Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (29 page)

She saw things, but could never recall them. 

A white city sitting by the sea, its walls and towers tall and strong and proud, the red dragon banner of the Pendragons flying from the ramparts. A great domed chamber of white and gold, a well of light at its heart. An old woman, kindly and wise, a staff of twisted oak in her right hand. A man, short and ugly and scarred, but a warrior with the courage and might of a dozen lions, and a voice like a trumpet that rallied armies to his shout. 

He reminded her of Ridmark. Or did Ridmark remind her of him? 

Sometimes those images brought joy and grief to her mind, though she knew not why. 

But she saw darker things at well, and those images brought neither joy nor grief.

Only dread.

Giants clad in armor the color of gray ice, their skin like crystal, their eyes glowing with blue flame. Legions of twisted creatures marching before them, worshipping the icy giants as their gods. Cities burning to ash as snow fell upon them, and men and women and children freezing, collapsing as their blood turned to ice. 

She would stop it, she vowed. She would make sure it never happened again, no matter what she had to do, no matter the cost to herself…

And then she saw the shadow.

It followed her thought the mists of the past, long and black and strong. It had hunted her across the centuries. It would never stop hunting. 

“Calliande,” hissed the shadow, and she recognized that eerie double voice.

Shadowbearer.

“You are mine,” said Shadowbearer. “He said he had trapped you, but I believed him not. Yet here you are at last.”

Terror filled Calliande, and for a moment she quailed, remembering when the Mhalekite orcs had held her naked and helpless before him. But her courage rallied. She was done running. She would help Ridmark stop the Frostborn from returning, and then she would defeat Shadowbearer once and for all.

“You cannot,” he said. “Once, that was within your power. But you maimed yourself. You made yourself weaker. And now you cannot stand against me.”

The fury filled Calliande.

“Come and face me, Incariel!” said Calliande. “I stopped you once before, and by God and the Dominus Christus, I shall stop you again!”

“No,” said Shadowbearer. “You shall not.” 

The dream shivered and shattered into a thousand fragments.

When they reassembled, Calliande found herself standing alone upon a plain of featureless gray mist. It stretched endlessly in all directions, rippling and undulating.

No. Not alone.

She turned and looked upon the Watcher. 

The spirit gazed back at her, his heavy eyes sad beneath gray eyebrows. He wore the white robe of the Magistri, tied about the waist with a black sash. He had left a message for her in the vault below the Tower of Vigilance, and had spoken in her dreams after her magic returned. He had warned her of the dangers of Urd Arowyn, of facing Agrimnalazur in battle. 

“Watcher,” said Calliande.

The old man sighed. “You do have a knack for getting into trouble.”

“Apparently I have not changed from my previous life,” said Calliande, “when you knew me yet.”

“About that,” said the Watcher, “I cannot say.” 

The Watcher could tell her of the present, and speak of generalities from the past. But he was forbidden from speaking about her past, specifically.

Apparently Calliande herself had forbidden him before she had gone into her long sleep, though she could not remember it. 

“It was a perfect trap for you,” said the Watcher. “You could never turn aside from those in need. It seems that your Gray Knight cannot either. The undead to lure you in. The terrified townsmen asking for your protection.”

“And there was Coriolus, waiting for us,” said Calliande.

The Watcher nodded, his gray beard rusting against his shoulders. “I fear so.”

“I knew him,” said Calliande. “From before. Did I not?” 

The Watcher said nothing, which was as good as an actual answer.

“Tell me about him,” said Calliande.

“You know I am forbidden to speak of your past,” said the Watcher. 

“But the Eternalists arose after I went into the long sleep below the Tower of Vigilance,” said Calliande. “Therefore I know nothing of them, and you are free to speak.”

The Watcher bowed. “Fortunately, Calliande, your recklessness is matched only by your cleverness. Little wonder you are so taken with the Gray Knight. You have finally found someone whose recklessness is a match for your own.” 

“Tell me of the Eternalists,” said Calliande. This was not the time to consider the twinge she felt whenever she thought of Ridmark. 

“They are fools,” said the Watcher. “All men will one day die and face the judgment of their creator. The Eternalists denied this truth, and sought to use magic to change the nature of man, to make themselves immortal and eternal. Magic can extend life, true. So can sober living and regular exercise. But no magic can conquer death. The Eternalists sought to do this, and instead of immortality, they created horrors.” 

“They tried to extend their lives, didn’t they?” said Calliande. 

“They did so at first, successfully and in secret,” said the Watcher. “But no corporeal body lasts forever. In time, their mortal flesh started to fail…and so they had to claim the bodies of others.” 

“As Talvinius did to that kobold, and tried to do to me,” said Calliande. 

“Aye,” said the Watcher. “Some were more skilled than others. Talvinius, as you saw, could not manage to possess another human body, and had to claim a kobold. Others were more powerful. They grew reckless and desperate, fearing that death would claim them, and their experiments became bolder. Finally they drew notice, and the High King and the Magistri and the Swordbearers joined forces to expel the cancer from Andomhaim. The Eternalists were mostly killed, and those that survived fled into the Deeps or the Wilderland. It was a proud moment for the realm, when it was still strong to defend itself from foes within the walls.” The spirit slumped, as if weary. “But then the Enlightened of Incariel took root. The old High King died and the war of the five Pendragon princes began. And the Tower of Vigilance burned and I perished within it.”

“You’re telling me about my past now,” said Calliande.

“Not your past,” said the Watcher. “My past. You were asleep for that part.”

“I’m sorry,” said Calliande. “All that you say, the civil war and the Enlightened and the Eternalists…were they the work of Shadowbearer?” 

“Yes,” said the Watcher. “Forgive me, Calliande, but you should not have gone into the long sleep. Shadowbearer has labored unceasingly for centuries while you slept. If you had not entered into the sleep like…”

“What?” said Calliande. “What would have done?”

“Forgive me,” said the Watcher, “but I cannot tell you. You…”

“Have forbidden it with my own words, yes, I know,” said Calliande. She thought for a moment. “The spell to claim the body of another. How does it work?”

“I do not know for certain, and am glad of that,” said the Watcher. “Nevertheless, I understand some of the general principles. It requires a tremendous quantity of magical power, more than most wizards can summon unaided. Additionally, it is extremely difficult to sever the bonds between the soul and the flesh without killing the new body. I suspect that is why Talvinius was able to possess a kobold, but not a human. Kobold souls have a different…geometry, for lack of a better word, than human souls. Likely Talvinius could master one kind of geometry and not another. Like a student able to learn one arithmetical equation but not two.” 

“And that is why Coriolus killed Morigna’s parents and raised her,” said Calliande. “To…prepare her for a transference. To make solving the equation easier.”

“I fear so,” said the Watcher. “His crimes against the dark child are immense. He taught her magic, not to benefit her or to protect her, but to augment her magical ability so it would be easier to possess her. The dark child possesses strong magic, but insufficient skill to defend herself from Coriolus’s attack. You, too, would make a suitable host for the Eternalist, which is why Talvinius tried to possess you. But you have recovered the full powers of a Magistria, and you know how to use them. If Coriolus tried to possess you, he would be repulsed and likely killed.” 

“You call her the dark child,” said Calliande. “Why?”

“Because she is dangerous, and you should not trust her,” said the Watcher. “She has much magic but little conscience. The only thing that has kept her from abusing her power has been a lack of opportunity. She would turn on you in a moment, I am sure, to increase her own magic.”

Calliande frowned. “She is what she is because of Coriolus’s blight upon her life. And she has seen him for the liar that he is.”

“A rabid wolf did not choose its affliction,” said the Watcher, “but is dangerous nonetheless.”

“Enough,” said Calliande. “I do not like her, I admit that. But she does not deserve this. She did not deserve to have her parents murdered, and did not deserve to be turned into an empty vessel for a scoundrel like Coriolus. If it is within my power, I will save her.” 

The Watcher shook his head. “I suspected you would say that. Ah, Calliande.” He smiled. “Your heart blazes like a torch, like a brand in the darkness. Fearlessly you risk yourself, even for those who do not deserve it.”

“Fearlessly?” said Calliande. “Perhaps you do not know me that well. I am terrified.”

He smiled. “But you do not flee.”

“Not that it matters,” said Calliande. “I have no way to help Morigna. I cannot even break free of Coriolus’s damned trap.”

The Watcher gazed into the mists for a moment.

“Do not,” he said, “be so sure of that.” 

“You can help me?” said Calliande. “You have magic that can break the trap? Or you can show me how to do it?”

“Neither, I fear,” said the Watcher. “But I can tell you this. The Eternalist will have to go to a place of power to work his spell, someplace to magnify and focus the dark magic he will summon…”

“The standing circle,” said Calliande at once. “Where Sir Nathan Vorinus died.”

“There,” said the Watcher, “you will find Morigna and the Eternalist. But you must reach them before midnight. The thirteen moons will soon reach the exact configuration he requires, and he will claim her flesh for his own.”

“Then I know where to go,” said Calliande, “but not how to get there.” 

“I do not think,” said the Watcher, “that will pose a problem.”

“Why not?” said Calliande, but before the spirit could answer, the dream vanished in a blaze of golden fire.

###

Dark visions floated before Ridmark’s eyes. 

He saw himself facing Gothalinzur, the ancient urdmordar gathering villagers to serve as her larder before the Frostborn returned. Ten years before Agrimnalazur and Aranaeus, and he had known. The Frostborn had been destroyed centuries ago, defeated by the Dragon Knight and the last Keeper of Avalon. Yet somehow they would return. 

He did not know how. He did not know when. He only knew it would be soon. 

His mind drifted through memories. Meeting Aelia for the first time in the great hall of Castra Marcaine. The first time he had fought Tarrabus Carhaine at arms practice, the arrogant young heir to Caerdracon just as strong and skilled as Ridmark. The wedding in the great hall of Castra Marcaine, when Ridmark had taken Aelia’s hands and pledged to honor and love and defend her until the end of his days. 

He had. 

At least until the end of her days.

The darker memories came then. The Mhalekite horde coming down from the Wilderland. The treachery at the foot of the Black Mountain, and the shattered armies rallying under Ridmark’s command. The great victory at Dun Licinia, and Ridmark’s pursuit of Mhalek himself to Castra Marcaine.

Aelia’s screaming, her blood pooling across the black and white tiles of the great hall.

No, Ridmark did not want to remember that…but he saw it every time he closed his eyes. 

Then he saw again his long journey to Urd Morlemoch, the quest he had undertaken for the high elven archmage Ardrhythain in hopes of gaining enough renown to win Aelia’s hand. Suddenly Urd Morlemoch itself floated before his eyes, a vast, half-ruined fortress of white stone, its angles and lines pleasing to dark elven sensibilities but alien and strange to humans. Three ribbons of blue flame writhed around its massive central tower and lashed at the black sky, dancing across the darkness.

For it was always night near Urd Morlemoch. 

The image blurred, and Ridmark saw the highest tower rising from the heart of the ruins, and atop that tower stood the Warden.

The Warden was tall and gaunt, clad in a long blue coat with black trim upon the sleeves over black trousers and a tunic. His head was hairless and bone white, elven ears rising alongside his long, lean face, a diadem of blue steel encircling his brow. His eyes were utterly black and empty, colder and darker than the eyes of the dvargir, darker than the shadows that had swirled around Jonas Vorinus. Rings of blue dark elven steel glittered upon his long, bony fingers.

The Warden stood in a ring of standing stones atop the massive tower, gazing into an archway of rough stone. Images flickered and danced within the arch, showing the past and the present and the future.

“Disappointing,” said the Warden, his voice deeper and more melodious than any human. He turned to regard Ridmark, his long blue coat rippling in the cold wind rising from the sea. “I thought you would be the one, Ridmark of the Arbanii. Instead you shall die in the darkness alongside your friends.”

“Tell me,” said Ridmark. “You said the Frostborn were returning, that the omen of blue fire was a herald of their return. Tell me how.”

The Warden laughed his wild, thunderous, mad laugh. “How should I know? This is only a dream, a mosaic of images dredged up from your memory. You are talking to yourself.” He walked to the altar at the center of the stone circle. A massive blue soulstone sat there, glowing and pulsing in time to the ribbons of azure flame dancing across the sky, a ring of lesser soulstones surrounding it.