So much squandered potential
, he thought.
He came to a rusted iron gate hanging from one hinge. Aidan passed through it, leaving the bones of Sallner’s greatest city behind him. He followed a scarred street bordered by rubble that had once been walls, doors, rooftops. Homes. The grass had grown tall before the exile had ceased all growth; it scratched and scraped at Aidan’s trousers as he passed by.
After several hours—or perhaps longer; the light never seemed to change in Sallner—the sword spoke up.
—Do you see that shanty over to your left?
Aidan looked. Her term was generous: the shanty was more like a pile of wood and rubble hastily assembled into a square and wedged in between two equally shabby huts.
—We’ll be going in there.
Aidan veered off the road and went to the door. He reached for the knob hesitantly, certain the whole place would collapse on him if he so much as sneezed. It creaked open, and Aidan stared into the blackest blackness he had ever seen, like a pit that went to the deepest point of Crotaria.
What is this?
—That is the Duskwood,
Heritage said in its grandmotherly voice.
That is your destination.
How did it come to be here? How can it grow? And how have I not heard of it before?
—Enter.
A square of light appeared just inside the doorway. Hunched over to keep from hitting his head and inviting spiders to use his hair as a nest, Aidan stepped through and onto the luminescent square. It was narrow; he had to set his heels together to fit within it. Behind him, the door snapped shut, leaving him in still, silent dark. The light from the puddle at his feet did not illuminate his surroundings; it seemed to cower as if afraid or unable to reach beyond its borders. A second puddle of light faded in before him, then a third, all leading deeper into shadows.
—Step forward,
Heritage said.
Aidan hastily complied. Turning, he saw the patch where he had been standing fade away. The illuminated ground at his feet was all dirt, roots, and green grass. He continued forward, walking wherever the next spot of light formed. They did not always appear directly in front of him; some winked into existence on either side.
More than once he wondered if he was being led in a circle.
What would happen if I stepped off the path?
Heritage did not answer, but something else did. Feet scampered through vegetation. Some footfalls were light and fleeting; others pounded by, their passing sounding like trees being slowly pushed over and cracked beneath too-large feet. Purrs and growls echoed around him. He was reminded of the sounds of prowling nightlife he had heard during his camping trips with his grandfather. Only, Charles was not here to protect him. Aidan wished the lighted spots would appear faster.
What is this place? How can it be so big?
—You will find out soon.
Aidan rolled his eyes. He and Heritage disagreed on the definition of “soon.” He walked and walked until finally, no puddle of light materialized beyond the one where he stood. He was preparing to consult the sword when he heard a familiar creaking sound. The door had reappeared, hanging ajar. He stepped through and forgot all about the creatures stomping through the darkness behind him.
He was in a vale, one as vibrant and full of life as Leaston in the springtime. Grass swayed lazily in the light breeze. Wildflowers ran through the grass in strips, painting the ground in rainbowlike swathes of color. Birds chirped and flitted overhead, filling the sweet, earthy,
alive
air with their song. Trees enclosed the space.
Branches from one wove with limbs of another to form screens. Through the cracks, Aidan could see the darkness waiting beyond. In the center of the vale was a plain wooden cabin. Encircling the cabin was a narrow stream of water that bubbled over rocks and pebbles. A narrow wooden bridge led to a simple wooden door. He crossed the stream and knocked on the door without looking, his eyes drawn to the vale’s beauty.
—Enter,
Heritage said.
The walls were as plain inside as they were out. In the center of the tiny room was a table with two chairs. At the far end was a small stone fireplace. A single burning log emitted a comfortable wave of heat that filled the room. A rocking chair facing the fireplace swayed in a steady, creaky beat. The chair slowed, and the occupant stood and turned to face Aidan. It was an old woman; her skin stretched tight against her bones, and her emaciated form quivered with age as she faced him. Aidan found himself unable to tear his gaze from her eyes. They were brown, and youthful, the eyes of a young woman. When she spoke, it was in a steady tone that defied her ancient features. Aidan’s eyes widened as he recognized the voice. He had heard it numerous times before. “Welcome to the Duskwood Vale, Aidan Gairden.”
—I am the Prophet,
the sword continued.
“I am the Lady of Dawn,” they finished in unison, the sword clattering in its sheath.
The old woman folded her hands in front of her, waiting for something. Aidan pulled Heritage free, looked at it, to the old woman, back to the sword.
“You are the Lady of Dawn.”
Her laughter was like the jingle of a wind chime caressed by a breeze. “If I were, I wouldn’t appear before you bent like an old tree. No, I am called the Prophet, the foremost Disciple of Dawn, the Lady’s liaison to this world. Through me and others before me, the Lady is able to touch the world, and has been doing so for over eight hundred years.”
He smirked. “And you are... my sword?”
She laughed; the sound was like wind chimes singing in a breeze. “Don’t be silly, Aidan,” she said, as if what she had said a few moments ago was not silly enough. “I speak
through
the sword. It is the Lady’s creation. Through it, I can communicate with sword-bearers when necessary.”
Aidan’s smile widened, then dipped into a frown. In the history of Heritage and
Ordine
, an old crone had blessed Ambrose and Anastasia’s union. Surely she did not expect him to believe that this woman and the one from the story his mother had shared were one and the same!
“Goodness, Aidan, I am not
that
old.” She smiled and took a seat at the table, gesturing for him to join her.
Aidan started. Whoever she was, she had made a habit of reading his thoughts. “Could you explain, then?” he said, sitting across from her. He knew he sounded skeptical, but he couldn’t help it.
“It’s really quite simple. Disciples of Dawn serve the Lady, as you know—spreading her word, doing her work. That work consists of various tasks, some of which are more laborious than others. I am from a long line of Prophets, a select few plucked from uncountable many, charged with sitting right here, in this cabin.”
“Why?”
“We will get to that.”
Aidan kept his temper in check. He had not traveled all this way to have her dodge the rest of his questions, especially with more springing up like weeds in springtime.
“Have you spoken to any others of my line?”
“Four, including you.”
“Who?”
“You will find out soon enough.”
“Typical. Why me, then?”
“Because you’re very special. I’ve been waiting on you for a long time.”
“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Chuckling, she shook her head. “You’ve come all this way on my word alone. Surely you must believe some of what I’m saying?”
“I came here because I had nowhere else to go.”
Two cups of tea appeared out of the air and settled on the table. The old woman took one and sipped.
“Most humans do not believe what they cannot see or feel. The Lady respects that; she gives her light so that we might see.” She set her cup on the table and extended her hand toward him.
“Would you like to see her?”
“
See
the Lady? You can do that?”
She crooked her fingers at him, beckoning. Aidan hesitated for an instant before obeying. He felt... compelled, as though trusting her was something he wanted to do,
had
to do. She opened her eyes. He looked into them and gasped. They were ageless, eyes that had seen centuries go by as if they were mere seconds, and would see countless more pass just as quickly. They had seen happiness, tragedy, and sadness. Those eyes had seen everything. Triumph and defeat; sorrow and joy; pain and healing; anger and tranquility; madness and sanity; night and day.
Gently she released his hand and her eyes cleared. He withdrew his hand slowly as he sat back. “How...?”
“She sees through my eyes, and on occasion, allows others to see her through me.”
“That’s incredible,” he breathed.
She shrugged and took another sip of tea. “It is a gift, yes. It is also a burden.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe,” he continued, but stopped as she shushed him.
“Do not apologize, Aidan. Your recent eagerness to question makes my mistress proud, even if it works against us.”
“I still don’t understand,” he said. “Why have you been waiting for me?”
“Danger swiftly approaches, but you have been waiting for answers, so I will grant as many as I am able,” the Prophet said. “When I showed you my mistress, you saw all that she has seen— the good, the bad, the light and the dark. Everything in all of creation comes in pairs, and can be divided into two sides: peace, and destruction.”
Aidan swallowed. “You mean the Lady of Dawn and the Lord of Midnight?” The Prophet had not yet commented on his use of dark magic, but she had seen.
To his surprise, she shook her head. “Not exactly like that. Every emotion and state of being has an inverse, like good and evil. But what is not good is not necessarily evil. I know you used dark magic to ride the tunnels, Aidan. You did nothing wrong. You
walked in the shade
, as people say. How did you feel afterwards?”
He thought about the question. “I felt... fine, actually. A little tired...”
“And a tad cold, I’ll wager.” She continued when he nodded. “Dark magic is the inverse of light magic. Kindle too much light too quickly and you come down with the fever. Draw in too much dark magic, and you… what was the word you used for it?”
“Darken,” he said, a little embarrassed.
But the Prophet nodded as if he had given the correct answer to two plus two. “Darken. I like that. Darken beyond your means, or in your case, without giving your body time to fully recover, and you can come down with the sniffles. Or worse. Like kindling, your body needs time to recuperate.”
She examined him closely, then leaned back and smiled. “You look fine otherwise, though. No second head. No fangs. You
traveled
, Aidan. You used a tool to reach your destination faster. Others use dark magic to accomplish destructive ends, but the same rules apply to light magic. How did your friend Daniel put it? ‘A sword in the wrong hands can spill any man’s blood.’ The Lady’s light can be used to keep peace. It can also be used to destroy. Magic is magic, a sword is a sword. Both are tools. How you choose to use them is what matters.”
He looked away. “And what I did at Sharem?”
She patted his hand from across the small table. “What you did was destructive, but that does make you an agent
of
Destruction. We will talk more of that later. Right now you need to understand that peace and destruction are polar opposites. Events big and small continually flip existence from peace to destruction and back again, over and over like a spinning coin. Many battles have been waged between the two sides. Most are skirmishes, but some conflicts are of such magnitude that their outcome affects all living things. These wars are called Points of Fate. A new conflict looms, and you are at the center of it.”
Aidan’s throat went dry. “The war between Torel and Darinia.”
The Prophet nodded. “Both Peace and Destruction have claimed many victories in these struggles,” she continued. “The war Luria and Dimitri Thalamahn initiated eight hundred years ago was one such, one that ended in a great victory for peace. But there can be no final victory for either side. Good and evil will always exist. Their struggle is eternal.
“Now a new Champion of Destruction walks the earth, gathering the forces of evil behind him. Sixteen years ago, the forces of peace chose a new champion to lead her people against the coming darkness.
“Aidan Gairden, you are the Champion of Peace.”
Chapter 24
Terror and Shadow
T
YRNEN STOOD OUTSIDE THE
shanty Aidan had entered, mouth unhinged and eyes popping out of his head. He had never seen this hut before, nor had he known to look for it, though he had been looking for
something
over these hundreds of years. That something lay within. He knew it. He could feel it. His mistress could feel it, too. Her will crashed over him like storm waves pounding at a ship.
—My husband is within,
his mistress said, her words a caress that made him shiver.
Take me to him.
Thought formed sluggishly; he felt as if he were wandering through a thick fog.
The Lady of Dawn’s magic is too powerful, mistress. I cannot enter. I—
Her voice cut through him. Tyrnen fell to his knees, screaming and clutching his head.
Forgive me, mistress! I simply do not know the way!
His pain ebbed, then vanished. He climbed shakily to his feet.
—Follow the boy’s scent,
his mistress said.
I will protect you.
Tyrnen dipped a trembling hand into his robe and withdrew the golden scepter. Garrett Lorden appeared at his side and helped him to his feet. Tyrnen brushed him away. Garrett did not really want to help; he only wanted the mistress’s praise. Tyrnen thought briefly of killing the other man, but decided against it. His mistress would not be pleased with any more delays. He took a deep breath and raised the scepter high. Slowly, the door doubled over, like a man clutching at his belly. The wood splintered and groaned as it bowed inward. Tyrnen felt his lips curl upward. It was like the sound of bones snapping. Finally the door cracked in two and flew into the darkness within, as if torn free by an invisible hand.