With a touch of the new hoof, he absorbed the lesser portion of his essence in the same way he had absorbed the drake who had tried to jump him in the cavern. It fell within him, growing smaller and smaller until it was beyond even his senses.
Darkhorse sighed—because it felt right to do so—and then stiffened as the world around him changed.
Mountains passed swiftly before his eyes, smaller than the Tybers, but still majestic in their own right. Green hills dotted the borders of that mountain chain and a few habitations could be seen in the distance.
Darkhorse jerked backwards, falling against the invisible barrier that held him. By the twin moons! So quickly?
It was impossible at first to separate the visions from his own sight, but gradually, they came under control. The journey his other self had taken went beyond things such as time, but even the eternal was surprised at the speed with which it had travelled. That surprise turned to worry, for the images he perceived were weak, as if the strain of the journey had been worse than he had hoped. Little of the fragment’s essence survived. There was only one mind, too, for the other him no longer had the strength to preserve its own will. Darkhorse had gained his eyes and ears, but he had lost all else that mattered. Even though it had happened the way the stallion had thought it would, the pain was deep nonetheless.
The northwest. I have emerged into the northwest of the continent. It was now an easy matter to guide the fragment along the simpler paths he knew until it emerged again, this time in the outskirts of the city. Darkhorse could not recall the last time he had seen Talak. He wanted to know what sort of place was ruled by men like Melicard and the foulness calling itself Quorin.
Through the dim vision of the fragment, he observed the people. They seemed healthy, though he was no judge of human conditions, and relatively happy. Darkhorse moved on, intending to work his way to the palace. The more he saw, the more Talak resembled a prosperous and very normal city-state—not what he would have expected under a madman.
No sooner had Darkhorse thought that, when he caught sight of the first soldiers.
They were armored and very definitely hardened veterans. A full column rode through this section, evidently leaving on some military exercise. Darkhorse paused his tiny spy and observed the marching men closely. From the looks on their faces, they were almost fanatical in their devotion to the king. The shadow steed turned his gaze to the banners they carried. The stylized dragon made him chuckle in bitter humor. Melicard was preparing for all-out war and, judging by the size of this column, he was nearly ready.
He will have his glory… and the Lords of the Dead will have their bounty. Melicard had numbers, but the drakes had the ferocity. Either side had equal chances, which meant a long and bloody war that would strip the lands further of life.
Is that all there is to these mortal creatures? Are the humans, drakes, Seekers, and the rest all doomed to violent ends? Darkhorse tried not to think too hard about his own role; it was best to believe he had always worked for the quickest and most rational solution.
He wasted no further time. In seconds, his view had changed to that of the palace walls. The fragment, only a tiny part itself of what he had sacrificed, moved through those walls like a specter, entering the rear of the building. He ran it through corridor after corridor, room after room. Most of his observations were of the ordinary type; servants going about their daily duties, guards standing at attention in various hallways, and officials running hither and yonder with no evident purpose. Melicard was not in any of the rooms Darkhorse searched. There was also no trace of either the counselor or the sorcerer. So close, he was forced to slow his search. There were many risks, including excessive activity near Drayfitt, who might be sensitive enough to pick up the magical presence of Darkhorse’s spy.
“… and keep them prepared, Commander Fontaine! There’s been report of activity in the Hell Plains. The remnants of the Red clans may be moving.”
Counselor Quorin marched into sight, another man, a soldier, keeping pace. If Quorin had the face of a cat, his companion was just the opposite. Rough canine features and a bald head gave the human an ogreish cast. Like the animals they resembled, the two men were bickering.
“I’ve not heard a thing about the Hell Plains! Damnation, man! It’s east and north we have to watch! Drakes of the Silver clan have been spotted in the Tybers! He’s the one we should be moving against!”
“You can always go back to the city guard, commander, if you can’t obey a directive!”
The officer slammed his helm onto his head and marched stiffly away, muttering something about merchants and functionaries knowing less about wars than conscripted footsoldiers. Mal Quorin watched the fuming soldier vanish and smiled. It was the same sort of smile he had used on Darkhorse during the “punishment.”
The smile quickly soured as some disturbing thought intruded. The counselor turned back the way he had come and moved on, his pace quick and determined. Darkhorse followed closely behind, curious. The path Quorin took led him toward an outdoor garden in the center of the palace. The human was halfway to an old door partially hidden in one of the vine-covered walls when another figure entered the garden from the opposite side. Both Quorin and Darkhorse stopped, the shadow steed quickly backing farther and farther away, hoping he had not reacted too slowly.
“Drayfitt!” The counselor spat out the spellcaster’s name as he might have spat out a piece of rotten meat. The look on the sorcerer’s face matched his own. There was no love lost between them.
“What do you want now, Counselor Quorin?”
As they neared one another, looking all the while like two fighting cocks, Darkhorse moved a bit closer again. Quorin was speaking quietly now, intending his words for his rival’s ears alone. The eternal let his fragment drift close to the ground. If Drayfitt’s mind remained occupied by the presence of his adversary, then it was not likely he would notice Darkhorse’s spy. At least, that was the hope.
“Why aren’t you attending to matters below?”
“There isn’t much that creature can do at the moment—thanks to both of us! Melicard didn’t even know I’d recaptured it, did he? In fact, he seemed quite surprised, counselor!”
“What of it?” Quorin bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “I act in his name.”
“Melicard would have never ordered such torture! I should have known better!”
“You seemed to be enjoying it somewhat.”
The sorcerer’s visage burned crimson. “I allowed my baser emotions to rule me that time, but not again! I care very little about what is ultimately done with that creature, but I will not see it abused!”
Mal Quorin leaned back and laughed loud. “Drayfitt—defender of the weak! That’s not a pup down there, you old idiot! That’s a demon older than time itself! Remember what it cost us—cost you—already! You’re fortunate it didn’t decide to take your head off while it was at it!”
Darkhorse heard the words faintly, his attention partially focused on the door Quorin had been heading for. The door, he realized, lead down to the chamber where he was being held—and both men had been heading toward it. For a brief moment, Darkhorse adjusted his senses, returning his full vision to the cramped room and his cage. If either man, especially Drayfitt, came while he was engaged with observing the palace, they would recognize that something was wrong. It was proving impossible to keep both positions in perspective and there was the danger that he might become so engrossed in spying on his adversaries that he might not even notice when one or the other visited his prison.
They were still arguing when the shadow steed reestablished contact with the fragment. The images were even more faded, a sign that the fragment was dissipating. Darkhorse knew he should have sacrificed more, but there was the danger of fragmenting himself into two greater yet weaker portions, neither of which could survive on its own. Only by utilizing a small piece of his “self” had he been able to do what he had.
“—before lon
g! I expect it to be that way!” Quorin finished up. Darkhorse cursed himself for missing what might have been of great importance.
“We shall see. The book was fairly worthless in any case; most of it was notes, incomprehensible and, more often than not, complete foolishness. What little was useful was also insanely dangerous and destructive. I used what I could—and I still want to talk to the scoundrel you purchased it from. I want to find out where he stole or, more likely, scavenged it from.”
“Why, if it was so useless to you?”
Drayfitt shook his head, now apparently a bit angry at himself for saying too much. “You wouldn’t understand, Quorin. You could not begin to understand.”
“Pfah! I’ve no more time for this!” Forgetting that it was he who had started the exchange, the counselor departed—in a direction that took him away from the door. Darkhorse hesitated, not knowing whether he should stay with the sorcerer or follow Quorin.
It was Drayfitt who decided for him. The elderly spellcaster started toward the door and then hesitated, as if he were noticing something for the first time. It was evidently not the stallion that had captured his attention, however, for Drayfitt also turned from the door and returned the way he had come.
Darkhorse watched him go, then drifted in the direction that the counselor had gone. One wonders how anyone gets things done here, what with so many detours along their paths. The tension in the palace was astounding. It was evident just from the two conversations he had followed that no one in charge trusted anyone else. This was a kingdom in danger of collapsing. Perhaps not now, but some time in the future.
They have no lives, just plots.
Quorin had disappeared somewhere in the cavernous corridors of the building, but Darkhorse did not have the power available to him to find out where. All the fragment could do was observe—and even that ability was faltering. So far, all that he had accomplished was to add to his list of questions. In his cage, the shadow steed laughed in self-mockery. He had outfoxed no one but himself with his trick. The sacrifice of this bit of his essence was proving to be worthless.
Despite the near hopelessness of his search, he endeavored to continue. So long as he could see and hear, there was a chance. Somewhere in this leviathan of a palace, he might still find something of value. Darkhorse regretted that he could not have severed a portion of himself strong enough to free him.
While he pondered his deficiencies, he guided what remained of the fragment, through the corridors leading to the main hall, or at least where he assumed it would be. Most palaces, while they reveled in their pomp and majesty, were very much the same inside. Unless the builder and the ruler he had designed it for were both insane, Darkhorse was fairly certain that things would be where he expected them.
He was not mistaken. Both the main hall and the throne room were where they were supposed to be. Regrettably, neither the king nor his underlings were present. The shadow steed cursed as the images grew dark. His lesser self was in the first stages of death—or nonexistence, at least. Something within the eternal twisted painfully at the thought.
“I must insist. He will see me.”
The voice was female and off to the right. Darkhorse forced his pain down and drifted toward the voice. It had been raised to command, and a female authority in the palace of Melicard I was something worth investigating.
The owner of the voice was a small woman who seemed twice as tall as the sentries she was browbeating. All three stood before two massive, wooden doors. By human standards, she was beautiful, with a long, golden mane that would have put many a mare to shame. The female was not from Talak; her mannerisms and a slight accent spoke of the city-state of Gordag-Ai, which Darkhorse had visited once or twice in earlier centuries. Why she was here was a puzzle. There was only one reason that the stallion could think of, but—surely not with Melicard!
Unable to withstand his inbred training, one of the sentries finally stepped aside. The other followed suit immediately. The female, a princess if she had the authority to command the royal guard, waited until the chagrined soldiers opened the doors for her. Only then did she enter, and only after giving the two hapless men an imperial nod. It was almost enough to make Darkhorse laugh.
He followed her in, ignoring the doors as they passed through the misty form of the fragment.
The room was dark, making the dim images even harder to discern. Fortunately, the princess’s first act was to walk determinedly over to a set of curtains rising from the floor to the ceiling and fling them aside. The room was bathed in a flood of sunlight. Darkhorse shifted to a corner less lit, knowing that the fragment, while insubstantial, would still make an odd shadow. A sudden movement from the other end of the room caught his attention. His spirits soared.
Melicard!
The split-faced monarch turned away from the female, but she would have none of his reluctance. Darkhorse admired her strength, though he could not say much for her taste. Evidently, here was a woman bent on saving a man from himself.
A waste of time, my lady, he chided, though he knew she did not hear him. Why must mortal women always think they can bring out what no longer exists?
“What’s happened, Melicard? You act the way you did the first time we met. Have I given you some reason to think that I played you for a fool?”
The king did not respond at first, though he did look up at her from the chair he sat in. Darkhorse could not make out his face as well as he would have wished, but he thought that Melicard was nothing if not confused. Here was a man fighting himself. This was not the same man who had originally visited the imprisoned shadow steed. Darkhorse studied the female with new respect. She had accomplished something.
“I apologize—Erini. My work has become paramount. I cannot say how long it will demand precedence, but I suspect it will be some time. Rather than leave you alone for all that… time, perhaps it might… might be best if you returned to Gordag-Ai. When I can spare the time, I will summon you back.”
The princess, “Erini,” the king had called her, was not to be put off. With a bluntness that surprised both the eavesdropping specter and the disfigured monarch, she walked up to Melicard, put her hands on his face—on both sides of his face!—and replied, “Those are Counselor Quorin’s words, are they not? I recognize the ruthlessness in them, a ruthlessness you could never match! Is he blaming me for some error of his? Am I accused of something? Do you remember the things we did and said the other day? Was that all amusement on your part?”
Melicard opened his mouth to respond, but the first try resulted in a silent swallow. After some effort, he said, “It would not be right to make you part of this. Not now. I don’t dare allow anything to slow progress. I can’t. Not after the setbacks.”
Throughout all of this, Erini had refused to let go. Now, she pulled the king closer, so their faces were only inches apart. “Whatever you decide to do, I want to be at your side. Before I came here, it was infatuation with a memory and a dream. After seeing the real you, the one that men like that mouser you made counselor have tried to hide—with your help—it became love.”
Love? In his cage, Darkhorse snorted in disgust. Love for this sorry creature?
Melicard had as much trouble believing it. “After only a few days? Love… like that… happens only in the tales spun by the minstrels and storymen. How can… you be so certain?”
Erini smiled. “Because I know that you love me, as well.”
She kissed him before he could even begin thinking of a response. Melicard, unprepared, pulled back. His eyes were wide in almost childlike disbelief at what had happened. He could not have had much experience with the complexities of women, not, at least, in the ten years since he had shut himself away.
This is a predatory woman, Darkhorse thought, amused by it all. A capable woman.
The king rose and stepped away from her, but each movement, each hesitation, was an indication that Princess Erini had dashed any argument Melicard might have brought up. He did love
her; that was obvious even to Darkhorse, who had never quite understood the concept since it did not apply to him. The signs were all there, however.
He whirled on her. “How can you love this?” The elfwood arm came up so that the elfwood hand could touch the elfwood face. “This is no epic song. I am no hero. I cannot promise that we will live happily ever after, as they say. You will see this face and this arm every day of your life if you marry me! Do you really want that?”
“Yes.”
Melicard, intending to say more, faltered at the quick, simple response. Erini pressed her advantage. “Even if you had neither the arm nor the reconstructed face, I would want that.”
A knock interrupted them. The looks on both humans’ faces said that an intrusion was the last thing either had wanted. A guard, visibly tense, announced that Drayfitt needed to speak to his majesty. Melicard looked at his betrothed and then at the sentry. “Have him wait just a moment.”
“My liege.” The sentry closed the door.
Turning, Melicard walked over to Erini and put his hands on her shoulders. She was forced to look up to see his face. “We will talk again before the day is over, I promise you that, Erini. I do.”
She wanted to kiss him again and Darkhorse, though the images had become so black as to resemble night, could sense that Melicard wanted to kiss her back. Fear held him back, though. The princess smiled nonetheless. “I look forward to it, Melicard. Perhaps, dinner?”
“Dinner.” He called out for the guard, who opened the door just in time to let the princess through. Darkhorse slowly followed her. Despite the gravity of his predicament and the definite possibility that the king and the sorcerer would be including him in their conversation, the eternal found himself with an overwhelming desire to know more about this woman who could turn Melicard around so. He wished he could contact her, speak to her, for he suspected she might be his key. Her sympathy might do what his powers could not: make the king forget his idiotic dream of harnessing a demon to his service and cause him to release the shadow steed. It was a futile wish, however, for Darkhorse could only see and hear, not speak, not with so weak a fragment, and what remained of this portion of his essence was no longer enough to even gain her attention.
Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. II Page 11