chapter 28
The Silverwing carved through the waves. It was a squat and ungainly ship, wallowing in each trough and showing little of the grace its name implied as it carried its burden of refugees out into the Vellayen Sea. All the same, Borric decided as he stood on the aft deck and watched the docks of Keldrin’s Landing grow smaller in the distance, right at this moment the sturdy vessel was a thing of beauty to him.
The Silverwing was the last ship to slip away from the land, and thus it had an unobstructed view of the trap that had closed its jaws just behind them all.
In the half-light of the yielding night, the city teemed with motion. Dark, twisted shapes slithered through the streets and crawled over the buildings. Some moved together in seething masses, like great swarms of angry insects. Others, larger and heavier, stalked amid their smaller brethren, brushing them aside as they moved. Still others appeared as glimmers of cold light, wraiths that flickered here and there like whispered tales. The creatures tore at the structures and raised their voices in furious shrieks that carried across the water to those on the boat.
Borric watched, mesmerized. His broken arm hung in its sling, seeming to throb in time with the rolling motions of the ship, and he gave a shudder that owed nothing to the salty breeze. The escape had been a close thing indeed. It would be quite some time before he closed his eyes without seeing the burning hatred in their bestial stares or hearing the rasp of their talons on the docks as the sailors threw the last of the ropes that bound the ship to shore. He hoped that no one had been foolish enough to remain behind, hoping to weather the invasion. If so, there was nothing to be done for them now. He forced his mind to other matters.
What had happened to drive the magical creatures of the area, normally so reclusive, to such lengths of madness? It was a question that had been asked often over these many months since the troubles began, but he found himself no closer now to an answer.
The worst of it had always emanated from the east, somewhere in or beyond that vast, terrible forest. The ominous storm brewing over it was only the latest evil to gather there. Borric glanced in that direction, squinting into the distance, and blinked in surprise. The sullen, reddish glow on the horizon had diminished, and the black mantle across the sky had broken into fragments. Even as he watched, the storm clouds clotted together in lesser groups and continued their grudging dispersal.
The captain of the Silverwing stepped up beside Borric. The grizzled old sailor had a lean, pitted face that resembled a barnacle with a greying beard. One knobby hand extended to caress the ship’s rail in a familiar, unconscious gesture filled with pride. In all the chaos, Borric had not even caught the captain’s name, despite working shoulder to shoulder with the man for long, frantic minutes during their escape; somehow it seemed absurd to ask after it now.
“Did well for a one-armed man,” the captain said in a rasping tone. “Pulled your load. You’d make a fair sailor, if you’ve a mind for it.”
Borric chuckled. “Let us just say that I did not lack for motivation, especially there at the end.”
The captain gave a dry chuckle. He jerked his chin toward the retreating city. “They are calming, now.”
It was true. The frenzy of activity at the city was slowing. The creatures were no longer incensed and destructive, but rather were milling about. They appeared more restless and confused than angry.
“What do you make of it?” the captain asked.
Borric shrugged one shoulder and shook his head. “Perhaps they only wanted to see us gone,” he said. “Perhaps we were never meant to be there in the first place.”
The captain gave a noncommittal grunt. They watched for a time in companionable silence as each plunge and rise of the Silverwing carried them further and further away. The heavens brightened steadily with the coming dawn, and at last the creatures, no more than tiny motes in the distance by then, melted away into the ravaged structures of the city to take cover from the day.
“I am told that you are in command here,” the sea captain said. There was a question behind the words.
Borric, erstwhile captain of the city guard for Keldrin’s Landing, rumbled a laugh that began in his belly. “No sir,” he said with a broad grin. “As of this very moment, I am just another soldier seeking safe return to my family and my home, having been away from them much too long. I am at your service for the duration of the journey, Captain.”
The old sailor lifted his bearded chin in a nod, and ran another possessive stroke along the rail. Then he gave the weathered wood a pat and turned away, barking orders to his crew.
Borric remained on the aft deck for quite some time. He stood there, unmoving, until the city was no more than a hint of shadow against the sweeping majesty of the coastline. He stood there until the ghostly fingers of dawn spread across the sky, and the new day began at last in a crown of gold on the eastern horizon.
Only then did he turn away as well.
Bellimar sat cross-legged on the huge expanse of ornate rug in the great hall of Morland’s estate. To his left, a pool of crimson seeped into the lavish material, casting a spreading shadow across the rich colors of its pattern. He did not spare it a glance. That work was done, and nothing remained there to hold his interest. To his right, a long, golden sliver of light stretched across the rug where the morning sun knifed its way between the heavy drapes that otherwise masked the towering window. His eyes traveled along that fiery line to where it passed within a hand’s breadth of him. His skin tingled and crawled beneath his robes, as if his very flesh sought greater distance from the killing light.
It was strange to fear the sun’s light again. He recalled when, all those centuries ago, he had forsaken such mundane pleasures as admiring the splendor of a sunrise in favor of a darker path, the path to power. After the Adepts struck him down and twisted his nature with their magic, he had been able to bear its touch once more; there had been some pain, certainly, but no lasting damage. He had been far too consumed with regaining his power and solving the mystery of what they had done to him, however, to waste time on such trivial victories. He found it ironic that now, with the restraints imposed so long ago lifting at last and his power rapidly returning, he craved most what was forever lost to him.
His hunger surged within, perhaps in response to his yearnings, and it railed against his inaction. It spoke to him, not with words but with inviting sensations. It was low and fierce and insistent, calling for him to follow the deaths he had dealt tonight with thousands more, and then a thousand times more after that. He was ancient and powerful, and only the blood of the masses could slake a thirst as mighty as his. He was fearsome and indomitable, and he would grind the trembling thrones of the world once more beneath his dark, remorseless heel.
It stirred ecstasy and need within him, and he was swayed. It burned through him like liquid fire, fuel for his ascension, and he exulted in the rapture of it. He closed his eyes, nostrils flaring, a cruel smile twisting his handsome features.
But he did not move.
With a twinge of regret, he pushed it all away, pushed it to the back of his mind and locked it behind a barrier of iron will. His hunger shrieked and clawed and hissed in impotent fury. Why fight the inevitable? it demanded, and it was no small part of him that roused in response to the thought. The barrier cracked, but held.
Soon it would be over. No need to fight it much longer.
He summoned images to his mind’s eye. Amric, dauntless and driven, radiating a compassion and resolve that lent strength to those around him. Halthak, whose innocence and heart somehow withstood all manner of darkness around him. Syth, lost and mourning, drawing time and time again upon a well of courage and empathy he did his best to conceal. Thalya, as a wide-eyed child and later as the woman who was in some ways still a child, driving her conviction deep into him until it struck home and could not be dislodged. Her father, Drothis, a kind man driven out of fear and duty to actions that did not suit him. There had been others over his many lifetimes, but these were enough. They had changed him somehow, here at the last, and he built his fortitude upon his memories of them.
He would not become the monster that they feared, that he himself feared. He was strong enough to do what was required. All things must one day end to allow for new beginnings, he reminded himself. Sometimes it was necessary to have faith that a carefully planted seed would someday bear fruit.
Bellimar opened his eyes. He stretched his hands out before him, and there was only a faint tremble before they grew still. His hunger clamored at him, alarmed, but it was a distant, muted thing, of no particular import to him now. An abiding sense of serenity stole over him, and he smiled.
It was time to see the sunrise one last time.
He threw his arms wide in a sweeping gesture. Across the room, the heavy drapes flew open in response, flooding the great hall with the brilliance of the morn. Golden light washed over Bellimar where he sat, and he gazed in wonder upon the beauty that shone down upon him. The demonic part of him went berserk, howling in panic. Every instinct screamed for self-preservation, to writhe away from the killing light while there was still time. He convulsed in involuntary response to that most primal of directives, but he refused to succumb. He gritted his teeth and held himself rigid, motionless.
The light of the sun assailed him like a living thing, determined to seize him in its vicious grip and exact revenge for his centuries of defiance. It flayed at his flesh with relentless strokes. His pale skin cracked, blackened and burned, and still he did not avert his gaze. His shining black hair withered and fell from his head. Searing flame blossomed in his chest. His flesh began to fall away in flakes of black ash, and his robes sank inward as his tall form became wasted and skeletal.
There was less pain than he had expected, he noted with detached interest; a small mercy, that. Falling ash obscured his vision for a moment, and he waited patiently for it to clear. His sight continued to darken, however, and the golden light contracted as if the sun drew back from him. No matter.
Rest well, Thalya, thought Bellimar. Your mission is complete at last.
Then awareness faded, and the cavernous hall stood empty but for drifting black ash and the fading resonance of death.
Amric lay stretched out on the cool marble of the platform, gazing upward at the calming sky. He knew he had been dozing by the fitful, uneven leaps of the sun as it climbed to its mid-morning height.
The immense shadow of the Essence Gate fell across him. He did not glance at it. He did not need to. The Gate had not ceased its low murmurings to him since those first moments of contact, and he did not need to look upon it to sense its steady, quiescent thrumming. It was a marked transformation from the raging nexus of power it had been, but still it radiated deep, eternal patience that bespoke a readiness––an expectation––to awaken once more when called upon. Amric’s jaw clenched at the thought.
A less distinct change, but no less real, was evident all around the Gate. The storm had vanished; the clouds above continued to thin, and they had lost much of their sullen glower. The white mist, insolent in the face of the rising sun, still clung to the ruins of Queln below, but the eerie cries of its tortured inhabitants had subsided. An idle breeze wound its way through the forest that encircled the ruins, like a rustling sigh of relief.
It had been only a few short hours since the Essence Gate had been shut down, but the land was already breathing easier. Perhaps it marked the beginning of recovery. Even the pulsing rivers of energy far beneath him had begun to ebb somewhat. Several major ley lines converged here, and so Queln would always be a place of power, but it was no longer the crashing maelstrom of before.
Amric sighed. He was stalling.
He rolled to his feet and stood. The others were resting a short distance away on the platform, farther from the Gate. Valkarr and Sariel were on their feet an instant after him, their expressions expectant. Halthak lifted his head and blinked large, owlish eyes. Syth was sprawled out with his head on one folded arm, and his chest rose and fell to a light snoring sound. Amric smiled as he looked upon each of them, but he sobered as he met Valkarr’s gaze.
“We should have that conversation now, my friends,” Amric said.
Valkarr started on a good-natured retort. Then he paused, studying his friend’s expression, and merely nodded instead. Amric joined them, and they sat in a circle at the platform’s edge. The warrior considered his words for a long moment, and then began speaking in a soft tone.
“When Bellimar was… inside my head, he unearthed memories of mine, truths that I either never really knew, or somehow managed to bury and forget. My earliest memories, of where I came from and how I came to be among the Sil’ath.”
Amric took a breath, frowning. The others watched him, saying nothing.
“What Xenoth said was true,” he said. “I was not born on this world. I was left alone as an infant, presumably when my parents were slain as Xenoth claimed, and I would have died as well if my wilding magic had not acted of its own will to save me.” He held Valkarr’s gaze. “It saved me by reaching out and touching the minds of the Sil’ath hunters it found nearby.”
Valkarr’s brow ridge rose slightly, but otherwise he betrayed no emotion whatsoever.
Amric continued, “In particular, the magic concentrated its efforts on the leader of the hunting party. It soothed his distrust of other races, and it pulled at him to investigate the concealed dwelling that held me. Once it had persuaded the Sil’ath leader to take me from there, it buried itself so deeply within my mind that even I was unaware of its presence thereafter. I think it somehow sensed the dislike of magic felt by the Sil’ath as well as the danger of something else pursuing it and meaning us harm, so it hid from both. As you already know, Valkarr, that Sil’ath warrior was your father.”
He paused, waiting for a reaction. Valkarr regarded him steadily, without expression, and then asked, “And what have you concluded from these revealed truths?”
Amric swallowed and shook his head. “It was all based on a lie,” he whispered. “Your family took me in because my magic compelled them to do so. The Sil’ath abhor the use of magic, and I hid that very thing in your midst. I have magic––I am magic––and I understand now that I can no more separate that part of me than I can put aside my own mind.” Amric’s voice grew hard, bitter. “Would your father have saved the life of some human infant if he had known what he was bringing into the fold? Would you all have accepted me as one of your own, as a Sil’ath warrior? Would you have made me your warmaster, and followed me into battle?”
His wilding magic stirred within, uneasy in the face of his cold anger, but he ignored it.
“No,” Valkarr admitted. “None of these things would have come to pass, had your true nature been known then.”
“Exactly, and that is why––”
“And that is why I am glad we did not know,” Valkarr interrupted.
Amric’s words tumbled to a halt. “What?”
Valkarr grinned. “I agree with you that we would have made different choices, had we known. However, in this case, we are better for the choices we did make, not knowing.”
“You cannot mean that,” Amric protested. “Think about the evidence, looking back on it now. You had a human warmaster, and closer ties with the people of Lyden than any other Sil’ath tribe permitted with outside races. You know that caused the other tribes to question your father’s judgment on more than a few occasions.”
“Indeed it did,” Valkarr responded with a grave nod. “And yet we prospered when other tribes did not. We had the trust and aid of our human neighbors, enjoyed active trade between our peoples, and we stood together when the troubles began from the north. Moreover, our success in battle was unmatched, even among much larger tribes. I maintain that we are better for the strengths you forged among us, and I remain proud to have called you both warmaster and friend.”
Amric stared at him. “How can I claim credit for anything I achieved, when it may have simply been the result of my magic influencing others on my behalf?”
“You, who worked hardest among us?” Sariel interjected with a silvery laugh. “Besides, you said yourself that your magic was hidden away all these years. Do you think it could have acted without you sensing it? Think on the effect it has had upon you since we came to this region.”
“And if it did,” Valkarr put in quietly, “what of it? As you said, it is a part of you. If your magic had a subtle hand in things now and again, it is not so different from Prakseth making use of his own great strength, or Varek relying upon his keen eye as a marksman.”
They fell silent for a long moment at the mention of their fallen comrades.
“I appreciate your words, my friends,” Amric said at last. “You cannot know how much they lift my heart. But we all know things cannot be as they once were. I can no longer be warmaster for our people.”
“That is…” Valkarr began, hesitating and then lowering his gaze, “probably for the best.”
Amric leaned forward and spoke with quiet vehemence. “You must be warmaster, Valkarr.”
The other’s eyes snapped up to find his. “Me?”
“My friend, there is no one better suited for the role. No one better able to guide our people through whatever dark days may come before the threat of the Nar’ath on this world is ended. The Nar’ath forces will not grow so swiftly, I think, without the activity caused by the Gate to feed upon. You must warn the Sil’ath and spread word of this lurking menace to the other races as well, before the Nar’ath find another source of power and become too strong to face.”
Valkarr’s eyes narrowed. “And you? Where will you be?”
Amric took a deep breath. “I must travel through the portal, to the home of the Adepts, and put an end to the threat of the Essence Gates.”
A stunned silence greeted his statement.
Syth sat up, rubbing his eyes and squinting into the sunlight. “Are you mad?” he demanded.
“I managed to shut the Gate down, for now,” Amric said, “but I see no way to disable or destroy it from this side. We are at the mercy of the Adepts as long as those devices can be used to leech the life from worlds such as ours. The Adepts, the Gates, the Nar’ath, they all owe their origins to Aetheria in some way. Aetheria holds the key to our survival. It must be done, and there is no one else.”
“You will need swords you can trust to guard your back,” Valkarr insisted, folding his arms across his chest. At his side, Sariel gave a fierce nod of agreement.
“And no one could ask for better than the two of you,” Amric said with a sad smile. “But you are needed to lead our people, and a world steeped in magic is no place for Sil’ath warriors. You saw what just one Adept was able to do. I need to lose myself among them and seek out their secrets, not put them to the sword.”
Valkarr set his jaw and regarded Amric with a deepening scowl. Amric’s steel-grey eyes did not waver. There was both warmth and regret in his tone when he said, “If I must, I will make it my final command as your warmaster.”
“And as the new warmaster, I will promptly disregard the order,” Valkarr growled.
Amric shook his head. “Your head and your heart are giving you different advice, my friend. A leader must listen to both, and yet hold duty above all.”
They stared at each other, unmoving. A minute slid by, followed by another. At last, Valkarr blew out a long breath and said, “As you wish.” He jabbed a finger at his friend. “But this is not farewell, merely farewell for now.”
They stood and clasped forearms, and then Valkarr drew him into a very human embrace. Sariel did the same by turn, her dark eyes shining.
“There is one more thing I can do for you,” Amric said. “If you will permit it.”
He stepped back and faced away from them on the platform, focusing his will. It was more difficult than before; the borrowed knowledge was elusive for a moment, and he grasped at it like a fading memory. With a sharp gesture and a grunt of effort, he opened a Way in the air before him. An ache rose in his chest as he looked through the glowing aperture and beheld the sun-dappled woods of home. The plain, stalwart spires of Lyden were white in the distance, and the tall grass rippled in a breeze that carried familiar, comforting scents through the portal. His gaze lingered on the well-worn path that led, in no more than half a mile, to the simple dwellings of his Sil’ath tribe.
He wrenched his gaze away. The Sil’ath warriors were staring as well, transfixed.
“Unless, of course, you would rather trek through this forest and the wasteland beyond without supplies or mounts,” Amric said with the corner of his mouth quirking upward.
“I do not trust magic,” Valkarr said with a chuckle. “But I trust you. And I have had my fill of the creatures in this forest for a time.”
Sariel stepped through the Way, and Valkarr moved to follow. At the last moment, he hesitated and turned aside to Amric once more. “Return safely,” he said softly. “We will be waiting.”
“I will, if it be within my power,” Amric responded. “And perhaps I will have discovered something of myself, on the other side.”
Valkarr let out a roar of laughter. “I have known you all my life, my friend, my brother. Wherever you go, you bring change and draw others together. Your heart and your spirit, however, do not change. I think it is this Aetheria that will do the discovering.”
His friend clapped his shoulder and then passed through the opening. The Sil’ath warriors broke into a loping, mile-eating run on the path, never looking back, and were soon lost to sight. Amric closed the Way and stood in silence.
Halthak drew his attention with a gentle clearing of the throat. “He was right, you know.”
“How do you mean?” Amric asked with a slight frown.
“You brought us together,” the healer responded. “Each of us a half-breed in our own way, caught between worlds just as you are, at home in none. Some of us cannot hide our heritage, like me and Syth. Some carry deeper secrets, like Bellimar. Like you. And then there was Thalya, never truly allowed her own existence. You drew the best from each of us, gave us purpose.”
Amric laughed and shook his head. “You do me far too much credit, Halthak. You make it sound as if I had some grand plan all along, when you know I did not.”
Halthak rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “You drew together those you needed at the time you needed them most,” he said with a crooked smile. “Call it magic or fate, instinct or leadership, it was somehow enough.”
Amric shook his head, but did not pursue the matter further. “And what of you two?” he asked. “Where can I send you before I go?”
Syth leapt to his feet, anger twisting his features. “I wish to pay Morland a visit,” he snarled. “That putrid piece of filth will answer for what he has done, for what he did to my Thalya.”
“He already has,” Amric answered gently. “I read Bellimar’s intent, when he shared my mind. That was the reason for his haste in departing. It was the last task he had set for himself.”
Syth froze, searching Amric’s expression. His fury guttered and died as comprehension stole over his drawn features, and his eyes became once more windows onto his grief. “Oh,” he muttered, sagging back. “I see. I am going to miss that old man.”
“And I as well, Syth,” Amric replied in a voice that was almost a whisper. “I as well.”
Syth lifted his chin, some of the fire returning, and said, “Then I am going with you. There is nothing left for me here, and I would leave this world behind to tread upon another.”
Amric started to object, but Halthak cut in with soft, adamant words. “I am going with you as well.”
The warrior looked from one to the other. He knew he could bring them through the portal with him, if he chose. The Gate itself had been eager to share such secrets with him. He had no idea what to expect on the other side, however, except that it would be dangerous beyond measure. It was an unknown world of high magic, peopled by powerful, ruthless beings. Xenoth had made it clear that wildings were not suffered to live in Aetheria, and he did not yet know if he could conceal his nature there. Even if he could, someone had ordered his parents slain long ago, and him as well, in a standing order that had lasted to this day. There was no guarantee that he would be able to blend in, and even less assurance that these two could. They would all be intruders in a strange land.
Furthermore, if neither his wilding nature nor an old vendetta against his family was enough to get them all killed, there was the matter of their mission; they would be there with the express purpose of disabling the ancient artifacts upon which that world depended. Artifacts they would fight to preserve. Artifacts he had no idea how to destroy.
And, lest he forget, there would be the growing scourge of the Nar’ath there, planning the destruction of all.
As comforting as it would be to have friends on the other side, he might well be leading them directly into death’s gaping maw. The wry thought arose, unbidden: And how would that differ from everywhere else you have led them? Next time, however, would he be able to lead them back out again?
He sighed, closing his eyes. He kept coming back to Halthak’s words, just moments ago. Caught between worlds just as you are, at home in none.
He opened his eyes, and looked upon his companions again. They stared back with quiet resolve. He could see that they knew as well as he did what they all faced, and that they recognized the consequences failure would bring. They did not have a lifetime of battle experience or a newfound wild magic to rely upon, and still they were determined to accompany him.
Amric turned to face the Essence Gate. Syth and Halthak stepped up to either side of him. They gazed up at the solemn majesty of the ancient device, and its rhythmic pulsing seemed to quicken almost imperceptibly in anticipation. The wind whispered through the forest once more, though whether it spoke encouragement or warning, he could not say. Amric began walking toward the Gate, and the two men matched his pace. He gathered his will as he went, extending it to include the others. The portal shimmered and beckoned before them.
Endings and new beginnings, he thought to himself as they passed beneath the shadow of the great stone arch. Farewell, and hello again.
He strode forward and into its embrace.
THE END