Frostborn: The Dragon Knight (Frostborn #14)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “You were right about Tarrabus Carhaine,” said Aelia.

  “What?” said Ridmark. He wondered if the phantasm would take a different tactic, if Aelia would taunt him that Tarrabus would have been able to save her when Ridmark had not.

  “He was a fool,” said Aelia. “He wanted physical immortality. That would mean grief piled upon grief, loss piled upon loss. One lifetime’s sorrows are enough. The sorrows of an eternity would be an unendurable torment. Hell itself, I imagine. And Tarrabus wanted that for himself. You know better, Ridmark. You’ve lost so much. Are you not ready to rest from your labors in the heaven of the Dominus Christus?”

  “From what I understand,” said Ridmark, “suicides are not admitted to the kingdom of God.”

  “I could do it for you,” said Aelia.

  “No,” said Ridmark. “That would make you a murderer, and I would not make even the phantasm of my dead wife into a murderer.”

  “You know if you continue,” said Aelia, “there will be pain and suffering.”

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. “But that is the nature of life. And if I am going to be killed, it will be only after I am defeated, not because I have given up.”

  “If you continue,” said Aelia, “you will cause Calliande great pain.”

  Ridmark hesitated. It was harder to shrug that off.

  “Because you caused me pain,” said Aelia, “and you caused Morigna pain. You lost both of us. Maybe if you continue, you will lose Calliande.” She gave him a gentle smile. “Maybe it would have been better if you had never been born.”

  “What?” said Ridmark.

  “I loved you, Ridmark, but I would still be alive if you had never been born,” said Aelia. “I would still be alive, and I would be married and surrounded by my children. Morigna would still be alive. Perhaps your mother would still be alive.”

  “Maybe,” said Ridmark, “but it is a pointless thought. The past is the past. It cannot be rewritten.”

  “Can’t it?” said Aelia.

  “What are you talking about?” said Ridmark.

  “The magic of the high elves controls time,” said Aelia. “You’ve seen it yourself. Time passes faster outside of this Tomb.”

  “What of that?” said Ridmark. “Not even the high elves can rewrite the past. If they could, no doubt Ardrhythain would use that power to save his kindred from their fate.”

  “No,” said Aelia. “No magic of mortal men can alter time. Yet the high elves were greater than we are, and their magic can slow the passage of time. The dragons were far greater than the high elves. What could their magic do? Could their magic rewrite the past?”

  “Impossible,” said Ridmark.

  Yet something in the idea seemed to grip his mind.

  “Could the sword of the Dragon Knight,” said Aelia, “give you the power to rewrite time so you were removed from the past? Think of all the suffering you would have averted. Your mother would not have died of illness. I would still live. Morigna would still live. Calliande would still sleep, for the Frostborn would never have returned.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “If I hadn’t stopped them, Qazarl would have killed Calliande and opened the gate on the day of the omen of blue fire.”

  “Using the soulstone that Tymandain Shadowbearer stole from the city above us,” said Aelia. “But he was only able to steal it because Ardrhythain was not there. Ardrhythain was not there because he was in Castra Marcaine, speaking to you. Had you never been born, Ridmark, none of this would ever have happened.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Ridmark. “That is an utter fantasy.”

  Yet part of his mind wondered if she was telling the truth. He had made so many mistakes. Maybe one of those mistakes had led to Imaria opening the world gate and calling forth the Frostborn and killing thousands of people in the resultant war. Perhaps if he had never been born, someone else would have stopped her. Or some other knight would have killed Shadowbearer. Some other knight who would not have failed to save his wife.

  And perhaps it was not so strange that the sword of the Dragon Knight could rewrite the past. Ridmark had been stunned by Cathair Solas and the magical prowess of the high elves. Ardrhythain had said the power of the dragons had been beyond the skills of the high elves.

  And maybe, just maybe, the sword of the Dragon Knight had the power to work such a miracle.

  Maybe it could bring back all those Ridmark had failed and all those who had died because of him. He had seen so many horrible things, and perhaps he could undo them all.

  All it would cost was his life.

  Wasn’t that a small enough price to pay?

  “No,” said Ridmark, shaking his head and pushing away the absurd fantasy. “No, this is madness. The Dragon Knight can’t change the past. No one can. I am going to find the sword of the Dragon Knight, and we are going to defeat the Frostborn. That’s all.”

  “Oh, Ridmark,” said Aelia with a sigh. “As always, you must suffer before you see the truth.”

  She stepped forward and changed, the green gown becoming black armor plates, talons of dark steel sprouting from her fingers, and her eyes filling with the dark void of an urdhracos.

  Ridmark had expected the transformation and raced to attack her, but Aelia moved first. The urdhracos spun, and a leathery wing caught Ridmark across the chest. It was a bit like getting hit by a door. Ridmark stumbled, and Aelia leaped into the air, wings beating. She reached the ceiling and gripped it with one hand and one foot, hanging like a hunting bird about to swoop down on its prey.

  He stepped to the side, watching her. Could she cast spells? If so, she could rain down dark magic at him with impunity. His mind flashed back to his first visit to Urd Morlemoch all those years ago. He had fought an urdhracos then, and she had breathed fire at him…

  Even as the thought crossed his mind, Aelia’s jaws yawned wide.

  Ridmark cursed and threw himself to the side, and he avoided the cone of fire that erupted from Aelia’s mouth. The urdhracos threw herself after him, no doubt intending to finish Ridmark off as he burned.

  Instead, she flinched as he attacked, and his staff hit the side of Aelia’s head with a loud crack. She stumbled back, and before she could recover, Ridmark yanked the axe from his belt and swung it, burying it in her chest. The heavy blade crunched through the armor plates with a loud crack, and Aelia shrieked and stumbled back.

  And as she did, she changed.

  Ridmark stared at her, frozen.

  She looked as she had on the day that she had died in the great hall of Castra Marcaine. Every detail of that terrible day had been seared into his memory, and he stared at her in horror as she gazed at him, her green eyes full of pain, lips moving as she tried to speak, but no words came from her mouth, only blood.

  He grabbed her, reaching for Heartwarden’s healing magic, only to realize that he had been severed from the soulblade’s magic years ago, and even then, the first time this had happened, the soulblade’s power hadn’t been enough to save her.

  For the second time, Aelia Licinius Arban died in his arms.

  Ridmark dropped to his knees, her body a warm weight against him, her blood hot where it trickled against his hands.

  Then she was gone, and he was alone, kneeling in a silent room as mist swirled around him.

  Ridmark took a moment to get his breathing under control, waiting for his heartbeat to slow to something resembling its normal speed. It hadn’t been real. He knew that it hadn’t been real.

  But it had felt real. It had been like living through it all over again.

  Ridmark took a ragged breath and got to his feet, collecting his weapons as he did. A vicious surge of anger went through him. Damn Ardrhythain for making him do this! Damn the high elves and their precious threefold law! He rubbed his hand over his chin, trying to keep the storm of anger and remembered grief under control.

  Maybe Aelia had been right. Maybe the sword of the Dragon Knight could undo her death and every other death Ridmark had s
een.

  No. Ridiculous. The sword wouldn’t have that power, no matter what the phantasm said. No one had that power.

  Yet if the sword had that power, if it could kill Ridmark and rewrite the past so that he had never been born…

  …didn’t he have the obligation to use it?

  He pushed aside the thought and stalked deeper into the Tomb, wondering what regrets from his past would come to assail him next.

  Chapter 18: Keeper

  Calliande paced back and forth before the doors to the Tomb of the Dragon Knight over and over again.

  She wondered if Ardrhythain found it annoying.

  If the ancient archmage did, he gave no sign. He had asked once if she would like to sit, and she had refused. After that, he had fallen silent, both hands grasping his staff, his head bowed, his golden eyes half-closed. He looked as if he were lost in thought, or perhaps meditating. He did not seem inclined to speak, and Calliande was not inclined to interrupt him.

  Instead, she waited, trying not to imagine what might be happening to Ridmark behind those closed golden doors.

  Several times she reached for the Sight, hoping it would show her something of Ridmark. Every time, it was useless. Far above her head Cathair Solas blazed with magical power, wrapped in mighty wards, and she also saw the power shining from the soulstones in the higher cavern. Even if the Tomb of the Dragon Knight had been unprotected, it would have been difficult to direct the Sight through the magical power shining around her.

  And the tomb was protected, warded with the strongest spells Calliande had ever encountered, save for perhaps the warding spells that bound the Warden to Urd Morlemoch. No wonder Tymandain Shadowbearer had asked her about the sword of the Dragon Knight when she had awakened. If she had been foolish enough to hide the sword somewhere outside of Cathair Solas, it would have been Shadowbearer’s best chance to claim the sword, or at least ensure that it was never used against him.

  The Sight could show Calliande nothing of Ridmark.

  There was nothing to do but to wait.

  She supposed it was little different from what millions of other women had endured throughout the bloody centuries of human history. When the men went to war, the women who loved them remained behind and waited to learn of their fate, whether they would return victorious or defeated, alive or dead.

  Sometimes they never learned of the soldiers’ fate at all.

  Calliande shook her head. Maybe this was repayment for her pride. She had helped lead armies to battle many times. Men had left their homes and followed their lords and the High King at her call, leaving their wives and children behind. She had known at the time she was causing pain, but now she got to experience that pain firsthand.

  Her thoughts chased each other, heaping rebuke upon rebuke. Calliande wondered what she could have done differently. If she had foreseen the war of the five Pendragon princes, she could have strengthened the Order of the Vigilant, and they would have endured to the present day. Or if she had advised the High King Uthanaric Pendragon more wisely. If she had been more persuasive, perhaps she could have convinced him that Tarrabus was a snake, and Uthanaric would still be alive, and the Frostborn would have been already defeated.

  Or maybe if she hadn’t been so damned clever.

  She had been clever, hadn’t she? After all, her plans had worked. She had slept the centuries away beneath the Tower of Vigilance and awakened as the return of the Frostborn threatened. Her memories and her staff and the power of the Keeper had been returned to her. Tymandain Shadowbearer had been killed. And when Imaria opened the gate and the Frostborn returned, Calliande had left herself a weapon to use against the Frostborn. The sword of the Dragon Knight had been waiting for her all along.

  She had been so damned clever…and that cleverness had led to her pacing before the door of the Tomb, waiting helplessly for Ridmark to return and dreading what might happen to the realm of Andomhaim in her absence. Perhaps Ridmark would die trying to retrieve the sword, and Calliande would return to a broken Andomhaim lying beneath the boots of the Frostborn.

  And it would be her fault.

  Calliande kept pacing, her thoughts chasing each other like starving dogs.

  A noise caught her attention. She looked up in sudden hope, wondering if Ridmark had returned, but the doors to the Tomb remained shut. Instead, a trio of high elven women approached, laying something upon a flat stone a few yards away.

  “What is that?” said Calliande as the high elven women bowed to Ardrhythain and withdrew.

  “Refreshment,” said Ardrhythain. “I thought perhaps you might be hungry.”

  Calliande blinked. The high elven women had set out a tray holding bread and sliced sausages, and what looked like a pot of steaming tea with a pair of cups.

  “I’m not hungry,” said Calliande.

  Ardrhythain nodded but did not say anything. Calliande resumed pacing.

  The tea did smell good, though. So did the bread. She had been too nervous to eat much earlier. And if Ridmark returned from the Tomb with wounds, she would need her strength to heal them.

  Calliande sighed, crossed to the flat stone, and sat down cross-legged next to it. A moment later Ardrhythain joined her, seating himself on the other side of the stone. He poured a cup of tea, passed it to her, and then poured one for himself.

  “I apologize for this humble setting,” said Ardrhythain. “In ancient days, tea was a ceremony among our people, much as banquets and feasts and tournaments of knightly valor are among yours. Among the students of the magi, we would drink tea and discuss the nature of the cosmos into the late hours of the morning.” He said nothing for a moment. “That was a long time ago.”

  He lifted his cup, and Calliande had tea with the last archmage of the high elves, a man who wielded powers just short of a god.

  It was a strange experience, but not anywhere near the strangest thing she had done in her life.

  They ate and drank for a while in silence. Calliande kept resisting the urge to look at the doors of the Tomb.

  “Thank you for the food,” she said at last.

  Ardrhythain inclined his head. “You fear for the Gray Knight.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande. She hid her discomfiture with another sip of tea. “I imagine that is obvious.”

  “It is,” said Ardrhythain. “Though you did not fear for Kalomarus and the other six knights who accompanied you here the first time.”

  “That’s not true,” said Calliande. “I feared for their lives. The fear grew worse every time the sword killed one of them.”

  “But you did not,” said Ardrhythain, “fear for them as you now fear for Ridmark.”

  “No,” said Calliande.

  “Why is that?” said Ardrhythain.

  Calliande hesitated, a dozen angry responses stirring in her head, and she decided to tell him the truth. “Because we are betrothed.”

  Ardrhythain nodded.

  “He asked me in Tarlion,” said Calliande. “I told him I wanted to find a priest so we could be wed at once. Instead, we heard that damned heartbeat. It took us to the Tower of the Keeper, and to the gate that Kalomarus had left there if I needed the sword of the Dragon Knight again. Then we ended up here, and you know the rest.”

  Ardrhythain nodded again but said nothing.

  “Were you ever married?” said Calliande.

  To his surprise, he answered. “Twice. My first wife was slain fighting the dark elven lord you know as the Warden, and I married again after her. My second wife was killed fighting the urdmordar. My wives and I had many children and grandchildren, but I fear they have all been dead for a very, very long time, and none of my family yet live.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Calliande.

  “Thank you,” said Ardrhythain. “When I say that I understand your fear, you know I speak from much experience. Though it is surprising.”

  “What is?” said Calliande.

  “That you are betrothed.”

  “Is it?” said Cal
liande. “Surely I am not that repulsive.”

  “There are qualities other than the physical,” said Ardrhythain. “When last you were here, you had no interest in marriage whatsoever.”

  “I was the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Calliande. “My duty was to defend the realm from dark magic. Marriage was never an option for me. Nor even taking a casual lover, not that I ever wanted to do such a thing.”

  “But you could have quite easily,” said Ardrhythain. “Past Keepers have wed and borne children. Some of them became knights of renown, as I recall. And while your self-restraint is commendable, it is rare. Many Keepers and High Kings did enjoy companionship outside the bounds of marriage. Your current High King was the offspring of one such liaison, I believe.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “But…why are we talking about this? Andomhaim is about to go to the war with the Frostborn and Ridmark is seeking the sword of the Dragon Knight. Surely there are more important matters to discuss.”

  “Because a storm is about to befall Andomhaim and the rest of the world,” said Ardrhythain, “and you stand at the heart of the storm. Therefore, it is necessary that you understand yourself completely. Very soon you will face a trial of your own, as severe as the one challenging Ridmark even now. To survive that challenge, you must understand yourself.”

  “All right,” said Calliande. She didn’t want to talk, but she supposed it was better than sitting here and waiting to see if Ridmark lived or died. “What do I need to understand?”

  “You could have sought marriage or simply a companion in your previous life,” said Ardrhythain, “but you did not. When I met you outside of Urd Morlemoch, you could have seduced Ridmark then, but you did not…”

  “That’s not a good example,” said Calliande. “Morigna was alive, and…and I didn’t know myself. I didn’t know if I had a husband and children sleeping in some other ruin of the Order of the Vigilant.”

  “But when you recovered your memory, you knew the truth,” said Ardrhythain. “You knew the truth even before you went to Dragonfall, thanks to the Warden. Yet you did not act on it.”