by J. L. Doty
“Oh I slept,” JohnEngine said. “I just didn’t sleep well. Kept having the same dream over and over again.”
“I know what you mean, lad. Damn dreams been keepin’ me awake too. Strangest kind of dreams: angels, faeries—”
JohnEngine started and looked up, spilled his mug of ale across the table. He locked eyes with France and said only, “Ellowyn? Laelith?”
The swordsman rocked back in his chair as if he’d been struck. “Outside the castle wall?” he asked. “At night? With the sounds of the dying in our ears?”
JohnEngine was out of his chair and half way across the kitchen headed for Morgin’s room, cursing his injured leg for slowing him down. The swordsman sprinted past him.
~~~
“I don’t want to go back,” Morgin told the skeleton king. They both sat on an old, rotted log in a forest in some lost memory of a dream. “Please don’t make me go back.”
The skeleton king sighed and adjusted the crown on his head. He looked at Morgin with eyeless sockets, and said, “The choice is not mine, Lord Mortal. It is yours. But if you don’t go back now you’ll spend the rest of eternity like me, going neither forward nor back, forever waiting.”
“That doesn’t seem so bad.”
The skeleton king shrugged. “No. It isn’t. Not at first. But I just sit here and wait, and the days turn into years, and the years into centuries, and the centuries into millennia. And ever and ever I wait.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to release me.”
“To release you? Me?”
“Yes. You. Only you can release me, and then I can go on.” The skeleton king looked upward wistfully. “I’m frightened of what I’ll find there, but anything will be better than this. Anything.”
“But how can I release you?”
“By going back.”
“But I don’t want to go back.”
“But you must. If not for yourself then for me.”
Morgin thought long and hard for a moment. He didn’t want to go back, because he was tired of the pain and the sorrow that awaited him there. But deep within he knew he must go back. He turned toward the skeleton king to tell him his decision, but the king was gone, and so were the log and the forest, and all sight and sound and existence. Only darkness remained.
Chapter 26: The Dreamer
One day Morgin became suddenly aware of his surroundings again; though not suddenly awake. For many days but had lain in a stupor of unawareness, passive, unknowing and uncaring. And then suddenly he looked in the eyes of a woman and realized he lay in the arms of an angel. “My lord,” she said softly, tracing her fingers across the enormous, ugly scar in the center of his chest. “It gladdens me to see that you have chosen to rejoin the living.”
But angels were for dreams, and by that he knew he was dreaming, and he knew that with this dream’s end would come a painful reality.
Ellowyn was gone when he truly awoke, though Rhianne sat in a chair near his bed. She’d fallen asleep there, her head bowed, her hair loose and draped about her face, her mouth open in a very unladylike way. And yet, she was still so beautiful, not Ellowyn’s kind of beauty, which was a cold thing to admire from afar. No, Rhianne’s attraction was the simple beauty of a pretty girl with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. He longed to see her open her eyes, to see that mischievous twinkle that seemed to imply the two of them shared some hidden secret. But he hadn’t seen that twinkle in years.
She started, opened her eyes, blinked several times in that moment of confusion that comes with waking in a strange place. She yawned, extended her arms and stretched, arching her back, and Morgin wondered why everything had gone so wrong between them. Yes, she’d been the first to slight him, selfish and self-centered, she’d humiliated him. But he had more than paid her back, had put her through two years of pure grief. Only a few moons ago it had been time to mend the rift between them, and then he’d watched her betray him, watched her go willingly to Valso’s bed, and all of his longing desire crashed about him.
She stood and took a moment to straighten her dress, still not aware that he was awake and watching her. When she did finally look his way, and saw that his eyes were open, she froze.
“Morgin!” She crossed the room in an instant, hovered over him. “Are you in pain? What should I do?”
She’d gone willingly to Valso’s bed. It hurt to speak, but he would let nothing stop him from saying the one thing he needed to say. “You can get out of my sight, you traitorous slut.”
She blinked her eyes several times, clearly confused. Obviously, she still believed he had no idea she’d betrayed him, betrayed them all. A tear rolled down her cheek, then she fled from the room.
~~~
Morgin was quite helpless, horribly weak, unable to stand or even sit, the slightest movement demanding a toll of pain that often sent him back into unconsciousness. But he was never allowed to be alone, for clearly Rhianne had been tasked with caring for him. She hovered fearfully in the background when he was awake, and the angel and the faerie were ever at hand in his dreams, ministering to him, frequently knowing his desires even before he did.
AnnaRail came to see him soon after he first regained consciousness. He could see in her face that she wanted to hold him and nurture him, but she hesitated, looked at him as if he were a stranger, and in that hesitation he saw distrust.
“Mother,” he said softly, which was as loud as he could say anything.
“Morgin?” she said, speaking his name almost as if it were a question. She reached out, touched his face gently, but the comfort he’d expected was not there. “You are Morgin, aren’t you? You are my son?”
He tried to nod. “I am as much your son as I have ever been.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Her brow wrinkled as she clearly wondered if there was some hidden meaning there. But then she smiled warmly and touched his face. “Yes. You are my son,” she said, but he sensed doubt in her voice.
She sat down in the straight-backed, wooden chair that Ellowyn—or was it Rhianne—kept near his bed, and she tried to pretend that her face did not mirror her feelings. But Morgin sensed a certain reserve within her, a wall between them that had never been there before.
“Are they treating you well?” she asked.
“As well as they can,” he answered.
“I’m glad.”
A long uncomfortable silence settled between them. He kept thinking of all the things he should tell her, wanted to tell her, but for some unknown reason he held back, remained silent.
“You’re tired,” she said, breaking the silence. “I can see that you’re tired.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“I’ll go then, and give you a chance to rest.”
She stood. As she walked out of the room he whispered, “Please come again.” But she seemed not to hear.
The days of summer were hot, and often he would fever badly. At such times Ellowyn would cool his brow with water while Laelith hovered above him, casting a gentle breeze by fluttering her tiny wings. Not infrequently his fever would turn to chill and Ellowyn would lie beside him, warming him with the warmth of her own naked body. Later, when the fever had passed and he could think again clearly, he remembered that even though she was an angel she had the body of a woman, complete in every detail, without the slightest hint that she was herself not mortal. Or was it Rhianne who had lain beside him to warm him? His dreams left him so confused.
In the days that followed Morgin received a steady stream of visitors, all anxious to pay their respects to the great warrior lord who had single handedly defeated the Decouix menace. Of course Rhianne—or was it Ellowyn—always hovered in the background.
Wylow was the first to come. Lord of Castle Inetka, it was his privilege to precede all others in his own house. One of his five sons had died on the battlefield at Csairne Glen, and another had been sorely wounded, lived for three days of agony, then finally succ
umbed to the mutilation of his body. But the three that remained accompanied their father during his visit with the great Elhiyne lord, for they were all comrades in arms now.
Wylow’s three sons were about Morgin’s age, and yet they treated him as if he were much older, a great warrior sorcerer deserving of their respect, even their awe. Even Wylow lacked some of his usual exuberance, bowing respectfully where he would normally have slapped Morgin on the back and made some ribald joke by way of greeting.
One of his sons had acquired an enormous scar where a Kull saber had slid across his ribs. He lifted his tunic and displayed it proudly, a badge of honor, a trophy of battle, a testament to his courage and manhood. No doubt the boy would show it to as many of the young ladies as possible, and brag of his prowess as a warrior. And, oddly enough, his two brothers looked as if they wished they had been lucky enough to be so maimed. But the degree of the wound’s healing reminded Morgin of how impossibly long he’d lain unconscious, and not of this world.
The boy with the scar said, “Even from the far side of the glen we could sense your power. You were truly magnificent. You were the greatest wizard there, the greatest sorcerer any of us has ever seen.”
“You exaggerate,” Morgin said. He was uncomfortable with the hero worship he saw in the boy’s eyes.
“Aye,” Wylow said. “The boy exaggerates. His eye is still filled with the glory of battle, and his heart with the glory of victory. But perhaps he does not exaggerate as much as you believe . . . ShadowLord.”
That was the first time since Csairne Glen that anyone had called him by that name. Once Wylow and his sons were gone Morgin thought long and hard on that. They had spoken of more war, of uniting the Lesser Clans and carrying the battle to the north, even perhaps to Durin, where they would lay siege to the Council of the Greater Clans. Morgin had a vision of another Csairne Glen, of the northern lands strewn with dead, and the carnage stretching from horizon to horizon.
His next visitors were Edtoall and Matill and Rhianne’s sisters and their husbands. Matill positively gushed over him, while Edtoall stood by him proudly and recounted the grand exploits of the great ShadowLord. Morgin was beginning to realize that again his status had changed, that he had become a public figure with a reputation that grew daily. And as his in-laws, Edtoall and Matill’s status had increased with his. There was no doubt that they hoped his reputation would continue to grow, and were quite willing to help things along by instigating a carefully chosen rumor or two, spreading the word about his prowess, his power, his magic.
Rhianne’s sisters said almost nothing. They sat politely ladylike, beaming some of that same hero worship that Morgin had seen in Wylow’s sons. Their husbands, though, while silent much like their wives, showed reactions that ranged from indifference, to boredom, to outright malice. Morgin couldn’t really blame them if they grew tired of hearing of the ShadowLord’s exploits. He certainly had had more than enough.
Rhianne, as always hovering in the background, shooed them all away. But Edtoall dallied, pleading the need for a short, private conference.
“About that wife of yours,” he said to Morgin when they were alone. “Would you mind a bit of advice from an old man who is a little more experienced in these matters?”
Without waiting for an answer Edtoall said fiercely, “Bed her, lad. Bed her hard. Take your pleasure in her and see that she takes none in you. She needs that. She’s a woman, and sometimes a woman has to be taught her place.”
Morgin looked closely at the older man, and he knew in some way that Edtoall would never dream of treating Matill so, for Matill would not allow it.
“A good woman is like a good horse, Morgin my son. Spirited. But give her too much rein and she’ll break away from you. And that’s when you must let her feel the spurs of you displeasure.”
There was never any doubt in Morgin that he would not take such advice. He could not treat a woman that way. And in any case, regarding Rhianne, when he was well enough he was probably just going to kill her. She was likely still alive only because no one else knew of her treachery.
When Edtoall had gone Morgin fell into a deep sleep, and in his dreams Ellowyn fussed over him unsparingly, tucking the covers tightly about him, constantly touching his forehead to test for any fever. He asked her if she’d heard Edtoall’s comments. She nodded.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
“Perhaps he is correct, my lord. I myself do not know how to properly treat a woman, so I cannot judge.”
“But you’re a woman yourself. And certainly you know how you’d like to be treated.”
“But you are wrong, my lord. I am no woman.”
Morgin laughed. “Surely you are no man.”
“No, my lord,” she said matter-of-factly. “But neither am I a woman. I am an angel, and not of this world.”
Morgin stared at her for a long moment, trying to understand if she was teasing him, but she was not. “Damn you!” he swore.
Her eyes opened wide. “I am sorry, my lord, if I have offended you. But I cannot damn myself, though I’m sure that if you speak to my master he will be happy to damn me in any way you wish.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Morgin snarled. “And who is your master?”
“That I do not know, my lord. I had, of course, assumed that you knew.”
“Of course,” Morgin said. “Go away and let me sleep.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
~~~
Eglahan and Annen and Tulellcoe and Val and Cort came to visit. Packwill came with them, but as always, when in the presence of clansmen, he chose to stand discretely in the background and speak only when addressed. It was easy to forget he was there at all, especially with the others so near, and often so loud.
“Damn, lad!” Eglahan said. “We thought you were dead.”
Morgin shrugged. “There are moments when I myself thought I was dead.”
“The ShadowLord lives again,” Annen shouted, making it almost a cheer. “It was your cousin Brandon who found you, buried under dead Kulls, pinned to the ground by a broken lance. There seemed little life in you.”
“Life is a curious thing,” Val said. “The healthiest of men will suddenly die for no apparent reason; or the sickest of the old will live on and on. With the will to live, who can say how close to death one might venture and still return to the living?”
“Lately I’ve thought of that a lot,” Morgin said. He tried to hide his unease. “And sometimes . . . I wonder if maybe I didn’t actually die out there . . . and then somehow return to the living.”
“Impossible,” Eglahan declared flatly.
Annen shook his head, agreeing with him.
Val said nothing, but his eyes returned Morgin’s unease.
Tulellcoe shook his head uncomfortably, and without conviction said, “He’s right. That kind of power is beyond any living mortal.”
Morgin looked at Tulellcoe closely. There was suspicion in his voice, and while Morgin saw none in his eyes, he sensed the same unease that had been in AnnaRail. Again, one who had been close to him seemed now far and distant.
Annen spoke as if testing Morgin. “There is talk, ShadowLord, of carrying this war to Durin. Some even speak of uniting the Lesser Clans to do so.”
Morgin shrugged indifferently. “I thought this war was done. And besides, it will be a long time before I am healed sufficiently to return to war. And then I doubt that I will want to do so.”
Val sighed as if relieved of a great fear, but Annen grew visibly angry. “After what they did to us you’ll not return the favor?”
Morgin thought of Csairne Glen. “I have seen war. It is like nothing I have ever seen before, and it is something I wish never to see again.”
“Hear, hear!” Val said. “For once let us seek peace.”
“Peace?” Annen asked scornfully, turning on Val angrily. “It’s easy for you to say that. They didn’t burn your home and your crops. Your women aren’t living this very momen
t in caves like animals. The coward in you—”
“Annen,” Eglahan shouted. “You go too far. The Surriot is no coward.”
Annen flinched under his father’s anger, and his own anger faded quickly. “Forgive me, Valken Surriot. I know you are no coward. I know that well, but my mouth sometimes spouts thoughtless anger.”
Val smiled forgivingly, clapped Annen on the back. “I take no offense, Annen ye Elhiyne. But we have debated this repeatedly now for several days, and neither of us appears ready to concede so much as the slightest point. Perhaps we should lay it aside for now.”
Annen grinned and nodded. “Agreed.”
Morgin frowned. “What’s all this about?”
Val shrugged. “Like you I wish never to see war again. So when the question of further bloodshed arises, I try to seek alternatives.”
Eglahan gave Annen a hard but friendly slap between the shoulder blades. “And my son here is a hot blooded fool who needs to spend more time thinking of wenches, and less of war.” Eglahan suddenly remembered Cort, who’d been strangely silent. He turned to her and bowed. “Forgive me, my lady.”
She smiled. “Apology accepted, Lord Eglahan. But it seems to me when you men go chasing the ladies, sometimes that too means war, eh?”
They all laughed at that. It was the first time Morgin had laughed in what seemed a long, long time.
When it was time for them to go Tulellcoe seemed oddly relieved to be gone. Cort was the last to leave, and as she turned to go she said, “I pray that you heal quickly, my lord.”
“My lord?” Morgin asked. “Why so formal? Why am I no longer just Morgin?”
She shrugged. “It has been a long time since you were just Morgin. After all, you are the ShadowLord.”
“That’s just a name,” Morgin said. “Nothing more.”
“Oh, but you are wrong, my lord. It is far more than just a name; it is a symbol. It represents honor and power. It was the ShadowLord who opposed the Decouix menace, and it was he who defeated them.”