Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  “Where am I?” he asked, cobwebs still clinging to his mind. A shake of the head brought dizziness.

  “No quick movements!” the priest snapped. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal, son.”

  He wanted to say he wasn’t this man’s son, but nausea followed dizziness. Closing his eyes and clamping his jaw shut, he waited until it passed. Then, reasonably sure he wasn’t going to vomit, he repeated his question.

  “Cahill Manor.”

  “And you?” He forced his eyes open again, squinted, taking in the priest’s stone-framed figure. There were some almost healed bruises on the man’s face.

  “Caretaker Braigh, I was asked to tend to you.”

  Braigh; that was a name he remembered from his time with the watch here in Dunthiochagh. An advisor to Duasonh, an up and coming Caretaker, but why would Sir Úistan ask this man to come here? More importantly, just how much power did Lord Cahill wield to persuade this figure of import?

  His confusion must have shown for the priest said, “Don’t concern yourself with the how and why, what is important is that you are alive, and I will, if the Hearthwarden permits me, do everything in my power to keep you alive.”

  Even the briefest smirk hurt. His scorn turned into a fit of coughing that made him feel as if he was about to spew out his lungs. As if this man—or any other—could do anything against him dying when even a sword through the stomach had not killed him. “I doubt your skills are needed here, priest,” Drangar said, hearing his own voice wheeze.

  “They were needed earlier; you had a terrible fever.”

  Had he died, he would have been alive again a few days later. How had he survived anyway? Not only in the turret room, but after what happened in the Shadowpeaks. It just didn’t make sense. He tried to focus on the… how long had it been? “What day is it?”

  “Rauggday,” Caretaker Braigh answered. “The twenty-first of Chill, to be precise.”

  The statement didn’t surprise him; when they had killed him in the Shadowpeaks it had taken days to return from the dead. After all, last night, with the two Cahill women, he hadn’t died. Why did he feel so weak? Just as he was about to ask more questions the door opened, and Neena Cahill, followed closely by her mother and the lass, swept in. Florence carried a tray, on it a steaming pot, its fragrance wafting into the room. More tea. Smiling hurt as much as bobbing his head; he would thank the girl later.

  Both ladies immediately spoke elaborate words of gratitude, thanking him for saving their lives. He took it all in, wondering if they had truly been in danger. Dalgor had certainly been a right bastard in his childhood, but he had never been cruel to women—his ma would have slapped him senseless, right after slapping reason and respect into him. Neither had he ever suspected the Sons of Traksor capable of murdering an innocent. Maybe Dalgor had intended to continue the work of his failed predecessors. No, the lilt in his voice had been the same he had always used when they were children: taunting, mocking, cruel even. The Dalgor he had known would have never harmed an innocent. He let the Cahill women’s words wash over him, unwilling to tell them that, ultimately, all he had done was fight for his own life.

  He shoved through the wool in his mind, forced himself to remember last night. Between prattling women, headache, and Florence gently pouring more tea into his mouth, he found it hard to focus. Yes, he was certain now the man had been his cousin Dalgor. The question was why. Why had the bastard Sons tried to chisel away at his resolve by making him kill Hesmera? Why hadn’t they murdered him when he had been in their care? The mere thought of people he had once lived with being out to kill him, intentionally killing his beloved, fanned his anger. No blaze, he was too weak to raise so much as a finger, but it smoldered.

  Shocked gasps wrenched him out of his musings. The rage subsided. He blinked, scanned the room. All three women were staring at him, eyes wide. Caretaker Braigh regarded him calmly, one brow slightly cocked. Then the priest frowned, shook his head, and finally blinked.

  “Trick of the light, ladies, no worries,” the Eanaighist said. Drangar thought he detected a note of doubt. Florence returned to dribble tea into his mouth, and a moment later the two Cahill women were speaking at him again.

  Three swallows later the door opened once more, revealing Kildanor. The Chosen looked tired, yet his gait was energized as he entered. “Can he speak?” he addressed Braigh.

  “Yes, although he is still weak.”

  “You cannot interrogate him now,” Neena Cahill protested.

  Kildanor turned to face the young noblewoman, his smile a mere attempt at politeness. “Lady Cahill, I am determined to find out what the Scales went on here last night. Memory tends to blur as time passes, so it is essential to retrieve it while still fresh. You and your mother know this, since I told your father and husband”—he bowed to Leonore Cahill – “the same thing. The more time passes the less useful any questions will be.”

  “But see how frail he is!” pouted Neena. Frail? Not for the first time Drangar wished he could see what lay under the blankets.

  “He’s stronger than you may think; he survived death, he’ll survive this,” Kildanor stated, and then, ending the argument, he turned and regarded him.

  “This is confidential and the Ladies Cahill have been questioned separately, do you wish the same?”

  He would have nodded, instead Drangar said, “Yes.” Hearing his voice, a mere hiss of the word, he again wondered just what was wrong with him now.

  Kildanor turned to the others, exchanged whispers with both the Caretaker and Florence, who left without further argument. When it was Neena’s turn to leave she resisted. “I will not, Chosen. He saved my life and I will stay at his side as I’ve done before.”

  “Milady, please honor his privacy; I granted you the same when we spoke. If anything untoward happens, I will send for you at once.” Dry lips cracked as they curled in a smug smile. There was a diplomat underneath the Chosen’s straightforwardness.

  Neena Cahill’s shriek was very much that of a frustrated child, and he wondered what Hesmera had seen in her. Certainly not this spoiled girl. Maybe Neena was just exhausted. The young woman stomped out but closed the door without slamming it.

  “You look like shit,” the Chosen stated. Gone was the diplomat, making way once more for the follower of Lesganagh who was as direct and uncompromising as his god.

  “I feel… feel like it,” Drangar replied. His throat still was parched.

  “What can you tell me about the attacker? Last night it seemed as if you knew him.”

  A dry swallow, followed by a cough that tore through his body preceded his reply. At least he had someone to share his thoughts and concerns with. “His name,” he said, fighting back the wave of fatigue the hacking had brought, “is Dalgor. He’s my… thought he was my cousin.” Thoughts jumbled. He didn’t worry about keeping anything from the Chosen, but there was little he could truly share. “We grew up… at the Eye.”

  “The Eye?” Kildanor asked.

  Stopping his head from bobbing, he said, “The Eye of Traksor, stronghold of the Sons of Traksor, spent my childhood there… until… until I ran away.” Turgid thoughts jumbled just as easily as simple ones, only slower.

  “Did you know he was a mage?”

  He forced himself not to shake his head. “No, but it… it was customary for those who were gifted to study the magic given to the Sons by Lesganagh’s Servant.” Looking up too long made his eyes and mind swim; dizziness followed, so he closed his lids.

  For a while the room was drowned in silence, and then, “Don’t fall asleep on me, man.”

  The Chosen’s voice penetrated the wool reforming around his mind. “Not… asleep. Head spinning.”

  “You said a Servant of Lesganagh brought the Sons of Traksor magic?”

  “No, not the Sons, Traksor. He got the magic from the servant.”

  “Why would they want to see you dead?”

  “No idea.” One thought pierced his befuddled brai
n. Snapping his eyes open and immediately regretting it, Drangar tried to sit up. The struggle with the covers was brief and futile.

  “What is it?” Kildanor stepped into view, squinting at him. “What’s wrong? Shall I call for Braigh?”

  In the turret room the notion must have slipped his mind, but now it rose to the surface. “No,” he said. His voice, though weak, sounded fiercer, but only for a moment. Another wave of dizziness rolled over him.

  “You’ve remembered something.”

  “Aye,” Drangar answered, wanting to continue, but a knock on the door interrupted him.

  “Yes?” Kildanor sounded annoyed. “What is it?”

  Metal ground on metal, the hinges needed some oiling. “Lord Chosen,” a voice said. “The Lady Ealisaid needs to talk to you.”

  “Can’t this wait?” Staring up at the ceiling gave him the impression that he was floating, or that the mortared stone slabs were slowly moving toward him. He closed his eyes.

  “No, sir, she sounded very determined.”

  He heard the Chosen sigh. “We’ll continue this.”

  Whether Kildanor had heard his mumbled, “I won’t be going anywhere” or not, mattered little. Sleep beckoned.

  It felt like only moments had passed. Voices, hushed but still audible roused him. Unwilling to fully wake, he tried to block them out. In vain. Someone spoke. The voice sounded familiar, but right now he would have considered every voice thus.

  “You are right, I can feel it now.”

  “It is faint, that’s probably why you didn’t detect it.”

  “So, he used magic as well?”

  “Someone tore down that cage, and I doubt it was the intruder.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  A snort, and then, “In his state he couldn’t hurt a fly, but otherwise, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Thinking and knowing are two different animals.” A brief pause, and then the voice asked, “And you are certain about his eyes? Did they…?”

  “Aye, trust me. Ask the lass, Florence.”

  Just who the Scales were these people? It took considerable effort to open his eyes, if only a fraction of the way. His sight blurry, Drangar made out that there were three of them. He felt sleep reclaiming him once more. Darkness replaced the gentle glow behind half opened, now closed lids.

  CHAPTER 3

  She felt horrible. Her head throbbed as if she had spent the past night carousing. Not that she ever had, but Ealisaid had seen enough victims of vast amounts of alcohol the morning after to know just how they felt. In a way she considered them the lucky ones. Again, she had overextended herself. In the end, not even Culain’s presence had helped. Maintaining the illusion while nothing was moving was one thing; keeping all the arrows invisible quite another. Maybe she had overdone it, but at least she was alive to learn from her mistakes. Not that the Chanastardhians would fall for the same trick twice.

  A tentative groping to the left told her Culain was already up; his side of the bed was cold. She opened her eyes, thankful the window faced west, for although bright, the light wasn’t blinding. How long had she slept? Had the noon gong already sounded? Even if no one would blame her for resting this long, she cursed her tardiness. It wasn’t like her to sleep that late, exhausted or not. During her training she had always risen with the sun and gone to bed whenever all her chores were finished. That habit had survived even her peers, if only because she had been hibernating. Now, in this new life, things happened so fast she could barely keep up. Maintaining regular sleep patterns was quickly becoming a thing of the past, just like the Phoenix Wizards, her family, and the people she had known. Gritting her teeth against the onset of despair, she pushed out of bed and saw the tray with meats and bread standing on the table in the far corner. So Culain had seen to her breakfast before leaving.

  Her splitting headache turned the grateful smile into a grimace, which transformed into a scowl the moment her bare feet touched the cold floor. For an instant she was tempted to summon her stockings, but the promise she had given Baron Duasonh kept her in check. Besides, to rely too much on magic could drive one into madness. The Heir-War had shown as much. Avoiding too much contact with the barren planks, Ealisaid hobbled to the cabinet that held her meager assortment of clothes. There were lots of people who changed clothes on a weekly basis. She was not one of them.

  Dressed and fed, she wondered what to do next. Her standing and duties were as vague as possible, a shadowy presence in the back of her mind, with as much and as little freedom as her lord allowed her. Until yesterday, the Baron had never used her abilities, the occasional jaunts into the spiritworld aside. Now, with the Chanastardhian army literally at their doorstep, this was bound to change.

  Should she ask for a task to show she was able and willing to do whatever it took? No, that was presumptuous; Lord Duasonh would call her when he needed her. Also, she thought about leaving her chamber, seeing servants, messengers and warleaders hurry this way and that; there was enough on Duasonh’s plate without adding to it by showing her loyalty and readiness. When he called, she would be there, no matter how exhausted she felt.

  Her two guards—why she still needed them was a mystery—fell into step behind her as she headed down the hallway. Maybe she could find the Palace library, if this place actually had one. Not that she expected any books there to be more enlightening than what one found in Traghnalach’s temple. She passed a group of warriors, Swords, listening to their Warden, sentinels most likely, and wondered once more where Culain was. He knew no letters, but his leaving without saying goodbye upset her. Had she really grown so attached to him? Or was it just that in midst of all the chaos of this new age she needed someone, anyone, to lean on? Could she be in love? Ealisaid considered that for a moment, and then, shaking her head, she dismissed the thought. No, she imagined love felt differently. They had almost reached the grand stairs when she realized someone other than her two shadows was keeping pace with her. Coming to think of it, she thought she remembered a voice trying to get her attention. The young man walking beside her spoke again.

  “My Lady, the Lord Kildanor requests your presence.”

  Ealisaid stopped, so abruptly that her guards almost bumped into her. She ignored them. “What does he want?” she said, irritably.

  “I know not, milady.”

  “What were his exact words?” Sometimes keeping servants in the dark was so annoying, but she would never have thought the Chosen to be one of those treating others like mere figures to be pushed around.

  “I don’t know, my Lord Cahill ordered me here. He and Lord Kildanor have been in discussions all night.”

  Cahill, she remembered that name. A century ago the Cahills had been second only to the Duasonhs, vying for control. Both were old Janagastian families. What was Kildanor doing there? “Very well,” she finally said. It might be good to get out. “Wait here.”

  Wrapped in an overly large coat—her own wardrobe had been confiscated and sold as part of the reparations made to the survivors of the destruction she had caused—she now followed the messenger through inner and outer bailey, and onto the drawbridge, her two shadows, garbed in similarly patterned overcoats, only a few feet behind.

  “Ealisaid?” someone shouted. She turned and looked, first at the arrow loops above the portcullis, and then farther up. There, a sentinel on the tower, behind the merlons, was waving at her. Culain? She was uncertain.

  Another voice confirmed her suspicion. “Get your mind back to guarding, Culain, or I’ll have your balls!” someone barked. So Duasonh had recalled him to fulfill his duty. She waved back before the person she thought to be her lover was gone. Then, wondering if she was expected to steer clear of him, she turned and hurried after the messenger who was waiting on the other side.

  Alone in the wrecked room, Ealisaid let her eyes sweep the area. She was pleased at the change that was taking place in Kildanor. Reason slowly replaced superstition, always a good sign. Based on what the ladies of the
house had told them she had a good idea what to look for. Not that this knowledge made it easier. Closing her eyes, she tried to find the same state of peace she enjoyed with Culain. Just thinking about him made it difficult, but this mystery intrigued her. Whoever had attacked Drangar Ralgon here had used blood to fuel his magic, had squirted it from a container hidden in his armpit. He might even have used his own blood for all she knew, drawn from whatever source beforehand and having so much control over the power at his command that he did not leech his own life force.

  In a disquieting way she was impressed. The thing that tickled her interest more was the intruder’s ability to maintain at least three magics at once while still being able to… she paused, concentrating. There was a fourth layer… no, a fourth and a fifth layer. Five different things to focus on simultaneously was an impressive feat all by itself. Even her teachers had only been able to keep alive three spells at the very best of times. That so many enchantments weren’t easy to keep up explained why Neena Cahill had been able to escape the spell-shackles. There was more. She made the place remember, peeling away at the layers of magical residue as she circled the room, her hand tracing the broken furniture, the walls, even, very carefully, the splintered glass. Finally, she walked to the circular burn in the center, the cage that had, for a time, held Ralgon. Magic as she knew it was basically a way of reminding things, air, stone, water, fire, of what was and could be, thus summoning stockings that had known the touch of her hand before or making a dark room glow with remembered candlelight.

  The magic here was as brutal as what she had done to the houses she had blasted through. There was no hint of possibility, only solid fact. She could let a tree wither and die; making it recall of what it will become, it could happen in heartbeats, certainly, but forcing stone to melt like this was beyond her skill, beyond any Phoenix Wizard’s skill. It felt as if all uncertainty, all chance had been forced out, its place taken by solid fact, no matter how impossible such fact was. She had done the same, calling it her inner strength. Inner strength indeed, she thought grimly. She had given part of herself to tear those houses asunder.