Book Two of Light in the Dark
“Shattered Hopes is a cleverly written second novel, which not only grew up to the first one but managed to surpass it.”
Read an Excerpt from Shattered Hopes
From the journal of Danthair, Fifth Chief Librarian at Traghnalach’s Temple in Ma’tallon, Kalduuhnean Calendar 1601
Sometimes the world as one knows it comes to an end. On occasion the change is gradual, but mostly it is thrust upon the unsuspecting soul. There is hardly a moment in life where one’s choices don’t come back to haunt.
As is the case with history, the astute scholar may discern truth from fiction in reports written by victor and victim alike. Who was in the right, and who was wrong, are questions that cannot be answered by relying on such sources, as they are always blemished by the emotions of the author.
The Librarians of holy Traghnalach, even if we would have the public believe otherwise, aren’t infallible either. Family, home, our general surroundings, tarnish even the most painstaking recordkeeping. What is right and wrong is always a matter of perspective, although there are some absolute truths. Affection, revulsion, even the most despicable and most virtuous of beings have those. Much like the gods, we make mistakes, and although mortal errors are usually of far lesser significance than those of the gods, the errors of people can have as far reaching consequences as Lesganagh All-Maker’s desire to be with his mother.
Love and need bring just as much terror into the world as greed and hate.
In the aftermath of the Demon War, when the people of the countries surrounding old Gathran hoped it was over, tragedy struck anew. As it is with human or elven nature, things out of sight usually are lost to the mind as well. Thus, the dangers of the past were forgotten by all but a few. The demons still clawed at their prison walls, and lust for power quickly drowned out the whisperings of legendary warnings.
In a way, their own bright light blinded even the Chosen of Lesganagh and the self-proclaimed scions of a disinherited prince. Both factions followed too narrow a path, and progressive ideas, like those of the Chosen Kildanor, were usually ignored, shunned by those who deemed it best not to stray from paths worn out by decades of tradition.
Unfortunately, events unfold without caring for tenets and beliefs. The war that had begun with the invasion of Danastaer by neighboring Chanastardh, which had so briefly been halted at the walls of old Dunthiochagh, was just beginning.
CHAPTER 1
Twenty-first of Chill 1475 K.C.
Sir Úistan’s household was awash with panic. Kildanor heard servants rushing to and fro outside his chamber. It was hardly surprising given that some unknown assailant had forcefully entered one of the manor’s remotest and securest rooms.
Another set of footsteps approached and halted. Before the second knock sounded, he called “Enter!” and the door opened with only a slight scrape of metal on metal.
One of the retainers – he recalled the man’s name being Kohar – poked his head in. “The Lady Ealisaid is here, Lord Kildanor.” Kohar stepped aside, allowing the Wizardess by.
She looked haggard. That she was standing at all was surprising enough, given what he had heard of the skirmish fought the night before. “This better be good,” she said, voice tinted with exhaustion.
Biting back a retort, Kildanor said, “Thank you, Kohar.” The servant bowed and closed the door behind him. To Ealisaid he said, “I need your… expertise.”
“Oh?” She sat down on one of the plain chairs, her face betraying only a hint of discomfort. “Again?” Ealisaid asked, a mocking smile playing on her lips.
He couldn’t blame her for acting this way. So far, he and Cumaill had used her talents to further their own goals, and although the Baron was courteous, he made no effort to hide his disdain. “I am at a loss here,” he said, dodging the confrontation. “And my limited point of view doesn’t help in understanding what transpired here last night.”
“Well then,” she said, relaxing slightly, “why don’t you tell me what did happen?”
Consciously the Chosen cleared his throat. “I’ve waited until now to question the chief witnesses, thinking it prudent to have you attend as well. Not to mention that Lord Cahill made it quite clear that his family was badly in need of rest.” He got up and headed for the door. “I will speak with him now.”
“You called me here to wait?” He thought he detected a hint of teasing in her voice. The first syllable of his apology was already forming when she waved him off. “I understand, go. Do what you have to do.” Maybe she wasn’t such a menace as he had initially thought.
He found Úistan Cahill haggling with the glassmaker at the door of the demolished turret room.
“I am well aware that the city is under siege, good man,” Sir Úistan said, “but considering how much money I have already given you on various transactions I thought you might be a tad more… shall we say ‘forthcoming’ with your estimate.”
“My Lord Cahill, the sand needed to create glass comes from the coast, up the Dunth through Merthain. Chanastardh is that land’s master, and with the winter and the siege, getting more anytime soon is nigh impossible. Your own business also thrives on demand and supply, and you know that when supply is low prices soar.”
“I gave two thirds of my ore to the city’s smelters and smiths in order to bolster our defenses!” Lord Cahill retorted, his voice rising in indignation. “What good is your sand when the town’s overrun?”
“With due respect, sir, sand can rarely be used to ward off enemy swords.”
“No, but it can be used to keep the rust off steel, did you consider that?” the nobleman snapped.
“You’d be happy if I did as you did, donating two thirds of my store to the warriors?” the tradesman asked, surprise plain on his face.
“Aye,” Cahill grunted.
“Very well, I’ll see to it.” The glassmaker bowed and retreated.
“Do that,” the lord of the manor said, and then shouted, “Camran! Board the room up!” A moment later a squad of retainers, led by Camran, poured onto the landing from an adjacent room, tools and wood already in hands, and set to work. Sir Úistan’s eyes caught Kildanor’s and he winked. “What is it, Chosen?”
“How many craftsmen have you strong-armed into donating most of their stores to the defense?” he asked instead of a reply, still amazed at the sheer genius of the exchange.
“Who? Me? Strong-armed?” Cahill smirked. “Just doing my best to help our friend.” After a brief pause, he asked, “You didn’t come here to see me persuade misers, did you now?”
“No, sir,” Kildanor said. “The Wizardess is here.”
“Already?” Cahill sounded surprised, but considering what he had just seen, Kildanor wondered if this was an act as well. It probably was. “They’ll see you in a while.”
The Chosen was about to thank his host when an idea struck him. “If it is all right with you, I’d like to first speak to your wife and only afterward to your daughter.”
Sir Úistan understood immediately. Eyes glittering with predatory mirth, he said, “All right.” Again, Kildanor started to express his gratitude, but Lord Cahill wasn’t finished. “However, the women have gone through quite an ordeal, and I will have your head if you press too hard, understood?”
Despite the threat, which he knew the powerful nobleman would see through, the Chosen kept his calm. Of course, he would not push the women until they broke, but he needed them to relive last night’s horror. “I will do what is necessary, nothing more, nothing less, milord.”
“Good man,” Cahill said and turned away.
Dismissed, Kildanor headed downstairs and returned to his room. The door had barely closed behind him when he was greeted by Ealisaid, standing with her back to the window, hands on the sill, head turned his way. “What happened here?” she asked, continuing the inquiry as if he hadn’t left.
“You used magic to spy on…?” He didn’t finish the question; their relationship was finally beyond mutual hostilities and he wanted to keep them this way. Besides, he reminded himself, walking through the spiritworld was not magic in and of itself. He saw her looking at him, a shapely eyebrow cocked. “Foolish of me, sorry,” Kildanor stammered the apology. “After all, that’s why you’re here.”
A mischievous sparkle in her eyes was joined by a brief smile. “I’m here because my ma and da loved each other, technically speaking.” Was she making fun of him? “And the magical hibernation, of course,” she added with a laugh. “So, you are half-right.”
“Be that as it may,” he replied pointedly, “I would have preferred you to be neutral, with no prior knowledge.”
“Aside from a wrecked room, I didn’t notice anything wrong,” said the Wizardess. “I’m still objective and hope you are also,” she added, again smiling. She was making fun of him and his reflexive suspicion of all things magical. The opening door halted his reply.
Lady Cahill looked exhausted; most likely she hadn’t slept either. “Let’s get this over with,” she said, heading for the only chair in the room and taking a seat without glancing at either of them.
“Milady, this is the Wizardess Ealisaid,” he introduced his companion. Any further explanation was waved away by an impatient hand.
“I know who she is and understand why she’s here. I did not come here to make small talk. You asked me here, so begin your questioning.”
“Very well,” Kildanor said. The entire night had been his to ponder on what he wanted to know. “Please tell me what happened, everything you do remember.”
Leonore Cahill heaved a sigh; it seemed she was deflating, but only for a heartbeat. Then she regained her erect posture. “Ralgon recounted the night of Hesmera’s murder. I think he wanted to get clues as to who was behind the killing. The light went out.”
“How?” the Chosen interrupted.
“It wasn’t as if some freak wind had blown out the candles,” the mistress of the house answered, shaking her head. “No, from one moment to the next I couldn’t see a hand before my eyes. We had Drangar bound—he asked for the bonds as proof he meant no harm—and he wanted to be released. As if we could have in that dark.” She paused, rubbed her face with trembling hands, and then continued. “The intruder taunted him while I felt something hold me down. Well, not down, but—it was as if someone was holding both my arms and covering my mouth.”
Kildanor glanced at Ealisaid who leaned against the doorframe, listening intently.
“It seemed as if the intruder knew Drangar from when they were children; he spoke in that taunting voice lads use when they make fun of one another.” She smoothed her dress. “He knew things of Drangar’s past, saying he wasn’t a murderer, but Ralgon was. Something was thrown, and then he threatened to rape and to kill us after he was done with him.” A brief pause, Lady Cahill closed her eyes, furrowed her brow and scratched the side of her nose. Then she said, “I know that’s what he said, but it was in the same tone he had used earlier, more taunt than threat. Kept calling him bastard, but I could tell there was more than mere insult behind the word. I begged Ralgon to save us. Then Drangar began to throw insults at the man. A weapon was drawn. Drangar was willing to sacrifice his life for our safety. The stranger replied he would kill us once he was done. I felt a blade against my neck. Then the stranger’s touch left me. I think by then Drangar could see again, or he was charging blindly into a wall.”
Kildanor frowned, aside from being completely bald and gaunt as a skeleton, he remembered no bruise on Ralgon. “Are you sure?” he asked.
Lady Cahill gave him a stern look. “Aye, I heard him thump into the stone.”
“Please continue,” Ealisaid prompted.
“Well, it was suddenly light again; the intruder shot fire from his hands. I was blinded for a moment, and then I saw a cage surrounding Drangar.”
“Cage?” he and Ealisaid asked simultaneously.
An annoyed bob of the head was the only reply Leonore Cahill gave. “It penned him in, invisible. He lunged for the mage and smashed into a barrier. The villain said Ralgon did not belong here. Drangar probed the unseen walls—I saw skin and flesh burn from his hands, but they healed almost immediately. My Neena managed to escape the mage’s claws and wanted to distract him, but he captured her again. Then you bashed through the door, Chosen. Your appearance was enough of a distraction for Ralgon to breach the barrier. I saw him lose substance as he pushed through; the burns he suffered vanished as he shriveled.”
Kildanor caught Ealisaid’s eye and saw her head shake imperceptibly. Lady Cahill didn’t notice, and spoke on, “Then, when Ralgon was upon the mage, the man vanished.” She took a deep breath and said, “I apologize, but that is all I do remember. If you have any further questions, ask them later; I will retire now.”
“Thank you for your time, milady,” Kildanor said.
When the noblewoman had closed the door behind her, he looked at Ealisaid. “Well, what do you think?”
“A tall tale,” the Wizardess replied.
“True nonetheless.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw the living husk that is Drangar Ralgon clutch at the intruder right before he vanished.”
The sorceress frowned, and then said, “You do remember how we first met?”
How could he forget? Three demolished houses and a dozen or so people killed was hard to dismiss, even more so when it had been magic that had shattered lives and livelihoods. He simply said, “Aye.”
“When you punched me, I was already exhausted.”
“Good for all of us, I think.”
“Yes, but… do you think Ralgon knows magic?”
He wasn’t certain whether her expression was one of worry or elation. Neither was he sure of what his own face was showing the moment the question passed her lips.
“I doubt it. We can ask him later.”
A knock cut the discussion short.
Neena Cahill looked as tired as her mother, but her face hardened as she sat down on the chair. She recounted the same sequence of events, though her observations regarding the captor’s intent differed. To her the threatened deaths were all but certain, and she considered herself lucky to be alive. When her recounting came to the inevitable end, she spoke of being so angry that she just jumped her captor and pummeled him. Kildanor recalled the image of slim Neena Cahill straddling the intruder’s back, fists flailing like light hail, and about as effective. She finished by saying, “Then, just as Drangar, whom he called Ralchanh, got close to his face, I saw him pressing his left arm against his body and a dark liquid squirted into his hand. Then he was gone.”
Dark liquid? Immediately he wanted to know Ealisaid’s opinion, but with Lady Neena there he was unwilling to rouse her father’s ire by speaking of such things in front of the nobleman’s daughter.
Neena added, “I heard Drangar ask ‘Why?’ over and over again, as if he recognized the intruder.”
The next one to question was definitely the mercenary. “Thank you, milady, for your time,” Kildanor said.
“If there’s anything more you need to know, I will be with our guest.” The young noblewoman stood, straightened her dress, gave them both a curt nod, and left.
Alone once more, he regarded the Wizardess, who seemed deep in thought. Finally, Ealisaid broke the silence. “You’ve fought both Wizards and demons, is that correct?”
“Yes, and neither was pretty.” An understatement if there ever was one, he thought grimly.
“I didn’t think it was.” Again, she fell silent.
He had only ever killed her kind; never once had he sat and talked with one. The atrocities he had witnessed and heard of: earth and fire, even the very air had become a weapon in the mages’ war. Shadowpass was the constant reminder of why magic was best left untouched but maybe the Heir-War hadn’t been so different from any other succession war. The rebellion right here in Dunthiochagh had been fought with steel, and Haldain’s still constant state of civil war was ample proof of the longevity of human greed and ambition. Maybe the only real difference had been that the Phoenix Wizards’ arsenal had consisted of magic, not swords and axes. The effects were certainly farther-reaching than any struggle fought by soldiers, but maybe, in the end, it had just been greedy bastards fighting each other for supremacy.
Intellectually Kildanor knew the conclusion was correct, but on a personal level it was hard to accept. Ealisaid’s voice battered down the wall of musings he had unconsciously erected. “I said: how did you perceive the magic my brethren worked during the Heir-War?”
For a moment he stared at her, not knowing what to reply. Then, reining in the last vestiges of his mind still roaming the past, he answered. “I never felt much of anything there.”
“Unlike the Demon War?” Her determination showed on her face. Here was a mystery he had asked her to solve with him, and while he was caught up in an internal struggle, coming to terms with something that had in recent weeks bothered him more and more, Ealisaid was tackling the riddle, as he should have. How could he explain the evaporation of possibility, the iron fist with which the demonic spells had been wrought?
Then it struck him. “Remember when you tore down the houses?” The look on her face was answer enough. “Like that, as if all chance had fled.” She arched an eyebrow, nodding, urging him to go on.
“You know,” he continued, “the world around us lives, breathes, changes. With your magic in Beggar’s Alley, and that of the demons, it felt as if everything was smashed into a… mold, denying alteration.”
Heartbeats later, Ealisaid had been shaking her head, eyes darting as if reading pages as they flickered by, she said, “I know you hit me, but I was ready to pass out anyway.” She swallowed, frowning.
“You looked rather pale, I admit.” What was she getting at? The spell she had wrought days earlier, transforming the Palace into a mountain glade, hadn’t felt like the destruction she had caused weeks ago.
“My dress was also hanging on me, not really fitting I mean. Same as now, actually.”
He scrutinized her. If she felt uncomfortable, it didn’t show. Indeed, she looked thinner than she had a day ago, as if she had spent weeks eating little if anything at all. “What happened?”
“I turned the entire length of South Wall invisible, its occupants I mean.”
He already knew that, but that didn’t explain the sudden change in weight. “Seriously, how did it happen?”
Ealisaid took a deep breath, and another, and then, with a sigh preceding her answer, she said, “I’m not sure. I used my ‘inner strength,’ at least that’s what I called it when I was young. I could change things, willing them into an altered state. The results were spectacular, but they left me dizzy.”
“Thinner as well?” he asked. He knew so little about magic that all of it seemed like a triple sealed book.
“I was a child, growing still, I know not.”
A thought struck him. “Did Ralgon use this inner strength as well?”
Her only reply was a shrug.
“But if Drangar… no, wait, I’m confused. I always thought this sort of thing, this solidity of things, was something demonic.”
Another shrug. Ealisaid, again, looked as if she was mulling things over.
“It isn’t demonic,” he concluded, his gut reeling against this explanation.
“I was told not to draw on something that turned every possibility into finality, because that’s, at its core, what it is. Finality in this world is just another term for…”
“Death,” he interrupted. “So, by forcing things to obey to your wishes, you are killing its chances by sacrificing of yourself?” It sounded ludicrous. What use was achieving one’s goals when the process itself killed one?
“I think that captures the essence of it.”
“We should take a look at the chamber,” Kildanor said, heading for the door.
“Isn’t it being repaired already? I saw craftsmen on my way up here.”
“Sir Úistan merely wanted the glassmakers and carpenters to put their efforts into the city’s defense, I think.”
“So, all this mummery was just to get a bunch of reluctant carpenters and such to assist the warriors?”
He heard her surprise and laughed. “It boils down to it; a crafty man, Lord Cahill.” Why Cumaill had never asked for this nobleman to advise him was another riddle.
The turret room was indeed in the same state of ruin as it had been the night before. The circular burn on the floor, presumably the boundaries of the invisible cage that had held Ralgon, looked like a ring of obsidian. Had the heat liquefied the stones underneath? Kneeling, Kildanor traced the surface. Yes, the floor was stone, and the bump was indeed glass. How the Scales had Drangar escaped that prison? “Look at this,” he said over his shoulder. The Wizardess was standing at the battered down door, inspecting his hammer-work.
“Who tore down this… is this steeloak?” she asked.
“Never mind the wood, I did that. No, feel the circle.”
She knelt beside him and mirrored his motion of a moment earlier. “How did the…” She never finished her question. A discreet cough from behind interrupted her, and the Chosen turned to see one of Lord Cahill’s servants, a tall man with an impish look on his face.
“Yes?” Kildanor asked irritably.
“The young Lady asked me to inform you that Master Ralgon is awake. Would you like me to escort you to him?”
Had Sir Úistan ordered Drangar to be moved? Tired as he was, he agreed. “Yes, take me to him.” To the Wizardess he said, “Look around, maybe you’ll find some more clues. I’ll see what our mysterious friend has to say.” Distracted, Ealisaid nodded her head, still inspecting the ring of glazed stone. He shrugged and followed the retainer down the stairs. Hopefully Ralgon could shed more light on the events of last night.
