The Devil's Deuce (The Barrier War) (12 page)

“Shadowweavers are a moral anathema to my people, and if an
elf is suspected of being one, he is detained and questioned… extensively,”
Maran’s voice was tight, and his hand strayed subconsciously toward his missing
ear. “If they are innocent, their minds are wiped of the experience and they
are released. If guilty,” he paused, “they are marked and exiled forever. Their
name is stricken from all records, and to the elven mind, they no longer exist
at all. Most of the fallen eventually join with the Do sect.”

The group of humans around him was silent.

“That’s you, right, Maran?” Hoil asked quietly. “You always
made the flare pots we used at the doorway, and I thought you were joking when
you said it was magic. Thought it was chemicals or something, but it
was
magic, wasn’t it? You’re a Lightweaver? A Shadowweaver?”

“Yes. Both.”

Nuse looked piercingly at the elf and asked, “And did you,
too, fall in with the Do? You still call yourself
El’Maran
.”

Maran gave no evidence he’d even heard the Blue paladin
speak and kept his eyes on Hoil. Nuse raised an eyebrow at the elf, but let the
matter lie.

“How does the son of the king become a Lightweaver, much
less fall into disgrace and become a Shadowweaver?” Birch asked.

Maran turned toward him, and for once it was Birch who
flinched away from eye contact. The elf’s eyes were hauntingly devoid of any
emotion – bottomless pits of merciless emptiness. What took Birch aback the
most was that the utter lack of pity and mercy was directed inward.

“At first my family was proud that I,
El’Maran
El’Eleisha
, eldest son of the king and crown prince
of the elven nation, had the skills and inborn talents of a Lightweaver. I
trained for almost thirty years in my adolescence and early adult life
[14]
until I was granted the title of
Master,” Maran said, and now Birch saw a gleam of pride in the elf’s eyes. Then
his eyes tightened. “But even while I was learning to Weave the light, I
discovered I had other talents… talents about which I had no one to teach me. I
learned to Weave the shadows of magic. I learned illusion and deception. I
learned about putting out the light of another’s work, and how to snuff the
light of another’s life as well. Eventually, I found tutors in my clandestine
arts, and on the day the Lightweavers pronounced me a Master, so I also
attained the rank of Master Shadowweaver.”

“What’s the big deal about light and shadows?” Hoil asked.
“It seems to me you were learning something akin to warfare, just with magic
and not swords.”

“That is exactly what it was, Hoil,” Maran said, his voice
suddenly harsh. “Learning how to kill. To elves, life is the cycle from day
into night. When the dawn breaks, we are born. The sun of our life rises as we
grow, and we prosper while the sun is high in the sky. Then it begins to sink, and
our bodies begin to age. Twilight comes, and we tire and grow old. Eventually,
the sun sets and night falls, and we die, allowing our souls to be recycled as
a dead leaf falls and is absorbed by the tree. Shadows exist where there is no
light. No life. So you see why Shadowweaving is so abhorrent. It is the craft
of non-life. I learned to weave death.”

They were silent, trying to understand the precepts of a
culture so alien to their own.

“I was over ninety before my father found out what I had
become,” Maran continued. “He’d often wondered how I progressed so quickly in
my training, both in Weaving and in other matters, and now he had his answer.
My lessons reinforced each other and taught me new ideas and concepts to
explore in both areas. At the same time, my training in the shadow included the
use of stealth and weapons, and so my swordsmanship improved more rapidly than
most. I was viewed as a prodigy, and the future for the elven nation looked
bright indeed.

“But my former instructors finally noticed a pattern in my
thoughts and training, and they became suspicious. They discovered the truth
and told my father, and when I was confronted I did not deny the truth. My
father was crushed. As prince of the land, I had to be held to the highest
standards and the strictest of punishments. He ordered that my ear be removed,
the worst sign of shame an elf can endure, and I was exiled. I wandered for
fifteen years before I came to work for you, Hoil.”

Maran fell silent.

“So how is it none of us has ever heard of elven magic
before?” Nuse asked. “The evidence of it is in plain sight, but I’d wager half
my yearly allowance that I never knew it existed until just now.”

Birch leaned closer and whispered, “We don’t get a yearly
allowance, Nuse,” just loud enough so everyone could hear him.

“I know, that’s the point. Now shut up, you’re tipping my
hand,” Nuse replied in the same loud whisper. They laughed, and the dark mood
Maran’s story had brought over the ship lightened somewhat.

“To answer you, Nuse of the Blue Facet,” Maran said, and
their laughter died at his soft voice, “no one really cares. To outside eyes,
magic is the work of charlatans, illusionists, or merely the stuff of
superstitious folklore. To my people, it is part of who we are, and we are a
very private people. Elves have been Weaving for eons, even back when humans
were still harnessing fire and marveling over their creation of the wheel.”

It took them a moment to realize Maran was teasing Nuse, so
serious and dire was the whisper of his voice, like leaves in the wind of a
gathering storm.

“Compound that with the elven reticence to discuss anything
of import with one of the lesser, ground-dwelling races, and you see there
really hasn’t been much communication between the races on topics such as
this,” Maran said, and his tone finally lightened. “Most other races are
intimidated by the standoffishness of my people, and any curiosity is coldly
rebuffed. The world knows about our magic; it is no secret. But to most, it is
so much a mystery that the mere knowledge of its existence is useless, and so,
as I said, no one cares.”

“So why are you being so open?” Perklet asked. Birch nearly
jumped. The Green paladin was so silent, it was easy to forget he was there at
all. “Just not the typical elf?”

“Not exactly,” Maran said with a slight smile. “I’m telling
you this for two reasons. First, because I trust you, and the knowledge may
help you in your quest here. Second, because what you don’t know may kill you.
Now,” and now Maran turned and looked at a seemingly empty space off to his
right, “I believe I’ve established that these humans have my complete trust and
I am not here under any duress. Please carry word to the
Do’Valoren
that
Do’n’El’Maran
has returned and requests an
audience.”

There was a pause, then Maran bowed to the empty space of
air. To Birch it looked as though he were returning the gesture to someone
rather than instigating it. With his attention drawn there, Birch thought he
could feel and see a stir of wind as something or someone unseen moved away on
silent feet.

“Forgive the theatrics,” Maran said softly in apology. “His
presence was bothering me, and it served a purpose.”

“Is your friend shy?” Nuse asked.

“His job is to remain unseen,” Maran replied without looking
at the Blue paladin. “His presence was a test and a message for me.”

Now they know I am still one of them, in some fashion,
and they will respect me,
Maran thought to himself. He was pained only
slightly at the necessity of using the name that had been forced on him by his
exile. But he was resigned to it; he might have to use that name more often now
that he was here. Among humans, and anywhere else in the world, he could be
El’Maran
– Maran of the light.

Here he could only be
Do’n’El’Maran
– Maran of the shadows, no longer of the light.
Nuse’s
question about his name had hit a little too close to home.

“Stay here,” he told them abruptly. “I will arrange for our
passage upriver to the capital, but we will not be able to stay at an inn in
the meantime. Settle yourself aboard this vessel. I expect we will be here for
several days before suitable passage can be found.”

Of course, the delay had nothing to do with booking passage,
but it was as close to the truth as he could come.

Without waiting for a reply, Maran leapt from the edge of
the ship and landed catlike on the docks. No obnoxious official approached the
ship, and to the humans remaining on board, it was if the elves didn’t even
know they existed. Maran shook his head at the stubborn arrogance of his people.

Before he had reached the first ranks of the elves nearby,
Maran was already centering himself on his
sai
,
the innermost part of his soul where his ability to Weave was located. Long
dormant but never forgotten, his
sai
enveloped
him like a pool of warm water, and Maran slipped into his power effortlessly.
He thought about what he wanted to do, and before he’d taken two steps, it was
done.

To the men on the ship who’d been watching him, Maran
disappeared into the crowd. Maran smiled slightly at the tingling thrill of
power he felt in his body. He hadn’t just disappeared into the crowd, he’d
disappeared entirely from sight.

- 2 -

The weekend was relaxing, though at times Danner felt his
time away from training was like crawling aboard a small piece of driftwood in
a sea of turbulence. He knew it was a temporary respite, yet because of that
reason he clung to that refuge all the more tightly.

For the first time in weeks, his stomach no longer tied up
in multiple, convoluted knots when he was around Alicia. They did nothing more
physical than holding hands and draping their arms about each other, but it
felt comfortable, and they spent most of their time talking. Danner told her
about his life growing up on the streets in Marash and about living with his father
and then Faldergash, and his work with the Men for Mankind Coalition.

Alicia in turn told him of her childhood on a farm near
Nocka and growing up with Marc and Garnet. Danner hadn’t realized the pair’s
friendship extended so far back, but he might have guessed. Flasch had only
known her brother for a year or so when Alicia left home. Alicia and Marc were
twins, but when their parents died she left to see more of the world, leaving
Marc in the capable hands of their aunt in Nocka. She’d wandered for a bit, but
as soon as she reached Demar she met Moreen and took a job at the Dragoenix
Inn. She’d been working there and doing little else for the last several years
until Danner came along.

She told him again about the destruction of the inn, which
they had since surmised to be the work of one of The Three. Probably not the
one Danner had killed, but then it didn’t make much difference at this point.

“It must have been hard growing up without your mother
around,” Alicia said. “I remember how nice it was having mine there. She taught
me how to cook and several tricks about how to work in an inn or restaurant.
That’s how she met my father. He came in one day and sat down, then the next
day and the next, always at a table she was working. It took him a month to work
up the courage to ask her out,” she said and giggled lightly.

During the nights, Marc and Michael left to visit Aunt
Delia’s, the gentlemen’s club where Marc was so well-known. Both had a romantic
interest of sorts there, and sometimes Garnet went with them. Whenever they had
leave on a weekend, it was always the same. The two, sometimes three, of them
spent most of their free nights there, leaving the rest of their group to their
own devices. After their initial visit to Aunt Delia’s, Danner expected Flasch
to be among the group who frequented the club, but their wiry friend surprised
them all and had only been back once. Instead, Trebor and Flasch usually
matched their wits in a game of castles or of stones, and sometimes they set up
miniature tournaments amongst the group. This weekend, though, Trebor was more
reserved.

Eventually, they got Trebor to relax a bit and take part in
their activities. During the daytime, they either practiced in the yard with
their bowkurs or else went out riding in
Faldergash’s
buggy. The gnome’s vehicle was one of his own design, and it was faster than
anything else they’d heard of or seen. Normally the thought of driving
something made by a gnome would send any sane person running the opposite
direction, but because Faldergash was a Dale gnome, the buggy worked perfectly.
Danner and Flasch were the most daring drivers in the group, but surprisingly
enough Alicia was not far behind them. She seemed to have little or no fear and
could now be found laughing alongside Danner while the others hung on for dear
life and begged him to slow down.

They spent several hours both days working on their training
with the cloaks. This involved one of them wearing a cloak they had “borrowed”
from the supply closet and wearing a harness kept in the back of the buggy. The
harness was attached to a strong, lightweight rope on a detachable winch in the
buggy, while behind the harness trailed a large cloth with strategically placed
holes cut into the canvas. The cloth caught the wind as they drove, and Garnet
would hold the harness-wearer in place until they could safely winch him out.
It was based on the principle of a gnomish parachute, a mandatory safety
precaution for their airborne gliders and various – more hazardous – attempts
at mechanized flight. Danner had taken a few turns in the harness, and the
shock of the chute catching the wind and trying to haul him into the sky was
enough that on one try he nearly bit through his tongue.

Once airborne, they had only to drop out of the harness and
concentrate on not wanting to fall, and the blessed powers of the cloak would
slow their descent. They were all proficient at the maneuver now, including
Danner who’d had to overcome his fear of heights, so Garnet had added a new
dimension to the exercise just for the fun of it. Once they were gliding safely
with the cloak, he began shooting clay discs at them with a flinging device
he’d had Faldergash work up. They then had to break the discs with their
bowkurs – Garnet had uncannily good aim with the discs, as did Flasch – without
losing their concentration. The launchers resembled a child’s slingshot, just
on a larger scale and with a wooden platform to support the round clay
“pigeons” as they’d taken to calling them, due to their ugly, mottled gray coloring.