Frostborn: The Dragon Knight (Frostborn #14)

by Jonathan Moeller

  Calliande frowned. “Ridmark was with Morigna. I wasn’t…I wasn’t going to try and seduce him away from her. Anyway, I was the Keeper. I had my duty. I thought I would spend the next several years rooting out the Enlightened of Incariel from Andomhaim. I had my duty, and Ridmark had Morigna, and that was that.”

  “Your duty came first,” said Ardrhythain.

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “It always did. That was why I never married during the first war, and even after the Frostborn were banished. There…I always had my duty, and I would not turn from it.”

  And such joy it had brought her, she thought bitterly.

  She had done her duty, and now the Frostborn threatened Andomhaim and Ridmark put himself at risk to claim the sword of the Dragon Knight.

  “What changed?” said Ardrhythain.

  “I’m sorry?” said Calliande.

  Ardrhythain took a sip of the tea. “What changed? For something did change. Else you would have refused Ridmark when he asked for your hand.”

  “I…” said Calliande.

  What had changed? For the archmage had a point. She could have taken a lover before she had gone into the long sleep. Many knights and noblemen had subtly and politely made their interest known (and a few drunken louts not so subtly), but she had always refused them without hesitation. Her duty had always come first, and while she had regretted that she would not have a husband and children, it had never troubled her unduly.

  It had never bothered her the way seeing Ridmark with Morigna had bothered her.

  That was what had changed. She had met Ridmark Arban.

  “I love him,” she said, looking into her tea. “I…he saved my life the day we met. He promised me that he would help me find my memory, and he did. We had to go to some of the most dangerous places anyone can ever visit, but he kept his word. And my duty…” She sighed and closed her eyes. “I would have failed in my duty but for him.”

  “What do you mean?” said Ardrhythain.

  “I always put my duty before anything else,” said Calliande, “and I would have failed, it not for Ridmark. Shadowbearer and his servants would have killed me and opened the world gate on the first day I awakened, and I never would have known why. I wouldn’t have lived long enough to make it to Dragonfall if not for him. I would have failed the final test if he had not killed Tymandain Shadowbearer. I would have failed to gather allies against the Frostborn if not for him.” She felt her eyes burning and realized that she was starting to cry and tried to pull herself together. “I…I owe him so much, and I’ve sent him to do this risky and dangerous thing.”

  “Is that why you want to marry him?” said Ardrhythain. “Of a sense of gratitude?”

  “No,” said Calliande. “No. I do owe him, yes. But I am the better for him in my life. I was so glad to see him again when we went to Nightmane Forest. And I want him to be happy. I want him to be less grim. I want to see if I can make him less grim. I want…” She took a deep breath, collected herself, and looked the ancient archmage in the eye. “I want to stay with him until I die.”

  Ardrhythain inclined his head. “Then you understand what you are fighting to defend. What is at stake for you.”

  Calliande rubbed at her eyes. “Why did you ask me all that?”

  “Because I wished to know,” said Ardrhythain. “And it may be important, vitally important, that you understand your own motivations. The Sight does not always grant a clear vision of the future, you know that as well as I do. But when you and the Gray Knight came to Cathair Solas, I saw the shadows of your future, and in those shadows, I saw that you would have to save him.”

  “From what?” said Calliande.

  “I do not know,” said Ardrhythain, nodding towards the golden doors, “but from our present context, it must have something to do with the sword.”

  “Morigna’s spirit said the same thing to me several times,” said Calliande.

  “Spirits are less subject to the flow of time than those of us who are still alive,” said Ardrhythain. “You would do well to heed her warning.” He set down the tea cup. “You may at least comfort yourself with the truth that your duties and the desires of your heart are at last aligned. A new Dragon Knight is our best chance to defeat the Frostborn, and if the Frostborn are defeated, Imaria will never reach the Well, and the shadow of Incariel will never be freed from its prison.”

  “A small comfort,” said Calliande, “but a rare one.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Calliande’s appetite had fled with the rush of emotions, but she knew that was just an illusion, so she made herself finish the bread and sausage.

  “Why did you never remarry?” said Calliande after a while. “Since we are asking each other piercing questions.”

  A faint smile went over Ardrhythain’s alien face. “One cannot deny the fairness of the question.” He shrugged. “In answer, I did not feel the need. Among the high elves, the mating instinct is not as…perpetually inflamed as it is among humans.”

  “Perpetually inflamed,” said Calliande in a dry voice.

  “Alas, there was no polite way to put that,” said Ardrhythain. He sighed. “But the high elves are now a remnant. There are no children in Cathair Solas. The bladeweaver Rhyannis is the youngest of us, and she is already centuries old. There have been no new marriages in Cathair Solas for a long time. I fear that the time of our kindred has ended, and our world shall pass into the hands of the humans and the orcs and the dwarves and all the others the dark elves summoned over the millennia.” He shrugged. “Perhaps you will do better than we did. But the future is in God’s hands, not yours or mine.”

  “That is a comfort,” said Calliande, and Ardrhythain nodded.

  They lapsed into silence again, and Calliande looked at the golden doors.

  “I wish I knew what was happening to him,” said Calliande. “I wish I knew what was happening in Andomhaim.”

  “Even I cannot look into the Tomb of the Dragon Knight,” said Ardrhythain. “But I may be able to see the realm of Andomhaim and what transpires there.”

  “You can?” said Calliande. “The difference in the rate of time will not stop you?”

  “It would be a useless defense for the city if it did,” said Ardrhythain. He rose to his feet, and Calliande followed suit. “Come. I shall attempt to use the Sight to discern how Andomhaim fares.”

  He swept the staff before him, and a pale curtain of mist rose from the cavern floor, shivering and rippling. Ardrhythain gestured, and the mist shuddered. Images appeared in the mist, flickering and dancing.

  Calliande stepped closer, watching the images.

  In one she saw Arandar and the army of the realm of Andomhaim marching north. It looked like they were heading to the town of Dun Calpurnia, or at least the ruins of it. Did Arandar think to make a stand there? It was a logical place. The dwarves and the manetaurs and the Anathgrimm would be able to find him there.

  As if in response to her thoughts, the images changed. The mist showed her thousands of dwarves marching to war, and vast lines of manetaurs and tygrai marching. She saw the Anathgrimm heading south from Nightmane Forest, led by Qhazulak and Zhorlacht and Jager, though she didn’t see Mara. South? Why were they heading south? The Frostborn were to the north.

  The mist shifted, and she saw the Frostborn and their soldiers.

  God and the saints, but there were so many of them.

  Tens of thousands of medvarth marched south, flanked by just as many locusari warriors. Squadrons of locusari scouts flew overhead, along with hundreds of frost drakes. Battalions of khaldjari escorted carts laden with the components of siege engines, and groups of cogitaers floated behind them, guarded by medvarth warriors. Behind them marched thousands of Frostborn, and even through the vision of the mist she saw the magical might around them.

  “There’s so many,” said Calliande, and then the vision shifted again.

  The revenants of the Frostborn marched to war, Mhorite orcs and dvargir and humans and Anath
grimm and others. They were moving slower than Calliande expected, and the vision was…distorted, somehow, as if she was looking at the undead through a translucent obstruction.

  “Are they shielded?” said Calliande. “Warded, somehow?”

  “No,” said Ardrhythain. “I believe they are underwater.”

  “Underwater?” said Calliande, and then she realized the truth. “The Moradel. They are marching along the bottom of the Moradel.”

  It was something she never would have guessed if she had not seen it with her own eyes…and the Frostborn would be in a perfect position to launch an ambush.

  Arandar and the lords of Andomhaim would never see it coming.

  Calliande looked at the golden doors, fresh dread flooding through her.

  Dread for Ridmark…and dread for the army of Andomhaim marching into the trap of the Frostborn.

  Chapter 19: Rewritten

  The Tomb of the Dragon Knight changed around Ridmark once again.

  The first time had startled him. He had been walking through a corridor of white stone, the walls giving off a faint glow, and the corridor vanished around him. Suddenly he was walking through the Northerland, specifically the valley south of the Black Mountain and north of Dun Licinia where the army of Andomhaim had beaten back the host of the Mhalekites. Mhalek had murdered the leaders of the army during a parley, and Ridmark had taken command, beating the Mhalekite orcs and sending Mhalek himself fleeing towards Castra Marcaine in search of revenge.

  He stopped in shock, and then the valley disappeared, transforming back to the corridor.

  It had to be another illusion. But why? Ridmark did not see the point. Maybe the Tomb would summon urvaalgs or Mhalekite orcs to attack him.

  The heartbeat still echoed inside his head.

  Ridmark pressed on, and the Tomb changed around him again and again.

  One moment he was walking through the pine forests of the Northerland. The next he strode through a valley in the Torn Hills near Urd Morlemoch, and the moment after that, through the towering, ancient trees of the Qazaluuskan Forest. A few moments later, he found himself walking through the foothills of the mountains of Vhaluusk, not far from the pass that led to the Vale of Stone Death and the gates of Khald Azalar.

  Every time the landscape changed, the heartbeat remained constant in his head, and he employed it as a compass, using it to select a constant path through the changing terrain. Ridmark wasn’t sure, but he thought that the heartbeat was getting louder. Did that mean he was getting closer to wherever the sword rested?

  He hoped so. The sooner he returned to Calliande with the sword, the better.

  The doubts chewed at his mind. The words that Aelia’s phantasm had spoken would not leave his thoughts.

  What if it was true? What if he could use the sword of the Dragon Knight to rewrite the past, to remove himself from the pages of history, to make it as if he had never existed? The idea seemed absurd, but who knew what kind of powers the dragons had possessed? Perhaps their magic had let them shape time the way the dwarves shaped steel and stone.

  He thought about all the times that he had failed, all the mistakes that he had made. If the sword could remove him from time, would all that be undone? Aelia might still be alive. His mother might have lived for decades more. The realm might still be at peace. The Frostborn might never have returned. Calliande…

  Ridmark blinked, pushing aside the wild fantasies. Calliande was waiting for him, and he had promised to return to her. He had to focus on that, not brooding about what could not be changed.

  But if the sword could change the past, didn’t he have the duty to use it? If he could destroy himself and undo so much harm, didn’t he have the obligation?

  The terrain changed again, and he found himself walking through the grassy plains of the Range, the home of the manetaurs, a range of volcanoes rising away to the north. Then it blurred again, and he strode through the plains of eastern Durandis, where the men of Durandis often struggled against Mhorite raiders coming down from the mountains of Kothluusk.

  Then the land blurred again, and Ridmark found himself in a large hall of white stone, light coming from the crystals mounted in the apex of the ceiling overhead. Their pale blue glow painted the mist swirling around his knees an eerie azure color, as if he was walking through a sea of liquid ice.

  Two women awaited him in the center of the hall, their backs to him.

  One was short, and the second almost as tall as Ridmark. The shorter woman had blond hair so pale it was almost white, and the taller woman had hair the color of the deepest night. Both were slender, but the smaller woman seemed almost delicate, while the taller woman had a fit, lean look to her. The shorter woman wore dark clothing and blue armor of dark elven steel, while the taller woman wore close-fitting armor of black material.

  Ridmark recognized them.

  Mara and Third turned to face him. Third looked as impassive as usual, but Mara’s green eyes were touched with sadness.

  “Mara?” said Ridmark. “Third?” Was it really them? His mother and Aelia had been dead for years, but it was not outside the realm of possibility that Mara and Third had somehow found their way to Cathair Solas to speak with him.

  “Ridmark,” said Mara, and the coolness of her tone made him think this was another phantasm.

  “Lord magister,” said Third.

  “You’re another illusion,” said Ridmark.

  Mara raised an eyebrow. The hall blurred and vanished around them, and they stood in the eerie, blue-lit gloom of Nightmane Forest, the massive trees rising over them.

  “I see you have not lost your ability to note the obvious, lord magister,” said Third in a dead tone of voice.

  “No,” said Ridmark. He gripped his staff, holding the weapon level before him. If he had to fight these illusionary duplicates of the two half-sisters, he would have to assume they possessed Mara’s and Third’s ability to travel. If it came to a fight, likely one of them would distract him while the other traveled behind him to stab him in the back. Third and Mara had not often gone into battle alongside each other, but when they had, they made a fearsomely effective team. If the spells of illusion had built them out of his memories, then they would share that ability.

  “It seems you are seeking the sword of the Dragon Knight of old,” said Mara.

  “Let me guess,” said Ridmark. “You’re going to say that I need to kill myself to make up for wrongs I have done, that if I destroy myself with the sword of the Dragon Knight, then I will undo all my mistakes.” He took a step forward, watching both the women at once. Neither one of them would be able to travel without a distinctive flash of blue light.

  “Why should we do that?” said Third.

  “You already know it is true,” said Mara. “You know the ancient dragons possessed powers far beyond human comprehension, far beyond even the reach of the high elves. Why should the sword of the Dragon Knight not have the power to remove you and all your errors from history?”

  “Then you’re telling me to kill myself and rewrite myself from the past?” said Ridmark.

  Third sneered. It was the first time he had seen that expression on her face. “Why should we waste our breath telling you what you already know? Why should we waste our breath speaking to a man who lacks the strength to do what needs to be done?”

  “What are you talking about?” said Ridmark.

  “Ridmark,” said Mara, her tone gentle and sad. It was the same tone of voice she used when she thought he was being foolish, when she needed to talk him down from a dark mood. “You know what has to be done. You know what kind of opportunity lies before you. You’ve known the truth from the moment you stepped into the Tomb, didn’t you? You need to use the sword of the Dragon Knight to kill yourself. That’s the only way.”

  “I doubt that,” said Ridmark.

  Third looked at the shorter woman. “We are wasting our time. He is too weak to do what needs to be done. Let us slay him and wait for a worthier bearer
of the sword.”

  “No,” said Mara, “no, he’s not weak. Just wounded. You know how much he’s lost. His mother and his wife and his lover and so many friends. He blames himself for it. Maybe if he had seen the truth earlier and killed Tarrabus, then the war might have been averted. Maybe if he had killed Imaria when he had the chance, then Morigna would still be alive. We are asking a wounded man to carry a heavy burden…but that is just it. Don’t you see?”

  “See what?” said Ridmark. He reminded himself to watch for the coming attack. Yet Mara’s words were playing on his mind, seeming to sink in his thoughts like water into a dry sponge.

  Or poison into a parched throat.

  Yet if the phantasms were right…

  “All that pain you’ve endured,” said Mara. “All the losses you have suffered. They can be wiped away as if they have never been, for you will never have existed. Haven’t you the right to rest from your labors?”

  “As if that argument would persuade him,” said Third. “He loves to suffer. He wallows in it.”

  Mara gave her sister a reproachful glance and then turned her attention back to Ridmark. “But you do not care about yourself, do you? No. Think on this, then. Think of all the pain you have seen, all the pain you have inflicted over your life…and how it can all vanish if you are but strong enough to use the sword on yourself.”

  Ridmark said nothing.

  “You can save them, Ridmark,” said Mara. “You can save them all. You saved me from myself, and you saved Third. How many more lives can you save if you are just strong enough? If you never existed, the Frostborn will never have come to Andomhaim, and the realm will be at peace.”

  “No,” said Ridmark, trying to think through the persuasive words. “No, the Frostborn would have returned anyway. And if I hadn’t been there, Shadowbearer would have killed Calliande on the day of the omen.”

  “If you hadn’t been there,” said Mara, “then Imaria would not have killed Morigna.”

  Ridmark didn’t have an answer for that.