Journey into the Void

by Margaret Weis

  “And…”

  “And I’m not taking it.” Shadamehr sighed, grimaced. “I stink of fish.”

  “We all do,” said Damra.

  “I was thinking of taking a dip in the river. Want to join me?”

  “So why won’t you become a Dominion Lord?” Damra asked. “You’ve given me reasons before now, but those are reasons you’ve been making up to fool yourself.”

  “How very astute you are,” said Shadamehr admiringly. “You and Silwyth. I didn’t know I was making up reasons. Not until just a few moments ago. And here you knew all along.”

  “What conclusion did you come to?”

  “It’s not very pretty,” he warned.

  “I think I can stand it,” she said, smiling.

  He paused, then took a deep breath, as if he were about to leap into the river below. He let his breath out slowly, then said, “I don’t like having to say ‘thank you.’”

  Damra stared at him.

  “It’s very simple,” he said with a shrug. “I’m supposed to say ‘Thank you, gods’ whenever they step in to save my silly neck. Well, I won’t do it. I don’t want them stepping into my life. I’m in control of my own destiny, and, while I admit that I’ve pretty much made a hash of it, it’s my hash. I made it; I’m the one who has to choke it down. It’s not someone else’s hash, if you take my meaning.

  “And there’s another thing,” he said, frowning, in deadly earnest. “If I’m attacked by a thug in an alleyway, I don’t want to find myself covered head to toe in fancy armor, looking like the Lord of Silver-plated Teapots. I want to be able to deal with the wretch myself—man to man, human to human, human to ork or dwarf or elf. I don’t want to lose control of my life,” he concluded with finality. “And I don’t want to lose my humanity.”

  “I see,” said Damra coolly.

  “Oh, blast!” He swore, suddenly stricken with guilt. “I didn’t mean that you had lost control of your life. You and your gods have an understanding. Me and my gods—we don’t.”

  He took hold of her hand and pressed it to his lips. Keeping fast hold of her fingers, he looked at Damra intently.

  “I am the bearer of the Sovereign Stone. I may not have been the chosen bearer, but I have accepted the burden, and I will carry it faithfully to the end, as I promised Bashae. Whatever courage and brains and skill and luck I’ve got, they’re all at your disposal. I can be nothing more than I am, but everything I am—my life and my honor—I dedicate to you and to the others and to the sacred cause that brings us together.”

  He kissed her hand again, then stood up.

  “I think I will take that bath.” He started picking his way among the rocks.

  Something glittering caught Damra’s eye. She reached down among the pebbles he’d been tossing.

  “Shadamehr,” she said. “You dropped this.”

  He came back. “What is it?”

  And then he saw what it was. He froze, did not touch it.

  “I found this, as well,” Damra said. “I think it goes with it.” She held up a strip of paper. “There’s writing on it.”

  She read the words, that were in Elderspeak.

  “Lord of Seeking.”

  Shadamehr reached down, slowly, and took from her hand the holy medallion of a Dominion Lord. “I don’t understand. What about the Transfiguration—turning to stone, dying to be reborn…”

  “You did die,” Damra said mildly. “You just told me. Alise brought you back.”

  “Alise…not the gods.”

  “What are the gods, if not love?”

  Shadamehr stared at the medallion for a long time, undecided, then, with a shrug and a sigh, he thrust the medallion into a pocket of his breeches.

  “Lord of Seeking,” he said ruefully. “I guess it beats Lord of Silver-plated Teapots. Thank you, Damra. Thank you very much.”

  “There now,” said Damra, “that wasn’t so hard.”

  JOINING THE OTHERS AT THE WATER’S EDGE, SHADAMEHR SILENTLY and without comment showed them the blessed medallion that marked him a Dominion Lord. Wolfram scratched his chin, twitched an eyebrow. The Captain grunted, as if this were something she’d expected all along, and went back to haranguing her crew for some infraction regarding the boat.

  “Feel any different?” Damra asked.

  “No,” he said bluntly. He tried to put the medallion around his neck. His fingers fumbled at the clasp. “I can’t latch this damn thing!”

  “Let me,” said Damra. Her own medallion had no clasp. The gods themselves had placed it around her neck.

  The Lord of Seeking. His way would never be smooth, but that was as he had chosen.

  “There you are,” she said, patting the chain.

  “It itches,” he muttered.

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  He said nothing, but only rolled his eyes.

  “Hold this a moment.”

  He handed her the knapsack, then leapt off the rocks into the river, landing with a splash that soaked those standing on the bank. He bobbed back the surface, puffing and blowing and treading water.

  The orks grinned. Wolfram snorted in disgust. He had little use for water, either for bathing or drinking.

  “Is it cold?” Damra called.

  “Yes,” said Shadamehr, his teeth chattering and his lips turning blue.

  He dived beneath the surface, came up snorting, then crawled out onto the bank. He gave himself a luxurious shake, like a dog. Wolfram drew back, scowling and wiping water off his shirt.

  “Humans,” muttered the Captain of Captains. “They’re all mad. No wonder the omens were bad.”

  She gestured at the boat. “Get in.”

  One of the orks, still grinning, handed Shadamehr a blanket to use to towel himself down. The others climbed into the boat. The orken rowers took their places. The Captain entered last, manned the rudder.

  Damra handed Shadamehr the knapsack. He took it, slung his arm through the straps. He noticed that it felt it different. Heavier than usual. Suspecting Damra of playing a joke on him, Shadamehr opened the sack, expecting to find a rock inside.

  The sunlight gleamed on the crystal-smooth sides of the Sovereign Stone.

  Shadamehr stared in wonder at the sparkling jewel.

  “Maybe I do feel a little different,” he said softly. He took it out, held it up to the light.

  The jewel was beautiful, remarkable. The stone was heavy in Shadamehr’s hands, far heavier than it should have been, to judge by its size. The edges were sharp, so that he was wary of touching them, lest they cut him. The sides were smooth, so that he delighted in running his fingers over them. The stone was cold to the touch, yet warmed as he held it.

  He searched for his reflection in the crystalline surface, but could not see himself. Yet, it seemed, he could see the eyes of millions. Turning the stone one way, he could see through the clear crystal to the rocks and water and clouds and the flickering flames of their fire and they were all magnified in his sight, each one close to him. Turning the stone in another direction, all was blurred together, a jumble of grays and greens, blues and orange. He began to understand the mystery of the stone and the wonder of it, and he felt awed and humbled to think that this precious jewel should have come into his hands.

  It was as if he held a tiny sliver of the mind of the gods.

  “Are they all as beautiful as this?” he asked. “Could I see them?”

  One by one, each of the others drew forth the portions of the Sov -ereign Stone, held them, gleaming, in the sunlight. He knew by their expressions that they all felt his wonder and awe.

  “Here’s an idea,” said Shadamehr suddenly, thrilled and elated. “Let’s try putting all the four pieces together!”

  The expressions on the faces changed. They were suddenly dark and shadowed, wary and suspicious.

  “And who would carry it?” Wolfram demanded. “You, I suppose.”

  Shadamehr was taken aback. “Why, I don’t know. I honestly didn’t think
of that. I guess…”

  “No one’s carrying my part of the Stone,” said Wolfram, his brows lowering.

  “I…I would not burden anyone with mine,” said Damra, her cheeks flushing.

  “I carry the ork’s portion,” said the Captain. “None other.”

  “I see,” Shadamehr said quietly. He dropped the Sovereign Stone into the bottom of the magical knapsack. It vanished from his sight. He felt more secure, now that it was hidden away, but the elation was gone. He was suddenly tired and oppressed.

  He climbed into the boat. The others climbed in after, arranging themselves so no one sat near another. They started the trip upriver to Old Vinnengael.

  Shadamehr sat by himself, staring into the dark water. He wondered if King Tamaros had also seen the emptiness that was the Stone’s heart.

  And if so, why hadn’t he smashed it into pieces?

  Silwyth thought about the Dominion Lords, as night fell. He wondered where they were, wondered if Shadamehr had accepted the gods and vice versa—if the gods had accepted Shadamehr.

  Silwyth’s thoughts turned from Shadamehr to Shakur and from there to Dagnarus. He wondered what the Lord of the Void was plotting. The mercenary band of which the dwarf had spoken was something new. Silwyth had not figured them into his calculations. Would they disrupt his plans? He needed to find out more about them.

  Silwyth made no sound as he walked. He went barefoot, the soles of his feet hard and supple as the finest boot leather.

  He had lived so long in the wilderness, lived off it and amid it, that he was part of it. The animals did not stir as he passed. The deer continued to graze. The rabbit slept. The squirrels mistook him for a tree. The snake slid over his foot. The fox hurried past on fox business with never a glance.

  Silwyth had seen signs near the Portal that a large band of riders had been in the vicinity. Busy with the Captain and Wolfram, he had lacked the time to investigate. He planned to return to the Portal, pick up Klendist’s trail, and follow him. They were all bound for the same place—Old Vinnengael, where he would meet the Dominion Lords. They would need a guide through the ruins, someone who knew the dangers. First, he would deal with this Klendist.

  Silwyth came to a shallow stream that flowed among the trees. The stream was lazy, took its time. The water murmured softly to itself as it tripped over rocks and slid beneath willows, its ripples decorated with winter’s dead leaves. Silwyth was about to cross the lazy stream when he felt a sudden, strange lethargy seize hold of him.

  He sat down on a moss-covered tree stump, suddenly and heavily. The weakness had robbed him of the power to walk. He’d been subject to such attacks before, but never this severe. He knew immediately what was happening.

  He was dying.

  Silwyth thought of all he had left to do, all that remained undone, unfinished.

  “Let me live,” he prayed to the Father and Mother. “Just a little longer.”

  “Lay down your burden,” was the answer. “Others will take it up. That is the way of all things.”

  With a sigh, he let it go.

  He sat on the rock and looked at the water, dappled with shadow and sunlight. He saw himself as another of the brown, dried-up leaves, falling onto that rippling surface, carried to the endless sea.

  Now that the burden was gone, lethargy brought peace. He was not afraid. He waited for death patiently, as a lover waits for his beloved. The song of the stream, the warmth of the sun made him drowsy. His head fell forward on his breast. He was drifting into the sleep that is the final gift of the Father and Mother, when a shadow fell over him, a shadow cold and empty.

  The shadow, the danger, roused him and pulled him back.

  Silwyth opened his eyes.

  “Lady Valura.”

  She stood before him in her woman’s form, beautiful, young, her skin white and waxen as the petals of the gardenia, her mouth carnelian, her body matchless in its form and grace. The eyes, the empty eyes, stared down at him.

  “If you seek revenge, Lady,” said Silwyth, “you come too late. I am dying.”

  “Liar!” She spit the word. Her lips twisted in a sneer. “What have you ever done but lie? You are not capable of speaking the truth!”

  “I have never lied to you, Lady Valura,” said Silwyth.

  She moved closer, watching him warily. He had tricked her before, tricked her and hurt her and humiliated her. She did not trust him, would never trust him, not until she held his chilling body in her arms and sucked his soul into the Void.

  Silwyth did not move. In his eyes she saw what she always saw: pity. When he was dead, she would pluck out those eyes.

  Valura reached into her bosom and drew out the Blood-knife, the knife made of her own bone.

  “You seek to thwart my lord,” she said.

  “I have done my best,” Silwyth replied.

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “You know why, Lady Valura.” He looked up at her, into the empty eyes. Once, long ago, he’d seen in those eyes a lovely garden.

  “Dagnarus loves me!” she cried.

  “He hates you. He loathes you. He cast you off. He sent you away. He does not want you around him…”

  She clutched the bone knife, her fingers clenching and unclenching. “He will. When I save him from his peril. When I give him what he has long sought. He will love me. He will! And you will be witness to it. For I will take your body and your soul!”

  She stabbed the knife into Silwyth’s chest. In her fury, she struck wildly and she missed her target. The knife did not pierce his heart.

  Enraged, she jerked it out, held it poised to strike again.

  Silwyth saw his own blood glisten on the knife. He saw his blood spattered on the lady’s white gown.

  “You may steal my body,” he said. “But you will not claim my soul. That I have given to the Father…and the Mother…”

  Valura struck again. Her aim was true. She stabbed to the heart.

  Her form altered, changed. Valura vanished. Silwyth stood in her place.

  His corpse remained seated on the stump, slumped over, blood oozing from the two chest wounds. Valura kicked the corpse, knocked it sideways into the stream. She kicked it again and again, viciously, until at last her rage was spent.

  “Curse you!” she said with Silwyth’s lips. “Curse you to the Void!”

  But that did not happen. He had escaped the fate he deserved. His corpse lay in the stream. The water flowed red with his blood. His dead face stared up at her. In his eyes, the pity.

  She had taken his face. His soul had escaped her.

  Valura had stabbed a dead man.

  ACTING ON K’LET’S ORDERS, THE TAAN TRAVELED EAST. THEY moved rapidly, their strong legs eating up the ground. Their destination was unknown to them.

  That K’let had a purpose, none doubted. Taan did nothing without purpose. No moment was ever wasted in frivolity. Even during those rare times when the taan were permitted a day of recreation, their sport consisted of honing the skills of their warriors, the skills that meant their very survival.

  Raven continued to lead his tribe of half-taan, a task that was proving extremely difficult. Although K’let had mandated that the taan accept the half-taan as fellow tribesmen, not even the revered kyl-sarnz could force the taan to treat the half-taan with respect. They were shunned and tormented.

  K’let had ordered that the half-taan should march with the main body of taan, so that they could be protected. This meant that the half-taan were relegated to the rear of the column, forced to eat the dust of the hundreds of taan ahead of them. The taan had the first pick of camping ground. The half-taan were given the worst. Lately, the taan had taken to raiding the half-taan camp at night, stealing their food, cutting slits in their tents, destroying anything they found.

  Raven protested this treatment to Dag-ruk and the other nizam. They laughed at him and jeered. What did he expect? These wretched half-taan could not take care of themselves, could not think for them selves. Even
K’let knew that. It was why he had ordered that they march close to their protectors. Half-taan were fit only to serve the wishes of their masters. Raven soon realized that he would never change the mind of the taan. Only the half-taan could do that.

  Raven worked with the half-taan, teaching them to use weapons, teaching them fighting tactics, teaching them to think for themselves and respect themselves. The last, the most important, proved the most difficult. Every time a taan walked into their camp, the half-taan cringed and groveled. When Raven berated them, they cringed and groveled before him.

  Raven was patient. He had worked with raw recruits during his days with the Dunkargan, and he knew that teaching them self-respect would take time. Fortunately, the taan blood in each of the half-taan ran hot. They were natural-born warriors. And although their half-human bodies lacked the physical power and stamina of the taan, they proved to be quicker and more agile. Every day the half-taan improved with their weapons, and, as they gained confidence in their skills, they began to gain confidence in themselves. Raven only hoped that they managed this before some taan killed them.

  Acting on K’let’s orders, the taan continued their journey, turning northward. Their destination now had a name, Krul-um-drelt, meaning “City of Ghosts.” One of the half-taan told Raven that the human name for the city was Old Vinnengael.

  Raven opened his eyes wide on hearing that. The ruins of the city of Old Vinnengael had an evil reputation, not only among his people, but among all peoples he’d ever encountered.

  “City of Ghosts,” Raven muttered to himself. “K’let will fit right in. I’m not sure about the rest of us.”

  He tried to find out more about why they were traveling to Old Vinnengael. He spoke to Dag-ruk about it, but if she knew, she would not tell him. She went about openly with the shaman, R’lt, and had proclaimed that she would take him for her mate. Dag-ruk treated Raven only slightly better than a half-taan himself and would deign to speak to him only if she felt like it. Raven redoubled his efforts to train the half-taan in fighting.

  The taan were within a day’s march of Old Vinnengael when they were ordered to halt and set up camp. K’let had been away from camp for sometime, gone on some mysterious mission. Orders came from Derl, who was in command in K’let’s absence. The taan would camp there to await K’let’s return.