15

  Westlands

  Father Marcus lay motionless in the bed where they had placed him. Chentelle put a hand on his forehead. Nothing. For two days, the High Bishop had remained motionless, unresponsive to the touch of hand and Gift. His eyes and mouth were closed only because the local healer had shut them for him.

  “I don’t know whether you can hear me. You may not even know Gorin is dead. He sacrificed himself for you, you know, for the hope and the faith you inspire. He believed in you. We all do. We need you to come back to us, to lead us.” She sat on the bed and placed a white flower into the priest’s hand. “I planted some of these over Gorin’s grave, but I saved this one. I thought you might like to have it. We buried him today. I wish you could have been there. Gorin would have wanted you there.

  “We didn’t know what kind of funeral he wanted, but we did the best we could. The local priest performed the ceremony. Then, each of them said good-bye in their own fashion. Sulmar performed a Tengarian ritual, reciting a poem and mixing some of his blood with the grave. Even A’stoc said something.” Chentelle felt her tears coming again. That was all right. Gorin deserved them. “Leth and Gerruth told stories about playing quickbones and matching riddles. I hadn’t even known Gorin did those things. I think that was the saddest part, realizing how much I still had to learn about him.

  “Thildemar composed a song, telling about his bravery and compassion, about his great deeds and his part in the quest. I sang a song, too, only mine didn’t have words. I just tried to sing what I felt. Would you like to hear it?”

  Chentelle wiped a tear from her eye and brushed it across her mouth. The salt and sorrow mingled in her lips, and she sang. Her voice was low, soft, but strong and steady. It was Brother Gorin, daring everything to follow the path of his faith. The solitude of an exile, the rapture of a prophet, the courage of a martyr, the serenity of a good man: these things and more found life in her requiem.

  For an instant, she thought she felt a tremor of response from Father Marcus. Had he moved? She couldn’t be sure. She kept singing, pouring every part of her grief and love into the song. The Gift swelled within her, laying every part of her bare to the music. She sang emotion. She sang need. She sang until her voice cracked and her lungs strained for air.

  Finally, she could maintain it no more. She slid to the floor, resting her head on the bed. Her shoulders trembled with sobbing, though her tears were long since exhausted. Though her voice was gone, the Gift was still strong within her. It reached into Father Marcus, desperately reaching for any sign of contact.

  Nothing.

  The common room was empty when Chentelle came down the stairs. Dacius apparently had the Legionnaires drilling again. He had been pressing them hard since the necromancer’s attack, seeing danger behind every shadow. She didn’t know where A’stoc was; probably meeting with A’rullen again or checking on the Lore Books. Sulmar’s whereabouts were less of a mystery. He spent every free moment reliving the battle.

  Chentelle walked into the street and turned down the lane to the park. The streets were busy, but people moved quickly out of her path as she neared. Stories of dragons and Ill-creatures had made them all objects of fear and suspicion. She passed the locked tower that had been A’trile’s. The rubble of the fallen balcony had been cleared, but the rear of the tower was scored deeply from the dragon’s bile. She crossed through a line of trees and caught sight of Sulmar.

  The Tengarian stood in the clearing, on the very spot the dragon had landed. His heavy breaths misted in the cold air, and sweat poured down his face. He had torn the right sleeve off of his shirt, and the dragon brand writhed darkly on his arm. Suddenly, he flipped his sword into his left hand and raised it above his head. The blade swung down, heading straight for his right arm.

  “No!” Chentelle dashed forward, but she knew she would be too late.

  The ebony blade sliced easily into the Tengarian’s arm, but it did not cut. The dark steel merged with the dragon’s mark, becoming part of the same blackness. Sulmar dropped to his knees. His back arched, and thick muscles bunched in his arms and chest. A war of shadows played out on his flesh, mirroring the dark magic that coursed through his body. A guttural scream tore from his throat, and blood trickled down his left arm.

  Darkness flashed, and Sulmar’s arms were thrown apart. The black sword flew from his grasp, landing in the grass more than thirty cubits away. He fell backward, arms spread wide and legs bent awkwardly beneath him.

  “Sulmar!” Chentelle dropped to his side. She tugged at his legs, straightening them to protect his joints. The Tengarian neither helped nor hindered her. His eyes had rolled backward, showing nothing but white, and his breath was ragged. She folded his arms in by his side and gasped.

  The brand was growing! The dragon mark swelled before her eyes, writhing upward to cover the Tengarian’s shoulder. The dragon’s eyes seemed alive, and she heard a faint hissing.

  Sulmar jolted awake. He sat upright, knocking Chentelle backward. By the time she regained her balance, he was standing again. And the black brand had shrunk to its normal size.

  “Sulmar, what’s happening?”

  “Your pardon, mistress. I must retrieve my sword.” Without waiting for an answer he turned and jogged toward his fallen blade.

  Chentelle wanted to scream. He had been like this ever since the dragon appeared: sullen, uncommunicative. The solid presence that she had come to rely on was suddenly gone, and she felt alone and vulnerable. Worse than that, she knew that Sulmar was suffering. His unflappable calm was shattered. More often than not, when she looked at him she surprised a face set in bitterness or rage. She had to do something.

  Sulmar hadn’t returned. Instead, he had returned to his exercises in the spot where his sword landed. She walked over and stepped directly in front of him.

  The Tengarian’s eyes widened in alarm. His left arm shot across and grabbed his right wrist, stopping his stroke an instant before it sliced through Chentelle’s neck.

  “Liegeman!” Chentelle poured every tone of command she could muster into her voice. “Do you seek to break your Oath with me?”

  Agony showed in the Tengarian’s eyes. The sword fell from his hands and he dropped to his knees. He bowed forward, touching his head to the ground. “Mistress, I am unworthy. I—I abandoned your side, left you in danger.”

  Good. He was talking at least. But he was still holding something back. “Why, Sulmar? What made you attack the dragon?”

  “I have no excuse, mistress.”

  She put the edge back into her voice. “I did not ask for an excuse, liegeman. I asked for an explanation.”

  “Yes, mistress.” He fell silent again, and Chentelle was afraid she had pushed too hard. Then he continued. “The beast—it was Kaliya, mistress, the dragon whose curse I bear. Our fates are tied. If I do not destroy her with my own hand, with this blade, forged from the darkness of the beast’s own heart, then I am doomed. When I saw the dragon, I—I lost my discipline. I failed you.”

  “Stand up.” Chentelle let her tone soften. She could feel Sulmar’s emotional dam opening. When he was on his feet, she reached up and turned his face to hers. “Look at me. I am not dead. I am not hurt. I am here, and I’m worried about my friend. Now, tell me what will happen if you can’t break the curse.”

  “If I die while wearing Kaliya’s mark,” he said, “my soul will become hers. I will be resurrected as a shade and serve the dragon for all eternity.”

  “By the Creator.” Visions flashed in her memory. Sulmar battling the vikhor with his bare hands. Sulmar wading through a score of goblins. Sulmar pitting steel against magic in the demonspawn’s lair. How many times had he risked damnation to save her life? How many times? “You should have told me! This is too much. I release you from your vow. You mustn’t—”

  “Mistress!” He dropped to his knees again. “Please, Lady Chentelle, do not banish me. You are my hope, my destiny. I have no other direction. Your path brought me to the Black Dragon once. It will do so again. Please, mistress, let me stay. I will not fail again.”

  “You didn’t fail the first time!” It was horrible. How could she ask him to risk his soul? How could she let him? But how could she deny the need in his voice? She wanted to run away, to let somebody else decide. She reached down and grabbed Sulmar’s arm. “Stand up. I won’t send you away. You are still my liegeman. But I do not want you to protect me to the death. Do you understand? I order you not to trade your life for mine.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Chentelle looked into Sulmar’s eyes, eyes full of strength and serenity, and she knew he was lying. She sighed. “Just be careful, please. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Well, maybe that would help. Perhaps the dragon would not return. She turned and started walking down the stone path. The solid presence of her liegeman fell into place behind her.

  She walked aimlessly, following the winding path. It brought her to a set of stairs. She followed them and found herself walking along the top of the outer wall. The wind whipped through her dress, but she didn’t feel cold. She saw a pair of figures up ahead. It was A’stoc, his silhouette was unmistakable, and one of the Legionnaires—Drup.

  She stopped a short distance away from them. “Wait here, Sulmar. I need to talk to A’stoc, and that’s usually easier if I can get him alone.”

  “Yes, mistress.” Sulmar’s tone was flat. If he sensed the hidden motive in her request, he gave no sign.

  A’stoc turned as she approached. “Is there news?”

  “No,” she said. “Nobody sent me to find you. I didn’t even know you were here. This just seemed like a good place to walk.”

  He smiled and turned back to the wall. “I have always liked the view from this spot. It makes all of my troubles seem small—and all of my efforts.”

  Chentelle leaned out over the crenellations. The city of Tel Adartak spread beneath them, filled with the motion of tiny figures. Autumn leaves turned the surrounding hills into a brilliant tapestry, stretching to water. In the center of the bay, Pilot’s Island shone with all the colors of the rainbow. Beyond that, the Great Sea stretched toward infinity.

  “It’s breathtaking,” she said.

  “I see that you have regained your shadow.” The wizard nodded toward Sulmar. “Drup has been my own, today. Lord Gemine will not hear of my person being left undefended.”

  The young Legionnaire bowed to her. He smiled, and the light of Ellistar twinkled in his eyes. “I am glad you’re here. The wizard has been foul company. He seems to fear that I may be hiding a slim ray of optimism.”

  “If you did not want to hear the answer,” A’stoc growled, “then you should not have asked the question.”

  Drup laughed cheerfully. “We were talking about the necromancer. I made the mistake of observing how lucky we were that he didn’t destroy the Lore Books when he had the chance.”

  Chentelle looked at A’stoc curiously. “Isn’t that good?”

  “Of course it is. The question is why.” He nodded toward Drup. “As I was explaining to this simpleton, the only reason he would have spared the Lore is if it was not a threat to his master’s plans. As A’trile, he had full access to the books.”

  “But he would have risked detection,” Drup said. “And the books can be replaced with new copies.”

  “In time,” said A’stoc. “But our efforts would have been set back by several months. No, he did not act because he knows that it will take years before we decipher enough of the Lore to shift the balance of power. And he knows that we do not have years.”

  The young elf’s face became suddenly sober. “What will happen when the war comes? Can we stand?”

  A’stoc met the Legionnaire’s eyes. When he spoke, his voice had lost all hint of mockery. “If it came today—no. Nor if it comes soon. We need more time to gather strength. And the Dark One knows this, thanks to Bone’s masquerade. I do not think he will wait.”

  Determination etched in Drup’s face. He clapped his hand on the hilt of his vorpal blade. “He will find at least one sword ready.”

  “I do not doubt it,” A’stoc said. “But how many more? Ten? Twenty? A thousand would not be too many. We need the weapons from A’kalendane’s vault.”

  Chentelle heard the note of finality in his voice. “What are you saying?”

  “I have spoken to A’rullen,” he answered. “We leave tomorrow for Covenant’s Keep.”

  “But you can’t.” Chentelle turned to Drup for support, but saw that he agreed with the wizard. “What about the quest? We can’t leave until Father Marcus recovers.”

  “And when will that be?” A’stoc said. “We cannot afford to wait. The Dark One’s forces are in motion. If the High Bishop recovers before I return, the rest of you can meet me at the vault. If not, then we will be in the same position, and the Legion will have a new treasure of weapons.”

  His words rang with certainty. Chentelle turned away from him, trying to understand the chaos in her thoughts. The world was spinning beneath her. She was lost. Sulmar’s words echoed in her mind: You are my hope, my destiny. But what was her destiny? He was risking his soul to follow her, and she was stumbling around blindly.

  “Do not worry, enchantress.” A’stoc’s voice held a note of concern. “I am not abandoning the quest. But we can go no further until Father Marcus recovers. In the meantime, this is something I must do. It is part of my own quest.”

  “I know,” she said. “It isn’t that. I know that you have to go. But—I just found out that Sulmar’s soul will be lost if he dies while protecting me. I tried to send him away, but he wouldn’t go. He believes I will lead him to his destiny. But how can I let him risk his soul for me? I ordered him not to trade his life for mine, but I don’t think he listened.”

  “Of course not,” A’stoc said. “His Oath will not let him place his life above yours, no matter what the consequences.”

  “But what if he dies?” Chentelle struggled to control her voice. “He’s following me because I’m his liege, but I don’t even know where I’m going. You have your own quests. The Legionnaires have their duty. But why am I here? I haven’t had the Dream since I left Lone Valley. What if my part is over? Sulmar could forfeit his soul because I didn’t know it was time to go home!”

  “You are correct.” All softness had vanished from the wizard’s voice. “You should go home. Whatever hope this quest had fell with Father Marcus. Your part is done. Go home. We will destroy the Dark One, or we will fall. There is nothing you can do which will alter that fact.”

  “That isn’t fair, wizard.” Drup laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Do not underestimate yourself, Chentelle. You have proven your worth more—”

  “Stay out of this, soldier!” A’stoc’s gray eyes flashed with anger. “You risk a life and a soul with your prattle.” He spun around and marched for the stairs. “I must prepare for the journey. If you remember your duty, you will follow.”

  Drup froze for a moment, shocked at A’stoc’s outburst. He turned to Chentelle and shrugged. Then he scrambled after the wizard.

  Chentelle stared out over the city. Maybe she should go home. After all, what was really keeping her here?

  Chentelle and Sulmar walked into the middle of an argument. The Legionnaires had returned to the common room, and Dacius was squared off with A’stoc.

  “—the risk!” The human lord’s beard bristled, hardly a cubit from A’stoc’s face. “I can’t guarantee your safety.”

  “I am not asking for your protection,” A’stoc said coldly. “Or for your permission. I am leaving in the morning for Covenant’s Keep. That is not an issue for discussion.”

  Dacius threw up his arms in exasperation. “Creator save me from wizards and fools! Fine, you’re going. Then I’m going, too. I won’t have the Staff unguarded. Thildemar, you’re in charge here. If the High Bishop wakes up and can travel, meet us at the keep. Otherwise, wait for our return.”

  “Lord Gemine?” Drup stepped forward, his eyes resolute. “I would like to accompany you.”

  Dacius paused, searching the young elf’s face. “Permission granted. Anyone else?”

  Leth and Gerruth stayed silent. A different determination burned in their eyes—they would not fail the High Bishop again.

  “Sulmar and I will go,” Chentelle said.

  Dacius nodded, as he had expected as much, but A’stoc’s head snapped around in surprise.

  Chentelle smiled at him. “I still don’t know what my part in this quest is, but Infinitera is my world, too. If there’s any way to save her, I’ll do what I can. If there isn’t, I’ll still do what I can.”

  “Fine,” A’stoc said stiffly. “But you should stay in Skysoar. This mission is no part of the quest.”

  “No,” she said. “But you are. My first part in the quest was to ensure that you, the Staff, and Father Marcus were safely united. Perhaps I will get to play that role again.”

  “Hel’s bones, am I suddenly a child, unable to find his way home? Fine. We leave at dawn.” The wizard stomped out of the common room.

  Deneob’s first-light found them gathered at the foot of the tower. The dawn shattered against the adartak, filling the crystal with an inferno of warm red light.

  Chentelle shut her eyes, letting the heat wash over her. A slight tremor tickled the bottom of her feet. “They’re coming.”

  “Are you sure?” A’stoc shaded his eyes and squinted into the east. “About time. I told A’rullen dawn.”

  Chentelle smiled, remembering a time when he had been less anxious to get an early start. The vibrations grew stronger, and now she could hear the clatter of hooves falling on stone. They would soon be in sight.

  “There,” Drup said, pointing down the east road. Twin columns of riders approached, each a dozen horses long. Most of the horsemen were soldiers, a mixture of men and elves all wearing the black and tan of Tel Adartak’s Legion garrison. With them were two riders who wore the blue and gold robes of the council.