Light Chasers (The World of Lasniniar Book 0)

by Jacquelyn Smith

  — Chapter Eighteen —

  Self-Betrayal

  Numril was a jumble of conflicting emotions as he left the drakhal camp in the Pela Goro. For the first time in years, he walked under the light of the sun. At first, it seemed strange. He felt naked, exposed. He had become accustomed to the darkness. Gradually he relaxed, enjoying the feel of its gentle warmth on his permanently chilled skin.

  He enjoyed the solitude the most. Even Vlaz’s presence was silent within the vaults of his mind. His master was back in the cave with the rest of the drakhalu, sleeping.

  Numril suppressed the heady surge of freedom that bubbled inside him and reminded himself of his purpose. As much as he wished he had actually managed to escape on his own, this was not strictly the case. Despite his attempts to keep the knowledge of his daywalking abilities walled off in a secret corner of his mind, Vlaz had found out. Numril was still unsure whether his master had noticed how he had been touched by the light on that fateful day he had discovered his ability, or if he had ferreted it from Numril’s thoughts. Vlaz didn’t tell him, which only made it worse. Numril had become increasingly paranoid, never knowing whether any of his thoughts were truly private.

  This created a schism within him as he was forced to censor his own thoughts. There was public Numril, who thought only of pleasing his master, and then there was private, defiant Numril, who was always contemplating escape. He had no way of knowing how much of which thoughts Vlaz was privy to. That in itself was maddening. To survive the harsh drakhal society and the constant invasion of his thoughts, subservient Numril had become the dominant personality, even when he was alone.

  These last few days had challenged this precarious balance. His master had revealed to him that Numril was the secret weapon of the war that would be waged on the shadvaru—the elves. This was the mission for which Vlaz had turned him.

  Although Numril had been thoroughly indoctrinated in the drakhal way over the last three years and wanted desperately to please his forbidding master, the thought of being the instrument of the downfall of the shadvaru made him uneasy.

  Then there had been the ones that had found their camp. They became an unexpected feast for Vlaz and his minions. They were questioned first, of course, but the creatures revealed nothing before being bled dry. Vlaz had offered to share one with him, but the thought of it made Numril ill, so he refused, preferring his usual meal of small rodents. He was relieved when the master didn’t insist.

  In that moment, the scouts ceased being shadvaru to him and became elves. The Black Tongue term seemed wrong somehow. Unable to ponder the meaning of this shift, Numril had focused his thoughts on the upcoming mission—a safe topic for contemplation. Vlaz had been distracted by the arrival of the scout from the other drakhal camp and the discovery of more elves in the Pela Goro. Numril’s mental slip had gone unnoticed.

  The memories of his past life had become dim and hazy since he had been turned, but there were some faces he remembered. Unable to fully explore them with Vlaz’s constant presence in his mind, Numril had pushed the memories aside to consider later.

  Now he was truly alone—at least until nightfall when his master would wake. It helped being away from him. When Numril was among the drakhalu, Vlaz’s thoughts dominated his, even in sleep. For the moment, Numril was free to focus on those faces from his memories.

  Although several elves haunted his thoughts, two faces kept returning. He thought maybe they were brothers, since their facial features were identical, despite their different coloring. One had dusky skin and glinting, silver eyes and hair. This one smiled at him and waved from a ship. The other had golden skin and eyes. His long, white hair flowed down his back. This one’s face was contorted in pain as he shouted Numril’s name. How could both faces be so alike? Something about it nagged at him.

  Disjointed visions of playing with the silver-haired elf as a child flickered through his mind. These visions were followed by one of an older woman with similar features, her expression full of grief.

  “The ships. All of them were burned. They say no one from the mission survived. Valanandir…” Her voice broke into a sob.

  Valanandir! The grief of losing him struck anew. Numril remembered a time of deep depression, followed by the decision to travel to the mainland from his island home. Something had summoned him. Then there had been his discovery that Valanandir was still alive, changed by the Quenya. The two elves were one and the same.

  Valanandir must think him dead. It was eerie how the situation mirrored Numril’s experience when Valanandir had been lost at sea. Valanandir would be so surprised to see him!

  A deep chill settled over Numril as he understood Vlaz’s plan. Not only was he the secret weapon because of his daywalking abilities, but he was also the beloved friend of Valanandir and Iadrawyn, guardians of the Quenya. They would be so excited to see him alive, his presence would pass unquestioned. Their trust in him would allow him to gain access to the Quenya and perform the task Vlaz had set.

  But Numril was no longer the dear friend they once knew. His elven body was only a shell for the dead thing he had become—a drakhal puppet. They wouldn’t realize it until it was too late.

  Numril shook his head. No. He wouldn’t do it. He would wander off to spend the rest of his existence alone. Valanandir would never know he had come to this shameful position. Numril took one step westward.

  The pain that stabbed through him was excruciating. He managed one more step before he crumpled to the ground, tasting the bitterness of defeat. The compulsion Vlaz had laid upon him was too strong. He had no choice but to continue the mission that had been set for him. There was no way out. Tears of despair trailed down his cheeks.

  The full nature of Vlaz’s plan bloomed like a deadly flower in his mind. Not only was he expected to take the Quenya and bear it away in the foul bag of woven elfskin he had been provided, no.

  He was to kill Valanandir and Iadrawyn.

  Vlaz’s animosity for those two was strong. They were the ones who had rallied the elves and used the Quenya against him, denying him its power. They had to pay. What better way than to have their dear friend, who they thought was dead, return and betray them? With the success of Numril’s mission, Vlaz’s vengeance would be complete. Without the Quenya or their leaders, the rest of the elves would be easy prey. Vlaz would wield the power of the Quenya, and the world would fall at his feet.

  Numril found himself on his knees, retching and shaking. He wished he were truly dead. Even if Vlaz would have allowed it, Numril had no stakes, and there were no trees in the empty plains with which he could fashion his own demise. He was only permitted a few moments of despondency before his master’s command tugged him to his feet, urging him onward.

  What would he say when Valanandir saw him? Now that Numril knew the strength of Vlaz’s compulsion, he realized it was unlikely he would be able to speak freely to his friends. But Valanandir knew him better than anyone. Perhaps there was some way he could warn him…

  The thought of murdering his closest friends and helping to destroy the elves was more than he could bear. Impossible as it seemed, he to find a way to stop the events Vlaz had put in motion.

  He had to try.