Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (101 page)

The memories of the Manor.

She swept back long, flowing red hair from her face as she leaned over the book kept by her father, the wizard Cabe Bedlam. For years he had inscribed in the leather-bound journal the images he and others had seen throughout the towering structure, a building not only of marble, but, to one side, carved into the very trunk of an even more imposing tree. The Manor had existed by one name or another for longer than even the Dragon Kings, and during that time had been the focal point of many lives and events, not all of them involving the young race of humanity.

Valea not only shared her father’s passion concerning uncovering the history of their home, she had made it her obsession. Her mother worried about the hours she spent in the library, fretted that her twenty-year-old daughter had become reclusive. Valea did not go with them when they visited Lord Gryphon in Penacles nor did she deign to go along when the family went on diplomatic missions to mountainous Talak, domain of disfigured Melicard and his beautiful queen, Erini. Ever the Bedlams’ daughter stayed behind, concerned that she might miss a single apparition.

“Missstresss?” called a tentative female voice.

At the library’s door stood a dark, almost sultry woman with narrow, exotic eyes and an almost elven appearance that made Valea’s own pale, rounded face seem very unremarkable to the sorceress. Setera’s plain but neat black dress perfectly outlined her curves. Even clad in a much more elegant gown of emerald green, Valea felt frumpy and plain.

Only when Setera opened her mouth did the servant reveal that, despite the image, she was anything but an elf. Her teeth were sharp, predatory, and her tongue was forked. Yet, despite this sinister aspect, she treated Valea with the utmost respect, even falling down on one knee.

“Rise up, Setera. You know my father will have no one bend to us, not man nor drake.”

“It isss the cussstom of the emperor . . .”

An involuntary twinge of regret coursed through Valea at mention of the drake’s former lord. The dragon people were very formal, that despite that their young emperor had once been Cabe Bedlam’s student. Valea’s father had tried to train Kyl to be a fair, open-minded ruler, but even he had not been able to weed out some of the race’s ingrained manners.

“But you’re not serving the emperor now. You’re in the household of my father.”

Setera rose, the glittering eyes that beguiled many of the human servitors watching her mistress close. Every time Valea stared into them, she felt plain, even ugly, that despite the fact that once Kyl had looked at her with favor. Of course, then he had also considered the ramifications of having at his side a bride whose lineage included some of the most powerful wizards ever.

Stirring herself from bitter memories, Valea asked, “What do you want?”

“Warnok claimsss to have been confronted by a vision.” Setera made the announcement with a shiver. For all their warlike ways, the drakes who worked at the Manor were unsettled by its spectral images. “You wished to be told of thessse thingsss.”

“Did he?” All thought of Kyl and her own foolishness faded as she seized hold of this news. “Did he recognize it? Where was it? Show me!”

The dark-haired female led Valea through the tall marble halls, heading toward that part of the Manor where stone melded perfectly with living wood. The smooth, light gray walls gave way to rich, brown grain as if the two had always been one. Even the floor transformed.

Ahead, staring over his armored shoulder as if expecting ghosts at every turn, the drake servitor Warnok awaited them. Like Setera, he was a recent arrival from the mountain domain of the Dragon Emperor, a gift, so Kyl said to Valea’s father, to show that the ties between drake lord and human wizard remained strong. That they might also spy for their lord was a given assumption on the part of all the Bedlams.

If Setera looked more than human, Warnok was far less. Unlike the emperor, whose fair face and form entranced women as much as Setera’s did men, Warnok resembled most other male drakes. Almost seven feet tall, he stood armored from head to toe in green scale mail tinted gold, the latter the sign of his clan. His hands were gauntleted and any features were all but hidden in an enclosed helm. From deep within the helm, red, reptilian eyes stared forth and like Setera, from the slit of the barely-seen mouth a sharp, forked tongue darted past fanged teeth.

The image of an armored knight was simply illusion. Everything that Valea saw was a part of the drake, his very skin. This was as close as most older males could come to looking human, although the youngest generation seemed to be producing more like Kyl now.

For a fearsome figure—and one who was in actuality a dragon—Warnok continued to look around anxiously. When Valea called to him, he started.

“Missstresss,” the armored servant gasped, bowing his head slightly.

“You saw it?” she began without preamble, gaze darting here and there in hopes of a repeat performance. “What was it? Did it speak? Was there more than one image? Was it on the staircase? Down the central hall?”

Long ago, Valea had given standing orders to each and every human or drake servant to study in detail the spectral visions that confronted them, ignorant ever of the fact that most people did not share her intense interest in such supernatural sights. Warnok, eyes slits and mouth becoming more and more of a straight line, withered under her inquisition.

“Only sssaw it for a moment,” he hissed nervously, reacting not at all like a giant, scaled warrior. “Near the winding ssstairsss.” The drake pointed at one of the many serpentine staircases filling the Manor.

Valea eagerly studied it, but saw nothing. A bit disappointed, she asked again, “What was it?”

“A figure in a hooded robe . . . a monk, I think, missstresss. Hisss face wasss turned from me and he only ssstood there for a moment before vanishing.”

A hooded monk . . .
The image struck no chord with her, but her father might have written it down in his book. She would have to look. The drake’s revelation both interested and disappointed her; Valea wondered what the monk’s part in the history of the Manor might pertain to, but at the same time she had hoped for some more arresting image, something like the dying Seeker her brother had once seen sprawled on the front steps of the building.

Questioning Warnok further garnered no new information. Undeterred, Valea headed back to the library in order to search through the listings for any mention of the monk.

“And where are you off to?” asked a musical voice.

Valea’s mother, the Lady of the Amber, stood near the back entrance of the Manor. She wore emerald green riding clothes that accentuated her already-flawless figure. Her face was a perfect oval, with two gleaming green eyes, full round mouth, and a petite nose framed under a full head of hair both richer red and longer than Valea’s own. Like her daughter, a streak of silver cut through the luxurious hair, the sign of wizards, warlocks, and sorceresses.

More than once Valea had been told that she was an almost perfect copy of her mother and it was the “almost” that to the younger Bedlam seemed a statement of her deficiencies. Certainly her face was not flawless, not with a mouth too big and a nose that tipped upward. Nor were her eyes so vivid nor her hair so striking. To Valea, “watered-down” would have been a better choice of words. That her mother was fifty years old at least—not counting a century or two captive in an amber prison thanks to Valea’s own grandfather—could be attributed to the lengthy life spans of mages, but it did not help the daughter’s self-image.

“I was off to the library.”

The beautiful face broke into a frown. “Again? Really Valea, you need to be out more. Since Ursa left, you’ve become far too closeted. It isn’t healthy.” Gwendolyn Bedlam was herself an active person. Between those times when she and her husband were called upon to deal with some crisis, she found one interest after another to keep her busy.

Ursa was Kyl’s sibling and had left with him when he had become emperor. She had been Valea’s dearest friend. That, however, had not been the true reason why she had secluded herself and both knew it. “I’m fine, Mother. If you’ll excuse me—”

But Lady Bedlam would not. “Valea. What Kyl attempted to do—”

“Kyl did nothing. I was the fool.”

“A drake and a human can be friends, but never more.”

Valea gave her mother an incredulous look. “Have you told Aurim that?”

“Your father and I will deal with Aurim.”

“You’d better deal with him fast . . . or did you really think he went visiting Penacles again?”

Gwen Bedlam’s expression left no doubt that her daughter had struck true with her barb. Valea felt some guilt as she turned from her mother, but in some aspects she also felt some justice. Her parents could not understand how she had felt about Kyl any more than they could her brother’s feelings toward Yssa . . . who as the child of drake and woman was proof of the falsehood of Lady Bedlam’s statements.

Valea heard her mother turn about as the latter no doubt went to investigate Aurim’s latest perfidy. Lady Bedlam would have as much success in changing her son’s mind as she had with redirecting her daughter’s course . . . none.

More determined than ever, Valea headed on to the library and the journal . . . and the safety and security of the Manor’s fleshless memories.

III

THE MONK HAD
never been listed before and that alone refueled her interest some, but what Valea found more fascinating was a pattern she had finally noticed. The staircase was the site of more than one encounter; in fact, through the years at least six different specters had been seen on or near it. Valea suspected that, as with many of the apparitions, they also materialized when no one was there to see them. Why her father had never noticed this, the young sorceress could not say, but clearly the area was one requiring more intense study.

And that was why she now sat hunched to the side, hidden from the staircase, watching the darkened area while the rest of the Manor slept. With both the grounds and the building surrounded by an invisible barrier that let no one in without the permission of the Bedlams, sentries were not needed. Besides, even if anyone managed to penetrate the shield—as the dread drake Toma once had—there were other spells in place that would alert the inhabitants.

Satisfied that no one would disturb her watch, Valea waited. She had purposely dressed in her favored light green sleeping gown just in case by a rare chance someone would rise from their slumber. This near the kitchens, she would have the perfect excuse. Her brother had made it a regular habit to wander down at night and take back a small snack. Why not her as well?

One hour passed, then two and three. Valea’s confidence eroded and her clever plan now seemed absolutely absurd. In addition, lack of sleep began to take its toll. Despite her determination, her vigilance finally slipped. Yawning, Valea tied her hair back, then decided to lean against the wall just for a moment—

A slight creak from near the top of the staircase woke her. Silently cursing herself for her lapse, she drew back, hoping that whoever descended would be so bleary-eyed that they would save her a confrontation. With her mother now away in search of Aurim, the odds were decidedly in her favor, but still . . .

The creaking drew nearer . . . yet in the dark Valea could not make out anyone. She squinted, not daring to risk a spell that might alert whoever stood upon the stairs. It was quite possible her father had returned unannounced from his mission northwest, but somehow she doubted it.

Now it sounded as if the newcomer should be at the very bottom, but the staircase remained devoid of any user. It suddenly occurred to Valea that there existed one simple reason why.

The monk had not returned, but another ghost had come.

A thrilling chill ran down her spine. The creaking was suddenly replaced by a gentle tap on the floor, giving Valea the mental image of a light-footed person, perhaps a woman.

No one had recorded any such encounter, adding yet another to the staircase’s collection. Valea stepped from her hiding place, trying to focus on the exact spot where the figure would be standing. More and more she had the sensation that it was a woman, a young woman.

A muffled cry nearly made her back away. Only at the last did Valea realize it was another sound from her ghost.

And then . . . a blue haze formed, a hunched figure.

A dying woman. An elf in blue, her face turned to the floor, blood pooling from somewhere around her stomach.

Valea acted instinctively, reaching out to help one who could no longer be helped. Her fingers, instead of touching cloth, sank into the vision.

“ARE YOU ILL
, cousin?”

His face was narrow, but handsome, handsome much the way Kyl’s was. He was tall, silver-haired but youthful, unless one stared at the eyes. The oak-brown eyes had seen much, perhaps too much, yet even they managed some gentleness as they looked down the slim, almost pointed nose at her.

Cousin?

That an elf called Valea cousin did not confuse her so much as his presence . . . and that did not confuse her so much as the fact that they both danced and danced, he in his regal, silver-blue jacket and slacks and she in a bright blue gown that spread like a bell at the waist. One hand of hers the elf held high, the other touched lightly the left side of his torso just above the belt. Likewise his own hand touched her torso, but in a proper yet affectionate manner.

Music played, a windswept sound like none Valea had ever heard. She had little experience with elves, although supposedly their blood and hers had ties . . .

Blood!
She recalled the dying figure.

As she faltered, he caught her, his expression one of mild concern. Valea felt certain her face had grown crimson, but she could do nothing to stop it.

“Stop,” the figure calmly ordered, but not to her. At his command, the music ceased.

As their dance finished, Valea realized that she stood near the staircase . . . and on the exact spot where the ghost had formed.