Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (104 page)

The story made for fascinating reading and Valea had pored over it more than once in the past, but now she hunted a specific section. Somewhere there had been made mention of the artifacts that the Masters had sought for their grand purpose and Valea wondered if perhaps one of them might be the one she hunted.

The candle sank into a waxy puddle as she perused page after page, finding nothing. One passage briefly seized her attention, for it spoke of a possession rod, but little more could Valea discern from it.

She rubbed her eyes, squinting more and more as the candle became less useful. Her father had raised her to use magic judiciously, not for every whim or minor physical activity, but Valea realized that soon she would be attempting to read in utter darkness. Raising her hand, she cast a minor light spell, one that surely her father would have seen as a very miserly use of her abilities—

A face stared back at her from the other side of the desk.

“No!” Startled, Valea pushed the chair back . . . and fell with it. She caught herself at the very end, preventing a possible broken neck but promising many bruises.

Rolling away from the chair, Valea amplified the light spell, filling the library with almost blinding illumination. Ceiling-high shelves filled with book after book, scroll upon scroll—all carefully collected by not only the Bedlams but some of their predecessors—revealed themselves to her, but of her intruder there was no trace.

Rising, Valea hurried to the doorway, but saw no sign. She frowned, recalling what she could of the face—and her mouth dropped.

Arak.

Yet, there had been something else about him, some details about his elven visage that had only partly registered. He had not been as she had seen him initially—tall, handsome, foreboding. What had changed?

She turned back toward the desk—and this time gasped as Arak once more glared at her.

Now Valea saw with horror what was different about him. He still retained elven features, but they had also become something different, something
reptilian.

Arak moved, but he did not walk toward her. Rather he stared past her, his mouth working as if speaking to another in the room. Then the elf, his garments misshapen as if his body was not entirely normal any more, darted toward the far wall . . . and through the very shelves.

At the same time, feminine sobbing echoed through the corridors outside.

Valea stood momentarily torn between investigating the apparition in the library or pursuing the ghostly sounds beyond. When Arak did not reappear, she finally abandoned the chamber and hurried down the halls, wondering why no one else came in response to the anguished cries.

Not at all to her surprise, the sobbing led her back to the staircase.

Once more the elven figure bent down and once more blood pooled beneath. This time, Valea did not reach out, hoping that by holding back she would see the vision do more.

It did. Rather than finally crumple to the floor, it rose. In one hand something glittered despite no other light, a dagger fine and silver whose end was drenched crimson.

The female elf—surely Galani—shifted back toward the staircase.

Valea stared at her own face.

No . . . not exactly her own. Much akin to hers, save that the features were better defined, far more graceful. Valea’s face without imperfection.

Yet another gasp escaped the sorceress at this revelation . . . and suddenly the spectral figure looked
her
way.

“I had to do it, didn’t I?”
Galani asked her.

The elf’s wound finally proved too much. She doubled over, the dagger dropping from her failing grip. Valea reached forward, but her arms caught no body, for Galani’s ghost vanished even as death claimed it not for the first time.

Shivering, the younger Bedlam gazed unblinking at the site where the elf had been. No blood, no Galani, no—

The silver dagger still lay on the floor.

No blood covered the tip now. Biting her lip, Valea approached the weapon, waiting every moment for it to vanish. When it did not, she cautiously pushed at it with her slipper.

With a slight scraping sound, the dagger slid a few inches away.

The sorceress hesitated, peering around. No one had as yet come in response to all the noise and that bothered her. This entire scene had been played out for her and her alone and now the weapon that had evidently ended Galani’s life lay tantalizingly nearby. All she had to do was pick it up. Surely then with some spell she could divine some of its secrets.

But with her fingers only inches from the silver artifact, Valea paused. By taking the dagger, she also risked falling prey again to the ghostly apparitions. The Manor played some sort of macabre game, one that went well beyond her interest in the phantoms inhabiting her home.

Valea pulled back.

The dagger
flew
from the floor, thrusting itself hilt first into her hand—

HER FACE STARED
back at her.

No, not Valea’s face, but rather Galani’s. Valea sat at a high, gold-framed mirror, an emerald brush, not a dagger, clutched in her hand. The brush dropped from her grip as she studied the elven features closer. Still strikingly similar to her own, they had undergone some changes. The beauty was now not quite perfect, for there were dark circles under the eyes, which held much, much sadness. There was also a small scar on the left edge of the chin, a recent scar.

Valea recalled Arak’s moods and grew angry. If he had done this—

An intense rumble of thunder suddenly made her forget all about the male elf’s transgressions. The entire building shook as the rumbling continued. A bolt of lightning flashed outside, almost seeming to strike just beyond the walls.

The invisible barrier was supposed to protect the area even from the elements, but already two drake assassins had entered. Valea wondered if perhaps the Dragon King was also responsible for the storm.

Again thunder rocked the Manor. A crystalline vase toppled from a fireplace mantle and across the room an exquisite tapestry of what might have been the elves’ forest homeland slipped free, landing in an inelegant heap.

Although Valea had control of Galani’s body, unbidden from her mouth came her cousin’s name. “Arak!”

Not certain where she headed but feeling that somehow Galani would guide her, the sorceress ran from the room, hurrying down the corridor leading to the staircase. The sense of urgency rose with each second. Something had gone terribly wrong; both she and her host knew that. Whatever Arak desired, it was not what he would reap.

To Valea’s consternation, her path took her not to the grounds, as she had expected, but rather toward what would be the library in her parents’ day. Even now, the room was much as it should have been; the same shelves greeted her along with sleek, well-crafted mahogany table and four matching chairs, the latter leather-padded and all the furniture under the same centuries-long preserving spell as the rest of the Manor.

Letting Galani’s memories continue to guide her, the sorceress reached one of the bookcases near the rear. Her right hand went up, passing along three black tomes, then touching a crimson one two shelves below.

“It is here,” the elf murmured. “I know it was here he touched.”

Suddenly, the entire bookcase vanished, revealing a passage descending below, a passage carved into the mighty tree that made up this half of the Manor.

A passage none of the Bedlams had ever uncovered.

Muttering echoed from deep below. Valea recognized spellwork, but not of a type akin to her own.

The narrow passage wound around and around like some parody of the staircase. Valea constantly collided with the walls, which looked to have been formed from the tree’s very roots. For a time, the steps seemed without end, but then at last the bottom appeared, opening up into a much wider corridor lit by small, glowing spheres of blue.

The muttering grew louder but still remained incomprehensible. An unsettling gray light radiated from a chamber ahead, devouring the blue illumination without mercy.

Planting herself against the nearest root wall, Valea peered around the edge. Acutely sensitive to magic, she had to steel herself before looking, so wild, so manic were the powers in play.

Before her stood Arak . . . and before him, the
Wyr Stone.

It was not what she had expected. Valea had imagined some massive, glittering emerald or ruby. Perhaps even a pure white, transparent crystal. Certainly not this.

The Wyr Stone was just that . . . a stone. It was no larger than Arak’s fist and was only vaguely round in form. It might have been found in any quarry or canyon. At a first glance, the sorceress would not have even paid it any mind—if not for its coloring.

One second it was brown, then gold, then red, then a myriad display of other colors. Never did it cease shifting. There were brief periods when more than one color displayed itself and sometimes impressive patterns played over the artifact. Several of the colors Valea could not even put a name to. The Wyr Stone constantly changed, the pace increasing with each phrase spoken by the elf.

And as the Wyr Stone changed, so, too, did Arak.

He looked taller, more gaunt, and his hair had begun to gray, although perhaps that was a trick of the peculiar light emanating from the stone. More dramatic, however, was his visage, which had
elongated
and grown scaly. His nose had nearly vanished. Valea could not see his eyes, but felt certain that they had also been altered.

The elf raised his hands . . . and in them the sorceress could see a dagger identical to the one the ghost of Galani had wielded.

As she watched, Arak took the dagger in his right hand, then stretched forth his left, revealing the wrist. Already the elf’s limbs looked misshapen, his fingers curled and clawed, his arms twisted at odd angles. Undisturbed by his transformation, Arak held the blade over his wrist, then drove the weapon deep.

Stifling a gasp, Valea watched in horror and wonder as he held the bleeding limb over the Wyr Stone. Droplets of blood dripped from what should have been a terrible wound, spilling onto the artifact while Arak calmly waited.

She expected some force to burst free from the stone, but instead, it seemed to draw from around it. A sense of vertigo touched the sorceress and Valea suddenly realized that the stone was absorbing the magic around it. She drew back, fearful.

“Kaladi Dracos!” shouted Arak at the wall beyond. “Kivak Dracos!”

The vertigo lessened. Now the vampiric powers of the stone had been focused elsewhere, made to draw only from one specific source.

And recalling what Galani’s cousin had preached, Valea could guess what source that was.

The Dragon Kings.

The Wyr Stone now soaked in his blood, Arak pulled free the blade. As he did he turned just enough for her to see his face.

The eyes were crimson, pupilless . . . and more inhuman than any drake.

It was Valea, not Galani, who stumbled back with a slight scraping noise. It proved enough to attract the attention of Arak. He turned toward the passage, arm leaving a shower of crimson in its wake.

She fled, certain that even in control of the elf’s body her skills were no match for the elf. Trying to be silent, Valea rushed up the passage, praying that Arak had not noticed her. Could this be the moment of Galani’s death that she had witnessed? But in the image, the elf had worn blue, not the gold she wore now.

The entrance to the library beckoned. Breathing heavily, Valea pushed to the top. As she did, a noise below caught her attention. Certain that Arak followed right behind her, the sorceress glanced over her shoulder. To her relief, Valea saw nothing—

She collided with a solid form.

Hands seized her by the shoulders. A struggle ensued until Valea heard Shade’s calm voice whisper, “Quiet. If we depart now, he’ll not know you were here, Galani.”

Grateful for his presence, Valea let the faceless warlock lead her quickly away. Behind them, the opening had vanished, once more simply a bookcase.

Shade started to guide her to the elf’s chambers, but Valea did not want to go there. She feared that Arak would still come up there looking for her and whether or not it was Galani’s body that perished, the sorceress feared that this time it would be
she
who died.

“Take me away from here,” Valea demanded of the warlock.

“The gardens—” he began.

“No! Far from here! Somewhere he won’t be able to find me!”

“Galani—”

She clung to him, stared into the murky eyes. “Please!”

From the direction of the library, they heard footsteps. Shade glanced past her, then suddenly wrapped his shroudlike cloak about her, completely engulfing his companion.

A sense of displacement akin to that she had felt when first pulled into the ghostly memory overwhelmed Valea, but this time she did not wake up. Instead, her feet came down hard on some rocky surface. Shade caught her, then immediately after removed the dark veil from her eyes. A cold rush of wind made her shiver and her eyes widened to saucers as they took in the view around her.

The two of them stood atop a narrow mountain ledge overlooking an endless chain of ominous peaks.

Having visited Talak many times in the past, Valea readily recognized the Tyber Mountains.

“Your cousin won’t find us here,” Shade solemnly promised.

Perhaps he would not, but certainly others would. The Tyber Mountains—the vast, jagged peak called Kivan Grath, especially—were the domain of the most powerful of the Dragon Kings. Here, the Gold Dragon, emperor of his kind, ruled the entire continent. This would be no young, human-raised novice like Kyl; this would be a monster, an inhuman beast who would snap up two interlopers without a second thought.

“I come here many a time,” her companion suddenly remarked. Shade stared at the stunning view. “The cool air refreshes the mind.”

The dying light still enabled Valea to see far too much. She tightened her hold on the warlock, finding comfort in his stolid presence. Shade no longer tensed at her touch.