Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (59 page)

Ellowyn forced back her tears and drew a
ragged breath. “Long ago,” she said, “in a time so distant its
measure has no meaning, he was the greatest and mightiest of the
twelve archangels. He commanded the first legion, and by his might
and glory they were the greatest of the twelve legions of angels.
All of us looked to him for wisdom and guidance, and we honored
him, and the
gods
favored him by making him lord and
commander of us all, and we followed him gladly, joyfully. He was
so proud, and grand, and his glory inspired us all.

“But he wanted more. He wanted power, the
power of the
gods
, and to gain it he allowed himself to be
seduced by the Lord of the Seven Sins. He betrayed us to the nether
god
, and we were devastated by his armies. The first legion,
his legion, was massacred, and fell even to the last angel—it is
their blood that forever drips from his sword. And now the eleven
legions that remain are but remnants of what they once were.”

“And yet you still love him,” Morgin
said.

“No,” she said sharply. “I hate him.”

Morgin nodded. “That too. But it was not too
long ago that you wondered how I could hate someone I so dearly
love. Well, my Ellowyn, now you know.”

She began to weep again. “I am an angel,”
she said. “I am not meant for such mortal emotions. It’s not right
that I should know hate.”

Morgin felt suddenly very wise, and also
very sad. “But if you would know love, Ellowyn, then you must know
hate. For one without the other is meaningless.”

The sound of the pipes suddenly ceased. It
had been hardly noticeable, but was now conspicuous by its absence,
and in the silence that followed Morgin heard cries far off in the
distance. He listened carefully, recognized JohnEngine’s voice
calling his name.

“They’re looking for me,” Morgin said. “We’d
better go and help them find me.”

They stood, he and Ellowyn, and walked
together out of the clearing, Ellowyn leading, Morgin following. At
its edge, on impulse, he looked back, and was not surprised to find
only uninterrupted forest. The small clearing had vanished, leaving
no mark upon the land, and no trace of its passing. And, of course,
when he turned back to continue up the trail, Ellowyn too had
vanished.

It was a simple spell that DaNoel cast, the
kind of spell a child could master, and of course the kind of spell
the whoreson always found so difficult. It was not a spell meant to
twist the forces of nature, nor to manipulate great powers, but
only to make one simple-minded clansman of a guard drowse at his
post. It had to be a simple spell, for if it weren’t, and Olivia
ever examined the guard carefully, she would know that he had been
tampered with, and eventually she would trace that tampering to
DaNoel.

Olivia had fortified the guard’s own magic
against Decouix tampering to protect him from Valso. It had never
occurred to her to fortify him against Elhiyne tampering, so
DaNoel’s spell worked well. The guard’s eyes drifted slowly shut,
and eventually, in an effort to get comfortable, the man wedged
himself awkwardly between his lance and the stone wall of the
castle corridor. If he were discovered that way he would be in some
trouble, but it would not be the first time a guard had been caught
sleeping at his post, so the trouble would be no more than one of
Olivia’s tongue-lashings.

DaNoel tiptoed carefully past the guard,
then through the lone door at the end of the corridor. Beyond the
door he encountered a circular stone stairway, but he paused before
climbing it. Now he had to be exceedingly careful, for this spell
would be neither simple nor easy.

He closed his eyes, expanding his sense of
magic slowly lest it collide with Olivia’s veil of containment and
alert her immediately. He sensed the veil in its netherlife as a
shimmering curtain of power on the stairway before him, of such
intensity that not even Valso dare touch it. But DaNoel knew he
could pass, for he was of Olivia’s blood.

To avoid the need for extensive preparations
on the spot, he had prepared his spell well in advance. But it
could easily fail if he were to move incautiously, so he took a
deep breath, then touched his spell to the veil in the most
delicate way.

For an instant he feared he had failed, or
worse, that he had been indelicate and Olivia would know of his
tampering and come storming up the stairway to demand an
explanation. But then he saw a wrinkle form in the veil, and as he
looked on his spell took hold and the wrinkle grew into a
well-defined and distinct flaw. A little more power and the flaw
opened quickly into a rift large enough for a man to pass. He
stepped through the flaw without hesitating, then released his
power and quenched the spell mercilessly, for once begun such
spells had a tendency to run away from their makers. As the veil
closed behind him he began to breathe easier.

He climbed slowly to the open door at the
top of the stairs, but hesitated before stepping into the room
beyond.

“Come in, Elhiyne,” Valso called out
casually. “Don’t hide in the shadows like your infamous
brother.”

DaNoel stepped angrily into the room, found
Valso seated casually by a warm fire. “The whoreson is not my
brother.”

Valso shrugged. “I meant no insult, Elhiyne.
To me he is the whoreson, nothing more, and in deference to you I
will not again call him your brother.” Valso shivered, rubbed his
hands together and moved closer to the fire. “Ahhh! Your Elhiyne
nights are cold even in summer.”

“Fall is almost upon us,” DaNoel said. “It
will get colder yet.”

Valso shivered again. “I’ll be glad to get
back to Durin.”

“And what makes you think you’ll ever see
Durin again? My bro—the whoreson returns tomorrow. He’ll probably
kill you.”

Valso shook his head confidently. “No. Your
grandmother won’t let that happen. I and my father are far too
valuable to her alive.”

DaNoel shook his head. “My grandmother has
always had difficulty controlling the whoreson.”

“But she will control him in this, Elhiyne.
Believe me. She will.”

“You’re awfully confident for one who might
die tomorrow.”

Valso shook his head patiently. “No one will
kill me tomorrow, least of all the whoreson.”

“You’ll at least be horribly
humiliated.”

Valso smiled. “Humiliated? Here? With only
Elhiynes looking on. No. There is no humiliation in that.”

“But grandmother intends to have the
whoreson take you back to Durin where you’ll be drug through the
streets and ransomed publicly to your family.”

Valso nodded. “Aye. That will be
humiliating. And of course the whoreson will gain even more stature
among the clans.”

DaNoel burst into a sudden rage. “Damn him!
ShadowLord bah! He has everyone but me fooled. I know him well.
He’s a guttersnipe who pretends at nobility. And he thinks he’s
better than me.”

Valso nodded and agreed. “Yes. He does. He
thinks he’s better than us all.”

DaNoel slammed his fist down hard on the
single table in the room. “Damn him!”

Valso smiled. “If only I could escape,” he
said as if speaking to no one in particular. “The whoreson would
gain little stature if he entered Durin with only my father as
captive.”

DaNoel frowned. “What do you mean? Your
father is king of the Greater Council?”

“But he was defeated by the whoreson and
lives now in unredeemable disgrace. No. My father’s days as a ruler
are ended.”

“But what of his power?”

“After Csairne Glen there will be no support
for him in my family, especially if I can get there before him. And
alone his power is not enough to hold the throne.”

“This is all academic,” DaNoel said, “You
can’t escape. At least not with your life.”

“But what if someone were to help me?” Valso
asked carefully.

“Only someone of Elhiyne blood could get you
past that veil.”

Valso nodded. “I know. And it must be
someone of great power.”

“I could get you past that veil,” DaNoel
said proudly. “But I will not. Because I am not so easily fooled,
Decouix, and I see through your manipulations. I’ll stand there in
the Hall of Wills tomorrow and I’ll laugh as the whoreson kills
you.”

“And if he doesn’t kill me,” Valso asked,
“will you then help me escape?”

DaNoel ignored the question. “Good night,
Decouix. Sleep well.”

Valso nodded politely. “Until we meet again,
Elhiyne.”

“If we meet again,” DaNoel said, then spun
about and left the room.

When he was gone Valso smiled. “Oh we will
meet again, Elhiyne. We will most certainly meet again. Your
uncontrolled hatred for your brother is my assurance of that.”

Valso nodded carefully and smiled. “Yes. We
will meet again.”

~~~

Morgin stood on the lip of a high plateau
overlooking the valley of his homeland. Far in the distance he
could see the castle itself, nestled with the nearby village and
the small wood that separated them. Together they formed a distinct
and separate blotch on the gently rolling landscape of the
surrounding fields, a land ripe and overflowing with wheat and corn
and rye.

More than once, as a boy, he had stood on
this same spot looking down upon the valley below. But now he was,
almost regrettably, a man. Then he had worn the clothes of an
adolescent, and now he wore the red of a great Elhiyne lord. Then
or now, boy or man, he felt he laid claim to a stature that was not
rightly his. And while it was actually the old woman’s ambition
that propelled him forth, he knew that it was his responsibility to
temper her machinations, and he felt that his inability to do so
reflected no less than a lacking within himself.

It was still well before the noon hour, but
down below he could see the crowds forming along the road that led
across the valley floor to the main gates at Elhiyne. Olivia knew
well that his homecoming would be today, for riders had been sent
forward daily to keep her informed of his progress, and it was
clear she would not miss this opportunity for a show. Today the
ShadowLord would come home in victory and triumph.

Morgin heard the soft fall of Ellowyn’s
footsteps as she approached behind him. That was odd, for
ordinarily she seemed to walk as if her feet did not touch the
floor. But recently she’d taken to imitating mortals as if it were
important to her to be as mortal as possible. Unfortunately, poor
Ellowyn’s efforts at mortality were stilted and unnatural, and
Morgin just didn’t have the heart to tell her so. Without turning
from his view of the valley floor, he said, “Each day you are among
us you walk more like a mortal, my Ellowyn.”

“Yes, my lord. I know. And that is why I
must go.”

He had been expecting that. “Why must you
go?” he asked.

“Because it is right, my lord. You are
healed. You no longer need me.”

“Oh but I do,” he said, refusing to turn and
face her, knowing he could not win this, their last argument. “I
need you more now than ever. I need you more with each passing day,
for who is there to explain what’s happening to my dreams?”

He heard her sigh. “And that too is why I
must go. It is not good for you to become so dependent upon
me.”

“And what of you, Ellowyn? Do you ever need
me as I need you?”

“Oh yes, my lord. And that too is not
good.”

“Where will you go?” he asked.

“Wherever my master bids.”

Ellowyn’s master! Morgin itched to know the
identity of this mysterious master, but he knew better than to ask.
“Will I ever see you again?”

“That I do not know, my lord.”

“Go then,” Morgin said softly. He wanted to
be bitter and angry at her for abandoning him, but he could not
find the heart to treat her so. “Leave me if you will. But remember
I do need you.”

She made no reply. Slowly he turned to face
her, and was not surprised to find her gone, vanished as if she had
never been, leaving only a shimmering in the air to mark her
passing.

He stood there silently for a long time,
until Abileen finally approached from the direction of the camp,
glancing about uneasily, wondering why his master would stand alone
facing nothing. Of course, the soldier did not voice his thoughts,
but dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “My lord.”

“What is it, Abileen?”

“We are ready to ride, my lord.”

Morgin nodded. “Then lead the way.”

Abileen’s men waited by their horses,
dressed in their own finery and milling about impatiently. In
Morgin’s absence the camp had disappeared, packed up and loaded on
the backs of sixty pack horses. Such a waste, Morgin thought. To
carry a pavilion merely for his comfort, and pillows to sleep on,
and soft sheets and blankets. A small tent would have been
sufficient to keep out the rain, and they could have made the trip
in a quarter of the time. Why, with sixty pack animals he could
keep twelve twelves of fighting men provisioned for a month. But
then, of course, without such a retinue the old woman’s show would
be far less impressive.

Abileen led him to a small rise where
Roland, AnnaRail, JohnEngine, Val, Cort, Tulellcoe, and Rhianne
waited with their horses and his. He stood by while the women were
assisted into their saddles, then climbed into Mortiss’ saddle. He
stood high in his stirrups and scanned the waiting soldiers for
France’s blond head. But of course, on a day such as this, the
swordsman would choose to make his own way to Elhiyne.

Morgin spurred Mortiss forward into a
comfortable trot. She snorted and blustered, and seemed to be
enjoying the idea of the coming extravaganza. Seconds later he
crossed the lip of the plateau and began his descent into the
valley. He followed the meandering path of the valley road and the
wind felt good on his face. He knew without looking back that his
family would be immediately behind him, and behind them Val and the
other lesser clansmen, then Abileen and his men, with the pack
train and servants in the rear. It was an order that Olivia had
specified, and of course she had orchestrated today’s event in the
finest detail, including, no doubt, instructions that the peasants
should line the road and cheer raucously. “Tell them to have a good
time,” the old witch had probably commanded, “or I’ll have them
whipped to within an inch of their lives.”