Journey into the Void (14 page)

You are the bearer of the Sovereign Stone
.

Gareth's words. That was why Gareth had come to him.

I wasn't dreaming. Shadamehr knew that as certainly as he knew that he loved Alise and that—would miracles never cease—she loved him. She might not know it yet, but he'd convince her. There was just the small problem now of keeping them all alive.

The word “Adele” went unspoken. He could hear, over the creaking of the ship, the voices of Damra and Griffith talking to Alise. He could hear her voice, her laughter.

He draped the worn leather strap over his shoulder. Better get used to carrying it. He didn't dare leave it anywhere for the Void to find. So
long as it was his responsibility, he would guard it with his life. As for what happened to the Stone in the future, that was a decision for others to make. He wasn't a Dominion Lord, a blessing for which he was certain the gods must be grateful.

“It's early in the day. Let's see what else I can screw up,” he said cheerfully to himself, as he went on deck.

R
IGISWALD FROWNED DOWN AT HIS BOOK. THE VOLUME WAS NOT
nearly as informative as he had hoped. He shut it with an irritated snap.

“You're a dolt,” he told the long-dead author.

Rigiswald sat in his chair, wondering what time it was. Thinking of time made him wonder what day it was. He lost track of time in the library, where there were no clocks, no windows, no town criers insisting that it was noon and all was well. What day was it? Had Ulaf been here last night or the night before? Had a whole day truly passed since then?

Yes, it had, Rigiswald decided. He'd gone to bed, after Ulaf's departure, and slept most of the day. Then he'd eaten a bad supper in the mess hall, then come back to his reading. It had to be close to dawn. He wondered whether or not he should bother going to bed or simply move on to breakfast. He had just decided on the latter, when he felt a touch upon his shoulder.

He looked up to find the head of the Order of Battle Magi looking down.

“They told me I would find you here, sir,” Tasgall said in the low tones that were always used in the library. “I would like a word with you.”

“I've been expecting you,” said Rigiswald, setting aside the book.

A hovering novitiate pounced on the volume and bore it away to whatever safe haven they were using these days.

“The taan won't have any interest at all in the books, you know,” said Rigiswald, accompanying Tasgall out of the library. “Few taan can read.
They have no written form of their own language. They wouldn't know what to make of books. Neither would Dagnarus,” Rigiswald added.

Tasgall made no response, beyond a flickered glance.

Leaving the library, they walked down a large corridor that smelled of oiled leather and wood and vellum. Off the corridor were meeting rooms furnished with ornately carved tables surrounded by high-backed chairs of dark wood and classrooms. He and Tasgall were the only two in the corridor. The rooms were empty and dark. With the coming of day, this part of the university would be filled with activity, but none walked here at night.

“As a child, Prince Dagnarus often played truant,” Rigiswald continued. “We have the account of his tutor, who wrote that Dagnarus preferred hanging about with the soldiers to studying his lessons. Your precious books would be safe enough from him, I should imagine.”

“Prince Dagnarus died two hundred years ago,” said Tasgall. He spoke in a heavy voice, with no intonation, as if reciting the words by rote.

Rigiswald smiled and ran his hand over his beard, smoothing it.

They walked the length of the corridor before the battle mage halted. He looked back down the hall, the way they had come and, seeing no one in sight, he gestured abruptly to Rigiswald, led the way into one of the meeting rooms.

The room was dark, smelled of chalk.

Tasgall muttered the words to a spell, and the room was filled with a soft gray light. Tasgall glanced about the room, made certain that it was empty. He motioned Rigiswald to seat himself in one of the high-backed chairs, then walked over to look out into the hall, before he shut the door.

Rigiswald settled himself in the chair. Resting his hands upon the arms, he crossed his ankles and waited.

Tasgall pulled out another chair, but the battle mage did not seat himself. He remained standing, his hands clasping the carved slat that adorned the chair's back.

Tasgall in full battle regalia was an impressive sight, a force comprised of a deadly combination of steel and flame. Tonight he was dressed in the soft woolen robes generally worn by the Brethren in their hours of study or relaxation. Devoid of his armor, he was just another human—a middle-aged man in his late forties, the sharp lines of his square-cut,
clean-shaven face blurred with fatigue, his dark hair going gray at the temples, his brow furrowed. Tall and powerfully built, he dwarfed his former teacher—the slender, dapper Rigiswald.

Rigiswald had known even then that the dark-eyed, brooding, and intense Tasgall would make an ideal battle magus, and he had advised him to pursue his studies with that goal in mind.

“Where is Baron Shadamehr?” Tasgall demanded abruptly.

“That is not how you speak to someone considerably your elder, Tasgall. Even if you
are
head of the battle magi,” Rigiswald returned.

Tasgall's hands tightened their grip on the chair back. “I have been up for two nights. Night before last, I had to deal with your baron, who tried to kidnap the king, then promptly vanished. Then there was the battle with a Vrykyl in a tavern, a Vrykyl who killed one of my people before we sent it back to the Void that spawned it. Yesterday and today I've been dealing with the probability of an enemy invasion. You have only to look across the river, and you will see the fiends camped on the shore! You will forgive me, therefore, sir, if I am somewhat deficient in tact.”

Rigiswald raised an eyebrow. Placing the tips of his manicured fingers together, he tapped them gently.

Tasgall let out an exasperated breath, then said, “Do you know where to find the Baron Shadamehr, sir?”

“No, I do not,” Rigiswald replied.

“I think you do,” said Tasgall.

Rigiswald rose stiffly to his feet. “Then you are calling me a liar. I bid you good morning—”

“Wait, wait! Damn it!” Tasgall moved to block the path of the elderly mage. “We know you are part of the baron's household, that you were his tutor, and you are now his friend and confidant.”

“I have that honor, yes,” said Rigiswald, still standing.

“The baron rode into the city two days ago—”

“Was I riding with him?” Rigiswald interrupted.

“No, sir, you were not, but—”

“I arrived here several days ago. I have spent my time in the library, as I am certain you know from your spies. I have left once to go to my bed, six times to eat, and eighteen times to go to the privies—my bladder isn't what it used to be—and I met once with the Nimran ambassador,
as I am certain your spies have also told you. Did your spies inform you that the Baron Shadamehr came to speak to me on any of those occasions?”

“No, sir,” said Tasgall grimly. “He was inside the palace trying to abduct the young king.”

“Indeed? And how came he to be in the palace?”

“The Regent wanted to see him.”

“What about?”

“I am asking the questions, sir,” said Tasgall.

“You asked me one, and I answered it. You didn't like my answer, but that's not my fault. If you have other questions, I will be happy to answer them, but you will probably not like any of those answers either. Therefore, I see no need to continue this fruitless conversation. I am quite weary, and I would like to get what sleep I can before the city comes under siege. Good morning to you, sir. Again.”

Rigiswald circled around Tasgall, who did not try to stop him. The elderly magus had nearly reached the door before Tasgall spoke.

“Whatever else the Baron Shadamehr may be, he is no coward. I served with him on the field of battle, as you yourself know, sir. I have seen for myself his tenacity, his resolve, and his courage, and I do not agree with those who say that he refused to undergo the Transfiguration out of cowardice.”

Rigiswald halted, turned to look over his shoulder. “Well, sir, and what of it?”

“I have seen Baron Shadamehr in his tomfooleries, I've seen him in his cups, I've seen him in battle, and I have never before seen him afraid. Not until the night he was in the palace. I saw his face, and I saw fear. Something happened to him inside the palace that scared him so that he lunged through a crystal window to a five-story drop onto stone pavement. I want to know what it was.”

Rigiswald shook his head, took another step.

“Tell me this, then,” said Tasgall. “Does Baron Shadamehr have in his possession part of the sacred Sovereign Stone?”

Rigiswald took another step and another.

“Sir,” Tasgall said in tightly controlled, level tones, “I am responsible for the lives of several thousands of our people, not to mention the life of the young king. If you have information that might be useful to me in
helping to save those lives, and you withhold that information, then the blood of innocents will be on your hands.”

Rigiswald glanced around. “You have no need to concern yourself with the life of the young king. The young king is dead.”

“Impossible!” stated Tasgall impatiently. “I just left him. He is sleeping soundly.”

“Very soundly,” said Rigiswald. “At the bottom of the river. The young king you left slumbering in his bed is a Vrykyl.”

Tasgall's jaw worked. His dark eyes flared in ire.

“Where is Baron Shadamehr?” he demanded, his voice taut.

“Ah, we're back to the beginning,” said Rigiswald, sighing. “I will tell you that I don't know where he is. You will call me a liar. I will start to walk out—”

“No, sir,” said Tasgall. “
I
will walk out.” He stalked past Rigiswald, out the door and into the dark corridor beyond.

“I told you that you wouldn't like my answer,” remarked Rigiswald.

Tasgall did not look back.

“Gods help us,” Rigiswald muttered, as close to a prayer as he'd ever come in his life.

 

Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, stood on the banks of the Arven River and stared across it at the city of New Vinnengael, a city he planned to conquer. He stood alone and unseen, cloaked in the magic of the Void. Night had fallen. Some distance away, his taan troops were gathered around the campfires, telling stories of the brave deeds they would do when the signal was given to attack.

Dagnarus did not see this city, however. He saw another city, built on the banks of a different river. He saw a city of white marble, towering cliffs, a city of waterfalls and rainbows. His city, Vinnengael, the city of his birth, the city he had been born to rule.

Truth to tell, when Dagnarus had lived in Vinnengael, he'd never noticed the white marble or the rainbows. He'd never paid much attention to the waterfalls, and when he looked at the white cliffs on which the city was built, he saw them as part of the city's defenses. Only after the destruction of Vinnengael did he look back on that city and see it through the colored prism of his longing. Only then did he remember the rainbows, and that only because Gareth had once made mention of them.

Thinking of the old city and looking at the new that had been built to honor the old (and also to outdo it in splendor), Dagnarus at last understood what he found so galling, standing on the riverbank and contemplating tomorrow's battle. An obsessed lover, he could take the object of his love by force, but he didn't want her that way. He wanted her to come to him. He wanted her to want him, to humble herself before him and swear that she had always loved him and that she would love no other. He would not achieve his dream by sending in an army of taan to clap her in chains, repeatedly rape her, and leave her to die in her own blood on the roadside.

He could go to his adored and try to woo her. But what was he to do with ten thousand taan, thirsting for her blood?

Dagnarus put his hand to the Dagger of the Vrykyl.

“Shakur,” he summoned his second-in-command, one of the Vrykyl, a creation of the Void and the Dagger that Dagnarus had used to take Shakur's life, giving him living death in return.

Long minutes passed. Shakur did not respond.

Dagnarus repeated the summons irritably. He might go days or months without communicating with his Vrykyl, but when he spoke, he commanded their immediate attention.

“My lord,” Shakur responded.

“You kept me waiting,” said Dagnarus.

“Forgive me, my lord, but there were people with me.”

“Send them away,” said Dagnarus. “You are king, after all.”

“I may be king, but I am also a little boy, my lord,” Shakur returned. “These fools hover over me like clucking old hens. Especially now, with an army of monsters camped outside the city gates.”

“What is the mood in the city?” Dagnarus asked.

“Fear, panic,” Shakur replied. “Martial law has been declared. The battle magi rule the city. Soldiers fill the street. The gates are closed. No one comes in or goes out. The harbor is empty.”

“Has anyone else discovered you?”

“No one, other than the baron, and he is likely dead by now.”

“
Likely
dead? You don't know for certain?”

“The palace guard continue to search for him, my lord, but they have yet to find him. I stabbed him with the Blood-knife. Nothing could have saved him.”

“For your sake, Shakur, I hope that is true.”

Dagnarus was extremely displeased by this lapse on the part of the Vrykyl. The oldest of his Vrykyl, Shakur had once been the best, the strongest, the most ruthless. He'd made several mistakes lately, mistakes that had cost Dagnarus dearly. Obviously, the Vrykyl was starting to deteriorate. Not surprising. Shakur had been around two hundred years. The Void alone held his rotting corpse together. He was forced to kill more and more often to drink the souls he needed to sustain his horrible existence. He was growing sloppy, careless. Dagnarus fingered the Dagger that had given Shakur this dreadful life. He could always take it.

“When do you launch your attack, my lord?” Shakur asked, thinking it best to change the subject. “Tomorrow morning?”

“I'm not attacking,” said Dagnarus.

“
Not
attack, my lord?” Shakur was understandably amazed. For two hundred years, he and his master had worked and planned for very little else.

“When day dawns, I will ride into New Vinnengael under a flag of truce. I will demand to see you—the young king. You will make certain that I am granted an audience.”

“My lord, I don't like this plan. The city is ripe for the fall—”

“I don't give a damn what you like, Shakur.” Dagnarus's fist clenched over the dagger's hilt. “I find that I am beginning to detest strongly this habit of yours of constantly questioning my decisions. You will obey me in this as in all else.”