Dragon's hope and Winter's curse
What seems bad may yet be worse.
The sky rippled black and gold. Chasms opened in the dark clouds, spilling forth sunlight onto the frozen world below. Icicles glinted on the eaves of Lord Requar's castle and delicate patterns of frost were illuminated on the blind windows. The castle rose up out of the drifts of snow, cold and empty and beautiful like a masterpiece sculpted out of ice.
Standing on the bluff before it, paired to its magnificence, untouched by the sunlight but radiating a pale, mystical light of its own, a white Dragon gazed up at the sky with mournful, mirrored eyes.
A handful of snowflakes fell, soft and silent, and the Dragon watched them flutter through her snout like little lost children. The great eyes blinked, slowly.
We are not yet lost, she thought. Snow falls. There is hope.
Turning, she looked down at the tiny Human that lay at her feet. Her children were covering him, gathering in his hair and clothes.
So fragile…
The boy had run from the Winter, had fled from it, fought it... and for a single moment, when he had courageously summoned it and gazed into its heart, had perhaps even understood it. But he was Human, and could never truly comprehend that it had never sought to harm him, only to protect him.
The Dragon placed one huge, glittering paw over the boy, and brought her ancient horned head close to him. Magic leaked out of him in scintillating, silver-white rivulets, like ghostly blood trickling over the snow. His life-force was dissipating as well, a golden mist twisting and weaving with the streamers of sunlight, becoming one with it. Once it had left his body completely, he would die, and her bond with him would be lost forever.
The Winter was too immense to be contained in a Human body: it had never been designed for such a use. But the magic had chosen him as its vessel, and so it must be.
This vessel must not break, as the last one did…
The Dragon's power was only a memory of what it had once been, her influence on the living world only a whisper's touch. Once, she might have had the strength to return his life-force to his body, but no longer. Magic, however, transcended all realms. It spanned the boundary between life and death. It could restore and retain that which would not normally survive. Magic was easier to manipulate.
The Dragon cupped her paw around the shining silver stream, letting it pool, preventing it from running away. Then she closed her eyes and began to beat her enormous wings, the movement painting the air with after-images. Ghostly snowflakes swirled up around her and the boy, whirling around them both until they were lost inside a glowing, hazy cloud.
Above them, the clouds closed over, sealing away the sunlight, plunging the valley into gloom and bitter cold once more.
Ferrian awoke to the sound of the wind, howling with maddening impatience as though determined to drag him back to reality. The first thing he felt was disappointment.
Go away, he thought. I want to die in peace, leave me alone! He tried to sink back into the empty white void that had come so close to claiming him, but his body had other ideas. His senses began to return, one by one, dragging him back from the brink despite his struggles. The wind became raw and sharp, cutting across his ears. He knew that he was deathly cold, because his skin was tight and his lungs constricted. He felt stiff, as though he had been lying here forever, a stone carving exposed to the elements.
The realisation came to him slowly. I'm alive. But I shouldn't be…I can't be…
Dismay gave way to confusion. He tried to open his eyes, only to find that they were fused shut. With some effort, he shifted his arm – it felt heavy, like dragging a lump of wood – and scraped the snow away from his face. Slivers of pain shot through his fingers; dimly he remembered that his hand was broken.
Finally, he managed to prise his frozen eyes open, lift his head, and look around.
It was dark. Not pitch black, but the murky grey of twilight. Whether dusk or dawn, he could not tell, nor how long he had been lying in the snow. The sky was invisible behind heavy clouds: the Winter still raged through the valley. He pushed himself to his knees, for a moment disorientated. He could not see the river… where was he? Off to his right a large, bulky shape loomed, like sheer white cliffs. No, he realised suddenly. Requar's castle!
He stared at it in surprise. How had he gotten all the way up here?
Then he remembered Arzath.
With a start, he looked around, but no figure lay buried in the snow beside him, or anywhere that he could see. There were no footprints: any trail that might have been there had long since been erased. He peered through the snow for any sign of movement, listening carefully.
There was nothing to be seen or heard, save the storm.
He was alone.
He swallowed, wondering what had become of the man. Perhaps the Griks had finally gotten their revenge.
Shuddering involuntarily, he let his gaze drift outwards, across the valley, drawn by a cluster of flickering lights.
At first, he thought they were torches. But they were too large, too fierce, casting a glow onto the cliffs and clouds. Arzath's castle was burning. He could just make out a flock of dark shapes flapping amongst the spires, awkwardly against the wind. Murons, circling like crows around dead carrion.
He was not sorry to see the castle on fire. He hoped the flames caught the Murons and burnt them all to ashes.
A gust of wind buffeted Ferrian, trying to shove him back into the snow. With stiff, sore fingers, he tugged his cloak around himself, although the cold had already penetrated every part of his body. He was shivering now, his teeth clattering so hard his jaw ached. His eyes stung and watered as the wind threw particles of ice into them. Something was wrong with his vision. The fire on the opposite cliffs looked unnatural; it was white, there was no colour to it.
There was something else different with his body as well, though he could not at the moment identify what it was. It was hard to be aware of anything beyond the terrible cold. His survival was miraculous, but he could not last out here indefinitely in this weather.
He forced himself to his feet. His cloak was so laden with ice that it tugged him back to his knees. He pulled at it until it came free of the snow, got up again and staggered towards the castle. He didn't know what he intended to do when he got there. It would be all locked up and most likely warded with magic as well. For all he knew, it might be riddled with dangerous traps. Arzath had seemed positive that he couldn't get inside without Ferrian's help. He hadn't brought him out here for nothing, after all.
Ferrian sighed. At the very least, he might find shelter against the castle walls… Suddenly, he stopped.
He had just worked out what was wrong with him.
He wasn't breathing.
Quickly, he took a breath, feeling the icy air scrape his throat. His lungs inflated, then deflated as he breathed out, yet did not seem to want to work on their own. And then he noticed something worse, much worse…
He couldn't feel his heartbeat! Horrified, he pressed a hand to his chest, searching desperately for the familiar, comforting thump.
Nothing.
Everything inside him was still and silent.
"I'm dead!" he whispered. "I am dead!"
But it was impossible! He could feel and hear and see. He could definitely still feel pain: the injuries he had received were making that quite obvious. But no heat emanated from his body: cold air sliced through him as though he were hollow. He looked down at his hand. It appeared solid enough: snow was sticking to it. But the skin was so pale that it looked almost luminous.
He dug his fingernails into it, pressing harder and harder until he could no longer bear the agony. He might as well have stuck them into clay. A row of indentations were left in his hand, but no red marks, no blood.
Terrified beyond belief, he hugged himself, shaking violently. This isn't happening. This is a dream…
Then another thought occurred to him; a darker, gut-wrenching thought. It wasn't a dream. The Winter had done this to him. It wouldn't let him die. It had forced him to live, against his will, against nature.
What kind of cruel curse is this?!
Screaming his anger and despair to the wind, he ran, blindly, not caring where he was going, not caring if he fell over the edge of the cliff. He needed to get away from this wretched Winter. He wished someone else were here: the Freeroamers, Arzath, Requar, anyone at all, just to reassure him that he was not losing his mind…
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He slammed into something solid and was thrown backwards into the snow. Dazed and blinking, he sat up. He thought at first that he must have hit the castle, but the nearest wall was at least ten feet away. He frowned in puzzlement, then noticed the air in front of him wobbling in a strange way: concentric circles spreading outwards, like the surface of a pool.
He watched them until they faded away, and continued watching, in case something else happened.
Nothing did. The castle was silent. The wind battered snow against its walls.
Ferrian got to his feet. He stared for a moment more, then edged forward apprehensively, his arm outstretched. His fingers touched an invisible wall. Silent waves undulated from his fingers, distorting the image of the castle beyond.
He took his hand away, then placed it back more firmly, and felt the wall push back. It seemed the more pressure was applied to it, the more it repelled. His despair grew heavier. A magical barrier protected the castle. This must be what Arzath had wanted him to break through.
He shook his head angrily. Had Arzath really expected him to be able to do something so impossible? If this thing covered the entire castle, it was huge, and must require tremendous power to maintain. The raw power of the Winter could break down doors and windows with ease, but this was far more complicated. This was not a physical construction but one made of thought and energy, probably designed to resist magical as well as non-magical attacks. He didn't have anywhere near the training or mental fortitude needed to breach something like this!
His face twisted in bitter resignation. It was hopeless! He slammed his fist into the shield, and it bounced off like a spring. In any case, he didn't want to summon the Winter again. Not ever, ever again. He hated it with what remained of his soul for what it had done to him!
He kicked and punched at the shield some more, venting his frustration on the obstinate barrier until finally, drained of all hope and energy, he slumped against it, sobbing. Rippled patterns bloomed outwards from his forehead and hands. "Where are you?" he cried. "Lord Requar, wh-why did you have to leave?"
Ferrian?
Ferrian jerked upright. The voice had sounded so clear, as though someone were standing right beside him. He spun, searching the darkness.
There was no one there.
I'm going mad, he thought. He looked back at the fading ripples, and went still. Wait. Could it be…?
Brushing his frozen tears away with his sleeve, he stepped back up to the shield and tentatively touched it once more. He hesitated, then whispered: "Lord Requar?"
Indeed, yes? the voice answered.
Ferrian's heart, if it had been working, would have leapt through his throat. As it was, he simply gaped. "You can hear me?" He looked quickly up at the castle, as though the sorcerer might actually be inside after all, watching him through one of the dark, frosty windows.
I certainly can. He sounded almost as surprised as Ferrian. You gave me quite a headache just a moment ago, I must say.
"I… I did?" Ferrian stammered. He still wasn't quite sure that what he was hearing was real. "S-sorry."
Please, do not apologise. I am very impressed that you figured out how to communicate with me through the shield. Most people simply throw things at it.
"It was just luck."
Then it was good luck indeed, Requar responded. I am truly sorry for not being at home, although I won't ask how on Arvanor you found your way into the valley. Are you all right?
Ferrian blinked at the question, wondering what to say. "I… I think I'm dead." It sounded stupid, saying it aloud, but he didn't know how else to describe what had happened to him.
Requar was silent for a long moment. Ferrian chewed his lip anxiously. He pressed closer to the shield, fearful of breaking the connection. When the sorcerer still did not reply, he said carefully: "Sir?"
It would seem that your curse is… more complicated than I expected, Requar answered finally.
“You know about the Winter?" Ferrian said, astonished. "And you know my name?"
I… do, Requar said slowly, although I fear the answers I have to give you may not be the ones you have been seeking. I only hope that you will forgive me for them.
Ferrian was silent, not knowing what to say.
Listen carefully, Requar went on. I am going to relinquish my hold on the shield, but only for a few seconds. You will need to move quickly. Can you make your way to the front doors?
Ferrian looked up. The main doors were about twenty feet away, to his left. He nodded and then, in case Requar could not actually see him, added: "Yes, sir."
Do so now.
He did so, stumbling through the snow with one hand trailing on the shield. When he was directly opposite the entrance, he stopped. "I'm here."
Good. Keep your hand on the shield until it has opened. Once through, it will close behind you and you will not be able to pass through it again without my permission. It is linked directly to my mind: nothing may touch it without alerting me to its presence. You may make contact with me at any time simply by touching the shield as you are doing now.
"I understand."
I am going to let you inside now. Are you ready?
"Yes, sir."
Ferrian waited patiently with his hand on the shield, noticing snowflakes passing through it unobstructed. Suddenly, the air shivered, sending a tremor through his hand. Ripples spread outwards again, this time creating a large hole that expanded rapidly, its edge shimmering with blue light. Ferrian hurried through the gap. A few seconds later it closed behind him, like water filling a hole. He walked back and touched the shield. "I'm through."
Excellent. The main doors are not locked. Please go inside out of the cold. There is wood in the dining room hearth and matches in the dresser. I am afraid my pantry is not very well stocked; I only keep enough food for myself and don’t often have guests, as you may expect. There is plenty of wine and water in the cellar, however. Please help yourself to anything you need.
"Thank you, your lordship," Ferrian said, grateful beyond words.
Requar. And you are most welcome.
Ferrian started to take his hand away, then placed it back. "Sir… where exactly are you?"
Three days away from the valley. I will be there in two.
Then he fell silent.
Ferrian turned away and hurried to the doors. On the threshold, he paused, looking over his shoulder. The shield was invisible again. A thick blanket of snow stretched from the castle to the bluff's edge, unmarred save by his footprints. No one could get past that hidden wall: not the Griks or the Murons or Arzath, if he was still alive. He was safe at last. Requar was coming, and he would know what to do. Everything was going to be all right.
I found a way through the shield, he thought, and almost laughed. I bet Arzath never thought of THAT!
Ferrian closed the door behind him quickly, relieved to be finally out of the storm.
A dark, chilly foyer greeted him.
It could not have been more different to Arzath's castle; it was smaller, more compact and homelier. It was taller than it was wide, the ceiling stretching away into a complex array of lofty arches. Like Arzath's entrance hall, there was a mezzanine balcony with corridors at each end that delved ahead into the upper floors of the castle, and a grand staircase curved down to the floor alongside the wall to his left. The steps were made of highly polished white marble, like the floor. In the middle of the floor a circular design in darker marble was set, like a shadow to the large round window above the front doors.
Directly opposite the window, spanning the length of the balcony wall where the throne room would have been in Arzath's hall, was a massive tapestry. There were many scenes upon it that he could not identify in the gloom, but the largest showed a cluster of grand buildings atop a rocky promontory, surrounded by a crashing sea.
He had never seen this infamous place depicted in pictorial form before, but had heard about it in many stories and songs. It was a place either reviled or revered by everyone who had ever lived since its construction.
The School of Magical Studies.
He would have shivered, if he hadn't been already.
The rest of the room was furnished tastefully with a few chairs and chaise lounges and bookcases against the walls, small statues and long-stemmed candelabras. A great white grandfather clock stood by the wall to his right, ticking the silence away like the heartbeat of the castle.
Ferrian's hand went despondently to his own chest: there was still nothing to be felt within it.
Crossing the floor, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored door of a cabinet. He stopped and stared.
The figure that stared back at him looked like something that had been dug up out of a snowy grave. Its hair and clothing were frozen to its body. Its skin was far too pale to be healthy. Its eyes glittered within dark hollows.
He was a walking corpse.
Turning abruptly away, he continued walking with increased urgency, breathing rapidly even though he didn't need to. He hunched down into his cloak, wrapping his arms about himself. I just need to warm up, he thought desperately. I just need to get warm, and then I'll feel better.
He reached the doors at the other side of the room and went through them in a rush, closing them firmly behind him as though to escape the horrifying reflection.
He found himself now in a dining room, as elegant as the foyer he had just passed through. One wall was lined with tall, arched windows, the other a series of shadowy oblong shapes that appeared to be paintings. Ferrian walked quickly around the long table to the hearth at the end of the room. As he passed the dresser he opened the top drawer – as promised, there was a tin of matches within. There were also some candles. Lighting one, he carried it over to the hearth and lit the tinder, which was bone-dry and caught easily.
Waiting for the logs to flare up, he glanced around the room. Apart from the crackle and snap of the sticks, the only other sound was the moaning of the wind outside. He wandered over to the paintings.
They were all portraits of long-dead noblemen and women, their style of dress and the age of the frames suggesting they hearkened back to an age all but forgotten. Ferrian regretted that his colour-blindness prevented him from seeing the colours, but they were exquisitely lifelike: every nuance of the characters’ expressions captured in perfect detail. They stared back at him from out of the past, one after the other: stern or proud or thoughtful. One painting, however, was different. It was the largest of the series, placed in the middle of the wall.
A family portrait.
Ferrian brought his candle closer. The father figure was proud and fierce-looking, with thick lowered brows and prominent cheekbones beneath heavily sun-tanned skin. He wore a military dress uniform in what Ferrian presumed were Middle Isle colours. His breastplate shone like a mirror beneath a thick furred cloak, set off by a black velvet sash and black ribbon braided into his hair. He stood with one hand on his wife's shoulder and the other on the hilt of a long, curved sword: a military sabre of the sort that Sirannor had once carried.
Beside the man, in a chair sat his wife, and Ferrian thought that he had never seen anyone so breathtaking in his entire life. Long white hair draped over one shoulder and loops of dark, glittering pearls rested upon her forehead and hung elegantly beside her pale face. Her posture was confident but demure, with a slight smile on her lips as though amused at something he could not see. Perhaps the gaping expressions of everyone who views the portrait, he thought. Her eyes seemed to see right through all the decades, right into his soul.
Blinking, he took a step back, realising the candle flame was almost touching the canvas. Tearing his gaze away from the beautiful lady, he examined the two children standing before her.
They were young boys of about nine or ten. The taller of the two matched his mother for looks; the same long, ice-white hair, same striking eyes. Dutifully he stood with his hands behind his back, a serious, slightly anxious expression on his face, as though determined to make a good impression. Finally, next to him – though a good arm's length away – his brother slouched. Although much, much younger, Ferrian recognised him instantly: his black hair and brooding expression were unmistakable. He didn't seem at all interested in posing for the portrait; his eyes not looking out at the viewer but off to the side, as though plotting ways to get out of there…
At that very moment, the doors to the dining hall opened and the boy he had just been looking at stepped through.