A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy)

by Eisenhardt, Leighmon

  The water was cool and soothing. Marcius drank his fill before handing it back to the elf. She traded the skin for a simple bread roll. “Eat this and gather your strength.” She stood up and walked to the door, “Our wizards must be informed of your recovery. You have many questions to answer, rogue wizard. Do not think of using magic to escape. This room is enchanted by the most powerful wizards of our kind to nullify the gathering of nether. Unless you’re far more accomplished than you appear, anything you do will fail.”

  The sturdy wooden door groaned on its hinges as the elf opened it. She gave him one last pointed look before closing it behind her, and Marcius heard the bolt again slam into place. Right before she had closed the door, Marcius caught glimpses of guards outside of his room.

  Well, he was a prisoner. Now what? Marcius bit into the roll, deciding to follow his captor’s advice. He was pleasantly surprised, for the inside was filled with a mixture of unidentifiable fruits held together by a delicious paste. He was torn between eating it quickly, or savoring each and every bite. All too soon it was gone. Licking his fingertips, he felt remarkably better.

  Good enough to risk his weakness and swing himself out of bed. His muscles ached and there was a weak bout of dizziness, but nothing that he deemed too severe to deter him from exploring his ‘cage.’ He gingerly touched the bandage around his head, a dull stab of pain reminding him of that particular injury.

  As he climbed out bed, the first thing he noticed was his clothes. He was wearing an outfit that followed the same general gist of Selene’s, except it was a deep blue. There was just one problem. Who had changed him? At the thought, the mental picture of Selene with her knowing eyes came to the forefront of his mind. Blushing, he shook it away and continued his examination of the room.

  Like the ceiling, the room walls were smooth with no visible boards to indicate construction. It was as if he was trapped in a wooden cave hollowed out of a wooden mountain. Running his hand along the wall he found that it was just as smooth to the touch as it appeared and a quick rap of his knuckles revealed to him that it was of solid construction. Truly he had never seen anything like it before.

  He also noticed that the inside was well lit, though it had no discernible light source. How did they do it? Some magic spell? Mentally filing that mystery away, he continued with his exploration.

  Curiosity got the better of him as he neared the desk nearby the foot of his bed. Long scroll tubes littered the desk, and after a brief moment of hesitancy, Marcius decided to open them. Surprise filled him as he saw a comprehensive listing of Elvish traditions and customs, all written in Common. Had Selene left this here for him? It seemed at odds with her rather callous words earlier.

  He sat down, unfurling the scrolls completely, and began to read. It was enlightening for him, since Antaigne’s information on elves was lacking to say the least. Not that it surprised Marcius. It was well known that there was bad blood between the two races, and though Antaigne was an oddity for most dwarves, some habits were just too ingrained.

  Time passed quickly for the apprentice as he studied the scrolls. They were obviously old and a good deal of time was wasted to ensure that he didn’t risk any damage to them. The detail was astonishing and Marcius found himself struggling to retain and interpret the myriad of rules and exceptions to those rules. For the first time in a long time Marcius was enjoying himself.

  He didn’t hear the lock being turned and barely managed to roll the scrolls up, stuff them in their respective cases (wincing a bit as he did so), and put on a mask of innocence before two elves walked in.

  One was Selene and she pointedly looked from him to the scrolls and the faintest hint of a grin lit on her face. The knowing smile was quickly replaced by the impassive wall as she indicated the elf that came in with her, “This is Ganiele, a mage of the court that will be questioning you.”

  The elf in question was typical for his kind, long haired and with piercing eyes, but he eschewed the leather and practical clothing of his companion in favor of longer robes of a deep crimson with intricate designs done in rich black. The staff he carried was, on the other hand, plain, simple and wooden, with only the gleaming red stone at the tip to indicate it was anything of importance. It sparkled fiercely in the unnatural light of the room.

  “Greetings human. I am Ganiele,” he said, flourishing his hand into a small gesture that left him looking up at Marcius expectantly.

  Marcius held a smile. So that was the purpose of the scrolls. This was a test. When two different races met formally, one was required to greet the other in their native tongue. He returned the gesture, “Tiarle, Ganiele. Ai’le de Marcius.” The pronunciation was difficult and he knew he fumbled a bit, but the look of surprise on the elf’s face told him that he was close enough.

  “I see you have been busy, Marcius. It is good to have a human who learns our culture for once, though I fear what I am about to do will take away any sympathy you might have for our race.”

  The look the elf gave Marcius was so severe, such a harsh shift in body language, that Marcius was momentarily taken aback. “Sit, human,” Selene said, gesturing to the chair.

  Marcius obeyed reflexively, sitting down before he even had time to question what it was they were going to do.

  The elven mage grabbed Marcius by the head, pressing his thumbs sharply into his temples. The mage started to mutter arcane phrases, the thumbs moving in time with each sentence and Marcius’s magic senses went crazy. He felt so vulnerable without his nether sight! There was real magic, real strong magic, at work here!

  “What are you doing?” he bit the last part of his question off as a particularly strong jolt of magic surged through his body. “How can you do this, in this room?”

  The mage gave a wry grin, but it was Selene that answered. “This room is designed especially for human wizards. It doesn’t affect our spell casting. Now be quiet, let Ganiele work. This will go quicker if you cooperate with us.”

  Still, with every arcane pass, Marcius’s sense of “wrongness” only got stronger, matching the rising crescendo that he felt in the very core of his body. He was a string strung too taut, teetering on the edge of a bottomless chasm.

  Then, with a final word, the thumbs stopped moving and the string snapped.

  Power came pouring forth from the elf, bashing and casting aside whatever feeble barriers Marcius had around his mind. It was a torrent of water rushing through the valley of his memory, picking up bits and pieces of whatever it chose. It roared with the fury of a summer storm.

  The pain was excruciating, rattling every facet of structure that made him who he was. It felt like something was pulling the very fabric of his body apart, stitch by stitch. Marcius felt the power change, a different side of the same dangerous coin; it became subtle, but also sharp, like a knife.

  Now, instead of crashing through his memories, it stalked them like a hunter, grabbing each one, pulling them forcibly out, and examining them in detail. The pain became worse, if that was possible. It reached a fevered pitch, a whine that chilled the very marrow in his bones.

  Flashes of his memories, some long forgotten, flickered in front of his eyes, punctuating each stab with a figurative one. Glimpses of Jared talking, Antaigne’s burning cottage, his father’s vacant stare. . . All his insecurities, fears, failures, and everything else that made him. . . well him, that he valued, laid bare for this. . . intruder.

  His inner self raged at the injustice. He wanted it gone, out of his head! Away! It did not belong! He focused on that thought, anger lending him strength against the pain. The memories that flickered before his consciousness became clouded in red as his fury gave him leverage that he never knew he had. The power recoiled, as if shocked, and Marcius surged forward, instinct taking over.

  A shock wave in mind as well as body ricocheted through the room, and Marcius found himself on his knees as his head wound throbbed painfully, his vision misting over in a red haze. Several long moments passed before his sig
ht cleared and he had the mind to glare at the elven mage. His anger was replaced with bewildered astonishment.

  The room was untouched, though the light rippled like a pond disturbed. Marcius could only guess as to the havoc that played within the nether itself. The mage was on the ground, flat on his back, holding his staff in front of him, as if afraid of it. A blackened pit was all that remained of the once bright jewel, smoke trailing it in wisps. Selene seemed equally tense, frozen in place as she glanced warily back and forth between the mage and Marcius like a cat that had to choose between two mice.

  “Tialere d’e Avalene. . . ” the elven mage breathed, pushing himself up to his feet with a groan, though his eyes never left the staff. The mage’s face was pale and a sheen of sweat glistened as he stared thoughtfully at the staff.

  Slowly, as if it pained him, Gianle pulled his gaze away and their eyes met. A long string of emotions showed themselves on the elf’s face. Surprise, anger, disbelief, and the most dominate one was blatant fear. Marcius wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but lingering anger prompted him to match the elf’s stare and it was the mage that looked away first.

  “Human,” the mage whispered in a voice so low that Marcius had to strain to hear it, “What exactly are you?”

  “What did you see?” Selene asked in Common for Marcius’s benefit.

  The mage shook his head, pointedly not looking at Marcius. “He is no threat to Selenthia. Though I saw things that raise suspicions of other problems, they are not any of our business.”

  “And what of this magic? I thought this room was warded from such things?”

  The elf gave a dry chuckle, running a hand through his hair, “You know there is only one answer. You were right.”

  “You mean. . . ?” Selene whispered, switching over to elvish halfway, “Dialre de yeiern. . . Akblaleth?”

  The elven mage nodded, and finally Marcius had enough. “What are you two talking about? I’m innocent, right? So why do I still feel like a prisoner?”

  “Such rashness, from these humans. . . ” and the mage trailed off when Selene raised her hand.

  “Human, though Ganiele hasn’t found anything, it still must be brought before our council. They will be the ones to pardon you. Plus, the magic you have done in this room must also be brought up. This. . . this should not have happened.”

  “But it wasn’t my fault! I don’t even know what I did. He went through my head and I just reacted!”

  “Perhaps you don’t understand the situation you are in, human. You are a prisoner of war. Though you are not guilty of action against Selenthia, you are guilty at being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Your freedom will come at our pace, not yours.”

  “That’s not fair!” Like a whip, Selene’s hand shot out to grab Marcius by his collar and with surprising strength, she dragged him to where they were face to face.

  “Many things in Faelon are not fair. The destruction of this forest isn’t fair. The comrades that die in every battle isn’t fair. The corpses of our children that you humans leave behind isn’t fair. You will learn your priorities. You are at our mercy, and it is time that you realize that.”

  Marcius’s heart pounded in his chest as his very blood seemed to chill at the elf’s words. The emerald eyes continued to bore a hole into his own, daring him to contradict her words. When he didn’t, she let him go with a jerk. Chastised, Marcius fell back onto the floor rubbing his neck ruefully; the wound on his head throbbed painfully.

  “You could at least call me by my name. Considering all I’ve been through, I’d like to think I’ve earned that much,” Marcius muttered a bit louder than he’d intended.

  Selene’s eyes narrowed and Marcius braced himself, but her face softened and she gave a light nod of consent. “Aye, my apologies. . . Marcius. That much we can do. You will find your stay here not unpleasant if you are not impatient, though you are still restricted to this room. You are a curiosity, something we did not account for, and the council shall take some time coming to a decision about you. At the very least, we will have to inform the Academy of your existence.”

  Marcius nodded grimly. It could be much worse. The Academy would have found out about him when he had showed up to their doorstep anyway. Hopefully he could get in touch with Alicia before then. Until that time, he was stuck, as Selene had said, at the mercy of the elves.

  “Wait!” he said to the retreating backs of the two as they opened the door, “What. . . what did I do just now?”

  Selene turned, and there was no anger. It was a guarded blank expression that scared Marcius far more than anything else that had happened. “If it is what I think it is. . . may Avalene save us all. . . You. . . should not exist.”

  The door shut, and the bolt slammed into place. Marcius stared blankly, his mind reeling at the elf’s words. He should not exist? What kind of response was that? What type of magic had he done? He always seemed to have a difficult time when Antaigne had trained him. Simple things that should have been mastered easily always seemed to slip through his fingers. . . when had he been capable of the feats he managed in the last couple days. . . without Faerril?

  He plopped down on the hard wooden floor, running his hands through his hair until they got caught in the bandages. Gently he hugged his knees, rocking back and forth. Marcius felt so alone right now, so far away from home. It suddenly hit him. Was it worth it? Was magic, was his dream, worth all of this? Should not exist. . . he missed his father and friends so much right now.

  But most of all, he missed Faerril.

  ❧　❧　❧

  “That was cruel. Throwing him in the ocean like that.” Two figures overlooked the seaside cliff. The waves roared on the rocks below. The rest of the area hid beneath a heavy fog. Off in the distance, the moon hung low.

  “Cruel? Maybe. But necessary,” the second figure replied with the hard feminine voice usually reserved for aging mothers. “It got him to where he needed to go.”

  “Will he remember your interference? Might it not cause him to question why he took that jump off the boat? I wonder if it is really necessary.” The first figure replied, the thin rasp of his voice barely discernible over the crashing tide.

  “Of course it is. The boy will not remember the reason for falling, just that he did. I was too careful to miss something so simple. He is a dull piece of metal. He must be forged, sharpened, and given purpose. He is weak now, but so is everything at some point. Soon he will be a weapon the likes of which they’ve never seen.”

  “Weapon? Indeed, perhaps. Still, meddling like this. . . it is unbecoming.”

  “I’ve mettled much to get to this point. You need to hammer and destroy metal to make a sword, bending it to the shape you desire.” A brief pause as the little play on words was digested. “It wasn’t meant to be pleasant. But the end choice, well, that will be in his hands. We will need him. . . to go where we may not.”

  “And if he chooses something other than what you want?”

  There was a window of silence, where much is said without the clumsy interference of words. Then, “He will choose the correct path. Anyway, it is out of our hands for the moment. . . he will soon meet. . . him.”

  There was a snort. “Are you sure you wish to risk your weapon with the likes of such a creature?”

  “He is chained by magics and rules as ancient as we are. Also, I think it all appeals to the vain part in his soul that wishes to change the world, rather than sit off to the side, watching it pass him by.”

  “Maybe, but remember that even chained dogs still have teeth. You might find his around your throat one day.”

  “Do you speak of the boy. . . or the creature?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter 23

  The door swung open dramatically, quickly followed by a host of elves filing into the room with military precision. Marcius rubbed his weary eyes in surprise as a fully armor clad Selene strode in as well, a beacon of confidence. “Come, Marcius,” she said in a voice that
left no room for debate, “It is time for the council to see you.”

  Marcius scrambled out of bed, his heart beating hard with both relief and apprehension. A few days had passed since he had seen anybody, and he had settled into the uncomfortable pattern of a man that had nothing to do for an unforeseen amount of time. It was wake up, reread the scrolls on the table, eat the food that always mysteriously appeared between bouts of restless sleep, then, since there was no sense of time in the windowless room, go to sleep when tired.

  As soon as his feet hit the floor, he was surrounded on all sides by grim-faced guards. They were all typical for elves, thin in body and fair of skin, though there was no sparkle in their eyes, no sense of boundless barely contained energy. Nothing showed but a determined countenance that spoke far louder than if they had openly threatened him. If he tried to escape or do anything they didn’t want him to, strayed too far from the path, Marcius knew he was dead in half a heartbeat.

  Large manacles were clasped on his wrist; a small sheet of hard metal that was attached came over to snap into place between his fingers. To stop his spell casting, Marcius realized. The elves were very thorough.

  As he followed them, escorted on all sides by the guards, he finally got a decent look at Selene. She strode through the winding wooden hallway, leading the procession with a sense of authority that impressed Marcius. Just who was she? She had called herself a Battle-Mistress, and it was obvious that she commanded a bit of power at least, if the fine make of her armor and the obedience of the guards was any indicator.