Legends of the Dragonrealm: Shade (7 page)

After all, he was just one of the many ghosts of the Manor.

“Ghost” was perhaps not quite the correct word, although the humans and drakes who worked within the Manor found it more than satisfactory. Until recently, these phantasms had only been visible to those with an aptitude for magic, but now they were revealing themselves to all, something disconcerting to her parents. They had been forced to quiet the concerns of more than one startled victim. The Bedlams, long familiar with the sights, knew that none of the figures or scenes represented an immediate threat. In truth, visions such as the elf were more like memories that played out over and over due to some significance of the events they concerned. The Manor had its own reason for retaining
these memories, but only recently had Valea uncovered some evidence of why, and that was the reason she now had risked much by secretly entering the Libraries of Penacles.

Valea kept a deep secret from her parents. Not long ago, when they had been elsewhere, she had without warning witnessed—no,
experienced
—a unique memory involving no one less than the infamous Shade. Valea had grown up alongside her older brother, Aurim, hearing tales of the good and evil wrought by the accursed warlock. He had tried to sacrifice her father’s life in an attempt to free himself and yet he had also earlier given his own existence to help protect the City of Knowledge.

It was true that Valea had, as often a young woman was prone to, seen Shade as a tragic, romantic figure despite the darkness of some of his deeds. He could not help what the curse made of him. Still, even with those notions, she had not been entirely displeased that, for much of her life, the land had believed that it had finally seen the end of one of its greatest villains . . . and heroes.

The elf ceased speaking. He started up the stairs, then suddenly bent forward as if punched in the stomach. Each move was noted by Valea despite her having written down the scene in tremendous detail over the years. She was certain that he had either suffered an attack of illness or, as her imagination better preferred, had been struck down by poison or magic. Whichever the reason, the image faded just as he began to pitch forward onto the steps.

The elf was a memory with no apparent link to the present, unlike the one that she had lived through concerning Shade. That memory had concerned another elf, a maiden, who for a time had lived here with her brother, a mage in his own right. She had become enamored with the faceless, hooded sorcerer assisting her brother in a secret project. Unfortunately, much had gone awry and death had come to the Manor, for Shade had evidently “died” at some point between visits and returned not to aid but to trick.

By itself, the long, stunning vision might have just been a singular, special memory, but the end had laid forth enough evidence to point to
the fact that Shade still existed in Valea’s time, and events afterward had proven that all too true. However, she had noticed something different, something that to her family, to the Gryphon, and even likely to the Dragon Kings had been shrugged off as merely a variation on the same theme.

The curse was changing. It was not merely in a different stage, as her father surmised. It was
changing
. Valea felt certain that Shade’s ultimate fate had altered from what it was supposed to have been. She knew this better than anyone, having discovered more of his past than even any of the others had.

A voice arose from one of the larger chambers in the back of the main level, the one that her father currently used for a personal library. Valea forgot about ghosts and memories as she wondered who would be in there. The voice was not her father’s and no one other than the family was allowed in there without permission.

She started toward the library only to sense that something else had just entered the Manor behind her.

“Well, Valea Bedlam! You are not the one I hoped to find here, but it is good to see you nevertheless!”

The voice boomed through the building, echoing in its many halls. The enchantress ceased the spell she was about to cast, aware that the sudden arrival was not only a friend of the Bedlams but likely would have laughed off her attempts to defend herself.

She turned around, then looked up.

The shadowy stallion stood several hands taller than any mortal steed and was almost half again as broad at the shoulder. That was the least of the hints that this creature was far more than the equine he appeared. His piercing blue orbs radiated just a hint of the powerful magic forces that were not simply a part of him but
were
him.

Finally finding her voice, Valea greeted the creature. “Darkhorse! Were my parents expecting you?”

“No one truly ever expects me . . . until it is too late!” Despite the seeming threat in his words, the ebony stallion laughed heartily.

Valea smiled, aware that she and those around her were in no danger but that those who were enemies of anyone this being considered a friend truly risked oblivion at his touch. Darkhorse—the oft literal-minded creature, had apparently chosen his name himself when first he had taken this form—was something akin to living magic. He had come to the Dragonrealm millennia ago from an endless, nearly empty dimension called the Void, a frightening place from what little the enchantress knew about it.

“In truth, I returned but this moment from my own quest seeking Shade to see if your parents have noted any sign of him.”

Valea saw no trouble in answering. “He was nearly caught in Irillian. At the last moment, he escaped.”

“Indeed?” Darkhorse snorted in frustration. “Alas! Would that he had been captured safely, though I still distrust our having made a pact with the master of that realm!”

“Yes.” She agreed a bit too quickly. Fortunately, the stallion did not notice. “My parents are in Penacles, if you’d seek them.”

“I shall do so. They may be able to make some sense of something I thought I noted in the Hell Plains.”

Trying not to display too much interest, she asked, “What was it?”

He tilted his head in thought. “I am not certain. I thought as I raced near that foul place I sensed Shade! I rushed to where he should have been but found nothing.”

“And yet, your tone says otherwise.”

“Aye! I thought I sensed . . . some darker magic at work, but it was faint and may even perhaps have simply been residue from your grandfather’s sanctum!”

Mention of Azran made Valea momentarily shiver. She had been born years after his death but had learned enough about him to be glad that such had been the case. He had supposedly murdered his own brother, betrayed his sire, and would have used her father, just an infant, for his own sinister plans if not for her great-grandfather and others.
She had never been to the ruins but was not surprised that there might be some latent magic still radiating from them.

“Surely nothing, then,” she replied.

“Nothing . . . and still . . .” Darkhorse pawed at the floor. Fortunately, even though his hoof cut through the marble and wood, the magic of the Manor sealed up the wound instantly. “Ah, Shade!” the black steed rumbled as he looked up at the ceiling. “If only there were some other way.”

The enchantress kept silent. The ice-blue orbs blinked, then Darkhorse returned to the moment at hand. “If what you say about Irillian is accurate, he will be more wary than ever! I fear that he will be harder to find, perhaps impossible!”

“You’re probably right.” She frowned, then added, “My father would still no doubt like to hear what you told me. He or Lord Gryphon might have some insight we don’t.”

Darkhorse nodded, his dark mane flying wildly. “You talk sense. I will go there—” He suddenly paused to stare at her again. “Is all well?”

“I—I’m only concerned about my brother,” she managed to answer.

“Ah, yes. He and Yssa present a predicament, considering her sire’s duplicity.” When Valea looked away, the stallion snorted. “Forgive me! I should not have pressed!”

“It’s all right.”

“Century after century among your kind and I still persist in stepping where I should not!” Darkhorse snorted again, then added, “I will go to Penacles at once. Farewell, Valea!”

She gave him a slight smile. The shadowy steed reared up, then vanished.

Only then did the enchantress exhale deeply. “You should forgive
me,
Darkhorse,” she whispered. Then, with a frown, Valea added, “And you, too, Aurim.”

Valea did not like having used her brother’s precarious position as a distraction, but at that particular moment she had not been able to think
of any other excuse. Certainly she had not wanted to tell Darkhorse the truth. While he might have been sympathetic to her cause, he also likely would have insisted that her parents be informed of her activities.

She could not permit that.

Aurim, even with his own troubles, would have laughed at her efforts.
Too many bard’s tales for you, Val! What, you think you’ll break the curse and Shade’ll turn into a handsome prince?

There was no doubt in her mind that her romantic tendencies saw the dread fate of the sorcerer somewhat the way her brother would have described it. However, Valea’s quest had more depth to it by far. Yes, she had started in part researching all that was known—or, more often the case,
conjectured
—about Shade because of the intrigue, but in the process Valea had uncovered enough to make her believe that there was much to his curse that even he did not understand.

And if half of what she had divined was true, it served everyone best if Shade were
saved,
not imprisoned or, worse, finally somehow slain.

If only I could explain to someone what I think
 . . . But no one would believe her. No one, not even her parents, would take seriously her notions concerning Shade . . . and the land itself. There was no one.

No.
Valea corrected herself with a rueful expression. There was one person who would listen and perhaps even have access to information the enchantress needed.

The only problem was, if she went to him and her parents discovered that visit, their fury would know no bounds.

Still . . .

The voice that she had heard just prior to Darkhorse’s arrival rose again. Grateful for the moment to think of other, more mundane matters, Valea headed for the library. Whoever was in there was breaking serious rules set for their own safety, not her father’s simple desires. Many of the tomes and scrolls collected in there could prove dangerous to one untrained in manipulating the energies of the world.

Steeling herself, Valea became her parents’ daughter. She had to ensure that this incident would not be repeated.

Expression set, she entered the chamber and immediately proclaimed, “This is the sanctum of the wizard who has given you a home and should not be—”

Her voice faltered as she stared into the chamber. The empty chamber.

She focused, drawing upon the lines of energy crisscrossing everything and turning it into a spell. Some saw the magic of the land in such a manner, while others perceived a spectrum running from light to dark. In scarcely a breath, Valea created an invisible web that draped over all parts of the room. If there was someone hidden from her sight, she would know it instantly.

But the spell dissipated without revealing an intruder. Valea stepped farther into the chamber, studying each direction carefully.

She could still find nothing.

The enchantress at last exited. Her skills were not inconsiderable. It was possible that whomever she had heard had vanished immediately upon her entrance, but even Darkhorse, as formidable as he was, had alerted her senses just before his appearance. She should have felt
something
.

Frustration over so many other matters made her finally push aside the incident. Nothing had looked out of place. Perhaps her father had briefly returned to the library along with either her mother or Lord Gryphon. That seemed most reasonable, although it did strike her that if such was the case, surely they would have heard Darkhorse and come out to see why he had visited.

Once more she considered what next to do. Each time, Valea returned to the notion of journeying to that one place where she might find the information she sought. It would mean some risk, not only in regard to how her parents would react if they learned but also, in truth, to her life.
He
might be glad to see her, but those who surrounded him, assuming they learned of her visit, would not be pleased in the least.

She saw no choice. She would have to go see Kyl.

She would have to turn to the Dragon Emperor himself.

TALAK WAS A KINGDOM
set south of the vast mountain chain separating the rest of the Dragonrealm from the chill desolation called the Northern Wastes. It was also a kingdom once thoroughly under the claws of the Gold Dragon. Yet, the last two decades had seen not only freedom from that long rule, but also a rise in prominence that put Talak on par with Penacles as a bastion of humanity’s growing influence.

However, that transformation had not come without a price. The previous king had been driven mad by his contact with the servants of the Gold Dragon and his heir, the current ruler, had, in his zealousness to avenge his father, become terribly maimed. For a time, it had appeared that he would follow his sire into insanity.

From a distance, King Melicard still looked to be a fit man for his years. Despite his hair, which was all but grey, he had the form and stance of the warrior he had been when forced to take the throne upon his father’s death. As he rode through the city toward the palace—the dozen men of his personal guard warily surveying the vicinity all the while—those on the streets who saw only his right profile recognized the weathered but determined visage that had begun to resemble his predecessor.

But for those on his left . . .

The crowds cheered as Melicard led his men toward the palace gates. He nodded to both sides equally, ever aware of the true position of a king among his subjects. Melicard ruled well and wisely and was the first to say that he did so because of his queen, chosen for him for political reasons but beloved by him for both her beauty and her heart. It was she who had drawn him from the brink, from the darkness that had overtaken him after not only his father’s loss . . . but also the loss of his arm and one side of his face.