Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

VIII

She woke in her bed without any notion as to how she had gotten there. Rising quickly, Valea went to the window to get some idea of how far the day had progressed. By the sun’s position she knew that nearly all of it had been spent.

Setera and the others who attended her again fretted over her peculiar behavior, but Valea shrugged off their concern and assured them that she would soon be better. Her illness had passed. Now that she had witnessed-even taken part in-the climactic moment, Valea felt certain that the dreams would end. Still, it irked her that some questions remained.

And that drew her back to the staircase.

The spot where Galani had died remained burned in her memory, as did the destruction of Shade. Making certain that no one watched, Valea retraced their movements, reliving each moment until the point where Arak had come too late to save his cousin. What she hoped to accomplish, she could not say, but it seemed the only thing to do.

From the library, she heard a peculiar, creaking sound.

Valea rushed to the room, certain that now the way had opened for her. She stepped through the entrance-and saw only the bookcases standing as they had all her life.

Dejected, the weary sorceress touched the one in question, already knowing that it would not move.

Suddenly, the strange groaning started anew. At first Valea thought that the book case did open, but then she saw that it was only a shadow of the case, a ghost. Before her stood not only the physical piece, but also, turned to the side like a door ajar, a phantom image with different books, different tomes, lining each shelf.

Valea reached forward-and her hand sank into the wall.

Without hesitation, she stepped through . . . into solid stone.

She walked through it, retracing the ancient path down. The entire underground system had been filled, leaving not one iota of empty space. Oddly, Valea had no fear; some inner sense soothed her, assured her that the way was safe.

At the bottom, in the chamber where Arak had kept the Wyr Stone, she found Galani.

The elf was perfectly preserved. Her arms had been placed over her midsection and her blue gown had been straightened. Care had been taken to clean and dress the area of her terrible wound. She looked calm, almost wistful. Again, the resemblance between them struck Valea.

Galani lay floating in the midst of all the stone, encased forever by Arak, no doubt. There seemed no sign of the male elf and Valea wondered what had happened to both him and the Wyr Stone.

Then the sudden knowledge came to her that she now walked within the latter.

It was and was not as the sorceress had known it. The Wyr Stone had been altered beyond recognition both in appearance and substance, yet still she felt its presence, knew it now for the artifact that had been at the center of the tragedy. More than that now, Valea realized that it was the stone that had led her through all this, was responsible for her particular ghosts.

Perhaps all the ghostly memories of the Manor.

As Valea thought the last, she immediately pictured Arak setting his cousin here. One last time he bound himself to the Wyr Stone in order to create this crypt. Valea could hear the elf as he touched the artifact, hear Arak’s last, single-word command before his permanent departure.

“Remember . . .”

And so the stone . . . and through it, the Manor . . . did. But because of the immense power of the Wyr Stone, not just the memories of Galani were saved, but so many, many others after also. And with the peculiar properties of the artifact, even older memories were suddenly resurrected, adding further to the ancient edifice’s growing legion of ghosts.

Valea blinked, realizing that she had envisioned all this too clearly for it simply to be her imagination. She had just been told what Arak had done . . . and she knew that she had been told by Galani.

Forever bound to the Wyr Stone, forever bound to the Manor because of it, Galani was now a part of each as much as they were a part of her. Her physical shell remained, but she had become, in a sense, much, much more.

Which explained perhaps further why Valea, who had been born in this place, so resembled her.

She felt a sudden urge to depart and wisely followed it. Almost in the blink of an eye the youngest Bedlam stood once again before a very real, very solid bookcase. Recovering her equilibrium, Valea touched the wall, but this time found it as solid as the stone it was. It did not surprise her that she somehow knew that never again would she journey below or that those particular ghosts had vanished forever.

A day later, Lord Gryphon contacted her through a spell. The proud, avian head peered at her from within her mind.

“I hope I find you well, Valea Bedlam.”

“Yes, my lord . . . and you?”

“Good enough. Some matters I won’t trouble you with.” He cocked his head to the side. “I fear, though, I have only disappointment for you.”

She had been at her desk, still writing down all of which she had been a part. The journal was a personal one and would not be seen by her father unless she deemed it necessary. “Disappointment?”

“I find no mention of an Arak, as I suspected. I’m sorry.”

“I did not expect you to. My thanks, though.”

He was not finished. “Then there is the Wyr Stone.”

Her attention was absolute. “Yes?”

“Nothing but a myth. I thought I recalled mention of it. I looked in my old journals from my mercenary years . . .” He shrugged. “We old campaigners like to look back at the wars fondly . . . once they’re long over. Anyway, the subject of the stone came up once, but I had it verified by the best of sources that it was futile to go searching for it since it did not even exist.”

Valea barely held back a tired smile. “The best of sources? You’re sure?”

“It was your great-grandfather, Nathan . . . and he had queried Shade himself on the subject.”

For a moment, the sorceress was speechless. Quickly recovering, she thanked the lionbird for his diligence, then bid him farewell.

Shade himself.

It had remained a mystery to her why she had been the one who had been able to touch the Manor’s memories after so many attempts by her father and others. Now she thought she knew. Perhaps Galani had reached out to her other self, her reborn self. Perhaps she had been trying to send a message, a warning. Perhaps another stirring presence had awakened her.

Darkhorse . . . Queen Erini . . . they had seen him perish. Everyone was certain that Shade was finally at peace.

Valea looked up to the walls, whispering, “He isn’t dead, is he? He’s been resurrected again, hasn’t he?”

The walls did not reply . . . and that in itself told her the answer.

Closing the journal, the sorceress stared out her window at the lands of the Manor. Somewhere far beyond, Shade moved about again. The question remained, however, which Shade? His last incarnation had been a chaotic one, both evil and good combined. He had even seemed to regain some of his true self at the end, so Darkhorse had said.

A face came unbidden to her, but not Kyl’s. This was a more human face. The face behind the legend, behind the curse.