‘Would that I never had.’
‘Nor I, but we are not to blame. It was not us who cast the spells that pulled the child apart. Once Bel finds the Stone, he will try to remake himself …when this happens we must try to bring the resulting soul here as fast as we can, so that he is in his proper home with his proper people around him. We may have to convince him to join our cause, but it will be easier here. I can reawaken his blood, as I did yours, and he will remember his true heritage.’
From all sides of the clearing, Sprite people began to emerge, and to approach the root on which Corlas and the Lady stood. The older ones were less visibly Sprite, having lived their lives as Varenkai before answering Vyasinth’s call. The younger, some no more than toddlers, were all pointy-eared and had beautiful multicoloured eyes. They nudged each other, giggling and chortling, and giving playful bows.
‘More than I expected,’ rumbled Corlas. Then his breath caught in his throat. An old feeling came upon him intensely, only felt for years in dreams: that Mirrow was nearby. His eyes were drawn to a girl, no more than eighteen, with long blonde hair and orange–blue eyes. Ashamed at the thoughts her beauty created in him, he blinked and tried to stop staring. She made it no easier by staring back.
‘She isn’t Mirrow,’ said Vyasinth quietly. ‘Souls are not reborn whole, else how would they grow, and return fuller upon death to the Wells, thereby increasing their god’s power?’
‘But …’ ventured Corlas.
‘But,’ Vyasinth said, ‘it is possible that part of Mirrow’s soul was used as the seed that gave young Charla the spark of life. It may even be that a certain Lady intervened in the process.’
Corlas felt tears welling in his eyes.
‘She has no memory of previous lives,’ said Vyasinth. ‘And is not exactly the same person. But perhaps you will find peace in her arms?’
‘She is so young.’
‘She is new to womanhood, but a woman nonetheless. Besides,’ it was impossible to see if Vyasinth smiled, but her voice gave that impression, ‘give it twenty years and neither of you shall look older than the other for a long time to come.’
‘How could I ever repay such a gift?’
‘By serving me, and your people,’ Vyasinth said, then raised her voice for the assembled Sprites. ‘Dear folk of the wood, attend! This is he whose return I promised, he who can lead us back into the world. I ask you, spread word throughout the forest that we welcome amongst us Corlas Corinas – Lord of the Wood!’
A cheer went up, and Corlas wasn’t sure what was more stunning – his unexpected elevation, or the smile of the girl with his wife in her eyes.
Part One
Ascension
—
I often heard Kainordans refer to the Shadowdreamer as a tyrant, but really, was the central figurehead of ‘the Throne’ any less powerful? Yet somehow it was considered barbaric that Fenvarrow leaders seized their power through strength, with little regard for lineage or predecessor. So much less civilised than the arbitrary passage of crown from parent to child or, failing that – if, for example, the heir to the Throne had his head chopped off with an axe – to the next closest relative. Does being born to a certain family at a certain time really qualify one to lead, I wonder? A set proximity to a point which is not itself fixed, like joining dots that float freely in time and space?
As it turns out, exceptions can be made.
The Good of the People
With Skygrip Castle looming on the horizon, Losara felt a touch of melancholy. For weeks he, Lalenda and Grimra had been travelling Fenvarrow on a pilgrimage ordered by the Dark Gods, and although he had never forgotten the immensity of his eventual task, the journey had afforded him some time for peace and reflection. A between time it had been, almost a break from the troubles that threatened the land, and the three of them had flown high and far, content in one another’s company. Then the dream had come, and Losara had seen how Fenvarrow would crumble if his counterpart, Bel, were victorious. So along with melancholy came a sense of relief to see Skygrip still untouched by the forces of light, no rays of sun beating down upon its sceptre peak. It was illogical to have feared otherwise, he supposed, given that he had gone to the lengths of personally invading the Open Halls and murdering the leader of the light, the Throne Naphur, to avert the possible catastrophe. He remembered the open disbelief on the Throne’s face, frozen there even as Losara had frozen his heart. He took no pleasure in the deed, but the man had been bent on destroying his people.
What ripples from his actions? he wondered. A delay to invasion, or its hastening? Perhaps the people of Kainordas would rise up in anger over the death of their Throne, rattle their swords and clamour for revenge? Perhaps he had not delayed things at all, but actually started a new landslide of events cascading towards whatever end awaited.
Well , he thought, there’s a notion barely worth contemplation, lest it lead to the doing of nothing.
As they flew along, he noticed that unconsciously, or maybe not, they had all begun to slow down. Beneath them lay Fenvarrow’s capital, Mankow, rambling in parts and grand in others, the last step between them and the castle. Once inside it would become a time for serious action, but did the others fear to return more than he? Lalenda – Battu’s prophet, now Losara’s lover – had been confined to Skygrip almost all her life and had often been tormented by Battu. Despite Losara’s assurances that she was now under his protection, there was trepidation in her cobalt eyes as she glided along. As for Grimra, certainly the ghost did not want his amulet encased in stone at the castle entrance again, thus reinstating him as guardian of the front door, now that he’d had a long-awaited blast of freedom.
Lalenda felt for Losara’s hand as they flew. Even though his own hands were shadow from the wrist, he still felt the tiny points of her retractable claws – another sign of growing tension? He glanced at her beautiful brown face and for a moment considered telling her that everything was going to be all right. Immediately he felt foolish – what dim comfort such words would be to someone who could see the future.
Then again, as far as he was aware, Lalenda had not experienced a vision for some time. They were rarer for her, he knew, than his own dreams of times to come. Were their visions the same? he wondered. What was the point of a Shadowdreamer possessing a prophet when a Shadowdreamer, or indeed a Shadowdreamer’s Apprentice, could himself catch glimpses of the future? The answer, he feared, was that the shadowdream was just that – shadow, possibility, vague impression, shifting and unfixed. Prophecy, on the other hand, would always come to pass. Just a theory, of course – for who really understood the forces that governed the ebb and flow of the world? – but a disquieting one nonetheless.
Lalenda had once described to him the vision that, a hundred years ago, had appeared to every prophet, of a blue-haired man standing victorious atop a hill, his sword held aloft. If that scene was destined to occur, absolutely and without deviation, how could Losara ever hope to win? He had never held a sword in his life. Could he somehow make the vision fit his aims? And what was the point of prophecy if all it showed was something that would happen whether one knew of it or not?
Perhaps the events surrounding such a fixed point were not so immutable. Maybe it could be made to fit them.
‘It will be all right,’ he told her, and she smiled.