4
Valerian had meant to be strong and keep moving, planning to seek out the Cave of the Sigil with Pretty One's help. Only, it didn't work out that way, at all. Linked to the goblin child, he misty-stepped down and away from the battle, took a few wobbly steps and then collapsed, sliding along the passage wall to a seat on the stone-littered ground. Scraped glow-fungus off of the rock as he folded up, making the place even darker.
He was utterly spent. What Murchison would have called 'in the red', subsisting on the borrowed manna of some luckless descendant, or maybe the family sword, which he was addled enough to feel scratching away at his mind.
Nor was the goblin doing much better. She leaned her staff on the tunnel wall… which was moving… and then dropped to a squat, nearby. Her pupils were enormous, leaving naught but a golden-red ring to her eyes, and her breathing was made up of rough, shallow gasps. Probably not a good sign.
"Callin' a make 'n mend, Y'r Lordship?" she ventured, using a term that she'd picked up from Lerendar.
"B'lieve make-and-mend's calling me," Val corrected, managing a brief, weary smile.
Both of them fished through their belongings for food and drink, then, as it was obvious that no one was going any further without rest and a little refreshment. It was dim in the passage, but safe enough, and both could see without very much light. From her carry-sack, Pretty One drew a few rounds of flat, greyish bread and a flask of thin wine. Also, the back half of a rat, reminding him rather of Salem.
Val provided some frosted dough-men, dried fish and another of those everlasting apples. Meant for Patches and bought in Snowmont, they were the one thing that seemed to never completely run out. Some nascent clerical magic of Mirielle's, possibly… but he was coming to truly hate apples, even when roasted and shared.
(Didn't occur to him that a burning hands spell would spook the young goblin, or that she'd see anything in it but an easy way to cook food. She did like the baked fruit and the doughmen, though, not getting much in the way of sweets, underground.)
Afterward, finishing off the last munch and then licking her fingers, Pretty said,
"Yer glowin', Y'r Lordship. Junior… y'r sib… done that, too, when 'ee were near wiped out. I c'n stand watch fer a bit, if yer wantin' some rest."
Valerian rubbed at his face with one hand, reflexively muttering a cleansing spell that did little more than flutter his clothing and hair. (He smelled a bit better afterward, though.)
"Might have to," admitted the elf-lord, feeling the past slipping up and around like warm water. Very shortly, his mind unmoored enough to wander in memory, seeking rest after the usual manner of elves.
Pretty One crouched in the corridor for a bit, observing his lordship blearily. Sceptically. Had anyone told her, as little as a day earlier, that she would find herself alone in a tunnel with Sparks, that infamous murderer… standing watch as he drowsed… she'd have called them struck by the moon and the bare, open spaces. Yet, here she was, watching her glowing, unconscious, beautiful enemy.
For just a wild instant Pretty One felt the edge of her sharpened stone knife. Thought about plunging its blade straight through his uncovered throat. Quick-like, before he could speak any spells or light up his hands.
Ratchet, and all of them others who'd fried like fish on a stick, would come for a taste of their killer's blood, she was sure. Rest easier, they would. And all it would take was a moment. A strike. Such thoughts tore her deeply, hitting the weary young girl very hard.
As for Valerian, his loosened mind found its way to an afternoon in midsummer, on the deck of the Seahorse, with Granddad, Katina and Lerendar. They had sailed from the lake to the Aradyne River that day, meaning to go just as far as the great coral arch that marked the harbor at Sea Port. A safe enough trip, and a reasonably short one.
Valerian, young enough to be carried still, and to have his nanny aboard, had been up at the bow on Galadin's shoulders. He'd leaned excitedly forward, one hand tangled in Granddad's white hair, the other pointing out darting small boats, while Skipper barked and frisked all around them.
Mage wind sang in the Seahorse's rigging, filling her luminous sails. Her painted-on eyes shifted and roved, sometimes at bow or stern, sometimes climbing the mainmast; not always paired. The ship, a sleek ethran, or serpent-hunter, clove through the water at nearly top speed, sending spray sheeting back onto Val and his grandfather; leaving a mountainous wake.
The tide was receding, lending their ship greater dash. The sun climbed high overhead, striking gems from the Aradyne River. Mid-meal would be served on the deck soon… Val remembered that… and maybe he'd never had a happier day in his life.
His grandfather gripped his legs at the shins, keeping the squirming small boy from falling. Answered Valerian's babbling questions with patient good humor, though the child hadn't been given his name yet, and barely could speak.
Except, just as they came into view of the bustling harbor, then became now, as memory shifted to actual contact.
His grandfather reached higher up, seizing the boy and lifting him off of his shoulders. Turned the blinking small child around and sat him down on the wooden rail. But… that hadn't happened, at all. In memory, they'd watched the carved archway appear, first as a sliver, then full, ornate coral bow. Seahorse had been moored to a ring on the northern pylon.
Here and now, in altered seeing, he looked up at his grandfather, who was smiling a little.
"You've turned out rather well," said the elf-lord. "I am proud of you, Valerian."
"Granddad?!" blurted his descendant, altering shape in uneven bursts to his present appearance.
"Me. Now that a part of you has entered the sword, I can reach you, as can Vesendorin."
The younger elf winced.
"I am truly sorry about that, My Lord. I killed the family sword because Vesendorin had to save me in battle." Because he hadn't been good enough, on his own. But Galadin only laughed.
"He's had a great deal to say about you, taking full credit for your… erm… maturation. But, I'm certain he'll tell you himself, once he's spent enough time enjoying his freedom."
Reached out to clasp and shake Valerian's shoulder at that, adding,
"More to the point, the fact that you've given the sword on to Reston…"
Val huddled slightly, expecting a Sherazedan-style dressing down. Didn't get one, though.
"... making him a wielder of the blade… means that I may talk to my son. I have a chance now to put some things right, and I thank you."
The old lich had said something about ghosts and their wearisome quests, but it felt really good to see Granddad again. To know that, somehow, he'd helped.
…And this day was darkening as it hadn't, back then. A sudden gale and high-piling clouds sprang from nowhere, churning up waves and blotting the sun. The ship began tossing in storm-roughened waters, very much faster than anything natural. Somehow, the harbor and shore had vanished, leaving them far out to sea. Sensing they hadn't much time, Val asked,
"What about Dad? Can he talk to me, too?"
Galadin shook his head, no.
"Keldaran is neither quite living nor dead, trapped in between by last magic and concern for his family and realm. He is not able to speak through the sword, yet." Then, as the wind whipped his ice-white hair and tore at his words, "The way ahead grows darker, boy, and your enemy is not who you think."
Sketching a glowing sigil in midair, the elf-lord said,
"Here is a boon. Not much of one, I'm afraid. You have no idea how difficult it is… how utterly tedious… to scrape up manna without a physical reservoir. But it may be of some help, in time to come."
A glow formed in the space between them, almost lost in the glare of sudden, sky-tearing thunder and lightning. Val reached forward, clear through the boon-spell, to embrace his grandfather. Not extraplanar. Not somebody else's. His own.
There was time for one brief, fond clasp. Then rain hammered down, cold as a slap and ferocious. Lightning struck the mast, which split with a sharp, awful crack. Val was torn roughly away; out of the vision and back to his own empty body. Fully alert, he sprang to his feet, darting a look at the darkness and dust.
The goblin was huddled a few feet away, clutching something; weeping as though the heart had been torn right out of her breast. Valerian cleared his throat, still feeling the violent motion of ship, sea and wind. Still hearing his grandfather's words… all of which made him a little incautious.
"Rest," he said to the girl. "I am restored now. I will stand watch for you."
She did not make eye-contact, but sniffled and nodded, scuttling off to wrap a smelly old cloth around herself, as she curled up facing the wall. After a few ragged heartbeats her breathing deepend in mortal sleep, and Val was alone.
He set some wards and cast a faint mage-light, then busied himself readying spells and ingredients. LIke a fool, he'd given Nightshade to Prince… now maybe Emperor… Nalderick. All very well, very noble, but the gesture left him with only his second-best sword, which he'd thrown at Kaazin, by the Shop of True Need.
Val got it back out and unsheathed it again, scowling uncertainly, looking for signs of dark-elf corruption. Longer and broader than Nightshade, with much less added enchantment, the spare sword was just mithral and steel. Its leather-wrapped hilt was topped by a polished red gem onto which he'd long ago scratched a fierce, rampant griffin. Over the years, that stick-figure monster had developed a bit of animation. Was currently dozing in loaf-form, like a winged cat.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Might have been just his fancy, but the sword's pommel ornament seemed darker. Less garnet than blood. Meanwhile, its blade looked and felt… colder, giving off faint curls of mist.
"Knew it," Val muttered, in tones of deepest disgust. "That offspring of dung heap and corpse has polluted my weapon."
Which… you know… he still needed. Lerendar's improvised spear was at hand in a faerie pocket, but making an actual sword out of the thing would take time and manna he just couldn't spare.
Valerian sighed, shifting position a bit as he frowned at the second-best, drow-tainted blade.
"You have been mine since childhood," he scolded. "All that the midden-spawn did was bat you aside in rejection. Surely, he cannot have altered you much."
The sword glittered darkly, keeping its own counsel. Maybe an actual, dignified name would help? (Yes, he'd called it something, before. A stupid, top-lofty kid name that he didn't like to recall.)
"You are Frostbite," said Valerian, "and you shall serve in this time of trial. No more exercise blade, but a weapon of light… which understands darkness."
The hilt shifted a bit in his grip, then, attuning. The stick-griffin stretched and yawned on its gem, flexing over-large wings. (He'd never been much of an artist. That was Aunt Meliara, and Mother.)
Anyhow, between this and that, time passed and Pretty One got enough rest to go on with. She uncurled with a sudden sharp jerk and a gasp, calling out,
"Grampa?!"
Looking around, seeing only the elf, she lowered her head.
Val offered her drink, sending a flask of his family's honey wine drifting across. Said,
"My grandfather died at sea, when I was not much older than you are. I felt his end. We all did… and it has hurt every day, since. But, I've learned to live around the loss. I've had to. You asked, if it ever gets better…"
She was gazing up at him now, a strange, wild look on her face. Val continued,
"I would say no, not exactly. It's just a burden you get used to carrying, because others have need of your strength. Your folk need a sorceress. Mine require a mage… and all we can do is our best."
Pretty One sniffled.
"I wish that all this could just go away," she whispered, taking a gulp of the wine. "That Grampa was back… with Ratchet an' them… and that we was never fightin', at all." Took one more swig and then held out the tooled leather flask. Valerian called it back through the air.
"Me, too," he said, very quietly. Then, drinking once, spelled it away. "Are you ready to go?" asked the elf, rising with a brief, bright shimmer of pocketed objects.
"Guess so," she answered. "Guess we has ter be. Both of us."
Retrieving her staff and her carry-sack, Pretty One studied the tunnel.
"This way, Milord," she grunted, starting forward with scraped-up courage; putting away childish tears.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Out in Karellon, Meliara the Oracle, seer of death, led that small band of refugees down to the mage-trial arena. They were mostly half-elves, kobolds and humans, as the grander folk of the City had already moved to a safer location. Those required by duty to stay had been swept away by escape spells once an ancient dragon appeared in the sky. Once the emperor died.
The path that she chose was not swift, for unstable buildings could collapse without warning, burying half of the street in blocks of marble the size of a dray-wagon. Worse, there were scavengers already present; things of darkness that Aldarion's power had kept in check, now free to prey on the injured and dead. Of Sherazedan, there was no sign. The war bells rang vainly, repeatedly, setting her teeth on edge, but getting no answer, at all.
Meliara used her seer's vision to locate places of danger. These, she avoided; moving that small band of twenty-two refugees in scurrying bursts, trusting the paladin to strike down anything that dropped from the rooftops or rose from below. Meanwhile, the dragon-fire still burned, spreading with every wind-gust.
Their crossing took several candle-marks, but felt very much longer. Once, a ghoul rose up from a corpse it had been ravaging, changing shapes to look like a frightened young child.
"Help, please?" it begged, holding out skinny, blood-dappled arms. All Meliara could see was a creature of seething hunger and evil, hiding itself with illusion. She bore no weapon, had only the weakest of shield spells. Sensing this, the ghoul began edging nearer. Then the paladin vaulted a fallen column to lunge between them, sword in hand. Oberyn's sunburst hung on a long chain around the warrior's neck. He took hold of it now, scraping it along the sword's blade, striking bright sparks, allowing its power to flow from the symbol and into the weapon.
"Oberyn, slayer of darkness, strengthen my arm," murmured the paladin, as he leapt at the ghoul. The sea-elven blade seemed to catch fire. Cleft the monster from skull to crotch in a single blow, holy light burning both halves to nothing before they could hit the ground. Seawater burst from the weapon, then, forming a waterspout that swept the ghoul's taint from the corpse it had fed upon, freeing a soul to move onward.
She'd expected less trouble in the better parts of the City, but that wasn't what happened. There were mansions whose physical portion had collapsed entirely, leaving warded chambers still floating three or four stories above all the rubble and flame. One of these rooms contained abandoned servants, having no magic and too frightened to jump. A pack of were-rats snapped and circled in the smoldering courtyard, below, waiting for someone to fall. A lone elven guardsman had done his best to pile stones up, trying to reach those trapped, above, but now he was stuck at the top of his rock-pile, fending off wolf-sized rats with curses, a truncheon and sword. Seeing the newcomers, he cried out for help, gasping,
"In all the gods' names… my wife is up there… please…"
Meliara wasn't a direct fighter, but she could stare at the were-rats, allowing the seer's eye to call forth their fate, showing them imminent death by holy fire and blade. Fully half of the hairy monstrosities melted back to their man-form, but the change couldn't hide them. The paladin reached up and back for his usual weapon, a broad-bladed spear. Then, like an armored whirlwind, he seemed to be everywhere, taking advantage of fallen blocks and burning pits to confuse, ambush and slaughter the chittering rodents. Not one escaped.
After that, Brother Arnulf drew into himself for a bit, finding his center and calling on power. A few moments passed as fires crackled and hissed, wind gusting cold and alone around piled, broken stone. Then the paladin lifted a gloved hand, raising block after block to form a magical staircase leading from the gutted mansion up to that floating room. The stones rumbled as they were levitated, pushing their mass into the ground, further cracking the courtyard. A shower of sand and pebbles clattered onto the staring crowd. Meliara warded them as best she could, but a few wound up with black eyes or chipped teeth. Once the last, highest stone was in place, the guardsman cried out,
"Lynn, sweetling, hold on, we're coming!"
With two of the abler refugees, he bounded up the paladin's hovering blocks. First embraced and kissed Lynn, then handed a five-year-old page, three human maids and a steward to safety. All the while, Brother Arnulf remained in deep meditation, holding those blocks in position with absolute trust in his Lord. Meliara stood watch for him, holding the guard's dropped truncheon as though she knew how to use it. Maybe she looked a bit odd, and not very noble at all; her hair streaming gold in the wind, eyes casting back flame like a cat's… but for once, no one feared her. For the first time since childhood, her presence was good.
When everyone had made it safely down to the courtyard, the paladin lowered his hand, allowing the stones to settle gently, one at a time, back into place on the ground. He had to sit for a while, after that, head down and panting, but no one begrudged him the rest… and their party gained six companions: Verrin the guard, his wife Lynn, and her fellow servants.
So it went, until they came at last to the shattered arena, the place where young mages, including Meliara's nephew, proved themselves worthy of grimoire and staff. Once, the building had floated aloft, supported by lacy pylons and spells, surrounded by beautiful gardens. Now it lay at an angle, half of its struts shattered and several focus gems missing. Of the gardens, nothing remained but torn earth. There was no shadow of death, though. Better, the arena itself was intact, being based in the fey wilds and not in mere stone. The trouble was going to be getting inside.
One of the half-elves, a young girl named Lydie, had sold flowers and gifts to folk in the stands. She knew a way in that skirted the crushed main entrance. A humble side door, it was, where supplies were delivered and servants allowed. Its portal was sideways, half buried in rubble, but muscle, levers and prayer soon pried it loose.
Meliara sensed no peril within. Still, Arnulf insisted on going first, casting holy light, one hand at the hilt of his sword. Their rescued elven guard brought up the rear, being armed and in relative health. Children and the wounded between, following that bright, holy glow. The passage was not long in physical space, but took a while to traverse, being partly out of their plane with its root in the fey wild. A mage could have managed it faster, but none of them had that much manna.
No one already inside the stadium had magic enough to command its environs, until Meliara arrived with the paladin. Added together, their power awakened the stadium's physical settings. All at once, as they came in through that humble service tunnel, the arena went from featureless black to a wistful collage of everyone's homes.
Starloft was central, with its village, fields and sparkling lake… but so was some kind of underhill sidhe, like a big, overturned bowl painted blue inside, with wandering mage-glows for light. At its fringes, their combined setting broke into various huts, burrows and cramped, small apartments; everyone's personal notion of safety and peace.
Meliara gasped and swayed where she stood, having not seen home since she'd left as a troubled young maiden. Only her nephew's occasional visits… when the curse was less active… had kept Starloft fresh and alive in her mind.
The children and refugees darted off with glad cries, seeing places and people they knew. Not Meliara, nor the paladin, either. Beside her, Brother Arnulf was wide-eyed and wondering.
"Do you think…" he began, taking the oracle's hand. "Would our folks be here, too, Milady?"
He was only a human, a mortal warrior of no lineage, at all. Should not have made eye-contact, much less touched her… but Meliara did not pull away. Gazing at all of that sudden light and activity, the seer said,
"If they are in our thoughts, then, perhaps so. In simulacrum, at least. There is no actual transport magic here. The spell is only creating what each of us longs for, lacking specific direction."
The paladin squeezed her hand, then released it, turning to face Meliara.
"You have manna enough to keep the arena attuned, have you not, Milady?" he asked.
"Aye that," she admitted cautiously. There were boats on the lake, one of them looking like Sunfish, her own little skiff, down to its doe-eyes and golden lateen sail. "But there is tremendous danger outside."
"...And thousands of people are struggling to survive and reach safety. They need help, My Lady. I'm a paladin. 'Rushing in' is my job."
Again, the seer's eye tried to open, seeking to read and establish the young man's fate. Meliara felt its burn at her forehead and started to move away. She didn't want to know, but he prevented her flight with a gentle hand on her arm.
"Release me," she hissed, half-sobbing. "Would you see what lies in wait for you, mortal?!"
"If it takes away part of your burden, then… yes. Let me look."
Everyone else, even her nephew, had heeded her warnings and fled when one of the bad spells came on. Not this one. Not the foolish, good-hearted young human.
So she looked at him, tilting her head slightly to meet his calm gaze. The eye manifested itself, first warming her forehead then opening fully, probing the future. She saw, and so did he. Battle and blood; fire, betrayal and love; and then, at the end, a whisper of hope.
Both of them staggered when the vision cleared, more or less keeping each other from falling.
"There. Now you know," growled Meliara, more savagely than she'd intended.
"And now you need not fear to look at me," he replied. With confidence, for… in the vision… she'd been there, right to the end. "And forewarned is forearmed, they say. At any rate, I have nothing to fear outside, today, and that gives me courage. As do you."
Arnulf (Villem, before he'd given his name to the Constellate) lifted her hand and kissed it.
"May I know your name, My Lady?" he asked softly.
Combined mage glow and sunshine made the moment bright in her mind, ever afterward.
"Meliara," she told him, "after a kind of…"
"Flower. Violet, or pale blue, that grows in the rocks, up north," finished the young man, adding, "But you are golden, not blue, except for your eyes." Then, though she hadn't asked, he said, "Before taking my oath and swearing service, I was Villem."
Fate had its own way of doing things, and the destination said nothing at all about how one arrived there. She had been at his side in that grim, shared vision, but it was up to them to decide why.
"Be safe," she said, changing the subject. "There is much peril and sorrow, without. Not from Vernax, though. Something or someone else moves through the city, now, taking lives under cover of chaos."
The paladin nodded, frowning.
"I have sword-brothers and -sisters here, My Lady; others sworn to fight for the dawn. I shall seek them out."
The Constellate was no longer much honored in Karellon, beyond pittance tithing and lip-service. There was still a small unit in low-town, though, ready to help those in need. Meliara touched a slim finger to her own forehead, and then, reaching higher, to his.
"Three times," she told him, "you may call upon the eye. It will reveal what is hidden, see through walls or somewhat into the mind of another, but must be invoked separately, each time. Be wise. Stay safe. Come back."
"To you?" he asked, still holding the hand that he'd kissed.
"To me," she replied.