Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (106 page)

In her hand she once more held the dagger.

VII

HIS GLOVED HANDS
gently helped her to her feet. Valea saw that she was now in the maze again, lying on the bench where she had cast the spell contacting Lord Gryphon. The moon rose full overhead.

In its light, Valea saw that she wore a gown of blue.

Shade was even more a specter now than before, but Valea felt Galani draw strength from his presence and so, in turn, did she. It was hard to tell where her own emotions separated from those of the elf. For all the stories of evil she had heard about the warlock, Valea had also heard the tales of sacrifice and heroics. She had long sympathized with his curse, his inability to have one true identity.

The hood obscured his murky visage completely as he bent down to peer at her. “Are you up to it, Galani? I know what I ask of you. Rest assured, though, that he will be grateful in the end.”

“By me stabbing him? In the heart?” The elf’s voice was on the edge of hysteria. “Tell me again, Tylan! Tell me again that when this blade goes through . . . I won’t simply be killing him!”

He put a comforting arm around her. “With the twin of this dagger—so foolishly provided by me—your cousin bound himself by blood to the forces inherent in the Wyr Stone. Heart and soul. You saw a part of that, remember? By striking true, you will unbind him. He will live, you have my word on that.”

How could Galani not believe him? Certainly Valea did.

“Tylan,” Galani whispered into his chest. “Will you dance with me?”

Valea and Shade shared confusion. “
Dance
with you? Now?”

“It will calm my nerves . . . make me ready.”

The hood considered. “Arak will be quite some time with his casting. Very well, if it’ll better prepare you, then come, my lady . . . let us dance once again.”

He took the elf’s hand and as he did, the wind shifted, playing a soft, drifting tune more felt than heard. Shade slowly turned his partner in a circle. Valea was quickly caught up in the dance. In her mind,
she
now danced with the warlock, felt the vibrancy, the heat of his body as they spun around and around. The maze vanished, only the moonlit sky accompanying the pair.

Only after several breathtaking turns did the sorceress realize that they truly danced on
air
, not earth, but that only added to the moment. Valea stared into what should have been Shade’s eyes and felt certain that they stared back. Again, she imagined what the eyes, the brow, the nose, and mouth actually looked like . . . and suddenly what it would be like to kiss the last.

Valea never wanted it to end, but then she felt the ground beneath her feet and a cool—nay,
cold
—breeze at her cheek. The music had ceased.

“If you wish to save him, Galani . . . it must be now.”

“Can you not do it?” Valea’s mouth asked.

“You know that is beyond me. I cannot myself touch nor wield the Wyr Stone nor even stand near it. I’ve told you that. It must be you. Remember also that after you have used the dagger, you must touch it against the artifact and do as I’ve taught you.”

His last comment stirred the sorceress’s curiosity. What sort of spellwork did the elf have to perform? Was it not enough that she had to drive a blade into her beloved cousin’s heart before Arak understood what was happening?

“I will be with you in spirit,” Shade murmured. “You know that.”

And to Valea’s astonishment and thrill, his lips grazed her own briefly.

Then he was gone, his tall, black form literally becoming part of the night.

She felt Galani pull herself together. So now would come the culmination of these events. Perhaps after this Valea would understand. Perhaps after this the dreams would end.

The elf brought her through the garden, through the the back doors, and straight to the library. For Galani, the bookcase gave way as it always did. Down they went, as silent as the night. Valea marveled at the stealth with which her host moved, but still wondered if it would suffice.

But an army could have likely walked in on Arak and he would not have noticed. The silver-haired elf hunched over the Wyr Stone, eyes hollow and drawn from his efforts. He did not look so monstrous as when Valea had seen him last, but still the effects of manipulating the power of the sinister artifact were quite visible.

Galani had secreted the dagger in her gown, but now she began to remove it. Curiously, the silent action seemed to be the one thing her cousin noticed, either that or he had simply chosen that moment to look up.

“You! What are you doing here, cousin?” Arak grated. “You should not be here!”

The ferocity in his voice made Valea want to flee, but Galani stepped forward, outwardly cool, inwardly in a panic.

“I came because I was worried about you. You’ve hardly slept, hardly eaten in weeks. For almost a month, we’ve hardly spoken.” The female elf stepped nearer. “You only take what barely sustains you. Surely that cannot be good for your work.”

“As I have said to you many times over the past three months, you could go home any time. You’ll be safe there . . . safe and blind to the world once again.”

“I could never leave you like this, Arak! You know that! For the thousandth time, give up whatever madness you attempt!”

“Give up?” The unkempt figure waved a hand toward the Wyr Stone, which flared as if in response to him. “When my work is nearly complete?”

“Is it?” Galani’s hand kept near the hidden dagger. Valea watched through her eyes in morbid fascination and horror as Arak’s fearsome visage loomed close. “Are you certain?”

He laughed darkly. “You’re just like him! Small wonder he’s caught your fancy, cousin! He was certain I would fail, too! He said the binding spells keeping anyone from utilizing the full force of the Wyr Stone would be too strong, that I, only a poor elf and not a last sad vestige of a Vraad sorcerer like him, could never understand them, much less know how to remove them . . .” Arak grinned. “He threw down the gauntlet in challenge with those words! I told him all along that I could do it and so I nearly have! Even he was impressed when I told him that by tonight I would be able to manipulate the stone in whatever fashion I desire . . .”

“And will you use it on the Dragon Kings?”

“Of course!”

As if that settled matters for Galani, she suddenly drew the dagger. Valea screamed in her mind, trying to hold off an outcome she knew inevitable.

Galani’s hand hesitated.

Arak snarled and seized her wrist, twisting it. The dagger fell to the floor. Pain coursed through both Valea and her host. Galani was forced to one knee.

“It
was
you who spied upon me that night! I had scarce believed my own suspicions!” he roared, twisting her arm further. “I tried to deny it . . . that those old fools would send my own cousin as their assassin!”

Through the haze of pain, Valea listened to his accusation with astonishment. Arak actually thought Galani had all this time intended to kill him? Had the Wyr Stone driven him beyond the edge of sanity?

“I was right! It was not fear of change from which the elders suffered but fear that I would control those changes! They, of course, would be so much wiser masters of the stone’s abilities, but they decided to leave it to me, the shameful renegade, to make their prize available to them!”

“I do not—you are wrong!”

He opened wide his free hand and the dagger flew into his grip. “This proves I am correct.”

“I am trying to save you!”

The tip of the blade came within a hair’s breadth of her throat. In a flat voice, Arak whispered, “I do not know which is more pathetic, your lies or simply you.”

The Wyr Stone flared—and Arak sent Galani/Valea flying across the chamber. The sorceress tried to seize control as she had before, but could not stop the elf’s flight. Galani struck the wall, her breath knocked out of her, then tumbled to the floor.

Tossing the dagger aside, Arak stepped toward his injured cousin. “So ironic. I, who respect the sanctity of life, am accused of plotting genocide while the supposedly pious elders turn one I once loved into a willing murderer!” His hands glowed crimson. “I’m sorry I have to do this, Galani . . .” Arak stood over her, entire body now ablaze with power, expression puzzling. He looked regretful and a bit uncertain.

Valea rubbed her head, trying to clear it—and then realized that at last
she
had control again. Her own thoughts now a confused mix with Galani’s, Valea eyed the dagger.

The blade shot up off the floor, a swift missile heading for Arak’s back. However, at the last moment, it swerved around, came at the elf from the front.

Just as he noticed its presence, the blade sank into his chest.

“Galani—” Arak stumbled away from her, horrified eyes on the hilt, which glowed a bright silver. He reached for it, but his fingers did not seem to work. “I wasn’t going to hurt—”

Shade had said that the dagger would not slay Galani’s cousin, but the silver-haired elf certainly acted as if he had been struck a mortal blow. He staggered to the side, fell against one rock wall, and slumped there. His eyes bulged and his breath came in quick, labored gasps.

“G-Galani . . .”

Still in control, Valea forced herself up, then stumbled to her victim. She herself would have let him be, but her host’s emotions and memories tore at her. All the good, all the love, that the two elves had shared over their lives became part of Valea’s life, too.

She had to pull the blade free. From what Shade had said, perhaps removing the weapon would enable Arak to recover.

But just before Valea could touch the hilt, a shadow fell over both her and the stricken elf.

No . . . not a shadow . . . a shade.

The warlock plucked the weapon from Arak’s chest and the wound instantly sealed. The elf shrank in on himself, becoming smaller, more real. The sense of tremendous power that he had wielded vanished utterly. Arak looked older, much older than an elf should be.

“Well struck, Galani,” the murky figure next to Valea commented clinically. “I sensed it happened and came as soon as I could.”

Something struck Valea as wrong, but she could not put her finger on exactly what. She looked at the hooded man. “Will he—will he be all right?”

“He will live for so long as I need him, yes.”

A warning went off in the sorceress’s head. She suddenly had no desire to be near the warlock.

Stretching a hand toward her, Shade froze Valea in place. “And you, dear Galani, I want near also.”

“Tylan—”

With a slow shake of his head, the black-clad figure chuckled and said, “Call me Zaros . . . this time.”

Valea wanted to recoil . . . at some point since Galani had first met the warlock . . . Shade had died and been resurrected again.

And if he had been friend to the elves before, surely now he would be their most terrible enemy.

“How . . . when?”

He shrugged, as if the matter of his death was no significant event. “The Seekers. You recall how the one turned and fled when sighting me? That was because his kind had caught me unaware not long ago. They thought that they could destroy me . . . and so they did. Not the first time that the avians have done so . . . but they seem to keep forgetting that I come back . . . and when I did . . .” Almost it seemed a smile formed on the blurred countenance. “I made certain that this particular flock would not be able to repeat its mistake.”

All the while Shade spoke, he ran one gloved hand over the dagger, drawing momentary patterns of magic. Beyond him, Valea noticed that the Wyr Stone began to change in concert with his efforts.

Then it occurred to her that the warlock should not be able to be so near the artifact at all.

“What an utter fool my previous self was. Here the key to preserving himself lay open to him and his honor would not let him take it.” Shade paused dramatically, almost as if waiting for either Valea or the still-slumped Arak to make a comment. When neither did, he extended a hand toward the Wyr Stone. “They were too late to save themselves, my cousins were. The land—the damned, cursed land!—had already begun their transformation! By the time they wielded the Wyr Stone, saving themselves from being
adapted
to this realm was beyond even their skills.”

Darkhorse, who had over the centuries battled beside or against more Shades than anyone, had told her and Aurim often of the varying degrees of madness with which each incarnation had been infected. She did not recall any with the name of Zaros, but then there had been so many, many Shades over the centuries that even Darkhorse could not keep them all straight in his memory. However many there had been, though, this one was the only Shade that mattered to Valea. So far, there had been no hint of her being able to escape this horrid dream or ghost or whatever it might be and that made her fear that if Galani perished, so would she. Even though these events had happened far in the past, where magic was concerned the distinctions of time were often as blurred as the warlock’s visage.

With Galani’s personality apparently dormant, Valea had to stall Shade while she tried to find some avenue of escape. An obvious question came to mind, one she suspected the bragging Zaros would be happy to answer. Fortunately, he had only frozen her legs and arms, not her mouth. “How is it you can manipulate the stone? You said you couldn’t even get near it!”

“The dagger, of course . . . and your dear cousin.” At mention of Arak, Shade leaned down to pat the male elf companionably on the shoulder. Eyes closed, Arak groaned. Although his wound was no longer visible, he seemed unable to otherwise recover. “This dagger and the one he used are twins, as I mentioned. You saw him use the other on himself without fear. They were designed to tie a sorcerer to the stone, mingle his life force with the forces within the artifact, thus enabling Arak to use it as he would his own arm.”

“You gave him the first dagger . . .”

“No . . . Tylan did or else this would have been so much easier, dear Galani.” The warlock stepped toward the Wyr Stone, his body, if not his face, revealing his great anticipation. “The dagger must first be tied to the user . . . and that is part of what you saw. Then the dagger ties the user to the stone.” He held up his own blade. “This dagger, soaked now in his blood, is tied to me . . .”