Cold the light that round him sweeps
Colder still the one who sleeps.
It was peaceful, in the light. Neither warm nor cool, simply bright.
Ferrian was lost, but he didn't care. He did not want to be found. The light was his saviour, his protector. It filled him with pure, coruscating emptiness. He knew that beyond the fringes of the wonderful glow were things that circled like predators, seeking to grip him with freezing grey hands.
Darkness. Coldness. Despair.
But if he stayed still, he would be safe from their gelid grasp. If he refused to listen, he could not hear their wailing voices. Nothing could harm him while he was here, in the light. His memories, his cares, his dead and useless body: he had abandoned them all for this blinding infinity.
But he was not alone. The lilting lullaby trickled all around him, now so familiar that he could hum along to the words. He sat cross-legged in the very heart of the white void, staring up like a little child in wide-eyed fascination at the scintillating diamond on its pedestal. Twice before now, he had touched it, and both times it had broken and caused him terrible pain. He was wiser, now. He must not give in to curiosity, or he would suffer for it.
So he simply watched, and listened, and hummed, and was at peace.
Keep our Mother safe and cold, he murmured.
I am your mother, a glimmering voice sang in reply.
Ferrian nodded in acceptance. Yes, she was his mother. The Dragon was his mother. The Dragon protected him. The Dragon was the one who had brought the light to embrace him. The Dragon would not let him die. The Dragon loved him.
He would never question her word.
After awhile, she spoke again, and this time, her voice was different, more urgent:
Someone approaches.
For the first time in an uncountable measure of existence, Ferrian removed his gaze from the crystal. He was confused by the Dragon's words. Who could be approaching? Nobody knew he was here. Nobody could reach him. This place belonged to him. Him and the Dragon.
But there was somebody there.
Climbing to his feet, Ferrian stood dappled by the rainbows flickering out from the crystal and watched the figure approach. It was etched black against the glare, features impossible to distinguish, walking steadily towards him.
Ferrian felt strangely unsettled at the sight of it. The back of his head prickled, as though his memories were scratching at him, trying to return.
The figure came closer and then stopped, arms folded, staring at him.
Ferrian squinted uncomprehendingly through the glare. Who are you?
The silhouette did not reply. Instead, it lifted its head to address the white light streaming around them. Return his memories. Now!
A jab of vexation pierced Ferrian's peaceful cocoon. Who was this intruder, and what right did he have– suddenly the soft chanting song warbled into a babble of voices, and the white light changed into a chaotic kaleidoscope of colours and images. Beside him, the diamond flickered crazily.
The question is… not why I am interested in you, but indeed, why the Commander of the Freeroamers is interested in you…
I'm sorry, boy; it's not your fault…
I think I'm dead…
YOU'RE A CHARLATAN!
Are you all right? You look kind of... pale…
Try harder! The magic is there, inside you! Let it out! Stop holding back!
Eventually, the sickening, spinning sensation slowed and the images and voices coalesced, contracted into the form of the man standing before him, so that Ferrian now saw him with perfect clarity and recognition.
Arzath! he gasped.
The sorcerer spread his arms in a mock greeting. Oh, you remember me at last! I'm touched.
Looking around at the ghostly, fading remnants of Ferrian's memories, he added: Nice show. You're even more pathetic than I could possibly have imagined…
What are you doing here? Ferrian interrupted, annoyed. How did you get into my mind?
The white light had turned into glowing snowflakes, drifting silently all around them.
Arzath laughed. I'm a sorcerer, you fool. Human minds present no barrier to someone of my considerable talents. Admittedly, yours was a little more difficult to penetrate with your Dragon watchdog standing in the way…
She's protecting me, Ferrian said, feeling defensive, for some reason.
Arzath snorted. Protecting you? Is that what you call it? How sweet.
Ferrian ignored him. I thought you'd lost your magic?
To his surprise, Arzath did not retort with an arrogant comment. Instead, he turned away, staring down at his gloved hands, which he clenched into fists. I… got it back, he replied finally.
You don't sound very pleased, Ferrian said. I thought that's what you wanted?
Arzath spun back, a familiar look of contempt returning to his face. Shut up! I was forced to waste an obscene amount of energy attempting to get inside your wretched head, and I'm hardly convinced it was worth the effort…
Why did you bother then? Ferrian shot back. He didn't appreciate being belittled inside his own mind. He was already embarrassed that Arzath had witnessed all of his deepest memories, his darkest thoughts, his private moments. It felt worse than standing naked in front of him. Why do you care what I do to myself?
Oh, make no mistake, Arzath sneered. I couldn't care less what you do to yourself. He inclined his head. Look at you. You're pitiful. You cannot find a way to deal with your fears and uncertainties, so you choose instead to forget they exist. You lock yourself away in this cosy little void, while the Winter continues to rage unchecked around you. What are you afraid of? The truth?
Ferrian stared at him. His words were like ice shards cutting into his skin, but they were all true. The… the Winter… he stammered.
The Winter is hardly the worst of it! Arzath strode over to Ferrian and seized him by the collar. Do you have any idea what you have done?!
His expression was terrifying, but Ferrian wrenched himself out of his grasp. Maybe if you'd helped me find a cure for the Winter instead of being so obsessed with killing your brother, we'd all be in a happier place right now!
Arzath's eyes narrowed. I did help you, or have you conveniently forgotten that, as well? I taught you a concentration spell. I gave you my Sword. You were the one who was stupid enough to drop it in the river.
Ferrian glared back at him resentfully. You were never interested in helping me. You just wanted to save your own backside. At least Requar pretended to care…
A strange look came over Arzath's face at the mention of his brother's name. Something flickered deep in his eyes, like a ghost, and he turned quickly away. I can't imagine why, he muttered, and strode towards the crystal.
Sensing his intention, Ferrian lunged towards him. No! he cried, but Arzath dodged smoothly aside, catching the boy's arm.
Enough of this nonsense. I want answers.
And he slammed Ferrian's hand down on the faceted surface of the diamond.
It exploded.
The real world slammed into Ferrian with shocking impact, as though a great fist had knocked him backwards onto a hard pavement. Pain shattered through his head, awakening him with a jerk and a cry. He lay for a minute gasping with his eyes shut tight until the pain subsided into a dull thumping.
Then he opened his eyes again, slowly.
Gone was the brilliant glow of magic, replaced with equally familiar, but far less comforting grey light. Gradually, his vision cleared to reveal a circular diamond-paned, snow-covered window. The Winter howled and thrashed against it, like a hungry wolf trying to get inside.
Ferrian shuddered, blinked and peered around.
The room he was lying in was a small, sparsely furnished bedroom, with white stone walls that did nothing to brighten the gloom; instead, shadows leached like ghostly ink across their pale surfaces. There was a biting draught, so cold he might as well have been outside, and he noticed with dismay that the hearth was not even set. Indeed, it looked as though the ornate, pristine fireplace had never seen a lick of flame, ever. Only a single candle flickered on the bare mantle, reflected in a frost-dusted mirror.
Staring at the mirror, Ferrian saw a shadowy movement reflected in it. Turning his head, he saw Arzath rise from a chair beside his bed. Without a word or a glance at Ferrian, he swept to the door and went out.
"Hey…" Ferrian struggled to push himself up. "Hey! Arzath!" But his words fell unheeded upon the sorcerer's trailing cloak.
Ferrian scowled at the open door. "Thanks," he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. "Don't bother telling me what's going on. I'm sure I'll figure it out myself." He noticed that a smear of charcoal came off on his fingers, and stared down at it in puzzlement.
"Whoa, you're awake!"
Ferrian looked up, startled, to see a man he did not recognise standing in the doorway.
The stranger came inside, picked up a damp cloth from a water-basin beside the bed, and handed it to Ferrian. "Might wanna scrub them creepy-lookin' markin's off yer face," he advised. "Arzath's bin scrawlin' spells all over you, tryin' to wake you up." He shook his head. "Didn't think you was ever gonna snap out of it. We was about to give up."
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Ferrian stared at him warily. "Uh, do I know you?" he asked, racking his brains in case he'd met the man somewhere before, and simply forgotten.
The man offered a stout, callused hand and a smile. "Starshadow Flint."
Ferrian hesitated, taking in his black, metal-studded outfit, which did look disturbingly familiar.
Noticing his suspicion, Flint sighed wearily. "Geez, I need to get meself some new gear," he grumbled. "Look, long story short; I used to do Nightwalker's dirty work, till he screwed me over. Now I'm finished with the Bladeshifters."
Ferrian thought he looked only slightly trustworthier than Arzath, but until he found out more about the man decided he had no choice but to give him the benefit of the doubt. He had no one else to trust at the moment.
So, reluctantly, he took Flint's hand and smiled back. "How did you get in here, anyway?" he asked, wiping the itchy charcoal runes off his face. "I thought no one could pass through the shield… or… did Arzath let you in the secret way?" He felt a quirk of danger in his stomach again. If the man was an acquaintance of Arzath's, Ferrian definitely couldn't trust him…
Flint hesitated. "I uh…" he said slowly, "I came in with…" he made a vague gesture with his hand, unwilling to finish the sentence.
"Arzath?" Ferrian guessed, his suspicions rising again. I knew it…
But the ex-Bladeshifter shook his head, a deeply troubled look crossing his face beneath his floppy wide-brimmed hat. "Requar."
Ferrian's head jerked up in astonishment. "Lord Requar?" he gasped. "He… he's here?"
"Whoa, kid, steady there!" Flint said, catching him. Ferrian had flung off the covers and leapt out of bed so fast that he'd tripped, fallen into a side table and knocked the water basin onto the floor with a clatter.
Attempting to right himself on the table, Ferrian cursed. He had forgotten that his body was not alive, and no longer behaved normally. His legs, through lack of circulation, had become dead weights.
"Can you stand?" Flint asked.
Ferrian could – just. He looked up at the other man excitedly, a torrent of questions flooding from his lips. "Where is he? When did he arrive? How long have I been asleep? Why didn't he come in here to wake me up? He couldn't possibly be more obnoxious than…" his voice trailed off.
Flint's look was grim. Ferrian searched his face for a clue to his uncertainty, but his initial exhilaration was sinking rapidly into a depressing empty hole. "Something happened while I was unconscious, didn't it?"
Flint nodded.
Ferrian swallowed. If his heart had been working, it would have been pounding at his ribs in growing panic. "Something bad."
Flint nodded again, then turned away and went to the wardrobe, taking out Ferrian's clothes and placing them on the bed. Ferrian's hands gripped the table behind him. The Winter wailed mournfully and the candle flame shivered in the silence.
"How bad?"
Flint didn't answer him. "You'd better get dressed, kid."
Ferrian made no move to do so. He couldn't move. He felt as though he had turned to pure ice. "He's dead, isn't he?" he whispered.
The other man's failure to reply was all the confirmation Ferrian needed. He sank to the floor.
Flint walked over to the stricken boy and knelt in front of him. He put a hand on his shoulder. "The thing is, kid," he said slowly, "we… we don't know."
"You don't know? How could you not know?" Ferrian wanted to cry, but he had no tears. He wanted to flee back into his mind, escape the horror of what was happening around him. He wanted to be alone, in blissful oblivion. Yet, Arzath's words still cut at him: Look at you. You're pitiful. You cannot find a way to deal with your fears and uncertainties, so you choose instead to forget they exist…
A cold, burning fury began to leach through the frozen floorboards, through his bare knees, through his pallid skin, up into his still heart. Arzath finally got what he wanted, he thought. He killed Requar. The man only came back here because of me, and he walked straight into his brother's trap. And I was too afraid to warn him. I was afraid, and I fled and let it happen…
Death. Death and darkness and suffering. Everywhere I go, those are the footprints I leave behind.
He got up suddenly, forcing his legs to move. He snatched up his clothes and began to dress. "I want to see him," he said. He didn't, really: he couldn't think of anything worse than seeing Requar lying dead… or whatever terrible fate had claimed him. But he refused to run away again.
He was determined not to prove Arzath right.
Flint simply nodded, saying nothing. Once Ferrian had finished pulling on his boots, the ex-Bladeshifter led the way out into the hall.
As they passed down the long passage, Ferrian was momentarily distracted by the ice. It gleamed everywhere, covering the walls and floor in thick layers, hanging like stalactites from the vaulted ceiling. Clumps of crystal rose about him in odd, sculpture-like formations. Ferrian stood and stared at it all blankly until Flint urged him to keep moving.
They climbed a flight of stairs that passed several landings. Through one of the windows, Ferrian caught sight of Arzath's burnt-out castle on the other side of the valley.
It was black and silent and covered in snow.
Ferrian hoped the Griks had all perished, and the Murons along with them.
At the top of the stairs was square space like a small hall or foyer with a large round window set in the southern wall. The same sun-like crest that was displayed on the floor of the entrance hall below them was inlaid in contrasting marble here, as well. Flint walked over it and stood by a pair of double doors opposite the stairs.
He hesitated, looking at Ferrian. "You… sure you wanna see this?"
"Yes," Ferrian replied. No, he thought. I want Lord Requar to be well. I want him to greet me with a cheerful handshake and tell me that he has a cure for my Winter, that he can restore my body to how it used to be, that he can help Aari and Cimmeran and get my friends back. I want him to tell me everything will be fine…
Then the door was opening in front of him, and Flint stood aside to let him enter first.
Ferrian's wishes melted away like snowflakes. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Polished stone gave way to soft carpet. The chamber was spacious and tasteful, though his semi-deteriorated vision would not let him see the colours, only a spectrum of grey, which deepened the gloominess. A thick blanket of heat fell over him, and he saw that there was a fire in this hearth; a large, roaring brightness to his left. It made him feel oddly queasy and shivery.
Arzath stood at the window on the far side of the room. He did not turn around as Ferrian entered or acknowledge his presence in any way. He might have been a black indecorous statue in the corner.
Ferrian let his glare settle on the sorcerer's back for a moment, then looked away in disgust and turned his attention instead to the bed.
He didn't know how he managed to make himself move forward, but he did.
A long, lean figure lay there, so pale as to be almost invisible on the sheets. Ferrian had never before laid eyes on Lord Requar, and was still no wiser to his identity, for his entire face was swathed in bandages. Only a slit for (optimistically, perhaps) breathing was left over his mouth. Most of his torso was wrapped up as well, leaving his naked arms lying at his sides on top of the blankets. His hands were long and elegant and aristocratic, like Arzath's. Strands of white hair slipped free from beneath the bandages around his head.
Ferrian stared down at the stain of blood in the middle of his chest, and at his upper arms and neck where his veins stood out starkly black against his skin.
The noxious trigon infection was seeping inexorably through him.
Ferrian felt pins and needles all over, as though he could feel the trigon running through his own body. The urge to be sick was overwhelmed by the horror that anyone could inflict such a terrible blight on another Human being.
His hands curled into balls. "You did this, didn't you?"
He didn't bother to glance up at Arzath, and the sorcerer didn't bother to reply.
"YOU DID THIS TO HIM, DIDN'T YOU?!"
"You presume that I struck him with the trigonic dagger," Arzath answered finally, still staring out of the snow-speckled window with his hood pulled over his head. "Understandable, perhaps. But you are wrong." He paused. "Requar took the dagger from me and plunged it into his own heart."
Ferrian was so furious he was shaking. "Oh, sure. He stabbed himself! Why the hell would he do that? Do you honestly expect me to believe you?"
"I know it's hard to believe, kid," Flint had come to stand by the foot of the bed. "But he's tellin' the truth."
Ferrian whirled on him. "And why should I believe you, either? I don't even know you!"
Over by the window, Arzath removed one of his black gloves and turned, lifting his hand so that Ferrian could see it clearly. "Because," he replied, his voice bitter and ironic, "I tried to save him."
His hand was covered in dark splotches, like savage bruises.
Ferrian fell silent, shocked. He sank down on the bed, staring at Requar. I never even got a chance to meet him personally, he thought. He had answers for me: he said so himself. Now, I'll never know what they were…
"There must be… there must be something we can do," he said desperately. "We can't just let him die!"
Arzath came forward. "Did you not listen to anything I told you?" he snapped. "Requar spent his entire life searching for a cure to trigon! He was obsessed with it! He knew everything there was to know about it, and all to no avail!"
But Ferrian was shaking his head, denying what Arzath was saying. He could not accept there was no hope. Not yet. "If we can just wake him up," he continued. "You could enter his mind and force him to come out, like you did with me…"
Arzath glared at him. "What the hell do you think I've been doing these last few days, while you've been blissfully snoozing? I've been conducting Mind Sweeps! And guess what I found!"
Ferrian didn't need to guess. He already knew the answer.
"Nothing!" Arzath cried. "Emptiness! Not a spark of thought or shred of memory anywhere inside that ruined head! The trigon has destroyed his mind, consumed his life force, his magic, his essence, everything! His heart still beats, only to pump trigon through his veins! He is gone!"
Ferrian was stunned, both by Arzath's words and his reaction to them. Here was a man who had hated his brother so badly he had wanted to murder him with his own hands, and now he appeared grief-stricken at his death. Meeting his brother again appeared to have changed something inside him, something deep and fundamental.
Perhaps he had finally woken up to himself.
Perhaps too late.
Arzath turned away, presumably to conceal the fact that he was dangerously close to tears.
"Then why are we keepin' him alive?" Flint stated bluntly. "Why not stop his heart, here an' now, stop this trigon from spreadin' further before he turns into one o' them wraith things?"
"Perhaps you should ask the boy that question," Arzath said with undisguised vehemence. Striding over to the fireplace, he snatched a long, gleaming sword from the mantle and tossed it contemptuously onto the bed, as though its touch was anathema.
For a heart-jerking moment, Ferrian thought that Arzath had retrieved the Sword of Frost. This blade looked almost identical; the same dimensions, the same beautiful design, the same black and white snakes winding up from the hilt. The only difference was in the hilt, with embedded gemstones in place of the dagger-shaped recess.
Both Flint and Arzath were staring at him as though waiting for elucidation.
But the only thing the boy could give them was a look of confusion. "I've never seen this before," he replied.
"Oh, I believe you have!" Arzath snapped.
"You don't remember?" Flint said.
"Remember what?" Ferrian said exasperatedly. "I don't know what you want from me! The last thing I remember is sitting in front of the hearth in the dining hall, staring into the flames. Then I must have fallen asleep, because I had another dream about the crystal. Then Arzath showed up and woke me and you brought me here! That's all I know!"
Arzath made a sound of disgust and paced away irritably while Flint briefly explained everything that had taken place since he and Requar had arrived at the castle three nights previously.
"The White Dragon," Ferrian said after a brooding silence. "She must have taken control of my body…"
"Dragon?" Flint looked half-alarmed, half-puzzled.
But Arzath knew exactly what he was talking about. "She took control of you because you were too weak to do it yourself!"
Ferrian leapt off the bed, his anger returning in a surging, freezing wave. Deep within him he felt his magic stir, felt the white light threaten to explode out of him again. Behind Arzath, the big circular window rattled ominously and the fire shrank and danced wildly. Flint took an apprehensive step backwards as the carpet beneath Ferrian's feet turned white with frost.
Ferrian didn't care. He was tired of Arzath's taunts and jibes. He was upset about Requar's death and confused and depressed about everything in general. The Winter and the Dragon could do what they wanted. He wasn't even sure if they were the same thing or separate entities inside him, but it didn't matter. He was fed up trying to control them or suppress them. If the Dragon chose to command him for whatever reason, then so be it. If she wanted to smash this room to pieces, he would gladly allow her to.
"Stop it," Ferrian burst out. "Just… shut up. Stop calling me weak! You're not the one who has to live with a terrible cur–" He caught his breath, but it was too late. The horrific mistake had been uttered.
A deathly silence fell across the room, filled only with the sound of the storm outside. Nobody moved.
Then Arzath flung up his arm.
Before Ferrian could blink, he was slammed into the wall behind him with such force that lights erupted before his eyes. Across the room, Arzath's outstretched arm trembled as he held the boy pinned to the wall. His high cheekbones shimmered with sweat in the firelight, and his face was twisted with both anger and agony. "If using my magic didn't… cause me such… great pain," he gasped, "I would burn you… to ashes!"
Releasing Ferrian, he swept to the door past a startled Flint, who leapt hastily aside to let him pass, and slammed it behind him.
In the painfully awkward silence left behind, Flint muttered: "Kid, that was…"
"Stupid," Ferrian finished. He was sitting on the floor where he had fallen, with his arms folded on top of his knees and his head lowered on them. "Really, really damned stupid. You don't need to say it."
Tactfully, the ex-Bladeshifter changed the subject. "So, er, if I've got this right… some sort of Dragon took over your body?"
Ferrian nodded, and repeated the conversation he'd had with Arzath several nights before, describing how the sorcerer had discovered a cursed crystal along with a Dragon corpse in the mountains above Verlista. "The Dragon must have hidden a piece of her soul in the diamond," Ferrian surmised. "When Arzath broke it, both the Winter and the Dragon's spirit lodged in me."
Flint frowned in thought. "And somehow this Dragon used Requar's Sword?"
Ferrian nodded again. "I suppose she thought she could save him."
"How's that work, then? I thought no one could use them Swords except their rightful owners."
Ferrian shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Dragon magic is capable of anything." He gestured ironically to his own cadaverous physique. "Look what it did to me."
Flint stared gloomily at the bandaged, diseased and mindless body lying on the bed, the remains of a once talented, impossibly handsome and uniquely good-hearted sorcerer. "Didn't do him much good, did it," he sighed. "Didn't heal none of his wounds, let alone that bloody trigon."
They fell into despairing silence. Out in the snow-swept valley, the wind wailed a requiem.