old comrade… and did her father know?
The desire for sleep was beginning to nag at her, but it was still only an infant in strength. The longer she delayed, however, the more dominant the demand would become. Sharissa began plotting her move, knowing that her time limit was short; the sorceress had already taxed herself the night before.
It was a shame, Sharissa thought, that she had no hound to follow his trail-providing Darkhorse had even left one. He moved more like the wind, and the only way she had ever been able to keep track of him was by reports from fearful and angry colonists and her own higher senses. Gathering information would take too long, and she had already tried to detect his present position.
The whimsical notion of the hound intruded upon her thoughts again, but it took Sharissa time to understand what it was her subconscious was trying to tell her. What use was a hound when she had no trail, and what did it have to do with her now useless ability to sense where Darkhorse was at this moment?
A hound followed a trail left by its prey, but there was no trail… was there?
“Not physical, but maybe magical!” she hissed, frustrated at herself for not seeing it sooner. Darkhorse was unique, being a creature whose very substance was akin to pure power given sentience. Yet, both Vraad sorcery and that of this world left a residue of sorts.
Did Darkhorse leave such a trail wherever he went?
She searched with her mind, seeing first the prismatic view of the world, then the lines of force that crisscrossed through everything. That the others who held some degree of power saw only one or the other when they sought to use their abilities always bothered her, for she wondered why she had been singled out. In fifteen years, the sorceress had never been able to train anyone to see the lifeforce of the world as she did.
To her surprise, the trail was clear. So foreign a magic was Darkhorse that he was a blight upon the otherwise colorful and organized landscape Sharissa perceived. Even after nearly a day had passed since his frustrated retreat from her scolding, the memory was still strong.
I didn’t see this? It was not so surprising, in retrospect. Did she study her shadow every day? What about the footprints she left in the soil when she went walking in the fields beyond the city? When one was astride so overwhelming a being as Darkhorse, even the world itself faded into the background.
“Sharissa?”
The voice startled her so, coming as it did after so many hours of solitude. Sharissa turned, already knowing who it was who had invaded her chambers. “Lochivan? What do you do here at this hour?”
The Tezerenee chuckled and stepped into the light. He carried his helm in the crook of one arm, allowing Sharissa to see the clan features he tended to hide more often than not. In truth, between Gerrod and his brother there was no comparison; Lochivan favored his father’s ursine features far too much to be considered handsome. “I drew a late watch. The patriarch plays no favorites, especially where his own children are concerned. When my watch was over, I could not sleep. I thought the solitude of the city would help, so I walked.” He shrugged. “I’ve known of your habit of staying up till all hours for years now, Sharissa. I thought you might be awake when you should be sleeping. When I saw the light and your figure outlined in the window at one point, I knew I was all too correct in my assumption.”
She was chagrined; it was true that this was not the first time he had stopped by. It was only that his timing could not have been worse… and his presence reminded her of who in the city would most profit by Darkhorse’s disappearance, though she found it hard to believe that the entire clan could muster the strength to threaten him.
“Is something wrong?” He had taken her silence to be, in part, an acceptance of his presence. Lochivan gazed around the vast room as he joined her, his eyes resting on Bethken’s unwanted gift. His mouth crooked upward at the ends as he put his helm on the table and examined it.
“A present from someone trying to worm his way into my favor,” she explained, then, realizing she had never answered his first question, added, “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I was just about to retire for the evening.”
“What’s left of it.” Lochivan put the lamp down. “I probably shouldn’t bother you, then. I can come back during the day.”
Despite herself, Sharissa could not help feeling that there was something amiss with the conversation. She knew what she was not telling Lochivan, but was there something else that he was not telling her?
“Lochivan, what do you know about Darkhorse?”
His eyes told her she had guessed correctly the reason for his being here. It had been too coincidental, even recalling his previous visits.
He said nothing, but there was now a tiny flame, a match or some minor use of power, at the tip of his index finger. The oil lamp flickered to life…
Sharissa reread the notes she had taken on the subterranean mapping project. Should take care of any worries, she thought. Now if they’d just do it the way I’ve described it and let me get on to something else!
Looking up from the table, the sorceress had the oddest feeling that something had passed her by, some event she should recall. Considering the many duties she had usurped from her overworked parent, not to mention her own research, Sharissa was not surprised that she might have forgotten something. Her eyes wandered the room in a distracted manner while she tried to think of what it was.
Her gaze came to rest on the oil lamp, which blazed high even after hours of use. The slim sorceress studied it further, finding some doubt in the image before her but at a loss as to explain just exactly what was out of place.
Should she douse it? A part of her saw the needless waste of oil, yet it seemed so unimportant a task, hardly worth rising for. She could always douse it when her work for the night was finished. That was not that long, was it?
Still, when she turned back to her work, her mind refused to leave the lamp to its function. It was as if the simple object was becoming the focal point of her existence.
I’ll just douse the flame and put it out of sight. It had to be getting very late if she was so concerned about a simple object. Sharissa started to rise, but then her attention wandered to a page of notes concerning a reconstruction phase that somehow involved future food production. The sorceress sat down and started to read. The plan had merit, but had she not read something similar to it? The more she perused the notes, the more the sorceress wondered at the familiarity of the recommendation.
The parchment fell from her hand. At the bottom of the recommendation was an analysis of the plan-in her handwriting and dated this very evening!
“Serkadion Manee!” she swore. Small wonder it sounded familiar to her; she recalled now reading it and making the suggestions at the bottom. How could she have forgotten it? Had the night drained her so much?
A shadow on the table flickered, as though living.
Sharissa turned and stared at the lamp-which she knew she had planned to dispose of at some point.
The sorceress rose from her chair with such fury that the glow she had cast to light the chamber grew momentarily into a miniature sunburst and the chair itself went tumbling backward as if seeking to escape her. Sharissa resisted an impulse to return to her work, to begin anew her research that she had abandoned earlier.
The closer she moved to the lamp, the stronger the flame became. The young sorceress found herself slowing more and more. She renewed her efforts instantly, knowing that if she continued to slow at the rate she had been, she would never even come within arm’s reach of her goal.
She all but closed her eyes as her fingers neared the flame, for it not only blazed as bright as her own magical light had, but the movements of the fire had a hypnotic effect.
“You’ve fooled me before! Not again!” she snarled at the innocent-looking lamp.
The flame rose high, almost causing Sharissa to pull her fingers back lest they be burned. Instead, she remembered herself and reached forward to end the battle between the devious trap and herself. “Not good enough!”
Tongues of hungry flame washed over her hand, seeking to blacken and curl her slim fingers before finally reducing them to ash. So it would have been if Sharissa had been any other person. Reflex had made her pull back the first time, but thought had reminded her that she was, after all, one of the most powerful spellcasters among her people. This pathetic thing before her was a clever but not so potent toy whose greatest strength had been its anonymity. Now that she knew the enemy’s choice of weapons, there was no difficulty. It had only been the lamp’s
