A Matter of Time
Valthesh stepped warily back out through the main doors of the Kyree treasure house, her dark eyes searching the long curve of the street before her. The strange waves of blue light that had previously cleared the rain were no more and the sky was again pouring down an inundation.
“Where do we go?” she said to Obadon. “Where will they come from?”
The Argentei warrior glanced down the deep shadows of the street in either direction. “We are behind a ridge above the waterfront. They entered the city near the same place we did, so they will have to make their way up the ridge from that side.” Obadon pointed back down the way they had come.
“There are a lot of roads, friend, which lead up here from that side,” Valthesh said. “We cannot cover them all.”
“We do not have to,” Obadon replied briskly. “We are not an army; we cannot form anything like a defensive line. If depleting their forces or their will were at issue, I would consider stalking them individually—but that would take more time than we have.”
“A few inconvenient deaths certainly would not stop Shaeonyn,” Valthesh observed. “Ours did not. So now that you’ve exhausted what we shouldn’t do . . .”
Obadon smiled sadly. “We do not try to stop them where they are—we make them come to us. The objective in this private little war is to buy Aislynn time to repair the damage the magic has done. We have to lead them off, keep them busy with us, and do what we can to draw them away from this place for as long as we can. We buy as much time as possible.”
“And what is the price?” Valthesh asked, her eyebrows arched over her sleepy eyes.
“Our lives,” Obadon answered directly. “Did you expect it to be otherwise?”
“No.” Valthesh smiled wryly. “I just don’t usually shop at such expensive markets.”
With that, she plunged down the street into the pouring rain, with Obadon running at her heels.
“There is a ring at the base of the glass sphere,” the stone faery said in a voice laced with agony.
“I see it,” Aislynn said, wiping the sweat from her brow as she turned the device over in her hands yet again. “It’s stuck. What am I supposed to do with this?”
“I don’t know,” the stone faery keened. “But the shaft won’t move while it remains.”
“But you put it there!”
“I don’t remember!” the stone faery wailed.
“This is hopeless,” Gosrivar grumbled.
“It should just come apart,” Aislynn said, frustration seeping into her voice. “I can’t see anything holding it in place.”
“I’m a scholar. I don’t know anything about such things!” the sage shouted. “Magical devices; honestly! I have never understood this whole business about the Sharaj! It’s like you people are never all here at once.”
“Gosrivar, if you can’t be—wait a moment.” Aislynn blinked, a new truth entering her mind. “What did you just say?”
“Just that I have never understood—”
“No, after that.”
“What? About your people never being all here at once?” Gosrivar replied, a quizzical look on his face. “I don’t mean to be insulting, Aislynn, I just—”
“That’s it!” Aislynn said. She reached over, taking the head of the sage in both her hands, drawing it toward her and kissing him on the top of his balding pate. “You are a genius!”
“I am?” Gosrivar responded, still puzzled.
“The device, it is magical,” Aislynn said. “That means it is probably like me; with one foot in two places at the same time. Parts of this device are here—the pieces we see—but I see them being connected to other parts in the Sharaj. The answer isn’t here, Gosrivar—it’s there.”
Obadon drew in a slow breath. He knew what he had to do, but it went against all his instinct and training.
Through the curtain of rain, he could see the group striding up the street toward the intersection where he and Valthesh lay in wait. Shaeonyn was drenched, her light hair painted dark and flat with water, her wings soaked and keeping her feet to the slick ground. She appeared completely unconcerned with the arms of the dead that reached up toward her from the pavement beneath her feet; her eyes fixed as they were on the path before her, her face a mask betraying no emotion. The Black Guard followed behind her, their weapons sheathed. They, of course, were dead, unsurprised and unconcerned with the horrors that surrounded them. It was Shaeonyn’s unemotional acceptance of her surroundings that chilled Obadon’s blood.
But not more so than the weapon he held in his hand.
Obadon considered it for a moment, turning the dark, hideous object. The long blade was waved and, through some trick of the eye, seemed to writhe like a serpent in the dim light. The guard on the hilt seemed to move as well, strange images surfacing from the detailed carvings where no such images had been before. The handle itself burned cold into his hand. Aislynn had thought this weapon would be effective against the dead of the Black Guard. He only hoped she was right; it was time to find out.
He turned to Valthesh beside him, speaking sotto voce. “You stay back; use your magic at a distance in my support as long as you can. I’ll try to draw them off. When I do, you have to fall back. From then on, it will be up to you.”
“What are you going to do?” Valthesh asked in return.
“Whatever I must.”
Obadon drew in another steadying breath—then stepped out into the intersection of the streets.
Shaeonyn stopped; a look of astonishment on her face that all the dead of the Kyree city had not elicited. “Obadon?”
“Shaeonyn,” he acknowledged in return, the rain cascading around him.
“It is not possible that you are here,” she said flatly.
“And yet I am,” he rejoined.
“Not for long, I should think.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Obadon saw Valthesh step backward, remaining out of sight in the side street, her hands working as she searched for the Sharaj and its power.
Keep her talking, Obadon thought. The longer she talks, the longer we live.
“Where are the others?” Shaeonyn said menacingly. “If you are here they cannot be far.”
“They will reveal themselves in their own time,” Obadon replied. “What do you intend, Shaeonyn? What is there here that would cause the servant of Dwynwyn to consign her fellow Fae to the sea?”
“I do not answer the questions of the lower-born.”
“Yet you banished the higher-born Aislynn. If you will not answer to me, will you answer to her?”
“Aislynn! That fool!” Shaeonyn snarled, then turned at once to the Black Guard. “Destroy him now! We’ve no more time to waste!”
The dead faery guardians strode purposefully up the street toward him. Obadon shifted his grip on his sword to both hands, readying the weapon as he began backing away from them down the street opposite Valthesh. The Black Guard was quickly closing on him, their powerful green legs pushing their huge, rain-glistening bodies over the cries and groping hands of the pavement below. Shaeonyn followed, her own quick steps suddenly anxious. Obadon backed further down the street, trying to maintain his stance on the slick cobblestones. He caught a glimpse of Valthesh lurking in the street beyond the charging wall of undead Fae.
The first reached him several steps ahead of the rest, its massive arms reaching for his throat, probably confident that Obadon’s weapon was of no consequence, for all blades passed through their seawater bodies with little effect. Obadon quickly reversed, stepped forward with the blade and thrust it upward under the creature’s chin.
The blade burned suddenly with a fierce blue flame as it exited the top of the guardian’s head. The Black Guard opened its mouth in a terrible scream that shattered the remaining glass in the windows on the street around them. The undead faery convulsed, seemingly suspended by the blade that Obadon steadfastly held with both hands. Then, with a sigh, the figure collapsed, its saltwater crashing to the ground, washing across the stones and mixing with the rainwater as it ran down toward the sea.
The Black Guard slid to a halt, now uncertain.
Their leader, Deython, stepped cautiously forward, drawing his own weapon, a wide, keen-edged sword, as he did. When he spoke, his voice was dark and demanding. “What is that weapon?”
Obadon drew the wet sword back once more, his stance more firm, his countenance more determined. “It says its name is ‘Soulreaver,’” Obadon said, rain cascading over his grinning teeth. “And it is anxious to make your acquaintance.”
Deython raised his own blade with a great shout. His fellow guardians drew their weapons as well.
“Only thirty-five more to go,” Obadon said grimly.
Valthesh watched the undead guardians turn the corner in pursuit of Obadon. She felt sorry for him, actually, and wished that there were something she could do for him. She knew that he counted on her help. She hoped he would understand when she did not.
The Black Guard was not her target; she had only ever had one from the beginning—one clear objective whose attainment had to be achieved at any cost or sacrifice.
It was then that Shaeonyn, following the Black Guard, stepped into sight.
Valthesh released the power caged within her, a combination of the Sharaj and all the hatred of her soul.
Shaeonyn wheeled around, sensing the tendrils of magic rushing toward her, but too late. A tornado of flame exploded around her, lifting the Sharajin off the ground, spinning her in its blazing vortex. Raindrops sputtered, flashing into steam against the whirling column of fire. Shaeonyn screamed in rage and agony; Valthesh smiled grimly, her eyes bright and wide as she watched. Valthesh gestured with her hand and the column pitched sideways, slamming Shaeonyn against the side of the building with a sickening thud. Valthesh laughed aloud. She repeated the motion again and again, giggling hysterically each time.
Suddenly, her laughter stopped.
The flaming figure of Shaeonyn emerged from the burning column, floating out over the street toward her. Her hair was ablaze as were her wings, her arms upraised, poised to strike.
Valthesh cursed, then turned and ran.
The street behind her exploded, sharp shards of stone ripping the air and cutting into her back and legs. She fell, tumbling across the wet stones. She could feel the ragged holes torn in her wings; they would be useless now even if they were dry. There was a pain in her left leg also, making it difficult for her to move, but she knew Shaeonyn was behind her and far from finished. Valthesh rolled over quickly to her back. Shaeonyn was closer still, the flames on her body sputtering out in the rain, her charred features smiling at her from a head now devoid of hair.
Valthesh thrust her hand up, a piece of lightning flashing in Shaeonyn’s eyes. Valthesh knew it was a weak move, but it might work as a distraction. She rolled to her hands and knees, pushing upward with her good leg, trying to run.
But the hands from the pavement grabbed at her.
Valthesh struggled against them, crying out. The hands were pulling away the cobblestones as well, digging a hole beneath her.
Digging her grave.
She pulled herself forcefully away from them, their gray fingernails tearing her flesh. Bleeding, she stumbled down the street back toward the treasure house.
The laughter of Shaeonyn followed her all the way.
Deython ran down the water-soaked street, his heavy footfalls splashing occasionally in the pooled water among the broken cobblestones.
Ahead of him ran his prey: the Argentei faery that stood in the way of the quest. The blank eyes of the Kyree damned followed him everywhere; their faces straining to follow him from the walls, posts, and roofs of which they had become a part. Their hands strained toward him from the stones below, desperate to touch him. He was alive and free and they longed for his touch. Deython heard their voices crying out for him and their sound made stalking him that much easier.
Deython matched him step for step. Already he could see that Obadon was tiring. Deython would have dispatched him without thought but the blade Obadon held was no ordinary edge of steel. It had already obliterated one of the Black Guard—something Deython had not thought possible. This meant that his prey was dangerous and required more than brute strength to bring down.
Deython smiled; the danger felt almost like being alive.
Obadon dashed across a circular plaza with the Lord of the Dead and his Black Guard still in pursuit. Deython pointed in rapid succession to four of the guardians behind him, indicating where they should attack. Each of them leaped into the roiling sky, the seafoam-color bodies rolling in the air and landing feetfirst against the plaza stones.
Obadon uttered a warrior cry, charging at once toward the surprised undead faery blocking his way. The guardian raised his own sword, but Obadon attached him with a fury unlike anything the guardians had seen among the living. The staccato of crashing steel rang across the plaza.
“Now,” Deython commanded.
The guardians of the dead charged as one, but not soon enough. Obadon feigned an overhead blow, reversed and buried the blue-lightning blade into his opponent. A horrendous scream shook the buildings. Obadon leaped backward, deflecting the blows of two other guardians that had closed in on him. Grasping one of them by the arm, he pulled the undead warrior forward and off balance. It blocked the second guardian’s swing and allowed Obadon the opportunity to thrust the tip of his blade through the eye of his opponent.
The third scream ripped the air.
The guardian remaining in Obadon’s grasp, however, reared up, pushing his back into the Argentei faery’s chest, tossing him backward off his feet. Obadon rolled as the guardian’s blade slashed backward in a wide arc, its tip tearing through his calf muscle.
Obadon cried out fiercely but still got to his feet, throwing himself backward, his blade held with both hands at his side, tip toward the rear. The blade slid into the body of his attacker.
“Back!” Deython commanded.
The remaining guardians stopped and took several steps. Obadon stood panting as they carefully surrounded him in the plaza. Blood flowed freely from his wound as he leaned heavily on his good leg.
“You fight well, Obadon of Argentei.” Deython’s voice was hollow and deep as he spoke from the edge of the circle. “You have a unique weapon.”
“It was a gift,” Obadon replied with a grimace. “From someone you were sworn to protect. It would seem there is not only no truth among the dead, there is no honor either.”
Deython slowly raised his sword. “I serve a higher calling. Shaeonyn has brought us to the knowledge of a higher purpose: to serve our fellow dead and bring them comfort in their torment.”
“Liar,” Obadon sneered.
Deython frowned menacingly.
“There is no comfort for the dead of Sharajentei!” Obadon shouted, taking several painful steps toward the towering sea-green faery. “Shaeonyn lied to you. Cling to this world, Deython of Sharajentei. I seek the enlightenment that you will never know!”
Obadon raised his sword and lunged toward the Lord of the Dead. Deython parried and at once their metallic blows pealed throughout the plaza. Deython could see the fire of life in his opponent’s eyes and felt himself pressed back by the intense flurry of blows. Deython spun his blade, cutting deeply into the mad faery’s left arm but still his opponent pressed his attack as he screamed in his warrior rage. Deython’s blank eyes were wide as he desperately tried to fend off the blows of a blade that he felt sure would erase his existence.
Obadon stepped onto his injured leg but it would not hold him and he reeled backward. Deython saw his chance, whirled his massive blade in his hand and thrust through his opponent’s chest.
Obadon stared back with a look of surprise. Blood trickled from the corner of his lips as his mouth moved. “I—I found . . .”
Obadon collapsed, sliding off Deython’s blade as he dropped his sword onto the wet cobblestones.
Deython stood gazing down at Obadon’s body, though he could not tell for how long he was buried in his own thoughts. It was the sound of Shaeonyn’s laughter that awakened him from his reveries.
“Come,” he said to his remaining guardians. “Our new mistress calls.”
The stage is deserted. I feel uncomfortable here, for this place seems abandoned and hollow. The light is dim and difficult to see. I wander for a time, wondering where everyone has gone. Then I see him.
My little monster friend with the long ears; he sits in the center of the stage and I cannot account for why I did not see him at first. His legs are crossed as he contemplates his own device whose parts look so much like my own.
I step over to him, the piece of my own device in my hands. I see that he has placed his device in a frame that seems to have room for two more. He is frowning as he contemplates his little globe and occasionally reaches out and touches it. Nothing happens and he sighs.
I kneel down next to him, holding the pieces of my device awkwardly in my hands. This interests the little fellow and he looks at my pieces as well. I fear to speak, for I know he will not understand me and do not wish to frighten him.
I try to put my pieces together but this only amuses the little green fellow. He points to the framework and one of the bowl-like pieces in my hands. I see here where it connects with the frame and easily set it in place.
As I do, the spindle slides free of the hemisphere in bronze. He smiles and then points to another piece in my hands . . .
FAERY TALES BRONZE CANTICLES, TOME VIII, FOLIO 3, LEAVES 72-73
“You’ve nearly got it.” Gosrivar was in awe.
“Just a few more pieces,” Aislynn answered, her eyes intent on her work.
“Then what will happen?” her companion asked earnestly.
Aislynn shook her head. “I don’t know, Gosrivar—I wish I did.”
In the distance, the doors of the treasure house banged open. Aislynn and Gosrivar both looked up with a start.
“She is coming! She is coming!” It was Valthesh, her hoarse voice ringing through the hall. She was limping badly, her blood streaking the floor behind her from a wound in her leg. Her face was battered and one eye was swollen shut. “I’m sorry, Aislynn. I’m so sorry.”
Gosrivar hurried over to her side, catching her just as she was about to fall. He laid her down quickly beneath the stone faery. “Aislynn, please—finish it!”
Aislynn turned back to the device. That part of her mind that was in the Sharaj could see the monster showing her how to put the device back together, but her time was running out.
“We will by all means finish it,” came a new voice into the hall. “But not the way you think. Put it all back, Aislynn—put it all back exactly as it was before.”
Aislynn looked up. It was Shaeonyn. Behind her stood Deython and several more of what had once been her own dead guardians.
“Don’t listen to her,” Valthesh croaked. “I—I’m sorry, Aislynn; I should not have kept silence. My father knew who she was—and she murdered him for it! I thought I could avenge him . . .”
Shaeonyn looked down at the broken woman lying on the ground. “Valthesh? You were Pelithei’s daughter?” The Sharajin smiled. “Of course, I remember now—though after so many killings they all seem to blur in the mind.”
“You killed her father?” Aislynn was aghast. “Why?”
Shaeonyn smiled. “It only seemed just—considering that he had killed me the year before.”
“What?”
“Yes, little Oraclyn.” Shaeonyn grinned through clenched teeth. “I’ve been dead for some time now. I find it extremely convenient to keep things just the way they are—which is why you will put that device back the way you found it. Or would you rather become like me?”