Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (105 page)

Not
her
touch, the sorceress reminded herself. It was Galani who was fascinated with Shade,
not
her. Valea only felt what the elf experienced.

She could not blame Galani, of course. Weeks, even months, must have passed from the first memory to this latest one, and there had only been Shade to be of comfort to the elf. Arak’s mad work—and even now Valea was not certain if he could truly do what he desired—had taken its toll, turning a once-loved cousin into a monster akin to those he sought to destroy.

In the distance, something fluttered among the mountains. At first, it looked like a man-sized dragon, but then Valea made out limbs almost human save that the knees were reversed. It was also of a dusky gray color and had a face like a bird of prey. Had it stood next to her, it would have towered over her than Shade.

He felt her renewed tension. Following her gaze, Shade eyed the distant figure. “The Seeker will not try anything. His kind has learned not to where I am concerned.”

As if to prove that, the avian suddenly swerved gracefully away from their lofty position. The wide, beautiful wings beat faster and faster, quickly sending the Seeker out of sight.

“I want to leave,” Valea whispered.

“First, tell me what you saw.”

She looked at him. “Arak has become a monster.”

He cocked his head to one side much as Lord Gryphon, who shared with the Seekers an avian look, did when concentrating. “A monster?”

The words came tumbling out as Valea described what she had seen. The renewed memory caused her to shiver again. Perhaps misunderstanding the cause of her action, Shade wrapped both his arm and cloak tighter around her. The sorceress fought back the great temptation to bury her head in his shoulder as she finished her tale.

“His transformation is temporary, Galani,” A touch of concern tinted his words. “But he’s gone beyond what I suggested. The Wyr Stone is powerful, seductive. I warned him of its tendency to magnify one’s desire beyond what one truly wishes! When they tried to save themselves in the end, it only quickened the changing, made them worse than what they might have been—”

“Who?”

“Friends. Loved ones. Fools.” He would not let her press further. “It should have remained lost. I should have never told him about it.”

“Sh—Tylan. What is he trying to do with the Wyr Stone? I know he’s trying to destroy the Dragon Kings, but how? What will it do to them?”

For a brief second, she saw an expression, one that hinted of gratitude. “You always call me Tylan. Your cousin calls me Shade, just as all others do. The names I pick are always remembered, but in the end everyone calls me Shade. I strive to be more than the dark legend, to once again be the man, even if always a slightly different man.” A gloved hand rose and caressed her cheek ever so slightly, then withdrew as if having presumed too much. The gratitude vanished from the warlock’s voice as he finally answered her question. “Arak is an elf. Your people do not seek to destroy. Such an act is anathema to them. However, your cousin has found a way around that, so to speak. You cannot destroy what does not exist.”

“What do you mean?”

In answer, he extended one arm toward the vast tableau before them. “Imagine if you could make it so that these mountains had never been. Imagine if you could cause them to revert to their state before the violence of the world thrust them up toward the sky. So will Arak do to the Dragon Kings, if he is successful. A much smaller scale than transforming a mountain chain, but difficult nonetheless.”

Valea frowned, trying to make sense of what he said. “Do you mean that somehow he will unmake the drake lords and their people? They will cease to be?”

“In a sense. The Wyr Stone is the antithesis of this land. Some say it was a part of the essence of the Void, that great emptiness beyond our realm. When it was sought by the others in the past, they saw in it a way to reverse what the land did to them. It will take the magic around us, turn it inside out—so to speak—and make of the drakes what they would have been had not this cursed world played its own game.”

He spoke of the Dragonrealm as if it was a living thing, a notion her own father had pushed from time to time. If she understood Shade, somehow the land itself had transformed other creatures into the drakes, creating their race. The Wyr Stone would undo this, a phenomenal concept.

No Dragon Kings. Instead, there would be a world of elves and humans—and whatever harmless race Arak would make the drakes become. Surely not so bad a thing. On the surface, Arak’s arduous efforts looked to be worth any cost. How often had Valea heard her father or Lord Gryphon or especially King Melicard speak of a world where the Dragon Kings had never caused so much calamity?

“It’s—it’s incredible!”

“Incredible and dangerous . . . and from what you describe to me, perhaps beyond your cousin’s reach. Clearly the Wyr Stone is overwhelming him in the process and he is only halfway to his goal.”

“Halfway?” From what the sorceress had seen, the elf had looked very near his goal, too near.

The blurred face seemed even more so now. “Did you imagine erasing an entire race from the world a simple task? Why do you think those who originally used the Wyr Stone failed? When Arak told me he had found it, I was at first astounded, but your cousin is an elf of exceptional ability. When he claimed to understand why those before him had failed to control it, I made the mistake of believing him. I see now how terrible a mistake that is. He must be stopped before he destroys himself—and possibly much around him.”

It did not matter any more that all this had apparently taken place long, long ago. Valea only knew that something catastrophic was happening and that Galani’s cousin might not only bring down the Dragon Kings, but possibly himself and much of the rest of the land in the process.

“What can we do?”

Shade paused, then, with even greater hesitation than earlier, answered, “To save your cousin, Galani—and perhaps much, much more—you must put a dagger through his heart.”

VI

GASPING, VALEA AWOKE
, her body covered in sweat.

The warlock’s last words echoed through her head.
you must put a dagger through his heart . . .

So horrified was she by what Shade had said that at first her surroundings did not register with her. Only gradually did Valea realize that she no longer stood by the staircase. Instead, she lay fully-clothed atop her bed as if having gone to take a nap. Night still reigned, hopefully the same night.

As she moved her left hand, something slid from her grasp.

Despite a lack of much light, the silver dagger glistened.

Rolling off the plush bed, Valea glared at the horrid object. Galani’s ghostly plea came back to haunt her.
I had to do it, didn’t I?

Now she felt she understood better what the ghostly image had represented. The elf had evidently done just what Shade had suggested—but something must have gone wrong.

More cautious than ever, Valea reached for the treacherous blade, but this time, instead of leaping to her fingers, the dagger faded . . . as if a dream.

Frustrated beyond belief, the young sorceress vented her anger at the walls around her. “What is it you
want
?” she demanded of the Manor. “What are you trying to show me?”

But the walls remained maddeningly silent, not that Valea had truly expected them to answer in such a fashion.

Footsteps hurried up to her door. The disheveled woman turned, at first expecting a new ghost to rear its ugly head, but instead Setera and two human servants stood nervously at the entrance, obviously drawn by her loud appeal.

“I’m all right!” she snapped. Taking a deep breath, Valea added more calmly, “It was just a nightmare. I’m sorry if I startled anyone.”

The humans left immediately, but Setera took a moment longer, clearly a bit more suspicious over her mistress’s actions. When the drake, too, had finally departed, Valea again glared at the bed and the walls. Something had to be done. There was no reason why this horrific game had to continue. Valea had learned her lesson, had learned not to delve too close in the past of the Manor; what more did the magical edifice and its ghosts want of her?

IT WAS POSSIBLE
for Valea to contact her parents through the means of spells, but she dared not disturb either of them now. That left her only one person with whom she could speak who might have some knowledge.

Seated on a bench in the center of the vast maze, the same location where Galani and Shade had been attacked, Valea concentrated. Drawing from the lines of force crisscrossing even her, the sorceress molded together her spell.

A light-blue sphere formed before her . . . and within it fire briefly reigned. Muttering, Valea envisioned the one she sought.

In the midst of the floating sphere, a fearsome avian head suddenly thrust forth.

“Valea Bedlam . . . and to what do I owe this intrusion in my thoughts?”

The young human swallowed as the predatory visage cocked to one side. “Forgive me, Lord Gryphon, I had some questions with which I had to turn to you.”

The master of Penacles, the City of Knowledge, blinked once. His magnificent white and gold plumage transformed to golden brown fur near the base of his neck. Valea could just barely make out a regal red cloak and, below that, brown robes of state. The Gryphon was a creature both man and myth and one of the closest friends the Bedlams had. He could, if he wished, take on a human form, but that he did most for his mate, the feline woman Troia.

“I have a few minutes I may spare for you, Valea. What is it you wish to know?”

“Have you ever studied the ghosts of the Manor?”

“Aah, your pet passion. No, I prefer my interests more earthbound.”
Despite being a magical creature, the Gryphon had spent much of his two-plus centuries as a mercenary until fate had thrust him into the role of king.

“Did you ever hear of an elf named Arak? Was he ever famous for anything?”

“Again, I must answer no. The elves are secretive. Did you wish me to consult the libraries for mention of him?”

“No . . . definitely no.” Valea could not send the ruler of Penacles searching for the name of a likely obscure figure in history. Clearly Arak’s spell had somehow gone awry or the world she knew would have been very different. That left her only one question. “What, if anything, can you tell me about the Wyr Stone?”

The avian eye ceased blinking. Although it was only an illusion of the spell, Valea saw the Gryphon lean closer.
“Say the name again . . .”

“The Wyr Stone.”

“The Wyr Stone . . .”
He tasted the words, mulled them over, so much so that Valea’s hopes rose.

And were dashed again.
“I thought . . . but no. I’m wrong.”

“You don’t know it, then?”

He read her disappointment.
“I was reminded of a tale or two I heard long, long ago, when I was still only a soldier. Nothing much, mind you. I cannot even recall the specifics . . . but I will do a little research.”

Research could only mean the libraries. “My lord, please don’t bother! I’m sorry I interrupted your day at all! Please just forget! It was only a foolish—”

“My interest is piqued, Valea Bedlam . . . and it might not take me so very long as you think. The libraries and I are beginning to understand one another . . . to a point.”

He would not be dissuaded. With reluctance, Valea accepted his offer. Inside, her hope rose slightly again. The Gryphon might find nothing, but then again he might find
something.
Anything that could aid her in solving this mystery and freeing herself from the dreams was welcome.

With greetings to both families passed back and forth, Valea broke the spell. Perhaps she had gained something, but that she could hardly wait and see. She had to take a hand in the situation.

THE MANOR LIBRARY
looked as innocuous as ever. Ignoring everything else, Valea went directly to the library, to the very bookcase she, as Galani, had used to open the way to the passage below.

Trouble was, the tomes now set in the shelves were different and despite her diligent effort, the sorceress could make none of them do as the crimson one in the dream had.

Leaning against the bookcase, she knocked, but the wall sounded as solid as any.

Spellwork was, under most conditions, forbidden in the library itself, but Valea had reached the limits of her patience. Stepping back, she gave the bookcase a reproving look, then cast.

“You’ll reveal me the truth if I have to tear a hole in you!” the sorceress growled. She did not really want to do that, of course. Instead, Valea acted as her father had taught her, reaching out with her mind to see the magic that might be playing around the case. If a spell hid the passage from her, she would find and unravel it.

But to her surprise, even her most cunning work revealed only a solid wall.

An investigation of the other walls of the library gave her the same results. Unless she had been very careless somewhere in her casting, there existed no passage. Yet, in the dream, it had been right before—

In the dream . . .

Valea had assumed that what she had dreamed had been an exact re-creation of events. Had she been wrong? Had the dream been all or at least part fiction? It had felt so true, though.

She could hardly argue with the obvious, however. The bookcase and the wall behind it were as solid as they looked. To eradicate any lingering doubt about that, Valea set both hands against the case and pushed with all her might, not just once, not just twice, but
three
times.

On the third time . . . she fell through.

A firm, even floor, not a death-dealing set of stone steps, welcomed her tumbling body. Valea crashed hard, every bone jarred.

And as she struggled to regain both her senses and the use of her body, a voice, Shade’s voice, whispered calmly,
“It is time to strike, Galani.”