"I serve you, my Mistress." Its head swiveled slowly, as though it searched for something.
Leilavin smiled. "Yes, you feel it, do you not? You are not yet complete. It will not be long now." She turned and thrust out her hand. "Vergost."
The darkness rippled from the shadows of the thicket as if transformed into black fluid. An ear-splitting shriek rent the air, and Nyori took a fearful step back as an equine head emerged, followed by a flailing mane and a powerful neck and shoulders. The stench of sulfur hung heavy in the air as vaporous smoke billowed from the specter's nostrils.
The rest of the horse emerged slowly as a dream until it stood against the snow-filled sky, statuesque as if carved to capture what a god of Death might ride. It was frightfully massive as it stamped and snorted with a rumble like low thunder. The snow was starlight glittering across its gleaming coat, and its hooves were burnished silver that flashed with every step. It gazed at the Reaver with large black liquid eyes as it connected the bond that would complete them.
"Take a good look, Shama," Leilavin said. "This is Twilight, a Night Mare from Everfell, my domain. She will act as the Reaver's guide, as surely as Eymunder does for you."
The Reaver grabbed the pommel of the elaborately designed saddle and hoisted itself onto it. Seated on the gargantuan steed, it looked even more ominous and foreboding, an obsidian specter with eyes of flame, ready to do the bidding of Death.
Leilavin's teeth gleamed from her blackened lips. "You are no longer a man. Your baptism of flame has freed you of your earthly sorrows and needs. You exist to do my bidding. And my will is that you eliminate the akhkharu that poison this world with their existence. Ride forth, and show no mercy. Let the Reaver scourge the Co'nane once again."
No, Marcellus. Nyori stood paralyzed, frozen in disbelief.
The black-armored Reaver bowed from its mount, speaking with the sound of distant thunder. "As you command." It wheeled the Night Mare around. The horse shrieked again, rearing up to flail her powerful legs. Vapor exhaled from her nostrils in billowing clouds.
They streaked across the drifts like an arrow, leaving no mark of their passing. The falling snow swallowed them.
Nyori stared in stunned silence. This must be a dream; it cannot be real.
But it was not a dream. Leilavin stood in the white garden, motionless as she gazed at Nyori with glimmering ruby eyes. Snow swirled about, yet shied away from actually touching her. Her feet were planted in a patch of brown grass, though all around her was knee-deep in snow.
"It is well that you witness this, Nyori. In a way, you made this possible. The ways of warding were lost for ages, taken along with the Aelon when they left this world. I have been severed from that Craft since Alaric destroyed my first Reavers. But to think a mere girl would stumble upon such a thing…"
Leilavin shook her head wonderingly. "Now one last task remains for you: to lure Alaric into the open. You know by now that he will never rest until he captures the staff. I do not think you will survive when he does."
She slowly raised her hood over her head, then slid her arms back into her sleeves. Her eyes glowed from her cowl. "Farewell, Shama. We will not meet again."
Without a backward glance, she walked into the shadows and vanished.
Nyori slowly knelt as her knees gave out, she would have fallen had it not been for Eymunder. The snow lessened, falling gently as if apologetic for its earlier fury.
Nyori heard voices behind her, Dradyn and the others calling out. It was too late. Marcellus was gone, almost as if he had never existed. She stared helplessly at the marble statue that loomed over her.
Though snow had piled on her wings and shoulders, the statue defiantly stared into the unseen, blindly vigilant against the evils that lay hidden in the shadows. The wind moaned through the garden, causing a clump of snow to fall from the marble woman's head and run down her face, leaving tracks of wetness streaming down her cheeks.
Chapter 26: Alaric
Alaric sat up, disturbed by the quickly fading sensation of uneasy dreams, cobwebs of darkness that sullied his subconscious mind. The orb lanterns in his room blushed softly with dim light in response to his movements, illuminating his bedchamber in waxen rays.
Serona stirred beside him, her violet-black hair glimmering as it splayed across her face. She murmured, her face reposed and lovely even in slumber. Sleeping was one of the few things they still did together, something Serona fiercely insisted on. She claimed that their bond would heal in time, optimistic despite the fruitless centuries that followed Alaric's return to Aceldama. Her faith in their love never wavered despite every indication that the sword Mothros had severed their union, leaving them severed halves of one soul.
Alaric gently stroked her hair, smiling despite the sadness that welled in his chest. It was his fault that she suffered, his choices that stabbed her deeper than any blade could. The solestra bond was supposed to be permanent, with only death able to unravel it. But Alaric had found an exception to the rule when Mothros linked to the fabric of his soul, tearing apart his union with Serona. She had to deal with that loss, fighting to retain the passion and strength of will that defined her. All the while he drifted, fixated only on his obsession in recovering Eymunder once more.
But it wasn't his guilt over the past that pulled him from the realm of sleep. The feeling was still there, nestled in his mind behind doors he had closed and never hoped to open again. It was a pulse, a heartbeat that only grew more intense. More insistent. He practically heard the whisper tickle his ear, the venomous murmuring of conquest and retribution. His heartbeat quickened, adrenaline roared through his veins so intensely his muscles quivered from the rush. It had been so long, so many centuries had passed since last he had felt the irresistible pull, the adamant demand to obey.
Mothros called to him.
Alaric rose from the rose-colored sea of silk and velvet; unclad save for his loinclothes. Mothros lay in the lowest level of Aceldama, buried as deep as Alaric could manage. On foot, it would have taken him nearly an hour of negotiating elongated hallways and winding staircases before arriving there. But Mothros called, and Alaric was compelled to find a swifter passage. He focused, snuffing the orb lanterns while binding Mental and Aetheric energies together where the gloom was thickest. His Shadowmeld opened; ripples of liquid darkness formed an aperture that he stepped through, immersing himself in clammy blackness.
The only indication of movement was a quivery rush, the sensation of walking through a wall of wriggling insect legs. Shadowmelding was not without a certain degree of risk, and the feeling was only a harbinger of dangers to come the longer one traveled through the darkness. Fortunately, the distance was not far. The revulsion barely had time to register before it was over; he emerged into an entirely different portion of the palace.
Where Mothros waited for him.
The sword was the only thing in the small, rounded stone chamber. It lay across the bars of the simple wooden sword stand like a jungle serpent: cold, beautiful, and poisonous. The scabbard was heavily gilded with silver carvings of dragons, and dragon wings formed the cross guard, the hilt long enough to be wielded with two hands. An obsidian orb centered the cross guard, glassy and black as wet ink. It was the fusorb that made the sword deadly, the source of its parasitic nature.
Alaric heard its pulse, the whispered resonance that echoed across his mind. The fact that the fusorb reacted in such a manner meant only one thing. He heard the murmur, the deadly harbinger of doom that once again meant the destruction of his people.