still.
*
Chapter Sixteen
While those old, mortal-hewn temples burned and spent their power for the return, other, far more ancient temples were silent, and dark. The oldest places of all, those of black stone, whether on plains, or high in mountain air and buried beneath the snow, or those that were long hidden deep underground. Silent, dark places, that may have been splinters of nothingness, or the void itself.
But for one.
There was one of those black-stone edifices that was buried so deep in the bowels of the world, so long forgotten, that even rumour of it had died.
A black stone haven upon which humans had built a castle long ago.
The castle and the town both were named Naeth, but the hallways below had been there long, long before.
That one was not silent. Far from it.
'Wake, love. Time for sleeping is done, my time is here,' said the voice from below. The voice that was in Tirielle A'm Dralorn's head.
*
'The time has come, Tirielle,' said the Seer. 'I am dead, now. Burned up. But it is all as it should be, all is as it must be. Fate moves on, Tirielle. Men like Caeus, they don't understand. Can't fight some things, can you, my friend?'
In her head. The child she'd saved, in her head. Like a sweet nightmare.
'I'm all used up, Tirielle, but it's not over. Fight's only just begun.'
The voices in her head had nearly driven Tirielle insane. Perhaps they had succeeded after all, and she was just slow to realise it, but she was becoming accustomed to these strange intrusions into her thoughts. She cried, for a time, when Sia's voice came no more, but she still wasn't lonely, there in her room.
Because of the other voice, the one from below. It was almost constant now.
'Ah!' said the woman, and Tirielle could almost feel the woman's smile, even though she was nothing more than a voice, just madness, even, perhaps.
'You're awake.'
Tirielle smiled along at the woman's evident joy. The Waker, finally winning her battle against slumber.
As she smiled, Tirielle took the knife from the bedspread, from her makeshift war map, and with the sharp edge she sliced a little way into her finger. She watched the blood well up on the tip, then, carefully looking down at the salt pot that was Naeth in her imagination, she allowed a single drop of blood to fall.
Blood on the pot. For the lady with the voice in her head. The one she thought of as The Waker...but now that was done, who was she? What was she? And why the blood?
She didn't know why. All she knew was that it felt right .
*
II.
The Lake of Glass
Chapt er Seventeen
Renir Esyn dreamed the blood-black dreams of battle.
Outside the castle where he slept a fitful, broken kind of sleep, a heavy rain pounded the stonework. Shadows of ill-aspect played across the walls of his borrowed room, and sweat beaded his brow despite the cooling autumn wind from the open window. Turning and thrashing, legs and arms trapped within the thick blankets, Renir muttered and groaned in his sleep. He was no stranger to harsh dreams. Renir was a man haunted in his sleep by dreams of his dead wife, or sometimes of foes slain and bloody who would sit at the foot of his bed, atop his blankets.
Many times now, Renir cried out while the memories of wounds played out from within his wicked sleep. His worst, a sword thrust clean through his thigh, should have laid him up for months, or even killed him.
But his dream-guardian,
*
Chapter Sixteen
While those old, mortal-hewn temples burned and spent their power for the return, other, far more ancient temples were silent, and dark. The oldest places of all, those of black stone, whether on plains, or high in mountain air and buried beneath the snow, or those that were long hidden deep underground. Silent, dark places, that may have been splinters of nothingness, or the void itself.
But for one.
There was one of those black-stone edifices that was buried so deep in the bowels of the world, so long forgotten, that even rumour of it had died.
A black stone haven upon which humans had built a castle long ago.
The castle and the town both were named Naeth, but the hallways below had been there long, long before.
That one was not silent. Far from it.
'Wake, love. Time for sleeping is done, my time is here,' said the voice from below. The voice that was in Tirielle A'm Dralorn's head.
*
'The time has come, Tirielle,' said the Seer. 'I am dead, now. Burned up. But it is all as it should be, all is as it must be. Fate moves on, Tirielle. Men like Caeus, they don't understand. Can't fight some things, can you, my friend?'
In her head. The child she'd saved, in her head. Like a sweet nightmare.
'I'm all used up, Tirielle, but it's not over. Fight's only just begun.'
The voices in her head had nearly driven Tirielle insane. Perhaps they had succeeded after all, and she was just slow to realise it, but she was becoming accustomed to these strange intrusions into her thoughts. She cried, for a time, when Sia's voice came no more, but she still wasn't lonely, there in her room.
Because of the other voice, the one from below. It was almost constant now.
'Ah!' said the woman, and Tirielle could almost feel the woman's smile, even though she was nothing more than a voice, just madness, even, perhaps.
'You're awake.'
Tirielle smiled along at the woman's evident joy. The Waker, finally winning her battle against slumber.
As she smiled, Tirielle took the knife from the bedspread, from her makeshift war map, and with the sharp edge she sliced a little way into her finger. She watched the blood well up on the tip, then, carefully looking down at the salt pot that was Naeth in her imagination, she allowed a single drop of blood to fall.
Blood on the pot. For the lady with the voice in her head. The one she thought of as The Waker...but now that was done, who was she? What was she? And why the blood?
She didn't know why. All she knew was that it felt right .
*
II.
The Lake of Glass
Chapt er Seventeen
Renir Esyn dreamed the blood-black dreams of battle.
Outside the castle where he slept a fitful, broken kind of sleep, a heavy rain pounded the stonework. Shadows of ill-aspect played across the walls of his borrowed room, and sweat beaded his brow despite the cooling autumn wind from the open window. Turning and thrashing, legs and arms trapped within the thick blankets, Renir muttered and groaned in his sleep. He was no stranger to harsh dreams. Renir was a man haunted in his sleep by dreams of his dead wife, or sometimes of foes slain and bloody who would sit at the foot of his bed, atop his blankets.
Many times now, Renir cried out while the memories of wounds played out from within his wicked sleep. His worst, a sword thrust clean through his thigh, should have laid him up for months, or even killed him.
But his dream-guardian,
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