Wrath of a Mad God (19 page)

The men stood up with amazed expressions and one by one walked out from their place of concealment. Jim saw Kaspar pushing forward from a position on the far side of the clearing and heard him shout, “Jim Dasher?”

Jim looked around and saw that elves were walking into the clearing from the other side, their weapons shouldered. They looked entirely at ease. They did not look at all like guards seeking escaped prisoners.

“Don’t fight!” Jim shouted. “Lord Tomas will sort this all out!”

Kaspar came right up to Jim. “Fight?” With a barking laugh, he said, “What fight? You and your friend just ruined a perfectly good hunt.”

“Hunt?”

“The elves were beating the brush and driving a nice little herd of elk toward us.” Kaspar put his bow over his shoulder.

“The elk bolted when they caught sight of that dragon coming down out of the sky. They’re probably halfway to the City of Kesh by now.” He put his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Good to see you got away, and lived, and even better that you’ve fetched help.”

He regarded the dragon who now sat in repose on the tall grass. “And I must say your arrival was like nothing I’ve ever witnessed before.”

“You should try riding one,” said Jim. “What happened?”

“Come along,” said Kaspar, and he motioned to his men.

“Start back to the enclave and we’ll organize another hunt later. This one is over!” he shouted.

The men acknowledged his order and Kaspar turned back to Jim Dasher. “Since you left, I’ve had a good chance to speak at length with Castdanur. He’s not a bad sort once you get used to his elvish ways.” As they reached the spot where Tomas stood speaking to the elves, Kaspar said, “Let’s say we’ve reached an accommodation.”

“Accommodation?”

“Yes,” said Kaspar. “We’re going to help these elves survive, and they’re going to help us save Midkemia.”

Jim couldn’t believe that a tiny band of ragged elves could render much help to those forces already poised to defend this world, but after what he had seen in the last three days, he decided that rash judgment was a poor choice. Suddenly feel
ing exhausted again, he said, “You’ll have to explain it to me, Kaspar.”

Kaspar laughed. “Willingly, but first let me meet your companion. I know him only by reputation.”

Jim grinned, then shook his head in disbelief. The last thing he had expected up to moments ago was to be standing here making social introductions.

The elves revealed more emotion when confronted with Tomas than they had shown the entire time Kaspar and the others had been confined. Castdanur and the other older elves were visibly moved by the sight of the man in the white and gold armor.

“Valheru,” said the old elf as Tomas walked into the central compound.

“No,” said Tomas, “though I have his memories. I am as mortal as you, leader of the anoredhel.”

“But the old magic lives in you,” said Castdanur.

Tomas merely inclined his head, acknowledging it was so.

“Does the old knowledge also reside with you?”

Tomas said, “Some, but there are…memories that are missing. Yet, I know of you and your brethren. In our complacency we assumed that hearing nothing meant you were well.” He looked around and said, “It appears otherwise.”

“Let us take counsel,” said Castdanur. He motioned for Tomas to precede him into the central hall, then said to Kaspar and Jim, “You should attend.”

The two men exchanged glances, and Jim whispered, “What happened here?”

Kaspar said, “I’ll give you the details later, but the heart of the matter is you did well in not killing Sinda and his friend. Had you killed those two, we would all most likely be dead by now. Sparing him and giving him that trinket convinced Castdanur that I spoke the truth about…certain things. I’ll tell you more later.”

They entered the hall and sat in a circle, with Tomas opposite the old elven leader. Two other ancient elves sat on either
side of him and Kaspar and Jim took up positions on either side of Tomas.

“Know, Dragon Rider, that we are a free people, according to your own words.”

Tomas remembered the last flight of Ashen-Shugar, when the Valheru whose armor he wore had flown around the world freeing every servant of the Dragon Host, letting all know they were a free people. “I remember,” he said, not wishing to debate the nuances at this moment.

“You know the mandate,” said Castdanur, and suddenly Tomas did remember. As in times before, memories came unbidden.

All elvenkind had been slaves of the Valheru, and while the Dragon Host rose to challenge the gods, Ashen-Shugar, the last of the living Dragon Lords, flew the skies of Midkemia, freeing all the peoples once in thrall to his brethren. But the anoredhel were unique, elves given a special duty. “You are the protectors of the Quor.”

“A task set to us in the times of our ancestors, and one we have discharged to this day. But our number has diminished and we stand at peril, and so do the Quor.”

Jim and Kaspar exchanged glances. Both had the same question: who or what are the Quor?

“How fare those gentle beings?” asked Tomas.

“They struggle,” said the old man. “The creatures from beyond plague us, but they are far more intent on destroying the Quor and we can only do so much. We have failed our charge.”

“No,” said Tomas with a surprisingly gentle tone of voice.

“We are here, and we shall help, and the Quor endure, imperiled though they be.”

“We are a free people,” repeated the old man. “But we need aid.”

“Aid you shall have,” said Tomas. “I shall ask my wife the Queen of Elvandar to send those willing to serve with you—hunters, weavers, artisans, and more: spellweavers and warriors—so that we may once again see the Quor safely in their homes above us.”

“We thank you,” said the old man, the relief so visible on his face that he looked to be on the verge of weeping.

“It is we who thank you,” said Tomas, standing and bowing his head in respect to the three old men who sat across from him.

“I must return to Elvandar, and I will return as swiftly as I may with a few who will lend help at once. Others will come later, and we shall see Baranor reborn.”

“Children?” asked Castdanur.

Tomas smiled. “Some will bring children, so that your young will have others to play with, and I know some of those who come will remain with you. Many of those who lived in the Northlands, who have since come to abide with us in Elvandar, will welcome coming here, for they are more like you in their ways than they are like us.” Tomas spoke of the glamredhel, the “mad elves” who had struggled against the Brotherhood of the Dark Path for generations before coming south to Elvandar a hundred years before.

“Then I will recant our defiance, and we will swear fealty to your queen.”

Suddenly Jim realized that there must have been an ancient schism here and that Castdanur was making an enormous concession of some sort.

Tomas said, “Only if you wish. We shall offer aid because you are blood kin and because you bear a grave charge. We offer our help without condition and you remain as you have always been, a free people.”

Now the old man did, indeed, weep, and Tomas said, “Soon, all will be made right.” He motioned for Kaspar and Jim to accompany him, and once they were outside he said, “There is more to explain here than time permits. Stay with these folk and help them gather food. They are at peril and the risks are far greater than anything you can imagine.” He glanced back to the entrance to the main hall and added, “What plagues these people may be part of the other risks we face. The creatures they speak of are…children of the Void, creatures that should for no reason be in this world.” He smiled ruefully. “It was one such, a minor wraith, who was responsible for me being as you see me today.
I shall tell you that story sometime, but for now, just know that we must ensure that these people survive. I will be back with as many warriors as Ryath can bear, and others will soon follow.”

“One thing,” said Jim.

“What?”

“What or who are the Quor?”

Kaspar said, “I always thought it a place, a name on the map.”

Tomas inclined his head. “They are the most ancient race of this world, and they are the heart of this world. If the creatures of the Void destroy them, then nothing can stop the Dasati. These elves, the Children of the Sun as they call themselves, have always served as the guardians of the Quor.”

“Where are they?” asked Jim.

“High above us,” answered Tomas. “In the Peaks of—”

“The Quor,” said Kaspar and Jim together.

Tomas turned without further comment and strode out of the gates of the enclave. He moved quickly down to the meadow where the giant red dragon patiently waited to carry him home.

Jim turned to Kaspar. “Now what?”

Kaspar said, “We go hunting, unless you’re keen to eat nuts and dried fruit for the next few days.”

Jim sighed. “If I must. That’s one thing I was never very good at.”

“You’ll learn,” said Kaspar, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Come, let’s go talk to our new friends about organizing another hunt, and let’s pray we get some game worth cooking before Tomas returns to chase them away. There was a twelve-point stag in that group and I had my heart set on venison tonight.”

“Sorry,” said Jim, wishing with all his might that he could have convinced Tomas to drop him off along the way in Krondor. Now that would have been a sight, a giant red dragon settling in the Prince’s marshaling yard. How
that
would have impressed Lady Michele de Frachette and her father, the Earl of Montagren! He sighed, wondering if he would ever see Michele again, and then he wondered if she missed him. Pushing aside that concern, he followed Kaspar back into the main hall of Baranor.

M
iranda paced.

Alenca and the other Great Ones had gathered in an informal council. They sat patiently around a large garden in the City of Magicians, home of the Assembly. The oldest magician in the meeting, except for Miranda, Alenca watched with some amusement as she paced around, unable to remain still during the discussion. “You should try to sit and relax,” he counseled her. “It helps me to think clearly.”

She shook her head and kept walking. “There’s nothing wrong with the clarity of my thought. What’s wrong is that we haven’t yet found Leso Varen.”

Matikal, a burly magician of middle years who shaved his head, making him look more like a bruiser at
an alehouse than a master of scrying magic, said, “Every member of this Assembly, and every priest of every order, and every magician of the Lesser Path we can reach knows what to look for. Every master of detection and scrying has used every art we possess to look for any signs of necromancy. The moment we find a hint of his death magic, we shall swarm him and destroy him, no matter what the cost.”

Miranda stopped her pacing. She realized that this man was pledging his life to destroy Varen, and understood that every other member of this Assembly was also committed to dying if it meant removing the threat of the Midkemian death-magician. Miranda’s position within the Assembly had always been a difficult one. Until her husband’s intervention and the rise of the Mistress of the Empire, any female with the potential for magic was put to death. It was only in the last century that women who practiced magic were allowed to use their talents openly, and many of the traditionalists still had difficulty accepting female Black Robes as “sisters,” let alone this ill-mannered wild woman from another world. It was only her marriage to Milamber, greatest of the Great Ones, that earned her their grudging regard.

The attack on the Emperor had changed all that. Now, her words were carefully listened to and every suggestion weighed thoughtfully. The single most horrendous act imaginable to a Great One had been attempted, the destruction of the Light of Heaven, and all lesser concerns were set aside in the face of that.

Alenca said, “Perhaps he had fled back to your world.”

Miranda shook her head emphatically. “No. My husband is unsurpassed in the knowledge of rifts. He set safeguards before he departed on his journey. Had any rift into Midkemia been opened, it would have been detected.”

“Then he has gone to ground,” said Matikal.

Miranda said, “Forgive my impatience. I hate being in the position of having to wait for our enemy to reveal himself.” She pointed to the north, as if she could see the distant peaks through the walls of the building. “He’s hiding somewhere, up in a mountain cave.” She pointed to the south. “Or in some tiny hut in a secluded corner of a miserable swamp—he’s endured worse over
his life from what I’ve heard. But he’ll wait as long as he must, and then he’ll act, and we can only hope that when he does it’s nothing worse than his last attack.”

“What,” asked Alenca, “could be worse than an attack on the Emperor?”

Humorlessly, Miranda said, “A successful attack on the Emperor.”

The room fell quiet. After a moment, Miranda said, “I can do nothing more here. We have a situation on Midkemia which may be another aspect of the monstrous danger we all face here. You know how to reach me should you have need.”

Without further word she willed herself to the rift chamber, entered the rift, and was back on Midkemia. A black-robed student looked up with a mildly interested expression at her sudden arrival. By agreement, the rift to the Assembly was still with the Academy on Stardock Island, not on Sorcerer’s Isle. Politics aside, it was a better situation for protecting the privacy of those in the Conclave. Still, some accommodation with the Academy had to be reached. It galled Miranda that this vast university of magic that her husband had founded and built was now in others’ hands, and that those others did not always agree with Pug in his judgments. Not that she always did, either, but she was his wife and she valued his thoughts even when she decided he was wrong.

She put aside her chronic annoyance at how her husband had been treated by those he raised and made a halfhearted greeting to the young student, then vanished from view. In one area of magic, Miranda was supreme: in her ability to will herself to almost anywhere she had ever visited. Almost every other magician on both Midkemia and Kelewan needed a device that had been calibrated to take them to a specific location, and the Tsurani artificers were the very best at building such devices. Others, like Pug, could will themselves to patterns, to complex geometric shapes set in tile on the floor of a certain place, a widespread practice on Kelewan, and in limited use on Midkemia—the religious orders had been quick to adapt the magic for use as a means of getting their clerics from one temple to another, but it
did no good to outsiders unless you offered a hefty “votive offering” or, as Miranda preferred to think of it, a bribe, to utilize their patterns.

But Miranda could just see a place and go there. She didn’t truly understand how she did it, which is why she had such great difficulty teaching others the knack. Magnus was her best student and Miranda thought in time he would be as adept, perhaps even more so, as she at willing himself to a place previously visited. Still, Pug had been making progress. Nakor claimed he couldn’t do it, but she was certain he lied. She found him as amusing as her husband did, but she never had and never would trust him the way Pug did. There was something about that little man, something hidden deeply within, that was just not right. Still, her husband had put his life in Nakor’s hands many times and never had the little gambler failed to rise to the need of the moment, but even so she feared that someday she would lose Pug because of someone like Nakor, someone with a secret agenda of his own.

Miranda appeared in her study and found Caleb asleep behind the desk. She felt a warm maternal twinge seeing her youngest child in slumber and remembered for a brief moment when he was a baby, in her arms. She took a breath and pushed the emotion aside. “Caleb, go to bed!”

He almost jumped out of the seat. “Huh?”

“Go to your suite. I’m sure Marie would like to see her husband from time to time. I have work to do.”

“What time is it?”

“I have no idea,” she said, glancing out the window. “It’s night. It was midday when I left the Assembly about five minutes ago, so I’m not sleeping any time soon. While your father and everyone else is out saving the world, there are mundane matters to be addressed.”

“I know,” said Caleb, then he yawned. “I’ve been tallying the revenues from Father’s estates and holdings and reviewing some of the projects that have been waiting for weeks. And we’ve got to start deciding when we’re taking new students again, and…just so many things.” He pointed to a large stack of papers and
parchments, and said, “But at least all that business is done.” He picked up a sheaf of documents and said, “And these can wait.” Pointing to the pile he had rested his head on when he was asleep, he said, “But these last few items need to be seen to at once.”

“Good. I’ll finish and you can get back to being a hunter or whatever you want tomorrow morning. Now go.”

Caleb kissed his mother’s cheek and left the room. Miranda sat in her husband’s chair, still warm from her son occupying it, and wished as much as she ever had that Pug was back. She hid it deeply, but she was frightened, and what frightened her the most was the thought she’d never see her husband again.

Pug sat quietly, letting the drama before him unfold. He recognized that something momentous was taking place and was intent on understanding what he was seeing. Magnus stood behind his father, equally focused on the discussion. The three older Bloodwitches who had come to greet them were arrayed in a semicircle of chairs. They all wore identical robes of black with orange shawl collars and broad orange belts, while the younger members of their order wore robes of white and orange.

Macros sat in a similar chair distant from them. He looked fatigued to the point of exhaustion and leaned on his staff for additional support. The centermost Bloodwitch said, “I am Audarun, the most senior sister of our order. To my left is Sabilla, and to my right Maurin, and we three form the Triarch, who ultimately rule the Sisterhood. We are also the keepers of knowledge and defenders of life.” She looked at Macros and said, “How did you come to be the Gardener?”

Macros was silent. He looked from face to face and then finally said, “I don’t know. One day I was walking home from my place of business and I had a…seizure of some sort. I got dizzy and fell down behind a wall so as to not reveal weakness to anyone. Then I had memories of my last life and…I knew I was…” His voice faltered. “I went home and felt…ill. I had dreams. I had a family. They were frightened. When I awoke my mate begged me to be strong, not to be taken and killed, but to
return to work and keep them safe.” He lowered his head. “I left that home and have never seen them again.”

“Go on,” said Audarun. “Where did you go?”

“I walked a very long way. I don’t remember very much, save that I hid sometimes, and other times I merely walked down very busy streets as if I were on an errand. I stole food when no one was looking, and…” He closed his eyes, as if it would help him remember. “I came to a place.”

“What place?”

“I don’t remember.” Macros opened his eyes. “It was like the Grove at Delmat-Ama, but it wasn’t there. It was another place.”

“What happened?” asked Audarun, in a gently reassuring tone.

“I met someone.”

“Who?”

“He said his name was…” Again Macros closed his eyes.

“He said his name was Dathamay.”

The three women exchanged glances.

“You know that name.”

“Yes,” said Audarun. “It is a false name, from a very old fable. What did he say to you?”

Macros kept his eyes closed. “He said he had expected me…no, he said I was expected. Then he…” He opened his eyes. “He put his hands on my head, almost like a benediction, and…my pain was gone, my memory…clear. I remembered much of my previous life and my current life, in proper order.”

“As I thought,” said Audarun. “What sort of man was this? A Lesser? A Deathpriest?”

“I can’t remember…” said Macros. He slumped down in his chair.

The attending Bloodwitches looked disturbed, but rather than the sort of conflicted self-control Pug had witnessed by members of the White when evidence of weakness was apparent, this was a genuine concern.

“What is the matter with him?” asked Audarun, rising from her chair.

Pug stood as well. “He told me he is gravely ill, dying.”

She looked puzzled. “I should have heard of this.” She went to Macros’s side and knelt down. She examined him and then gave instructions to one of the younger Bloodwitches. The woman left the room to retrieve the items requested. “Bring him with us,” she said to Pug and Magnus.

They picked Macros up between them and carried him out of the room, down a series of halls, and into a sleeping room, barely more than a cell. Pug had seen many such in temples throughout Midkemia and Kelewan. A pallet, a small table, and a chair were the only furniture. A simple burning wick in a bowl of oil on the table was the sole source of light.

They put Macros on the pallet and Audarun continued to examine him. The young Bloodwitch arrived with a large basket with vials, jars, and waxed-paper packages and a second young woman followed bearing a steaming pot of water. Audarun quickly prepared a strongly scented drink and, when it was ready, motioned for Pug and Magnus to prop up Macros and put the draught to his lips.

Macros revived enough to sip the drink and after a few minutes he regained a semblance of alertness. “Did I faint?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Audarun. “Or, rather, you lost the ability to remain conscious.”

“I’m dying,” said Macros.

“Who told you this?” asked Audarun. She pulled the small chair next to the pallet and sat down.

“An Attender. A healer…” He looked confused. “I don’t remember where. My memories are fading. I have more difficulty with every passing day recalling things that I knew without pause just weeks ago.” He glanced at Pug. “I knew much of what I remembered from my human life was lost, but now I’m losing my memories of this life as well.” He looked at her. “I fear I have little time left.”

She stared down at him. “You have no time left, whoever you were. For you are not dying, my friend; you are already dead.”

Pug and Magnus stood motionless and stunned. Finally, Macros softly said, “Yes, that would make perfect sense.”

Pug said, “It makes no sense to me.”

Audarun looked at Pug. “For you to be here, in that guise, so perfectly achieved and maintained, I can only assume you to be a magician or priest of most puissant ability. Illusion is not something we do well, we Dasati. There is no need. We are a people who prize strength and force above all else.

“But while the Deathpriests may understand necromancy in all its subtle and dark aspects, we of the Bloodwitch Sisterhood understand life in all its subtle and bright aspects.” She paused, then said, “This vessel does not contain true life.” Looking Macros in the eyes, she said, “You are a simulacrum, false life resembling the living.”

She looked over her shoulder at the young attendant and asked for a few more items, and the young woman left. Returning her gaze to Pug, Magnus, then Macros again, she said, “The magic used to create you is vast, alien to me, and of a design I can barely begin to understand. No mortal being could fashion such as you, and that leaves only one alternative.”

“A god,” said Pug.

“Of your world,” she added quickly. “Some agency in your universe judged it vital to pierce the barrier between our realms, in anticipation of some act by the Dark One, in order to aid the White. I am no theologian, but the Sisterhood has more untainted lore than anywhere else in this realm; for the Dark One’s Hierophants have destroyed everything except approved doctrine everywhere else. I shall see if I can find any reference to such an act before, but this much I know: rules have been violated, rules as binding upon the higher power as the need for air and water are upon us mortals. Whoever did this thing, whoever sent this…creature here, did so knowing that the consequences of such an act could be as disastrous as that which he was trying to prevent.”