by Lou Hoffmann
Suddenly confronted by a wall in his own mind, a towering refusal to believe that his own beloved nephew had fallen into such a state, he roughly pulled back the blanket and Luccan’s shirt to see the proof.
And there it is.
Luccan bore a mark, the scar of a burn in the center of his chest. Golden in color, it had come, Thurlock said, from the moment in Isa’s tower when Luccan had chosen to own his power, had wielded it to save Thurlock and himself from the power of Mahl, the always-hungry god Isa had served. There was no mistaking its exploding sun pattern, and now it was more vivid than ever as if in opposition to the decay surrounding it.
Fear and loathing poured through Han in equal measure, replacing doubt with horror. He was reminded of a movie he and Thurlock had watched—much to their regret—while they were in Earth looking for Luccan. The Exorcist, it was called. He understood why the nurses sent to watch Luccan were so afraid that they sat riveted to their chairs. He could almost forgive it. The urge to run from this room was strong, even for him.
Regardless, he told himself, they’re doing no good here. Turning to them, he said in a hushed voice, “You two can leave. If you can control your tongues, I ask you to keep quiet about things you don’t understand.”
Not that he understood it a lot better. As with that devil-possessed child in the movie, whatever—or whoever—had taken and twisted Luccan, it was no physical being. And it was Luccan’s mind that was haunted. Wandering in anyone’s mind at any time was a risky proposition for a telepath like Han. But wandering in a haunted mind, or a possessed one—that promised to be far more dangerous. Nevertheless….
He knew that if he opened his mind without fully immersing himself, a natural reaction born of fear—very sensible fear—might spin him back out before he had a chance to reach Luccan or do anything to help him. He could prevent that by making physical contact at the same moment that he opened his mind—the connection then would be instantaneous and so strong it could be difficult for him to break even if he wanted to. His earlier fear of being trapped wasn’t unfounded.
Still, he resolved to do it. He would help Luccan, or he’d go down with him.
Before diving in, he gathered his mind and sent a thought with all the force and distance of an arrow from a long bow, aimed for Thurlock. “Wizard, if you can hear me, heed this. Don’t delay. The Sisterhold, the Sunlands, and the Suth Chiell need you. As do I.”
He turned to Zhevi, who had bravely entered the room with him and stood stalwartly, like the young warrior he was, a pace away from the foot of the bed. “Zhevi, I have an assignment for you. Seek out Rose or Lem, and whichever you find first, tell them to see to it that I’m not disturbed here by anyone but Thurlock. Make them understand it could be dangerous for anyone to be here, even a healer. Then gather yourself some provisions in case you miss a meal or two, and go stand watch at the crossroads of Orchard Road and the East-West Way. I’m….” He paused to double-check his intuition, then nodded. “I’m sure that’s the way Thurlock will approach. When you see him, tell him I beg his assistance here. Ask him to come as quickly as he can, no delays. Tell him the Suth Chiell’s life is in danger.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “And mine might also be.”
“But… sir?”
Han held up a hand. “Do you have the message? Understand your orders?”
“I… I do, sir.”
“Good. Then go. And Zhevi?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you for everything today. You’ve helped me more than you know.”
Han waited for the door to close behind Zhevi. “Behlishan,” he said, but he wasn’t much of one for prayers, and no more words came. Then he set his intention, laid his hands upon Luccan’s chest—upon the mark left there by Luccan’s own magic—and fully opened his mind.
LUCKY FELT Han’s entrance into what had become his cold, dark world like a jolt of electricity. It stirred some part of his mind he’d allowed to falter as he’d stood, bound and bitter cold, waiting for the return of his mother’s shade and focused solely on refusing her.
“I am Luccan Elieth Perdhro, Mannatha, Suth Chiell.” He’d repeated it so many times he no longer even heard the words, only a steady set of syllables and accents that meant, “you can’t have me.” He was rehearsing for when she came back, that was all.
But while he waited for her he’d become aware that he held something in his hand—in his real, living hand. He held the thing very tight. He knew it was important, essential even, although he wondered what the heck it was. It hurt to squeeze his fingers over it, burned, but that pain was welcome, because it told him that—in that other world where color and warmth waited—he was still alive. He decided to believe he would get back there, but only because he felt better if he thought that. Nothing about the place he was in and the things happening to him now suggested he’d ever leave. Especially not bound as he was by the burning-cold ropes of shadow, and held far, far down in this world where he, like his mother, was neither alive nor dead.
Neither alive nor dead. He’d accepted that he was simply made of pain, and if he died in this place, that’s what he would always be: pain.
But when Han came in, things changed. When Han touched him, lightning burned through him leaving a stigma of red-gold light on the backs of his eyelids in the shape of a winged dragon. That, he thought, is what Han looks like here. Han put a dragon hand on his shoulder and squeezed, which seemed to Lucky like more comfort than he’d ever been offered anywhere before. He thought he might cry in relief, but Han said, “Let’s go,” and tugged at him—his mind, or maybe his body, or both. Lucky didn’t know. For a moment they jetted upward together, pulled by the sheer strength of Han’s mind. But then they shot into a pillar of black mist, and the mist-ropes wound around them both, securing them in an icy, burning, thorny net.
Lucky couldn’t see his mother, but he heard her laughing. “Welcome, Han Shieth,” she taunted. “You’ll make a fine thrall, an obedient soldier in my army. Luccan will be at my side, and he too will command you. You are mine now, or you are nothing at all. I’ll let you choose.”
Han the red dragon answered. “I am Han Rha-Behl Ah’Shieth, and you will never command me.”
Lucky said, “I am Luccan Elieth Perdhro, Mannatha, Suth Chiell, and I will not be at your side.”
The evil ropes tightened around Lucky, tried to pull him away from Han, and though Han and he clung to each other, the mist had more strength here.
“Wake up, Luccan,” Han said.
Lucky decided he wanted that more than anything. Fighting the nets, they struggled to break their bonds and move upward again. The more they struggled the colder and sharper the mist-ropes got, and the more pain they inflicted. Lucky had thought the pain he endured earlier was the most he could bear, but this was worse, and then suddenly he could feel Han’s pain too. He would have fainted from it, he thought, if he hadn’t already been unconscious.
“Uncle Han,” he said. “Breathe fire. Cut the ropes with fire.”
“What?”
“You’re a dragon. Breathe fire.”
“I’m not…,” Han started, but then he looked at his arm, must have seen the scales and claws, and said, “Oh!” He narrowed his eyes, apparently concentrating, and gave an experimental hhaah! Flame shot weakly from his mouth… snout.
“I don’t want to burn you,” he said, “but I don’t think I’ll burn.” He burned through the ropes binding his own body.
The net fell away from both of them and Lucky cheered, but Han didn’t look so good—a little green around the eyes, shivering.
“Han!”
“I guess fire takes a lot out of a dragon,” he said. His wings flapped weakly. “I want to fly you up out of here, Luccan, but I can’t. You’ve got to help.”
Again, Lucky was taken back in memory to the fight in Isa’s tower. That’s what Thurlock had said: “you’ve got to help.” Lucky hadn’t believed he could do something a powerful wizard couldn’t manage, but in the
end he’d used what he’d been given…. The Key of Behliseth… which… was what he now held in his hand!
Excited, he grabbed hold of Han’s long snout with his other hand and slung it over his shoulder, draping the small dragon that was his uncle over his back as in an odd version of a fireman’s carry, and held his free fist skyward.
“I’m Luccan Elieth Perdhro, Mannatha, Suth Chiell, and I’m outta here!”
For an instant, it was glorious. They shot upward fast and far, and Luccan could see a hole overhead, a round aperture in the darkness opening onto true daylight.
But then his mother’s voice thundered behind him. “No!”
A blast of cold hit them face-on, and once again the mists attacked them, holding them, dragging them back. A translucent membrane closed over the aperture above. Lucky realized they weren’t going to make it. Even the power of the Key wasn’t enough to keep all this at bay, and Han was all but unconscious now. If his mother had her way, she would keep them both in her death-trap world.
Lucky decided it wasn’t going to be that way. Maybe he couldn’t save himself, but he could, and he would, save Han Shieth. This awful place, the awful thing his mother had become, the horrid creatures she’d assembled for her war—they won’t have my uncle.
He began pushing upward, struggling free of the mist-ropes and swimming doggedly through nothingness toward the light above, though his strength was flagging. Suddenly, the haunting paused. No ghostly beings, no writhing shadows, no mother’s voice. It was as if the force of his will had pushed it all back, left it behind. But the membrane that blocked the opening remained in place.
His mother’s voice came again, still far below, but coming closer. “I will not let you go, Luccan.”
Lucky knew two things. One, he’d have to break that shield blocking the way—the task was his alone. Han couldn’t do it even if he came to and tried to help, because the only magic that would work belonged to Lucky. Two, Han might get out, but he, Lucky, wasn’t going to make it. That barrier was made to keep him in, not Han. His mother would get over losing Han as a thrall, but she wasn’t going to lose him.
So be it.
He breathed deep to gather his strength, focused his mind on the Key of Behliseth, took his dragon uncle by the tail and whirled him around like winding up for a softball pitch. With a yell that sounded in his own ears like a warrior’s battle cry, he let go of Han, raised the fist clenched around the Key of Behliseth to his chest, and wished with all his heart to send Han home. Golden light and a sweet bell sound burst from the Key. As Luccan watched, Han flew skyward, turning from dragon to man midflight. The beam of light from the Key of Behliseth struck the Mark of the Sun on Han’s shoulder, Han rocketed up and out, and then he was gone.
Lucky fell back, exhausted, the light of the Key extinguished, though some of its warmth remained. He hovered now near the surface, and though he heard his mother’s unwelcome pleading and scolding as well as the din of distant battle, and though he felt cold licking at his back and the occasional loathsome touch of the mists, and though the smell of death came faintly to his nostrils, he stayed afloat over it all.
He could still see the light through the aperture, and he thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on. Though the membrane had instantly mended itself after Han’s exit, separating Lucky from the light and its warmth, for that moment he basked content in the knowledge he’d saved his uncle. If he never had a chance to do another good thing before death claimed him, well, at least he’d done that.
He decided to sleep. Though he knew he might slip down into the horrid depths again if he did, he didn’t have the energy to fight it, and besides, he wasn’t really awake, anyway. Just before true sleep took him, he heard a voice he’d often been glad to hear: Thurlock!
Chapter Eleven: I Don’t Know If It Will Be Enough
WHEN THURLOCK “got his wizard on,” as Han liked to call it, he was a very tall man, with very long legs, and could set a decidedly brisk pace. He grew into that persona the instant he heard Zhevi’s message. Luccan’s life was beyond precious to him, both because he was the long-awaited Suth Chiell who merged the Karrighan and Drakhonic houses and because he simply was Luccan, and Thurlock loved him as if he were his own grandson. And Han? Thurlock sincerely hoped Han would outlive him, and to lose him now would be tragic for the Sunlands and personally for Thurlock. He’d grown extremely attached in the centuries of their alliance. Yes, truth be told, he loved Han too. If he’d had a son of his own, he couldn’t have hoped for better than Han Shieth.
With both of them in mortal danger, Thurlock gave new meaning to the word haste. He headed directly for the veranda outside Luccan’s room, finding guards posted along the way at the main gate to the manor’s grounds, where the main walkway met the smaller one that they needed to take, at the steps to the veranda, and at the french doors leading into Luccan’s chamber. At each station, the guards—members of Behlishan’s Guard rather than the Watch, so likely posted on Lem’s orders—gave challenge. Not to Thurlock, of course, but they apparently figured a dog and a very large black bird with a bald red head could be troublesome.
Each time, Thurlock growled, “Let them pass. They’re with me,” and swept on by with Maizie and Henry doing their best to keep up.
Once inside, Thurlock stopped to take in the scene, and it truly scared him. The room was so cold that frost had begun to form on the edges of things. Maizie immediately jumped onto the bed where Luccan lay unconscious. If it wasn’t for irregular twitches of his lips, Thurlock would have thought he was dead. He looked like a corpse.
No. He looks worse than that.
Han lay sprawled on the floor on his back. Thurlock sensed his living presence, somehow, but he detected no motion of his chest, no warm breath raising clouds of mist in the frigid air. His eyes were wide open, but…. Thurlock stepped closer to make sure he was really seeing what he thought he saw. Yes. Yes indeed, his eyes have changed. Only the barest rim of white was visible around irises gone huge. Their color had changed from golden-brown to deep red, uneven streaks of metallic gold converging at narrow horizontal pupillary slits.
They were the eyes of a dragon.
Before Thurlock could do anything further, Henry, perched upon Han’s arm, spread his wings, and leaned forward until his beady bird eye looked directly into Han’s eyes. After not much more than an instant, Han gasped in a breath. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, they retained their new color, but otherwise had once again become the eyes of a man. In the same instant, Henry changed forms. Han sat up, and for a hung second the two men sat looking each other in the eye. Simultaneously, as if guided by some inner knowledge, each raised a hand to touch the Mark on the other’s shoulder. A flash of light, red and gold, flared around them, then faded instantly, leaving a faint odor of struck matches, cedar, and sweet grass.
HENRY GOT to his feet, and then offered his hand to help Han rise.
Never too proud to accept an assist when he needed it, Han gladly clasped hands with Henry and stood. He felt dizzy only for an instant. “Well met, Henry,” he said.
Henry’s answer was the slightest of smiles, the barest of nods.
Han turned to Thurlock then. “Sir. I’m so relieved that you’re here. Zhevi gave you my message?”
“He did indeed, and when I came into this room, for a moment, I thought your worst fears had come true. I’m happy you’re alive, and—except for the change that’s come over you—looking fairly well, all things considered.”
“Change? I’m the same as ever, except wounded and exhausted.”
“Hm. I think you know what I mean. But in order to keep you from denying it ad infinitum, walk over to the wall and look in the mirror. What you’ll see when you look at your eyes is the remnant of how they looked before Henry woke you from whatever state you were in.”
Han did look in the mirror for an instant, but immediately looked away. He shook his head, denying it. His eye color looked a little differ
ent, but certainly that was a trick of the light. He turned back to Thurlock to say as much, but Thurlock raised one eyebrow, and Han realized he couldn’t get away with a lie, so he said nothing.
“You always knew it would happen someday, Han Shieth.”
“No!” Han said, perhaps more emphatically than he’d intended. Then, much quieter, “It… it should have been my brother.”
Thurlock scratched at his currently very scraggly and tangled beard for a moment, as he did at times when pondering some wizard business. Finally he met Han’s gaze again and said, “Perhaps, Han. Perhaps not. Let’s talk about Luccan, now. Sit in the chair, there by the window, before you fall over. I can see the leg hurts you. I’ll want to hear about that later, but for now, tell me what you know about Luccan. For the sake of speed, stick to the point as much as possible.”
In not more than twenty sentences, with a few pointed questions and single-word answers interspersed, Han gave Thurlock an account of Lucky’s wanderings, his own near-death and rescue, the finding of the Black Blade, the felling of the black dragon, and the trip home. “When we got here,” he concluded, “we had a meal, I was more or less ordered to the infirmary—which I admit I needed—and Luccan went to his room to rest. There’s a lot of other stuff going on, most of it no good at all, and I tried to get some things in order as much as I could. Luccan came to the infirmary to see me, and we talked. He looked good, Thurlock. His usual self except he was tired because he’d slept poorly. He’d had some pretty awful dreams from the sound of it, but he couldn’t remember them except that they somehow involved Liliana, or some kind of weird apparition of her, perhaps. And by the way, she’s never come back to the Sisterhold since she left last fall.” Han paused to meet Thurlock’s gaze. They’d had their suspicions about Lili for a long time, though no one had wanted to admit she could have taken a seriously wrong turn in her allegiances.