In Sylvan Shadows Page 3

  “Then Cadderly will leave him a statement,” Elbereth replied. “Or the emissary will wait until Cadderly returns from Shilmista. I am concerned for the living, Dean Thobicus, not the dead.”

  To Cadderly’s amazement, Thobicus did not argue.

  They adjourned the meeting then, on Headmaster Avery’s suggestion, for there was an event scheduled in the Edificant Library that day that many wished to witness—and which Cadderly flatly refused to miss for any reason.

  “Come with us, Prince Elbereth,” the portly headmaster offered, moving by Cadderly’s side. Cadderly gave Avery a somewhat sour look, not so certain he wanted the haughty elf along. “One of the visiting priestesses, Danica Maupoissant, of Westgate, will perform a most unusual feat.”

  Elbereth gave a quick glance at Cadderly, smiled, and agreed. Cadderly knew, to his further dismay, that Elbereth honestly enjoyed the fact that accepting Avery’s invitation would bother the young scholar.

  They came into the great hall on the library’s first floor, a huge, ornately decorated, thick-pillared room lined by grand tapestries depicting the glories of Deneir and Oghma, deities of the building’s host religions. Most of the library’s priests, of both orders, had turned out. Nearly a hundred men and women gathered in a wide circle around a block of stone supported on cross-legged sawhorses.

  Danica kneeled on a mat a few feet from the stone, her almond eyes closed and her arms held out before her and crossed at the wrists. She was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, and seemed tinier still when kneeling before the formidable, solid block. Cadderly resisted the urge to go to her, realizing that she was deep in meditation.

  “Is that the priestess?” Elbereth asked, a tinge of excitement in his voice. Cadderly snapped his head around to regard the elf, noting the sparkle in Elbereth’s silvery eyes.

  “That is Danica,” Avery replied. “She is beautiful, is she not?” Indeed Danica was, with perfect, delicate features and a thick mop of strawberry blond hair dancing about her shoulders. “But do not allow that beauty to deceive you, Prince,” Avery went on proudly, as though Danica was his own child. “Danica is among the finest fighters I have ever seen. Deadly are her bare hands, and boundless is her discipline and dedication.”

  The sparkle in Elbereth’s admiring eyes did not diminish; those shining dots of light shot out like tiny spears at Cadderly’s heart.

  Preparation or no preparation, Cadderly figured it was time to go to Danica. He crossed through the onlookers’ circle and knelt before her, reaching out to lightly touch her long hair.

  She did not stir.

  “Danica,” Cadderly called softly, taking her deceptively soft hand in his own.

  Danica opened her eyes, those exotic brown orbs that sent shivers up Cadderly’s spine every time he gazed into them. Her wide smile told Cadderly that she was not angry about the interruption.

  “I feared that you would not be here,” she whispered.

  “A thousand ogres couldn’t have held me from this place,” he replied, “not today.” Cadderly glanced back over his shoulder at the stone block. It seemed so huge and so solid, and Danica so very delicate. “Are you certain?” he asked.

  “I’m ready,” Danica replied grimly. “Do you doubt me?”

  Cadderly thought back a few tendays, to the horrible day when he had entered Danica’s room and found her barely conscious on the floor, after having slammed her head repeatedly against a similar stone. Her wounds were long gone, healed by salves and the magic of the library’s mightiest clerics, but Cadderly would never forget how close Danica had come to death, nor would he forget his own terrible feeling of emptiness when he thought he might lose her.

  “I was under the curse’s influence then,” Danica explained, easily reading his concern. “The mist prevented me from attaining the proper concentration. I have studied Grandmaster Penpahg D’Ahn’s scrolls …”

  “I know,” Cadderly assured her, stroking her delicate hand. “And I know you’re ready. Forgive me my fears. It doesn’t mean I doubt you, or your dedication, or your wisdom.” His smile was sincere, if strained. He moved near, as if to kiss her, but backed away suddenly and glanced around.

  “I-I wouldn’t want to disturb your concentration,” he stammered.

  Danica knew better, knew that his embarrassment alone had pulled him away from her. She laughed aloud, charmed as always by his innocence.

  “Do you not find this alluring?” she asked with mock sarcasm to comfort the nervous young man.

  “Oh, yes,” the young scholar answered. “I have always wanted to be in love with one who could put her head through solid stone.”

  They shared a laugh then Danica noticed Elbereth and fell silent. The elf prince stared at her with his penetrating gaze, looked right through her, it seemed. She pulled her loose robes more tightly around her, feeling naked under that stare, but she didn’t look away.

  “That is Prince Elbereth?” she asked with what little breath she could find.

  Cadderly considered her for a long moment then turned to regard Elbereth. The gathering be damned, he thought, and he bent back in and kissed Danica hard, forcing her attention away from the elf.

  It was Danica, not Cadderly, who was flustered, and Cadderly couldn’t be certain if her embarrassment came from the kiss or from her own realization that she had been caught staring a bit too intently at the visiting elf.

  “Go back to your meditation,” Cadderly offered, afraid of what the growing number of distractions might do to Danica’s attempt. He felt childish indeed that he had let his own emotions take precedence at such an important moment. He kissed her again, a light peck on the cheek. “I know you will succeed,” he offered, and he took his leave.

  Danica took several deep breaths to steady herself and cleanse her mind. She looked to the stone first, the obstacle that stood in the way of her progress as one of the leading disciples of Penpahg D’Ahn. She grew angry at that stone, putting it in the light of an enemy. Then she left it with a final mental threat and turned her attention to the wide room around her, the distractions she had to be rid of.

  Danica focused on Elbereth first. She saw the elf prince, his strange eyes still staring her way, and he was gone, a black hole all there was to mark the spot where he’d stood. Avery went away next then those standing beside the portly headmaster. Danica’s gaze shifted and locked on one of the many huge archways supporting the great hall. It, too, disappeared into the darkness.

  “Phien denifi ca,” Danica whispered as another group of people disappeared. “They are only images.”

  All the room was fast replaced by blackness. Only the block remained, and Cadderly. Danica had saved Cadderly for last. He was her greatest supporter; he was as much her strength as her own inner discipline.

  But then he, too, was gone.

  Danica rose and slowly approached the stone.

  You cannot resist, her thoughts called out to the block. I am the stronger.

  Her arms waved slowly before her, weaving in an intricate dance, and she continued her mental assault on the stone, treating it as some sentient thing, assuring herself that she was convincing it that it could not win. It was the technique of Penpahg D’Ahn, and Penpahg D’Ahn had broken the stone.

  Danica looked beyond the block and imagined her head crashing through the stone and exiting the other side. She studied the depth of the block then mentally reduced it to a parchment’s width.

  You are parchment, and I am the stronger, she told the stone.

  It went on for many minutes, the arm dance, Danica’s feet shifting, always in perfect balance, and she softly chanted, seeking complete harmony of body and spirit.

  It came so suddenly that the crowd barely had time to gasp. Danica fell forward in two quick steps. Every muscle in her small, finely toned frame seemed to snap forward and down, driving her forehead into the stone.

  Danica heard nothing and saw nothing for a long moment. Then there was the blackness of the meditation-dispatched
room, gradually fading back into images that the young monk recognized. She looked around her, surprised to see the block lying on the floor in two nearly equal-sized pieces.

  An arm was around her, and she knew it was Cadderly’s.

  “You are now the highest ranking disciple of Grandmaster Penpahg D’Ahn!” Cadderly whispered into her ear, and she heard him clearly, though the gathering had erupted into a wild burst of cheering.

  Danica turned and hugged Cadderly close, but couldn’t help looking over his shoulder to regard Elbereth. The serious elf prince did not cheer, but stared at Danica with approval in his sparkling silver eyes.

  Headmistress Pertelope heard the cheering from her room above the great hall and knew that Danica had successfully broken the stone. Pertelope was not surprised; she had seen the event in a dream that she knew was prophetic. She was glad of Danica’s continuing success and growing power, and glad, too, that Danica would remain by Cadderly’s side in the coming days.

  Pertelope feared for the young scholar, for she alone among all the priests at the library understood the personal trials Cadderly would soon face.

  He was of the chosen, Pertelope knew.

  “Will it be enough?” the headmistress asked quietly, hugging The Tome of Universal Harmony, the most holy book of Deneir. “Will you survive, dear Cadderly, as I have survived, or will the callings of Deneir devour you and leave you an empty thing?”

  Almost to mock her own claims of survival, the headmistress noticed then that her sharp-edged skin had again sliced several lines in the long sleeve of her gown.

  Pertelope shook her head and hugged the book tightly to her fully covered body. The potential for insight and knowledge was virtually unlimited, but so, too, was the potential for disaster.

  THREE

  INTRIGUE

  The wizard Dorigen reached a tentative hand out for the door handle to the chamber of her leader, Aballister. Surprised by her own reluctance to open that door, though she considered the man her mentor, and even once her lover, Dorigen grabbed the handle and walked in.

  Aballister sat in his comfortable chair, gazing out a small window at the distant Shining Plains and at the new construction he had ordered begun at Castle Trinity. He seemed a wretched thing to Dorigen, not nearly the vital, powerful wizard who had once so captivated her. Aballister was still powerful, but his strength lay in his magic, not in his body. His black hair lay matted to his head and his eyes, dark before, seemed like empty holes, sunk deeply into his sharp-featured face. Dorigen wondered how she ever could have found him alluring, how she ever could have lain beside that loose-skinned bag of bones she saw before her.

  She shook those thoughts away and reminded herself that Aballister’s tutoring had brought her considerable power, and it had all been worth it.

  Aballister’s imp familiar, a bat-winged creature named Druzil, perched on the desk behind the wizard, posing as a gargoylelike statue. A nervous orc guard stood in front of the desk, unaware that the creature just a few inches away was actually alive.

  Dorigen hardly looked at the orc, focusing more on Druzil, a sneaky character Dorigen didn’t trust in the least. Druzil had been with Barjin when the priest was defeated at the Edificant Library, though no one in Castle Trinity complained about the imp’s apparent role in bringing Barjin down. Few other than Aballister, Dorigen, and the castle’s third wizard, Bogo Rath, even knew the imp existed. Aballister had planned to introduce Druzil to the castle’s garrison, but Dorigen had managed to change his mind—at least for the time being. Dorigen looked back at the wizard’s hollowed face and nearly sneered at the notion of his dangerous arrogance. Aballister had always carefully guarded Druzil, his secret weapon, so why would he suddenly want to give that secret up?

  Druzil managed to slip a sly wink at Dorigen without alerting the oblivious orc.

  Dorigen replied with a private scowl then turned to Aballister. “You requested my presence?” she asked, sharp and to the point.

  “I did,” the wizard answered, not bothering to look Dorigen’s way. “Aballister,” he mumbled to himself, then, “Bonaduce.” He considered each word for a moment, then turned to Dorigen, his smile wide. “Or Aballister Bonaduce, perhaps? Do you have a preference, or should I use both names when I claim dominion over the Southern Heartlands?”

  “That claim would be premature,” Dorigen reminded him. “Our only expedition so far has failed utterly.” She studied the orc soldier, no doubt one of Ragnor’s personal attendants, then turned to stare back at Aballister, amazed that the wizard would be so brash with his only surviving rival’s henchman standing beside him.

  “Patience,” Aballister said, waving his hand derisively. “Ragnor is on Shilmista’s border. When he chooses to march, the elves will be no more.”

  “The elves are but one our enemies,” said Dorigen, again looking toward the trembling orc.

  Aballister waited a few moments, seeming to enjoy Dorigen’s discomfort, then dismissed the wretched creature. “Get word back to Ragnor that he has our blessings and the blessings of Talona,” Aballister said. “And good fighting!”

  The orc spun and rushed from the room, slamming the door behind it. Aballister clapped his hands with glee.

  “Greetings, Mistress Magic,” Druzil slurred his customary title for the female wizard. He unwrapped his leathery wings and stretched since the orc was gone. “And how is your nose today?”

  Dorigen winced at the remark. She was a handsome woman—a bit too round for her own liking, perhaps—with fair, if a bit plain features and small but remarkably lustrous eyes the color of pure amber. Her nose was her one weak spot. In her earliest days practicing magic, Dorigen had executed a magically enhanced jump, high in the air. Her landing had been less than perfect, though, for she had overbalanced on her descent, slammed face first into the stone floor, and bent her nose halfway over her cheek. It had never been straight since.

  “Greetings to yourself, imp,” Dorigen replied. She moved to the desk and began drumming her hand atop it, prominently displaying an onyx ring. She knew that Druzil knew what that ring could do, and he retreated into his leathery wings as though he expected Dorigen to loose its fiery magic at him then and there.

  “I need no bickering between my allies,” Aballister said, seemingly amused by it all. “I have important decisions before me—such as what to call myself when I have claimed my title.”

  Dorigen did not appreciate Aballister’s overconfidence. “There remains Carradoon, and the Edificant Library,” she said. She thought she saw Aballister flinch at the library’s mention, but she couldn’t be sure. The wizard hid his emotions well in the hollowed features of his drained face.

  “The men of Carradoon will surrender without a fight,” Aballister replied. “They are fishermen and farmers, not warriors. We must begin our preparations for what is to come after the conquest. Riatavin is not so far away, nor Westgate. We must establish our appearance as orderly and lawful rulers if we are to be accepted by the neighboring realms.”

  “Aballister the Diplomat?” Dorigen asked. “Orderly and lawful? Talona will not be pleased.”

  “It was I who met the goddess’s avatar,” Aballister reminded her.

  Dorigen hardly needed the reminder. It was that very meeting that had so changed Aballister, had turned his simple ambitions to excel at his craft into something more dire, more consuming. It was no coincidence that Dorigen had broken off her relationship with Aballister not long after. Aballister had grown even more confident in the past few tendays. Barjin, as head of Castle Trinity’s clerical order, had been Aballister’s principal rival for control of the ruling triumvirate.

  “Barjin is dead, and our clerics are in disarray,” Aballister went on. “We cannot know how weakened Ragnor will be from his march through Shilmista. Would you have us begin a larger war so soon after the first conquest is complete?”

  “The first conquest has not yet begun,” Dorigen dared to say.

  Aballister seemed on t
he verge of an explosion, but he calmed quickly. “Of course,” he agreed, seeming in that instant more his old, patient self. “Ragnor is on the edge of Shilmista, though, even now making forays into the elven wood.”

  “Have you truly considered the implications of his march?” Dorigen asked.

  Still sitting on the desk, Druzil sighed and nodded in agreement, as if the imp had been hoping someone would point out the potential problems to the increasingly arrogant wizard.

  “Ragnor is powerful,” Dorigen began, “and the ogrillon holds little respect for magic-users.”

  “We could defeat him,” Aballister offered.

  Dorigen nodded her agreement. “Perhaps,” she said, “but what would such a conflict cost Castle Trinity? I know you have shed no tears for Barjin—and rightly so,” she added, seeing Aballister’s scowl. “But the priest’s defeat has cost us dearly. If he and the chaos curse had taken down the Edificant Library, we could march on Carradoon even as Ragnor begins his assault on Shilmista. We cannot, though, not with the library’s priests looking over the town. If Ragnor wins in the elven wood without incurring heavy losses, he will gain in prestige among the rabble. He might now be wondering how the neighboring kingdoms might deal with an ogrillon king.”

  Her blunt words seemed to hit Aballister as if Dorigen had struck him with a mace. He sat very still in his chair, staring straight ahead for some time.

  He has known of this threat all along, came an unexpected message to Dorigen’s mind. The woman glanced over at Druzil, who peeked at her over his wings.

  He has refused to accept it, the imp added, for he is too immersed in his debate over whether to call himself “Aballister the Beneficent” or “Bonaduce the Conqueror.”

  Dorigen could hardly believe that the familiar could be so bold with his master sitting right before him. Though she agreed with the imp, Dorigen was smart enough not to reply. She looked away from the imp and back at the wizard.