushed. She lowered her long lashes, but kept her gaze fixed on the baron.

  Shadamehr’s lips compressed. Shifting his stance, he stood staring out at the rushing river water. The first mate ordered a couple of orken sailors, who had lingered near, hoping for a fight, to quit gawking and go on about their duties.

  “I am sorry,” said Shadamehr at last. He rubbed his hand over his face, scratched his chin, which was dark from a day’s growth of beard. “Yesterday was probably the worst day of my life, and last night managed to top it. That’s my only excuse for being rude, and it’s not a very good one.”

  Turning to Damra, he made a formal bow. “I should not have been listening in on your talk with your husband, Damra of Gwyenoc. I apologize.”

  “And I am sorry, Baron,” said Griffith, bowing. “I should not have said anything about the Void taint without discussing the matter with you first. Please accept my apology. I should explain to you, Damra,” Griffith added, “that the baron came by the taint of Void innocently. He was the recipient of a spell that saved his life, or so I believe.”

  Damra remained unconvinced. “I do not understand what you mean, Griffith. How can a Void spell save a life? Void magic kills!”

  “Any magic can be used to kill,” said Griffith. “A mage can transfer a portion of his own life essence through the Void into the body of another. The spell is quite dangerous, for it can completely drain the life of the wizard, if he is not careful. Or, I believe in this ca
se, I should say, ‘she.’”

  Shadamehr’s face had gone gray and haggard. He gave another abrupt nod of his head, rubbed his chin, and turned away.

  “Alise?” asked Damra, amazed. “But I saw her down belowdecks before I came up. She sleeps as peacefully as a babe—”

  “The Grandmother,” said Shadamehr. “Grandmother Pecwae festooned her with rocks and brought her back. Alise was dying. I held her in my arms and felt the life seeping out of her. Poor Bashae is dead. And it is my fault. All my fault.”

  “We are all of us weary and wounded, in spirit, if not in body,” Damra said remorsefully. She rested her hand gently on Shadamehr’s arm. “I am sorry for my part in our quarrel.” She hesitated, then added, “Sometimes speaking of the night’s shadows in the daylight helps to dispel them.”

  “True enough,” Shadamehr responded. “But it is also true that dark things belong to the darkness and should be kept there. We will talk of this, but below, in our cabin. Besides, I don’t want to leave Alise alone.”

  The three made their way across the rolling deck, holding on to ropes or any solid object that came to hand to keep their balance. The orks grinned and nudged each other, laughing at the lubbers.

  “Because of your courage, Baron, both portions of the Sovereign Stone have escaped Dagnarus,” said Damra, after Shadamehr had concluded his tale.

  “Because of my tomfoolery,” he returned ruefully. “And dumb, stupid luck.”

  “Say, rather, the intercession of the gods,” Griffith said gently.

  “Then why didn’t the gods intercede for Bashae?” Shadamehr demanded. “Never mind. It’s my own private quarrel.”

  He sat on a rickety stool near Alise’s bed, holding her hand fast in his own. Griffith stood propped up against a bulkhead. Damra was curledup on the bed that was tucked inside a recessed cubbyhole. The four of them were a tight fit. In order to leave the cabin, two had to squeeze up against a bulkhead while the third climbed over them.