31

There was a river, flowing rapid and cold, with scattered deep pools and tall rocks from which one might strike. Val shed war like a snake skin. No armor. No weapons but dagger and bow and his own elven-keen senses, with Dusty turned loose to browse.

The ridge to his west cast deep purple shadows. Willow and alder whispered and sighed in the rising wind of day's end, losing their leaves a spiraling red-golden few at a time. The water chuckled and raced, here and there foaming.

Insects and assemblers buzzed. Frogs and serpents plopped. A few elder bears nosed about, mostly minding their own business; sometimes rising to squint and sway on hind feet, looking him over. He greeted each towering bruin courteously, murmuring,

"Grandfather," then backing away. As well fight a mountain, and there were plenty of fish.

Gold-stripe and trout, mostly, though he also shot a rock-flicker, before it leapt backward in time. Explained the sudden presence and weight in his cold-pocket, Val guessed, retrieving the arrow.

Moved along, keeping his shadow off of the water, attention focused on lazy, overfed fish. Spotted a big one. Blue-gill, as long as his forearm, half hidden in tree roots.

Lined up the shot, aiming low and then lower than that. Drew carefully. Quietly.

…and then blinked in surprise as another bow sang, sending an arrow hissing from the opposite bank to skewer his prize. Val straightened, looked around, mentally rotating faerie pockets to bring his war gear back into first reach.

Only, there on the far bank was… himself. Almost. Dressed a bit differently, with a bow meant for sport, but still Valerian.

At eye-contact, the other Val hand-signed, 'Peace', adding, 'May I approach?'

Valerian lowered his bow and put it away, signing back,

'Well met,' and 'Come safely.'

Only, his perspective kept changing. Sometimes he stood, wary and bleak, on the west bank. Sometimes he hopped rocks across murmuring water, lithe as a cat or an otter.

Anyhow, soon both of them stood on the western bank, wondering what to do next. Finally, other-Val cleared his throat and half-bowed, saying,

"I owe you a debt of thanks for coming to my aid. I…"

Val snorted.

"Thank you, Me, for saving me," he cut in.

Second-Val grinned at him, looking relieved.

"All right… put that way, it does seem a little ridiculous."

Valerian held up one hand, forefinger and thumb spaced very slightly apart.

"Nevertheless," continued his other self, "I am alive and free, and Kalisandra saw me not in chains and silenced, thanks to your aid. I am grateful, and I wonder… What can I do, in return? What seek you, here?"

Only, it was becoming very difficult to tell which him was him, as their memories blended, nudging both Vals closer to being one person.

"Oh," said the one who belonged to this place. "Oh, I see. I am… so very sorry. I envy your magic, but not the hard fate that has brought you here."

The wanderer shrugged.

"I must find and save Lerendar," he said, clinging to shreds of himself like a drowning man clutching at sail cloth and ship's timbers. "As for magic, you are too old to be fostered by Sherazedan, but…"

"Sherazedan who?" interrupted his alternate, rudely. "There is no Sherazedan here. The last person to bear that name was the emperor's brother."

"Exactly," said Valerian, deeming his point fully made.

"The first and last emperor, over five hundred cycles ago," other-Val told him. "But he perished in battle with an ancient copper dragon. Not that it killed him, mind. He just disappeared in mid-fight, and never was heard from again. Why do you speak of… how do you remember… the very long dead? I can see him in our mind, but it makes no sense. Sherazedan the Subtle is not even history. He has long since fallen to legend."

Right. Well…

"Perhaps time flows differently, in this place," mused Valerian, the sentence spoken by both, in alternate back and forth words.

Changing the subject, Val-who-belonged probed,

"Kalisandra is not…? Does she not care for us, where you come from?"

"She goes her own way," replied alien-Val. "She is a ranger."

"As is mine," interrupted one of him; a terribly ill-mannered, impatient fellow. "You must be straightforward, perfectly clear with the lass. Explain our feelings in simple terms that even a female can fathom."

Val-who-was-other shook his blond head. Conjured cute, tiny images of himself and Kalisandra, saying,

"Allow me to set the scene for you. Here cometh Valerian, full of romantic ardor, burning with manly passion."

The mini Val took small Sandy's hand, chirping,

"Fear not, Sweetling, for we've already done it, in another plane."

At which wee Kalisandra scowled and shoved him, squeaking,

"That is the most pathetic bed-line I've ever heard, Stupid Northerner!"

The images popped like soap-bubbles, leaving here-Val shaking his head sympathetically.

"You do have a problem," he admitted, pulling a flask of mead from a faerie pocket and tossing it over.

Valerian had the brief sensation of having both thrown and caught his own bottle, before their minds and forms pulled apart once again.

Unscrewing the cap, he took a long pull at sweet, faintly alcoholic honey-wine. Then he capped it once more and lofted it back.

"Returning to the subject of magic, you might go to the City and study with Murchison. He is a human wizard… a future lich or necromancer, according to Sherazedan…"

"Who doesn't exist," corrected one of him. The stupid, discourteous one.

"As you will have it. Anyhow, go to the City. You can stay with Aunt Meliara and work with Murchison. He is a good enough sort for a human, and quite powerful."

Added, after thinking a moment,

"Your talent is there. It is real, and can help you. And… not having magic to call upon, kills."

Mere weapons and firebolts hadn't saved Dad, or kept Lerendar free. Nor saved Snowmont from raiding drow.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

They looked at each other. Were each other for several stuttering heartbeats. Then,

"I have to go," said what was left of the wanderer. "I have to ride north. Send… if you would… send the Tabaxi and Mirielle after me, and go speak with Reston. Explain my absence, please."

Here-Val scowled, momentarily offended at the thought of explaining himself to a mere half-elven Feen. Then, as Valerian's memories of home intermingled, he said,

"I shall do so. I cannot promise to change all at once, but I will learn magic and work on getting to know those we used to…"

"Still."

"...love. As you love…"

"Endure."

"...Kalisandra. Speak with her, idiot. She is proud. She will not move first. Trust me."

Once or twice there was only one of him, talking to air, as the invaded plane sought to paper over the alien. Then, he stumbled off, calling to Dusty. The beautiful, dapple-grey stallion, son of the north wind, came at once. Valerian made it into the saddle; foot in the stirrup, swinging over and up while simultaneously watching himself do so.

It was a very near thing, and ragged pieces of both minds were left in each Val. Just barely parting in time, heading as fast and as far as they could, the youngest Tarandahl lords broke mostly free of each other.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sometime earlier, in Karellon's walled Imperial Quarter, the situation was growing tense; their sense of long waiting, interminable. Having concerns of his own, Nalderick Valinor ob Korvin ob Aldarion… the Prince Attendant… requested an audience. He then waited nearly a fortnight to speak with His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor. A serious step, and not one he'd taken lightly.

He was troubled and angry. Needed to do something positive rather than waste his time at court or the workroom, brewing foul potions and performing moldy old rites that no one but Sherazedan cared about.

Thus, he'd worked his way through the smothering protocol web and called for a royal audience, which was granted. Eventually.

Not even his own grandson could push his way past guards, attendants, seneschals and… most rigid of all… Sherazedan, to address the Emperor. It wasn't done, and trying could get one exiled or killed. Nor did one simply stroll into the Presence without a good reason. Especially now.

His Imperial Majesty was not in the crystalline throne room, the council chamber or his own lofty quarters. Nor in the formal gardens, where Derrick had encountered him last, many years previous. Rather, Aldarion-the-First Valinor, Sword Arm of the Strider, Uniter of Tribes, Tamer of Dragons, Wielder of Heavenly Fire, was down below Karellon Palace. Once again, he'd descended to the lair, and meeting him there took some doing.

Nalderick was handed off from suspicious attendants to harried functionaries seven whole times. Questioned at each stop. Searched for poison, weapons or hovering death-spells. (Would have been swifter to walk in naked, perhaps, but not very courteous. His Imperial Majesty had to be shielded from harm for the good of the realm. Everyone knew this, and Nalderick didn't complain or attempt to pull rank. Much. Very often.)

He was finally ushered into a series of deep-buried lava tubes, and thence to a vast basalt cavern glowing with magical light. A distant glimmer indicated the cliffside perch and sun-basking ledge, but it had been a very long time since Vernax used either.

The final cadre of guards represented every high elven family but the Tarandahls, Valinors and the nearly extinct Geldaheryns. Val had been meant to join after completing his journeyman quest, though. Young Kesteros, once he was strong enough to lift a spear without falling over. Nalderick himself was the last missing piece. Like his friend Valerian, not yet through with his wretched apprenticeship.

Here and now, the Emperor's honor guard was three people short, and harder driven because of it. They checked him for weapons yet again, took and recorded his Five Oaths of Loyalty, and then finally let the young prince through a warded door and into the lair.

The first thing one saw upon entering was Vernax the Golden; a crouching mountain of corrosion-flecked scales with the tapering, backswept horns of a desert antelope, a very long neck and drooping, sprawled wings. The Imperial Mount's four mighty legs were beneath its body, thrust deep in its bedding of treasure, stone chips and bone.

Not much more than a transparent husk, now, Vernax contained within its huge body a single, perfectly spherical egg. This it was that pulsed and flared with internal light. This it was that kept His Imperial Majesty down in the lair.

The dragon was very close to rebirth. To that singular moment when so mighty a creature could be impressed and befriended. The emperor dared not leave, nor allow another close contact. Not since the affair, ages back, when a serving maid with her drink tray had become… very briefly… Tamer of Dragons. Sad story. Short. Very instructive.

Half-dead or not, Vernax dwarfed the figure who stood before him, talking of times past and adventures long settled. The Emperor's voice was cracked from long use, but vital. His stance weary, but still capable. Here and now, he was meant to be the dragon's protector, neatly reversing their usual roles.

Nalderick squared his broad shoulders, mentally rehearsing all that he'd come here to ask. There were still five court-lengths between himself and Aldarion, and he had to stop, bow and declaim another of His Imperial Majesty's many titles every ten yards. Fortunately, the distance was clearly marked, and Derrick was reasonably patient.

The Prince Attendant made his gradual way past treasures beyond price, weaving through blank, silent "false eggs" and massive, up-thrusting crystals of gold-threaded quartz. One wall of the cavern was pocked with tall alcoves in which stood realistic statues of past heroes and rulers. Nalderick bowed respectfully in their direction, then approached His Imperial Majesty.

Taller than Sherazedan, his long, dark hair unbound and liberally streaked with silver, the Emperor looked harassed, suspicious and utterly drained. There were purple-dark shadows beneath his green eyes, and his expression did not soften or warm at the sight of his grandson.

Nalderick dropped to one knee. He had dressed very carefully. Was unarmed, but partially armored in dark, unpolished chain mail. Wearing no bright colors that might lure the gaze of an innocent, newly-burst hatchling, his own dark hair caught back in a simple plait. No circlet, no jewelry, no flashy, swift moving cloak. (And, needless to say, no shiny drink tray, ever again.)

The Emperor grunted. Signaled permission to rise, after the requisite sixty-one heartbeats of worshipful silence.

"Be welcome, Nalderick, son of my son," he said, very quietly, so as not to disturb that developing egg with another's name or identity. The top of His Majesty's head scarcely reached the jagged line of Vernax's long bottom teeth, as he leaned for support on the dragon's muzzle.

Vernax opened one eye, sending a sudden dart of soft light through the chamber. Part of it brushed across Derrick, who felt instantly bolder, more confident. So, too, with Aldarion, who turned to face the much younger elf with something like his usual briskness.

"I will waste no time in further formality," said the Emperor. "It is late, and the egg will soon absorb that which was Vernax, my battle companion and mount. I would be alone when it does. What is your request, boy?"

Nalderick put away flowery language and courtly doublespeak. Bowed very deeply, saying,

"Your Mightiness… Grandfather… a friend of mine has gone suddenly missing. First through escape spell, then flight northward on horseback, which I comprehend and was able to sense." (Best to leave out any mention of that ill-omened Tarandahl sword, Derrick reasoned. No sense having an army dispatched to Ilirian to 'help the succession pass smoothly'.) "But, since then, he has vanished utterly, gone from my scrying or ken, which I grasp not at all."

"You speak of young Tarandahl, your fellow apprentice," said the Emperor, briefly combing through Nalderick's thoughts. Not a comfortable feeling.

"Yes, Your Mightiness. He has been a good friend and companion to me, and this sudden desertion is…"

"Enough," snapped the Emperor, turning his gaze back to Vernax, whose soft rumbles shook the cave floor. Who very soon would forget his old comrade, entirely. "Speak to me not of emotion or friendship. What came you to seek, boy? Be quick."

Nalderick's gut very slowly unclenched. It was a very dangerous thing to anger the Emperor, especially at such a critical time.

"I… yes, Your Majesty," he blurted, adding, "I seek permission to take a few comrades and ride in search of Valno… of Valerian, that is. He shall most likely have headed north to his family's estate, but something has clearly gone wrong."

The Emperor's hard green eyes met Nalderick's momentarily.

"You and your sister are the future and hope of the realm, boy," he said. "What if you are killed, riding off on this hare-brained quest to locate a border-lord's worthless second offspring?"

Nalderick shifted position, then ceased moving, not wishing to seem as though he wanted the egg's attention.

"I shall do my best… give solemn oath as a Valinor Prince… not to perish on Valno's behalf, and to keep a sharp watch for ogres, Your Mightiness. But… Grandfather… the hope of our realm is you, with Vernax the Golden once more reborn at your side."

The Emperor closed his eyes, leaning his pale forehead against the dragon's thrumming-hot lower jaw. Many hard things and long hours stood between him and that longed-for stability, including preventing a newly hatched monster from bursting forth in a rampage of blood-crazed hunger.

"Keep your flattery, boy. I may just be strong enough to impress and command him, again… but that belongs to the gods, who speak very little, these days." Then, "You have my leave to depart the capital and seek out your errant compatriot. See him placed on his family's seat, returning hale and safe within a month's time. Otherwise, you shall be blocked from the hall of your ancestors, doomed to wander till Oberyn's call."

So… mixed results, but at least he could go… and Valerian had some explaining to do. Why hadn't the stubborn idiot asked for help? Called for his friends and his teammates, at need? Did they mean nothing at all?

Bowing low, Nalderick murmured,

"I thank you for hearing my…"

Or, he started to.

"Out. Waste no more of our time with your foolishness," growled the Emperor, the dragon-light flaring inside him and Vernax both, as the egg gave another great heave. "If it came to that, I would kill you myself, rather than have another weak and incapable impressor allow Vernax to slaughter, unchecked. Leave us."

"Yes, Mightiness."

Nalderick backed away and hurriedly saw himself out. He was gone from the capital that very day, riding north with all of his set but one.