The Magic Echo Chamber

As promised, what follows is the original ending of The Commanding Stone, the third (and unfortunately, final) volume in the Osserian Saga.

If you haven’t read the book, the following will make no sense to you at all, so you should just move along. If you have read it, you’ll see that I had very different plans from what was eventually published. I wasn’t happy having to wrap up the dragon storyline so quickly. I had wanted it to carry over into the fourth and final volume, tentatively titled The Path of Ashes.

But that wasn’t going to happen. My editor was pretty sure early on that there wasn’t going to be a fourth book, and told me I had to do what I could to wrap things up. I think what we ended up with was a little too neat and tidy, but better that than leaving everyone hanging with no resolution, I suppose.

For those of you who read The Commanding Stone, I hope you enjoy this little taste of what might have been. And let me know what you think!

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Tyne Fedron surveyed the devastation below him and laughed. Gods, the power at his command! He was routing an entire army before him! The tiny soldiers were running for their lives, scared to death of him and his dragons!

He watched wizards use their power to try to repel the soldiers laying siege to their fortress. He wondered who the army was, and why it was attacking the wizards, but in the end he didn’t care. All that mattered was that word of his victory this day would spread like a fire across these southern nations. Kings would hear of him, and tremble on their thrones.

The strange black cloud hovering over the fortress startled him by shooting a lance of red light down at the ground, destroying a building beneath it. Behind him on his saddle, Marrek Drayke shouted, “The gods take me, did you see that?”

“Of course. I’m not blind.”

“What if that thing can shoot the light at us?” He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the wind.

He has a good point. Through the Commanding Stone, Tyne ordered the dragons to come around and attack the cloud. Seven dragons began to circle it, bathing it with their holy, cleansing fire.

“We should move away until its destroyed!” said Marrek.

Tyne clenched his jaw. He disliked the barrage of suggestions that came from Marrek — they made him wonder if his servant thought him too stupid to consider such things on his own. And it annoyed him even more when the boy was right.

Maybe I’ll leave him behind soon, he thought. No, that would do no good. Marrek knew about his need for long periods of rest, and if he felt betrayed by Tyne, might try to turn that knowledge against him. If he ever decided he no longer wanted Marrek’s company, the boy’s life would have to end. The dragons are always hungry. He’ll never even know what happened. That time had not come yet — despite Marrek’s annoying tendencies, Tyne still found he preferred company to being alone. But one day he would become emperor, and Marrek’s usefulness would be over. Oh, perhaps he would be generous and allow Marrek a place on his court for having served him faithfully in the time before all of Osseria bent its knee to him.

Tyne commanded the dragon they were riding to swing back over the army camped outside the fortress. He did not acknowledge hearing Marrek’s suggestion that they distance themselves from the cloud, and the command was issued silently, through the Stone. For all the boy knew, Tyne made the decision to move away on his own.

They’d crossed over the large defensive wall of the fortress when there was a tremendous explosion behind them. Tyne flinched, hunching his shoulders and crouching down toward the dragon’s neck. Marrek tensed and let out a yelp.

Tyne turned his head to see the ruins of the black cloud raining down on the fortress in streamers of fire and smoke. “The thing just blew up!” said Marrek. “It’s good we moved away from it when we did!”

Tyne remained silent. One of the dragons had been too close. He caught sight of its tumbling form just before it smashed into a peak-roofed building. The dragon’s body crushed the slate tiles, collapsed the roof and one side wall. It lay still in the wreckage. Tyne knew at once from the Stone that it was dead. He could feel the sadness and anger and sense of loss from the other dragons, the absolute knowledge that one of their own was dead.

Like Rukee and Tremmel, he thought. Fallen to a demon that never should have been summoned from its resting place.

Strange inhuman creatures huddled together in one part of the camp, protected by a dome of magic. Tyne’s dragons had made several attacks against the dome and had destroyed portions of it, but had not yet finished it off.

It’s time to get rid of them, he thought. His new empire would have no room for mongrel races. Non-humans would be hunted down and destroyed. When he was emperor, a day of reckoning would come.

Through the Stone, he issued a command for the dragons nearest him to attack the dome. They roared and banked hard, their cries loud even over the din of battle, their wings outstretched and rigid as they brought around their massive bulk.

They flew in a circle around the dome, then blasted it with their fire.

Tyne could see the creatures within the dome’s protection doing whatever they could to maintain the power, but their frantic actions were not enough to overcome the dragon’s withering fire.

A final blast from one of the dragons and the remainder of the dome vanished in a sudden gout of fire.

Kill all of these creatures. Kill them all. But allow the others to leave. Tyne thought the rest of the army was calling for a retreat. He saw soldiers lining up in formation and marching quickly away from the fortress. Some tents had been packed or thrown onto wagons, but others were left where they’d been pitched. He wanted to devastate the army, but not destroy it completely. He needed survivors to carry on the tale of the dragonrider who had so thoroughly defeated them and the wizards.

But how to link what happened here with his name? He needed to appear in person to some of these men, but to whom? And how, exactly? They were still soldiers, and a single arrow could kill him if they were inclined to exact revenge.

Perhaps now was not yet the time. His name was known in the grasslands to the west, but they were largely empty, their settlements small. Being known among a scattered rabble was little help. More terror, more devastation to show his power was uncontestable and absolute, and then…what?

A messenger! The perfect use for Marrek! He could enter a city and demand an audience with the king in Tyne’s name. Tyne would command that the monarch come to him — he would not enter the home of his enemies, not until they had sworn fealty to him and an oath to become part of a new Helcarean empire. He was the new power in the world. The old ways would soon come to an end.

With the protective ring destroyed, the dragons began to scorch everything in that section of the encampment. A cyclone of flames erupted from the center and quickly spread outward. The sight of it awed him, even after all of the incredible things he’d witnessed. A tornado of fire growing thicker, climbing higher, a plume of black smoke churning into the sky…And I’m responsible. This is my doing, a projection of my will.

“You’re a power no one can defy!” shouted Marrek.

For once, Tyne agreed with him.

* * *

Gerin paced in the cellar of the Turlem-Esa. He felt trapped, helpless, angry. From far above, they all could hear the distant sounds of battle, feel the earth tremble when some new devastation was wrought upon Hethnost. Each sound, every tremor, was like a personal blow to him, an insult to his abilities, a affirmation of his powerlessness.

Elaysen sat with Peylo Ossren, holding the older woman’s hands, offering what comfort she could. Nyene stood rigidly, her arms folded, fuming. She’s as unhappy about being down here as I am, thought Gerin.

“A new Dragonlord has arisen, and appears intent on waging war just as the last one did,” said Kirin, breaking the silence that had settled over them. “That’s the only explanation for what I saw. The Commanding Stone has been found.”

“But how?” asked Abaru. “The Stone was destroyed in the Last Battle.”

“None of that matters,” said Kirin. “Who found it, or why, or how. What matters is that we find a way to defeat them.”

“We’re not off to a good start, hiding in basements while they destroy your home,” said Nyene.

“There’s little choice —” The new Archmage was cut off by a tremendous boom from above. Peylo Ossren screamed in fear and began to weep. A jagged, spidery crack appeared in the ceiling. More dust and dirt settled over them.

“By the gods, it sounds like the entire place is coming down over our heads,” said Balandrick.

“It may very well be,” said Hollin. “We need to get out of here.”

“And go where?” said Nyene.

“There may still be a way down to the Lake of Dreaming —”

“Wait a minute, I’m a fool!” muttered Gerin. “We can go into the Varsae Estrikavis right now and just wait there until the dragons and Havalqa are gone.”

“Is there food and water in there?” asked Kirin.

“No, but there’s none here either.”

They all agreed to Gerin’s idea. He drew magic into himself, flooded the scepter with amber magic, felt the spells within it awaken and cut a hole in the fabric of reality. The door to the Varsae Estrikavis appeared a moment later, floating above the floor, the sigils of Naragenth and the Chamber of the Moon upon it as always.

Gerin wondered if there was some way once they were inside of making the door open elsewhere. Could he force the door to open in Almaris, or Ailethon? Wouldn’t that be a feat! he thought. Travel anywhere without really traveling at all! But he had no idea how he might accomplish such a thing. Once they were safely inside, he would ask the other wizards for their advice.

Balandrick opened the door. Light from the magefire lamps in the antechamber spilled out into the cellar. The short hallway within the door extended past the wall behind it, creating a disorienting sense of skewed depth.

“Since you’re holding the door…” Nyene stepped up into the hallway.

Elaysen helped Peylo Ossren to her feet. “What is this?” asked the serving woman, her voice filled with anxiety.

“Someplace we can be safe,” said Elaysen. She looked wan, exhausted, her face drawn and pale, but the strength in her voice was a welcome change for Gerin.

Balandrick followed the women, then Gerin stepped in. He turned to say something —

The door behind him vanished, erased as if it had never been. At the same instant, everything around him went black. Wind tore across him, bitterly cold. He heard screaming, but could not tell who it was.

Then he was falling, the floor beneath him gone. He tumbled through a starless void, buffeted by a wind that howled so loudly he could not hear the sound of his own voice as he screamed Elaysen’s name….

* * *

Hollin was about to step through after Gerin when the door before him collapsed to a point, then burst outward in a blow-black of power that sent him sprawling across the room. A spike of pain erupted in his skull when his head slammed against the rough stone wall. He groaned; his body went limp. With great effort, he moved his hand to gingerly touch the back of his head. He felt a warm stickiness in his hair. He heard others shouting and forced his eyes open.

His vision was blurred. He blinked a few times to clear it and saw Kirin kneeling by Hollin’s side. Others were gathered at the spot where the door to the Varsae Estrikavis had been.

“Are you all right?” asked Kirin. He was invoking a Seeing and already sending healing spells into Hollin’s body.

“Hit my head…” Hollin sat up a little straighter. Pain stabbed behind his eyes and down his back.

“Just sit still and let me heal you,” said Kirin. “Do you have any idea what happened with the door?”

“No. I’ve never seen that happen before.”

“There’s nothing,” called out Abaru from across the cellar. The fear in his voice was unmistakable. “We can’t find any trace of it.”

“Gerin had the scepter with him, didn’t he?” asked Kirin.

“Yes, but it wouldn’t matter,” said Hollin. “Only amber magic can open the door. A result of Naragenth’s paranoia.” He felt Kirin’s healing spells blossom into spidery sensations of warmth on the back of his head, across his shoulders, and down his back. He sat up slowly, clasped his hands around his knees, drew a deep breath.

“Don’t try to stand yet,” said Kirin. “Can we reopen it?”

“No.” Cold dread seeped through him like snowmelt. “The scepter is the only way.”

“Xiren keep me strong,” muttered Kirin. Over the many years Hollin had known him, he had rarely heard Kirin pray to his gods. “What if the amber wizard is lost to us? He has Naragenth’s staff and the Ammon Ekril with him.”

“Then we must hope he is not lost. For now, that is all we have.”

41

Tyne alighted his dragons on the field outside the walls of the devastated fortress. Once on the ground, the world was surprisingly quiet. Without the sound of the wind in his ears or the roar of his dragons’ flames, the shouts and screams of men and women running for their lives, the crashing of collapsing buildings, or the throaty rumble of the mammoth cyclone of fire he’d set in the army camp — a fire that was still burning, though it was now only a fraction of the size it had been — the world seemed an almost silent place, hushed like a graveyard.

He dismounted and stretched his legs. Marrek was right behind him, practically bursting with energy at what they had done.

“I’ve never seen anything like that!” he shouted, his entire body coiled like a spring. “We — you — destroyed an army and the home of wizards! So much power…”

Tyne walked away from him. His hearing began to adjust. He could make out the distant crackling of fires, and a few hoarse shouts from somewhere inside the fortress.

He’d sent many of the dragons off to feed. The rest were with him, a retinue to keep him safe and remind anyone who saw him exactly where his strength and authority came from.

“There are still people in that place,” said Marrek. “Are we going to finish them off?”

“No. But as soon as we can find a quill and parchment, you are going to deliver them a message.”

He took a step back, confused. “Me? Why me?”

“Because that is my will. Don’t presume to question my decisions, Marrek, or your journey with me will be a short one.”

He bowed his head. “Yes, my lord. As you will.”

It is as I will. And soon I will hear those words from the mouths of kings and princes.

Tyne looked toward the wreckage of the army encampment. Thousands of tents remained where they’d been pitched. “Find a writing table, parchment, quills, and ink. There must be something left there.”

Marrek bowed again. “Yes, my lord. At once.” He hurried off up the long slope toward the camp, angling his route away from the scarlet glow of the fire.

There were many people still in the fortress. Most of the soldiers attacking it had been killed, either by his dragons or the defenders after the larger army had retreated. Without reinforcements, they’d been cut down rather quickly by the power of the wizards and the soldiers protecting them. Of course, his dragons had feasted on men on both sides of the conflict.

It had looked from the air that the defenders were planning on making a final stand in a large building seated at the top of the long slope at the rear of the fortress. That is where he would send Marrek with his message. He was Tyne Fedron, master of dragons, and they would know his name, and fear it. He would allow them to live so that they could tell others what he had done here, what power he commanded. It was a good plan, he thought. The fleeing army would not know who he was by name, but that was of little concern. They’ll find out eventually.

* * *

The Vanil watched from a distance as some of the dragons landed upon the grassy field that lay outside the walled valley. The rest flew off, in search of he knew not what. Food, perhaps, or foes he had not yet seen.

Ibnú-Askenessen — that was his name, which he had not remembered when he’d first awakened, so immense was the gulf of time that had passed since he’d begun his sleep — knew of such creatures, though they were not native to the lands this far north. His race had traveled far and wide in this world before most had decided to withdraw from this realm before certain doors were closed to them forever as the universe shifted and settled like a temple built upon uncertain ground. He and his brethren had chosen to remain behind. They would sleep in their barrows until the Master returned and signaled for the Chieftains to awaken.

That call had come, but it had not originated with the Master. Ibnú-Askenessen had followed the call to its source, and found another of the puny, weak creatures that had infested the world like a plague. This discovery had confused him, but the source of the call was undeniable: the small weapon carried by the creature, an object that bled power across worlds at a very regular and very precise rate. Despite his confusion, he had knelt to the creature, hoping it would offer some explanation about the call and its own purpose.

A mistake. The creatures attacked him. He had taken the soul of one before departing. He left the creature with the weapon unharmed, confused about its role in what had transpired. Was it part of the summoning, or was the call a coincidence? It was different from what he expected, but similar enough that he had accepted it as true. Perhaps that had been another error on his part.

Ibnú-Askenessen searched for his five fellow Chieftains, hoping one of them might have an answer. He found none of them. He did not know if this was because they had disregarded the call, or if they had perished over the course of the long millennia of their slumber.

His kind had never been numerous; they were long-lived, and sired only a few children every century or so. The betrayal of his kin — for so he considered their cowardly departure from this world — had left but a handful of the Faithful behind, determined to follow the old ways and serve the Master who was himself betrayed when Time itself began. It was their sworn duty to help him right this ancient wrong, and Ibnú-Askenessen had pledged his life to see it done.

He did not know the exact locations of the other barrows, but was aware of the general areas. He decided to go to those regions and look for crescent-shaped hills, the undeniable markers of their resting places.

He found one after months of searching, and determined grimly that all of his brethren buried there were dead. Had that happened to all of the rest? Was he the last surviving Vanil in the world? It was a terrible thought, but he had to ready himself for the possibility. He had not awakened those who had slept with him in the central plains — he first wanted to understand the call that had drawn him from his long sleep. It was possible they too were dead, vanquished by the passage of ages of the world.

Then, unexpectedly, he sensed another call. Faint, distant, not strong enough to awaken him were he still slumbering, but present nonetheless. And this call conformed exactly to what they had originally expected.

Had the Master begun his return? It seemed so. But the call was too weak to determine its source, or even a general direction. It was less than a whisper upon the wind. He would have to wait, and listen, while it strengthened.

The call from the small creature’s weapon was still present, singing its song in such a way that it confused and confounded the other.

Ibnú-Askenessen decided he would eliminate the disruption. The creature and the weapon it carried would have to be destroyed. He needed to hear the true call clearly, understand its origin.

So he had come here, following the call back to the small creature’s weapon. It had been here not long ago, somewhere within the fortress. The battle raging here had not concerned him. He could pass through it unseen, cloaked by the Shrouding.

But then something strange had happened. He’d felt a door open to another world. Many doors that had once existed had long ago been closed and shuttered, sealed off forever by unknown powers. The Closings were the catalyst for his kind to leave this world for one more suitable for them, before they became trapped here forever. That was not Ibnú-Askenessen’s way. He would remain here, in the world chosen by the Maker, and help make it into what it was meant to be.

The door closed suddenly, with an odd discharge of power. When it closed, the call from the small creature’s weapon vanished. It had gone through the door to some other world. He did not think such a thing was possible. How could these puny things possess power of that magnitude?

Regardless of what he thought, the creature with the weapon had vanished from the world. He was no longer here polluting the new call. Ibnú-Askenessen could resume his search for the other Chieftains while the source of the call strengthened. He would be patient. He had already waited untold thousands of years. He could afford to wait a few years more.

He wondered at the small creatures he saw riding the dragons. One carried an object of great power that was bonded with the beasts in such a way that it granted the creature absolute control over them. He considered taking the object to study it, but decided against it. He had no need for it, no desire to control the dragons. Neither did he care if they were in bondage. It did not concern him, had no bearing on his mission. It was a distraction, nothing more. He needed to discover if any other Vanil lived, or if he was indeed the last.

Ibnú-Askenessen turned away, called his Shrouding upon him, and departed to search for his kin.

Epilogue

Gerin’s arms and legs flailed uselessly as he fell through the void — or thought he fell, since he had no reference by which to determine motion other than the lack of anything beneath him. The wind lashed him from every direction, so even that was no help in gaining some sense of orientation in this featureless abyss. His stomach clenched with nausea; he had to fight to keep from vomiting.

He struck a membrane of some kind that stretched and sank beneath his weight. The Staff of Naragenth clattered on top of him — he could not see it, but knew immediately what it was when his fingers curled around its shaft. Miraculously, he had retained his grip on the Scepter of the King through the nightmarish fall. Probably worried that father would have my head if something happened to it, he thought. It did not matter that his father was dead. Some habits and worries ingrained in his childhood would be with him until he died, no matter if he lived for five hundred years, or five thousand.

He was about to call out for Elaysen and Balandrick when the membrane ruptured beneath him. Instinctively, he curled around himself, still clutching both the scepter and staff.

Within the span of a few seconds he reached a layer of frigid air, so cold that he felt the skin of his face stiffen as the moisture within it froze. His teeth began to chatter; his whole body shook.

Then he passed into a layer of heat so extreme he thought his clothing might burst into flame. He screamed at the searing pain, felt his lungs scorch as he drew in the fiery air. Some part of his mind knew that if this did not end very soon, he would die. He tried to call his magic to create shields to protect himself, but there was nothing to summon. Magic did not exist in this place.

The searing heat ended. His lungs ached as he sucked in cooler air. The nausea returned as he tumbled — at least that’s what his inner ear was telling him was happening to his body — through the abyss.

There was a sudden change around him, a sensation of passing through another barrier, though this was a layer of crackling energy rather than something physical.

Then he thumped onto sandy ground, hard enough to knock him senseless. Sand and grit blew across his face, got into his eyes and mouth. He coughed and tried to spit it out, but his mouth was so dry the sand simply caked on his tongue.

He heard shouting all around him in a language he did not recognize.

“Elaysen? Balandrick? Are you here?” he managed to say.

“Gerin!” Elaysen’s voice rang through the night, somewhere to his left. The sand in his eyes still made it almost impossible for him to see.

He was about to call out to her again when something attacked his mind. The assault was intense, almost physical in its violence. What little strength remained in his body fled as he struggled to fight off the intruder.

Gerin could not reach his magic. He was too weak, too disoriented, too battered from the fall through the void.

There was another mind trying to enter his own. He had no other way to describe it. He could feel the foreign thoughts battering against his consciousness, his cognition, his will. I won’t be a slave again! He tried to erect mental barriers to keep out the invader, but the other’s thoughts slipped over or around whatever barriers he threw up like floodwaters pouring through a crumbling wall.

The alien presence retreated for a moment, then hammered his defenses with a vicious assault that sent slivers of pain into his head. His eyes felt almost molten. Waves of nausea overwhelmed him, and he turned his head just in time to vomit on the sandy earth.

His meager defenses completely collapsed. The other presence roared into his thoughts like a storm. It saturated every part of his mind, delved into his memories, his thoughts, his control of his body. He tried to resist its attempts to wrest control, but now that it was completely inside him his resistance slipped even further.

He managed with great difficulty to defeat its efforts to take control of his body, but he could not eject it from his mind. He felt it retreat deeper into him, like a rat scurrying deeper into a cave, hiding in the dark. He could sense it keenly, lurking.

It turned its attention to his knowledge of languages: Osirin and Kelarin words and grammar, his innate understanding of how to speak and understand them, how to read and write them, the nuances of dialect and regional colloquialisms. The presence seemed to almost absorb his knowledge like a sponge drinking up a puddle of water. The frenzied speed of it left him dizzy. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

He felt someone standing over him. He forced his eyes to open and saw a giant of a man looming before his face. The huge man hauled Gerin to his feet, his meaty hands like bear claws on his shoulders. Gerin’s legs were weak, unsteady; his knees nearly buckled. The huge man’s fingers sank painfully into his flesh to hold him upright.

The man wore layers of brown and gray clothing. The outer garments were tattered, soiled, and crossed with small strips of leather at each of his joints. He stood at least a foot taller than Gerin, and was almost absurdly thick and broad. A wild tangle of black hair stood out from his head in every direction. His beard was a thick snarl that fell to his collarbone like the pelt of some dead animal. His skin was like polished ebony. It reminded Gerin of Katel.

He saw Balandrick, Nyene, Elaysen, and Peylo Ossren near to him. Each was held firmly by men dressed like the giant. Two men held Balandrick’s arms behind his back; his captain looked dazed, his eyes unfocused. A streak of blood ran down his face from his scalp and was smeared across his cheek and chin. Gerin assumed Balan had been struck to prevent him from struggling.

Nyene also required two men to restrain her. She was shouting curses at the “dogs” holding her, fighting them with the ferocity of a caged mountain lion. While Gerin watched helplessly, one of the men raised a cudgel and knocked her senseless. She collapsed in their grip.

Peylo Ossren looked near to dying of terror. He wished he could say something to assuage her fear, but he did not yet think he could speak. The alien presence in his mind seemed to have scrambled his control over his voice.

There was a dusky, rosy glow in the air on the horizon; dawn would arrive soon. The air was cool, crisp; a steady wind blew across them, peppering their skin with bits of grit and sand.

For the first time, he surveyed his surroundings. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat. They were in the middle of a sea of sand. As far as he could see, nothing but rolling, beach-like dunes, but with no sign of a sea. He’d heard tales of deserts in stories, but had never seen one.

There were no deserts anywhere near Khedesh. Where in Shayphim’s name were they? And how had they come to this place?

They were standing in a circle made of mud-fired bricks. The bricks were ancient, crumbling, buried in drifts of sand. The highest remaining part reached no higher than his calf. He sensed power here — the fading heat of ritual magic still lingered in the air, centered within the ring in which they stood.

All around him he saw ruins buried in sand. The bones of an ancient city stretched to the horizon in every direction. Nothing remained intact. It was in some way an impression of a city, formed of the shattered remains of walls that suggested the shape of a building or the lines of a street. Most poked through the undulating dunes like pottery shards. Sheared off cylinders with drifts of sand piled against them marked where towers had once stood. Down what he thought must have once been a wide boulevard, a massive set of stairs rose toward nothing — whatever had been there had long since vanished. Gerin’s impression of the ruin was that it had once been a temple or palace, some place of central importance to the people who had once lived here.

He felt a twinge in his head and realized it was his interloper attempting to look through his eyes. Gerin tried to force it back. The foreign presence withdrew, but he could not be sure how far, or whether it could still see what he was seeing.

They were surrounded by several hundred people, all dressed in what Gerin was quickly coming to think of as desert garb: layered, drab-colored clothing, many with hooded cloaks. Almost all were armed with multiple weapons, even the women.

The foreign presence in his mind laughed. It was deeply disturbing to hear something in his thoughts that did not originate with him. The sensation created a sense of vertigo that left him feeling woozy, almost drunk.

A hooded woman came toward them. Even through the voluminous cloak, Gerin could see that she was small, with a slender, delicate build. The skin of her hands was dark like the huge man holding him. In fact, most of the people here were dark-skinned, though some had the olive complexion he’d seen when passing through the Havalqa staging area on his way to Gedsengard Isle as a captive.

The woman spoke, but it was a language he did not understand.

But then, he realized, he did understand it. Part of him heard an unknown, foreign tongue; but some other part — the alien presence within him — comprehended what was said, which, in turn, allowed Gerin to understand. The presence had difficulty with the language; Gerin sensed that, while it knew the tongue the woman spoke, she used a dialect far removed from its own.

“Roglu na’tadil endulatah?” she demanded. At the same time, in Gerin’s thoughts he heard, “Where did they come from?” It was disorienting to hear two voices at the same time, one speaking the foreign tongue, the other a translation of it that he could comprehend.

“How in Sengel’s name did they get here?”

“I don’t know,” said the huge man holding Gerin.

“Did the ritual succeed?” she asked.

“No.” The huge man sounded enraged. “He’s not here.”

Gerin reached out for his magic, but still found nothing. Have I lost my powers forever? The thought made his guts churn with fear.

The Staff of Naragenth and the Scepter of the King lay on the ground beside him, ignored by his captors. Nimnahal was still strapped to his belt, but the giant man’s grip — which had shifted down to Gerin’s arms — was like iron, and in his weakened state it would take even him some effort to break free. An attempt to escape now would get them all killed. He needed to understand what had happened here first.

The woman threw back her hood. Gerin heard Balandrick gasp just as his own heart lurched in his chest.

She looked like Reshel.

There were differences, of course. This woman had black hair and brown skin, but her features — the delicate lines of her cheeks and nose, the shape and spacing of her eyes, the soft, generous curves of her lips, the angle of her jaw and point of her chin — were a nearly perfect recreation of his sister’s face.

“Spies from my mother,” spat the woman. “Kill them.”

The huge man punched Gerin in the side of the head to stun him, then yanked him up by his hair until his feet nearly left the ground. Gerin felt the cold steel of a knife bite against his throat. From the corner of his eye, he could see that his companions were about to meet the same fate. Peylo Ossren shrieked and wept.

“Spill my blood and your plans die with me.” The voice came from Gerin’s mouth, but he did not speak them. They emerged in the same language the woman had used. It was the presence within him. It had surged forward in his mind and taken enough control from him to use Gerin’s voice as if it was its own.

The woman turned back to him, held up her hand for the giant and the others to stay their executions. “What did you say?”

A harsh laugh gurgled from his mouth. Again, Gerin had no control over it. He felt a kind of primal horror at the idea that some other being was sharing his body and mind. A sudden, violent sense of claustrophobia came over him.

“I am Yeldarii olnu’Tontheq Vaegerio,” he said. “You’ve gone to a great effort to summon me from the grave, and would be a fool to kill me now.”

 

THE END