The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (21 page)

. . . you and she cannot be free and whole until . . .

Salula crowed, “ShadowLord, we have won.”

. . . you and she cannot be free and whole until . . .

He felt Erithnae die, felt it with his heart and his soul and every fiber of his being.

. . . you and she cannot be free and whole until . . .

He couldn’t beat Valso and Salula by denying his true nature. “AethonSword,” he whispered. Little by little he’d pieced together the meaning of that symbol, and though he knew it was not his name, something terrible crawled up his spine.

“AethonSword,” he said, still speaking softly, but all of the action on the wall ceased, and a strange silence descended. The jackals and Kulls and armsmen had all sensed the beast as it arose within him.

He threw his head back and screamed at the heavens, “AethonSword.” It came out as a challenge of defiance to the gods of all the planes of existence, and the silence ended with a deep roar as the forest came alive.

“I . . . am . . . the . . . AethonSword.”

A nearby branch, part of the outer wall of the castle, reached out and wrapped around the neck of a jackal, snapping his spine like a twig, then tossing him over the wall like refuse from last night’s chamber pot. The shadowwraiths coalesced out of the forest and wrapped themselves about the heads of halfman and jackal alike. It clearly blinded them, for they slashed about with sword and pike aimlessly, allowing armsmen to step in and kill with impunity.

Morgin stepped up to the wall and saw that down in the horde’s main encampment confusion and bedlam had descended. The victory, so close at hand for the jackals, had turned into a rout. They fled through the forest as it and the wraiths hunted them down mercilessly. Those still on the wall tried desperately to climb back down, some even jumping from the wall to their deaths.

Morgin turned around and scanned the castle yard, looking for Erithnae. It was littered with corpses—jackals and halfmen and armsmen—but he had no trouble spotting her. She lay on her back where she’d been pinned to the ground by the long blades of three pikes, two in her chest, one in her abdomen. She had died because he didn’t have a name to acknowledge and didn’t know his purpose. He’d waited too long to find himself.

He felt so tired, a weariness of the soul that no sleep could banish. So he sat down on the parapet with his back to the battlements, and closed his eyes. He thought he might sleep for centuries.

21
The Return

AnnaRail’s eyes suddenly fluttered and rolled into the back of her head. She swooned, and Roland barely caught her in time to keep her from falling to the stone floor. They’d been standing in his study talking when they both felt a sickening shift in reality. And with his limited sensitivity to the arcane, if he felt it, whatever it was must have hit his wife like a storm of demons from the ninth hell.

He lowered her gently to the floor and sat down with her head in his lap. He tested the pulse at her neck, and sighed with relief when he found it rapid but strong, and not faltering.

The door to his study burst open and Olivia stormed in, godfire burning in her eyes. “What in netherhell just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Roland said. “Though even I felt it.”

JohnEngine rushed in a moment later, clearly had the same question on the tip of his tongue, but when he saw AnnaRail, he said, “What happened to mother?” He crossed the room, knelt down beside her and picked up one of her hands.

Roland said, “It hit her especially hard, but her pulse is strong and I think she’ll be all right.”

Brandon limped in, one arm in a sling, using the other to lean on a cane. “What’s going on?”

DaNoel was an instant behind him. “Yes, what happened? And what’s wrong with mother?”

They all started shouting at once.

Roland shouted, “Will everyone shut up?” But his voice was just one more to add to the confusion.

Then AnnaRail sighed and took a deep breath, and that silenced them all.

Roland asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she said, speaking in an exhausted whisper, like someone who’d suffered a long illness. “I’ll be fine. I just need to rest.”

Olivia loomed over them, and Roland was thankful she had the presence of mind to put her impatience aside and speak calmly. “What happened, daughter?”

Behind the old woman, NickoLot said, “Morgin’s back.”

Olivia glanced her way, and her eyes narrowed as she considered the girl’s words.

“Yes,” AnnaRail said. She took several deep breaths, and Roland felt her heart rate slowing as she calmed. “Morgin just returned to the Mortal Plane.”

Olivia leaned forward. “Really!”

“And he brought that blade with him.”

“Oh,” Olivia said. “That is unfortunate.”

“No,” AnnaRail said, sitting up. “No, I think we no longer need to fear that blade.” She looked carefully at them all. “But it’s possible we must now fear Morgin.”

Olivia demanded, “And where was he hiding all this time that we couldn’t sense him.”

AnnaRail said, “I think . . . I think in a dream.”

••••

Rhianne opened her eyes and gasped. She’d been napping, sitting up on the couch in her sitting room, and the last thing she remembered was the jackal warriors in Sabian’s castle yard, she and Rafaellen and two armsmen surrounded by them, fighting for their lives. Then Erithnae had somehow thrust her out of her soul with the thought,
You cannot die here with me.

“Your Ladyship,” Geanna said, rushing into the room. “His Majesty is coming.”

Rhianne had trouble shifting her thoughts to the moment. Were they alive? Had Erithnae been killed? Had Morgin died? She had to go back to her dreams. She had to know.

“He’ll be here any moment, Your Ladyship.”

Valso! It took an effort to calm her racing heart. She stood and forced her thoughts away from the battle in the Kingdom of Dreams.

Geanna circled her slowly, examining her like a giftwrapped package. She stopped in front of her and looked unhappily at her chest. Rhianne glanced down and only then remembered the silk handkerchief she’d stuffed into her cleavage. She’d fluffed it out in an attempt to make it look decorative, but she’d only been partly successful. It did look out of place.

Geanna raised an eyebrow and said, “May I remove that, milady?”

Rhianne couldn’t hide her anger and just stared at her.

Geanna put her hands on her hips and said, “You know . . . if you don’t allow me to remove it now, he’ll just have me do so when he gets here.”

Rhianne pulled the handkerchief out of her cleavage and threw it to the floor. It fluttered down slowly, much less dramatically than she’d intended. Geanna visibly clamped her mouth shut, holding back some sort of retort.

“Rhianne,” Valso said, walking into the room unannounced. “As always lovely.”

Geanna bobbed a quick curtsy, then backed out of the room.

Rhianne curtsied more carefully than the servant, but as she rose the floor tilted, and reality changed so abruptly she gasped. Her knees buckled, and suddenly Valso’s arms held her tightly. He lowered her carefully to the couch and called, “Geanna. Come here, now. The Lady Rhianne is ill.”

She heard the patter of rapid footsteps, then Geanna leaned over her, breathing heavily. “Oh my lady, you look quite pale.”

Valso said, “Get her some strong brandy.”

Rhianne’s hands trembled. Her knees trembled. She couldn’t stop shaking. But deep inside, hidden from them all, she rejoiced. Morgin had come back. Her Morgin was alive again, and in this world, not in some strange dreamscape. He’d brought back the sword too, which should have terrified her, but it had now taken on a benign aspect, as if he had somehow tamed it.

Valso leaned over her, holding one of her hands. Geanna appeared behind him holding a crystal goblet filled with an amber liquid—brandy. Yes, he’d called for brandy.

Valso helped her sit up, but when he tried to hand her the glass her hands shook so violently she couldn’t hold it. He held it to her lips, she took a small sip, and as the warmth of the brandy washed down her throat, her mind focused on one thought: Valso hadn’t reacted. Had he sensed Morgin’s return? Had he sensed the sword’s return? The shift in reality had been so dramatic he couldn’t have missed it.

The king stood, placed the goblet on a nearby table and turned to leave. He hesitated and turned back to her. “So your husband has returned, and without that sword. That means Magwa succeeded. She’ll bring it to me, and there’ll be nothing to hinder us.”

After he left, her hands steadied enough to hold the glass of brandy. She took it and lifted it to her lips for another sip. Valso hadn’t sensed the sword’s return. What did that mean? And what of the sword; how had it changed? And how might she use Valso’s ignorance against him?

••••

The late summer sun warmed Cort’s face as she rode up the Gods Road several strides behind Tulellcoe, their horses moving at a comfortable walk. They’d gotten an early start that morning, and if there were no delays they hoped to make Durin before nightfall.

Without warning Tulellcoe brought his horse to a halt, didn’t turn about to say anything, just sat in his saddle staring straight ahead. Cort allowed her horse to amble toward him, wondering as she approached if he’d spotted some danger in the road, or perhaps in the forest nearby. As she pulled up beside him he didn’t acknowledge her, just sat there, looking forward with his eyes unfocused.

After several heartbeats he turned his head, looked at her and said, “Morgin’s back.” Without another word, he turned back to the road and nudged his horse forward.

Morgin’s back!
That was all he had to say!
She could strangle the man.

“Now wait just one moment.” She spurred her horse into a brief trot and caught up with him. “What do you mean
Morgin’s back
?”

“Just that. He’s back, on the Mortal Plane.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I just do.”

No, strangling was too good for the man. She’d have to think of something much more creative. She reined in her horse and brought it to a halt. “Stop right here and talk to me. Morgin’s dead. How can he be back?”

Tulellcoe reined his horse in. “I don’t know. He just is.”

She’d still strangle him, but only after a creatively mean and nasty precursor. “If he wasn’t on the Mortal Plane, then where was he?”

“Honestly, Cort, I don’t know. I just felt his soul return, that’s all. I don’t know what shape he’s in, or where he is. If I knew anything more, I’d tell you.”

Well, maybe she wouldn’t strangle him after all.

He said, “Maybe when we return to Elhiyne AnnaRail will know more. But for now let’s just focus on helping Rhianne.”

Tulellcoe must be roiling on the inside, but so like him to show nothing on the outside. And what did it mean that Morgin had died and then returned? That wasn’t simply magic or power. No mortal had the ability to bring a soul back to the Mortal Plane once it had departed. Only a god could intervene on that level.

Okay, no strangling. She looked at the sun. “We should make Durin well before nightfall.”

••••

Theandrin barely managed to keep her lunch down, gulped heavily and managed not to spew it over the carpet in her sitting room. In mid-day without attempting any kind of seeking or spell-casting, she’d had a spontaneous vision of a cloud obscuring the sun and casting a red Elhiyne shadow over Penda. She might have fallen had she not already been seated.

BlakeDown walked into the room, took one look at her and said, “You look ill, my dear. You should take better care of yourself.”

She took a deep breath and felt better. She didn’t want her husband inquiring further; for some reason she didn’t want to discuss the vision she’d just had, so she asked, “How was the hunting?”

“Excellent.” He seemed in an expansive mood. “I’ll have a nice trophy or two out of it.”

He glanced at the two girls sitting with her, obviously looking for Chrisainne. If she’d been present he’d probably have made up some excuse to send her on an errand, then follow her out to the stables to fuck her. He really needed to learn a bit more subtlety.

“Well,” he said. “I have work to do.” He turned and left, no doubt to find Chrisainne.

Theandrin considered the vision she’d just seen, and the shift in reality that had come with it. It had something to do with the young Elhiyne lord, the one with the reputation for shadows, AethonLaw. His name had been on everyone’s lips for the past two years, though she’d heard he preferred another name, a peasant’s name that she couldn’t recall at the moment.

The vision hadn’t felt ominous in any way. The red shadow had cloaked Penda completely, but not like some menacing shroud to be feared. Rather, she got the impression it had enveloped Penda to obscure it, to hide it from some menace in a protective way.

Odd that no one else in Penda had felt it, especially BlakeDown. A powerful wizard, a powerful sending, and yet he’d felt nothing. She’d have to think on that a bit.

••••

Morgin started awake and opened his eyes, saw nothing in the pitch black darkness where he lay. He was stretched out on his stomach, his arm extended, hand still gripping his sword. He rolled onto his back, stirred up a cloud of dust that filled his nose and mouth and eyes. Coughing and spitting, he sat up and called forth a bit of nether fire to burn in the air in front of him.

Nearby the skeleton king sat on his throne, and he realized he’d awakened in the crypt where he’d fallen after Salula had stabbed him. Had it all been just a dream: Rhiannead, the Living Forest, Sabian, Erithnae?

No,
he decided. Yes, it had probably been a dream, but he’d learned long ago that his dreams weren’t
just
dreams. They were all too real, and he couldn’t excuse his failure to defend Erithnae by simply shrugging it off as a dream.

He stood and made his way carefully to the cave’s entrance, and as he stepped out onto the shelf of rock in the side of Attunhigh, he saw why the interior of the crypt had been so dark. Dawn was just breaking over the horizon and deep shadow still enveloped the slash in the rock that opened into the cave.

Nearby a horse spluttered and neighed.
It’s about time.

Mortiss stepped onto the shelf of rock.

Morgin said, “I’m glad you’re here, old friend. It’s time to leave this mountain and its secrets behind.”