Bastion of Darkness (7 page)

“Then think of all the world,” Bryan snapped after her, and he too straightened. “Then think of how little good a bone-weary Rhiannon can do for the world compared to what rested Rhiannon did only a few short months ago. How many did you heal then, at the great battle? And how many talons did you slay with your magics? And all of that before you battled the Black Warlock! Before you, Rhiannon of Avalon, flattened the
Black Warlock to the ground and sent him slithering back to his dark hole!”

“It was not me alone,” the witch answered softly, her anger subdued by the painful memories of that horrible battle. She looked away, out over the lip of the plateau, out to the wide world spreading before her.

“But how much could you do now?” Bryan pressed. “If a hundred wickedly wounded soldiers lay waiting for you, how many now would survive?”

Rhiannon looked back to him and said nothing; she had run out of answers.

“So rest, my Rhiannon,” Bryan implored her. “Rest and recover your strength, and be ready for that inevitable time when I truly need you, when all the world truly needs you. Do what divining tricks you might to point my sword in the right direction, but then let me take care of the rogue bands. In the end, they are little enough trouble.”

“The day’s to snow,” Rhiannon said quietly, and started away, but not before she offered a conciliatory nod to the young warrior. “It’d not do for us to get caught up so high.”

They made their way down the mountain, to a low and sheltered vale, and encountered no more talons that day, nor trouble of any kind. True to Rhiannon’s prediction, a snow did begin to fall, but it was gentle down in the valley, not wind-whipped and stinging, as up on the higher plateaus. Often Bryan tried to broach again the subject of the talons, of his and Rhiannon’s respective roles in their alliance. By Bryan’s estimation, Rhiannon had done more good than any could have imagined, and she should rest now, let her powers be in case they would be needed again in more desperate times. “Whenever your animal friends speak of enemies in the region, pass
the word to me,” Bryan said with all confidence, “then take your rest and await my return.”

Rhiannon was too weary to argue with the eager warrior. She understood that Bryan’s words were as much boast—and a boast aimed at her, and how that set her back on her heels!—as reason. The young warrior wanted to puff himself up—as Rhiannon’s mother used to describe it—in Rhiannon’s eyes. Given the honesty of their relationship, where they saw each other so clearly and truly, she could hardly understand any need he might have to boast.

Still, given the efficient manner in which Bryan had disposed of the last talon band, and the fact that he had long survived without her help, without anyone’s help, striking at talon encampment after talon encampment, freeing refugees and ushering them to safety across the river, Rhiannon had to admit that there was more than a little basis for his bravado. So the young witch—who had been sheltered in her mother’s forest for so much of her life, but was at last beginning to sort out the wide ways of the wide world—took Bryan’s boasting, his need to protect her and to impress her, as a compliment, and lay down by their fire that night thinking that she might find her first truly restful sleep in a long while.

Since before this power had awakened within her.

It was Bryan, supposedly keeping watch, but surely exhausted from the long hike and his escapades of the night before, who first began to snore. Rhiannon lay awake, smiling outwardly at the sound, but her inner turmoil roiled. She had not been properly schooled in the ways and the sources of magic, but she, too, like the other wizards of Aielle, knew that something was terribly amiss. At first she had thought the sudden magical weakness to be her own, but now she was coming to
understand that it was the source of power that had been weakened, that those energies to which she might reach out were no longer pure and strong.

That notion brought other disturbing questions to mind. Her home, beloved Avalon, was a creation of magic, and was sustained by magic. If the source had been weakened, had the colors of Avalon, so pure and so rich, begun to fade? “Me mum,” the young witch whispered affectionately into the wind, and indeed, at that moment, Rhiannon would have given anything to be wrapped in Brielle’s warm embrace. She glanced over at Bryan, her would-be hero, leaning against a rock wall, his eyes closed, his snores as loud as ever, and she thought that she should take him there, to Avalon, to meet Brielle. This young man, barely more than a boy, had known only grief and war for so long, for months on end. Perhaps she might show him the quieter and more beautiful side of life, for if Avalon could not heal the emotional scars of war, then no place in all the world ever could.

She would take him there, she decided, and remind him of the goodness of life, to remind him of the beautiful things, to remind him of his own inner beauty.

Rhiannon paused in her musing and just stared at Bryan, and did not doubt that inner beauty for an instant.

She let those thoughts go at that, thoughts she had not held for any man save Andovar.
Not yet
, she silently told herself, and she lay back down, remembering her fine ranger, his easy yet emotional way with stories, his fine silhouette as he sat tall upon his horse, the graceful way the muscles of his legs held his seat as the animal galloped across the fields, leaping fallen trees with ease.

A darkness engulfed her, fell over her mental vision through the curtain of night; at first she thought it to be
the emotions of the loss, the death of Andovar replayed in her imagination. But then Rhiannon recognized it as something tangible, not remembered or imagined, as some true darkness, and not so far away. The witch was up quickly, pacing about the encampment, wondering if she should try divining with a reflecting pool, or if she might simply concentrate and sense the presence more clearly. She reflected on it long and hard, and came to believe that whatever it was—and she feared it might be Morgan Thalasi—it was moving east to west, some distance north of her present position, out of the Baerendils and across the Calvan plain.

Indeed it was a darkness, a perversion, a hideous insult to Nature. That recognition angered the young witch, for indeed she was more like her mother than she could ever know, and her instincts to protect the natural world had her gathering together her things before she even realized the action. If she had sensed the darkness, then it would likewise recognize her, she suspected. Better that she go out and meet it on the open fields; better to be the huntress than the hunted.

But what of her companion? she wondered, glancing over at the sleeping young warrior. Should she wake Bryan and tell him her designs? Should she allow him to accompany her, as surely he would demand?

“No,” the witch whispered. Not this time. This was not a battle of swords, if a battle it would be at all. This was a matter for magic, and in that, Bryan of Corning could play no role. This perversion was an evil that the young half-elf simply could not know. Still, Rhiannon hated to leave him behind, and so she resolved to go out with all speed, better scrutinize the source of darkness, and then return to Bryan’s side, hopefully before the end of the next day.

She left Bryan with a gentle kiss on the cheek and floated out easily across the broken ground of the mountain trail, her black gossamer gown, the dress of her heritage, trailing behind her, shrouding her form in mystery.

T
HE MORNING DAWNED
soft and gentle, a growing hint of spring in the air, though the snow lay thick about Avalon. The warmer air brought up a wispy fog from that snow, veiling the dark trees, dulling the cold starkness from their leafless branches, and giving all the forest a surreal and dreamy quality.

Belexus stood perfectly still for a long, long while, collecting his thoughts one at a time, translating them into some tangible image—a block of stone—and then dismissing each of them into emptiness, throwing them away, falling deep into a meditative trance. Then slowly he began to reach for the morning sky, like the great oak, higher and higher, spreading wide the great limbs of his arms, stiffening them, grasping a firm hold on nothingness, the cords of his bulging muscles stretching taut. Then gradually he softened, became fluid, like the willow, that most deceptive of trees, the tree that successfully battled the greatest of winds through apparent submission. Side to side he went, always to his limits, always reaching. The ranger had seen fifty winters, but with the graceful stretching routines Brielle had shown to his father Bellerian, and that Bellerian had in turn taught to Belexus and to all the rangers of Avalon, his body remained supple and flexible, more the frame of a twenty-year-old.

It went on for many minutes, and then Belexus pressed his palms together and pushed with all his strength, working muscle against muscle, his forearms and biceps balling from the exertion. He came out of the isometric press with a violent leap, catching the lowest branch of a nearby tree and quickly inverting himself, wrapping his legs about the limb and hooking his ankles. Then he let go with his hands, hanging flat out, stretching toward the ground, again lengthening his back. Slowly he lowered himself, leg muscles tight so that his feet held strong as he gradually loosened his wrap on the branch. Then he let go with his legs altogether, dropping, outstretched arms first, to the ground, where he caught himself, holding the perfectly steady handstand for a calm and slow ten-count.

With a deep, relaxing breath, Belexus bent his arms, ever so slowly, until his face was low enough to kiss the sacred ground, and then he pushed back up to the handstand. He repeated the motion fifty times, until he felt the warmth of coursing blood flushing his huge shoulders.

The ranger sprang to his feet gracefully out of that last push-up. He repeated the beginning of the routine, giving a few final stretches, then gathered up his huge sword and belted it about his waist. Before he had gone five steps, he drew out the sword, held it across his open palms, and paused long to consider that trusted weapon, studying its workmanship, remembering the many battles it had served him, the talons slain, the whip-dragons skewered.

Ultimately, the ranger had to remember the one time the magnificent weapon had failed him, the one enemy against whom it had no power.

The ranger’s gaze drifted up from the sword, staring into the fog, into nothing at all. He conjured to mind an image of the sword Brielle had shown to him in the reflecting
pool the night before, a weapon superior to anything Belexus had ever seen, a mightier weapon even than Fahwayn, the enchanted sword wielded by Arien Silverleaf. He imagined the fine cutting edge of the displayed weapon, could almost feel its sharpness against his finger, the blade lined in diamond and edged in a white, inner light that promised power against even the wraith of Hollis Mitchell.

Yes, he could fight Mitchell with that sword, Brielle had assured him, could avenge the death of Andovar and put to rest the battle-lust demons that threatened more than his life, that threatened his very soul.

“I’m knowing yer thoughts,” came a soft voice behind him, soft like the warm fog, like the essence of Avalon itself.

Belexus blinked his eyes and turned about to view the Emerald Witch, splendid, as always, in her white gossamer gown, her green eyes sparkling, golden hair shining, even in the dull light. “Might be that ye know too much sometimes, me lady,” he replied with a grin.

“Sword in hand, sword in mind,” the witch reasoned.

“Ayuh,” the ranger confirmed. “And more in mind, and more in heart, is the task that sword ye showed me will bring to me.”

Brielle’s fair face clouded over. “One task at a time,” she said in all seriousness.

Belexus understood her fear. When she had shown to him the sword, she had told him, too, of the guardian she suspected, for only one creature in Ynis Aielle could likely hold such a vast treasure hoard; only one creature could keep for itself a sword such as that, unused through decades untold.

Belexus had fought a true dragon once, and though it was but a hatchling, the creature had nearly sizzled the ranger’s blood, and after Belexus had dealt it a mortal
blow, in its wild death throes, its claws had torn deep ridges in the solid stone. What might a true adult dragon do, then, and how could Belexus ever hope to defeat it? For one brief instant, a cloud of doubt and weakness passed over his face. But it could not hold, for the memory of his dragon battle incited another thought, one of Andovar, for his companion had so often told the tale of Belexus and the dragon, to any who would hear, even if they had listened a hundred times before. And of course, coming from Andovar’s mouth, the tale of Belexus’ exploits had always sounded much grander, much more heroic.

“I have to go for the sword,” the ranger said resolutely, those memories of Andovar steeling his gaze and his jaw.

Brielle said nothing for a few, long moments. “When winter lets go of the Crystals,” she reasoned, but the stoic ranger was shaking his head before she ever finished the thought.