A Facet for the Gem (22 page)

Displeased at the sight of him toiling alone, Roftome reluctantly stepped beside him and used both feet with outstretched talons to sweep a flurry past his tail feathers. “It may not be wise to seek one who dwells so far below,” he warned. “He may not be so welcoming toward any who would uncover him.”

Morlen said nothing at this, though it slowed his efforts slightly to picture the hostile response his presence might incite, especially from one fabled to be so powerful, so long removed from any contact, light, or sound.

“If there is at least a part of him that wants to emerge,” he replied as freshly exposed stone glistened between them, “then, finding that, finding
him
, might help me as well.”

Mounds piled higher behind them while they spread across the frost-coated mountain base until, prying away another dense clump, Morlen found a narrow mouth in the rock that seemed to splinter farther out. “Here,” he said, moving to what he imagined would be its center while Roftome sidled over, clearing more away. The jagged fracture tapered only inches wider as Morlen began gutting the ice within the middle, and he realized he would have to flatten himself completely in order to even break through.

“I hope your back is as tough-skinned as it is strong,” said Roftome, bending his neck to peer inside. “This will not expand for many long crawls.”

Brushing away the last handfuls of snow from tight jaws that grinned before him, he listened to every cold drip inside their awaiting throat, echoing to the same recess much farther down, where he knew he must go. He removed his cloak and draped it over Roftome’s folded wings, kneeling beside the inhospitable entrance. His left arm was the first to brave its scathing bite, until both were wedged in far enough that he could pull his upper body in next, and he slithered deeper, straining to keep his face elevated while his scalp scraped sorely above.

Pulling with chilled fingers while bent, cramping legs fully extended, he suddenly felt empathy for the slimiest insects as he repeated his slinking crawl many times. Each frigid droplet that fell on the back of his neck made him feel that the crushing roof was steadily lifting. He could see from what little daylight trickled in that the cave opened some twenty yards ahead to a capacity through which he could move more comfortably, though still on hand and knee. Beyond that point, though, all was concealed and quiet, divulging no sign of his uncharted destination, or of anyone within.

Morthadus could sense the youngest drawing closer while he lay still upon the cave floor. He hoped in vain for just a moment’s peace in sleep; apprehension of the encounter only plunged him deeper into dreaded memory, bringing him back again to that night when his brothers had fallen.

Standing alone, he swung his sword wildly into the shriekers, sending many heads flying through the ranks that gave way to his path, and he pushed forward until he was away from the cruel vapors. Those who tried to strike him lost their arms, while any who bit felt his blade on their throats, falling dead by the dozens until soon those who remained began to back away, watching him with terror.

“This one is powerful,” a fearful whisper seethed. “Who is he?”

The voice spoke again in his mind with softness concealing urgency. “Ninety-nine are here… only one more…”

But, standing before the savage host that trembled now under his burning focus, he could bear to listen no longer. Gathering every last reserve of energy left within, he pushed the shiver out of his spirit and shouted, “I am Morthadus of the Blessed Ones!”

Suddenly his foes stood suspended, unmoving all around, and the mountainside was flooded with brilliant blue light into which he stared, knowing it would give no sting. In the center of the light was a figure, like a man, who floated beside him amid the carnage.

“Korine,” he said in awe while taking in the mystic form, which was encircled by the wind itself like a robe of infinite color, and across his broad chest was a long dark gash from which bright mists flowed.

“Morthadus, my time will soon be at an end,” said Korine as his life force pooled on the rocks around them. “The greatest hope left to challenge Him when He returns, rests upon you.”

Staring into the dense shadow that would one day return to engulf all of Cryntor, he wondered what possible feat he could accomplish. “What do you ask of me?” he whispered.

With a smile that drove out all fear, Korine answered, “I ask you to live, Morthadus. Live, so that the Blessed Ones may never be extinguished.”

He writhed, half-awake, against each prodding rock, his restless mind begging every faculty he had surrendered to sleep and dreams to return before the scene went any further.

“Your children will have your strength, your speed. But, either by the sword, or when they stand frail and soft while you remain of good flesh, they will die.”

Then, turning to the ninety-nine swords that had fallen at the edge of the black mists, Korine raised his arms to draw them into the air together, and then drove their blades into the ground to line the great abyss. At the center of the line remained a space, wide enough for one more.

“There may come a time when you will no longer want to be Morthadus of the Blessed Ones,” Korine warned. “When it does, return to this place, and lay your sword to rest beside the others.”

Morlen stifled each groan while he dragged himself farther across the sharp, rocky floor, unsure how any sudden noise might affect the spiked ceiling only inches above. Finally, his head and shoulders jutted into a wider cavity past the elongated mouth. Emerging intact within far more generously spaced walls, he allowed himself a breath of ease, though visibility was now all but gone.

A small amount of light still reflected off the rocks, but its source was not the entrance left behind, he realized. This seemed to pour in from farther ahead, dimmed by every bend and slope. Still prohibited from standing, he tripled his initial pace and kept himself centered as the tunnel narrowed to a declining chute.

He disregarded each pinching bump to his ribs while space grew considerably scarcer, and soon was on his stomach once more, looking at the chute’s end a short distance away, lit from below by whatever glow had led him this far. Clawing now just to gain a few inches at a time, he held the bright opening firmly with unblinking eyes, letting go all expectations of what, or whom, he would find on the other side.

Morthadus sank deeper as he knew the youngest would find him at any moment, and his dream carried him through time and space.

Korine was sending him away, and the ancient one’s image slowly faded as radiant mists continued to bleed from the grim wound, bringing death closer with each passing second. The Crystal Blade shone between them now, left to be claimed by one who could make the journey. Feeling like scattered feathers in the wind, he held as long as he could to the shrinking picture—endless lines of ghouls soon to find him gone, the blanket of light that sat motionless over the ground, and the one standing within, who finally expired as the last of his power blasted a great distance between them.

He soared far until eventually coming to rest someplace warm, green. Lying face-down upon grass more fragrant than any he’d ever known, he rolled onto his back and looked up to find himself in a bright meadow painted with colors that defied earthly existence. Having barely the time to wonder if he was the only one within its sprawling wonders, he felt a smooth hand touch his shoulder, and turned without fear to see a young woman.

She was tall and sleek, with golden hair surpassed by the brightness of her smile, and her eyes met with the subdued blue of his own. Crouching at his feet, she held out a round, pink object that glistened in the early morning light, saying in a way that drove all memory of the dark voice from his mind, “Eat.”

She seemed to delight as much in his presence as he did in hers, and he gladly took her offering, sinking his teeth into the beautiful fruit as it stained his lips and soothed his vacant stomach, filling him with a rich warmth. His senses broadened to encompass things far beyond himself, and he swayed with the caress of each breeze, watching creatures great and lethal pass by as though his entrance into their realm was no threat.

She heated his sluggish blood with a look he wished never to pass, gently pulling his hand closer while it still held the half-eaten apple to take a deep bite herself.

“Can you feel it?” she asked.

His eyes burned with their inner light once more. “Yes,” he answered hungrily. “I can feel it.”

Morlen released every ounce of air that his compressed lungs could afford to lose while both shoulders forced their way out of the shrinking passage, and his pinned arms finally wrenched themselves free. He grabbed hold of an outcropping from the low ceiling ahead, lifting himself out to land a few feet down upon a slope that descended into a deep opening. And the strange glow continued to flicker up, its source only a few footsteps away now, though he remained unsure whether it was indifferent to his approach, or unwelcoming.

The rough floor stretched beneath steadily sinking walls until he had to crouch down again, sliding through a cylindrical, bright opening less than three feet in diameter. Midway through the connecting space, he stopped short, dazed as the most bewildering flashes passed behind his eyes, carrying with them a multitude of images too rapid to take in.

He dragged onward, colors and figures blurring through his mind while he wriggled out into a round chamber, and rose slowly to see that he was quite alone. He stood immersed in pale vapors that poured in from a small crack in the rock above, and their potency was so increased in the confines of this room it was almost palpable.

Recalling the banquet story from a few nights earlier, he realized he must be directly beneath the basin in which the crystals had been forged long ago. A powerful haze collected there at the head of the Speaking River, rumored to bring strange visions to all who breathed it. But, here it was highly concentrated, and its effects coursed through him before he could decide whether he wanted to see what it might bring.

Inhaling slowly to only half his lungs’ capacity, he shed more reservation with each calming release, feeling no ill effect. He gave in as a bright, blurry canvas solidified before him, until he could no longer be sure if his eyes were open or closed. All he could do was watch as the light bent to reveal things for no other, but him.

He saw his father—he was sure of it—looking strong, with fine color, not as Felkoth had left him. But, wait… It could not be Matufinn, though the resemblance was staggering. No… this man was younger, clean-shaven, his hair just as long but not so dark. His eyes were different, too. They were sharper, fiercer. No… this was someone yet to be born. He stood wielding a sword of bright blue flame, holding fast against a towering curtain that pressed down on him, enveloping, swallowing…

The canvas shifted, swirling the tumultuous scene away and condensing into another, closer now to the present. He saw a tremendous lion in a cage, enclosed behind golden bars it had secured around itself for protection. But, the bars were shrinking inward, constricting it, preventing any proper swipe or lunge. The lion was going to die, and by its own folly, no less—its own fear. Could it not break free, somehow? Could it never escape?

Then, the lion and cage vanished as present bridged with past, giving way to another image that gradually became more defined than the others. He saw a single tree, standing tall and broad—old, undying, and bearing many branches. Then, suddenly, it split vertically into two halves, one of which withdrew its roots and pushed far away from the other, planting itself again where it could be set apart. And the discarded half slowly withered and cracked without nourishment.

But, as many ages passed, the half that tried to flourish in separation from its counterpart soon found itself similarly afflicted, unable to endure such a broken state. Extending its roots back toward those of the other, it grew stronger the closer they drew, though fearful of the poison that would sting more powerfully if they rejoined. But, only together could they overcome it and have peace.

The abandoned half feebly reached out toward that which returned while both felt life rekindle within. Their roots became entwined, pulling each to the other until the two halves finally met again as one, mending over time.

Morlen gasped sharply, pulling away to fall hard on his back, and grabbed aimlessly for the opening through which he’d entered the chamber. He flipped himself around and urgently dug back through the connecting passage until he could breathe more freely, his mind violently spinning to rest, no longer exposed to the intoxicating vapors.

Forcing into the adjacent segment, he sat up, leaning against the cold rock with both arms wrapped around his knees, exhilarated at all he’d seen. He almost laughed, envisioning what he’d expected to find here when first entering. Crawling up again toward the narrow chute, he summoned the same effort that had driven him down to this place, feeling, as he had then, he must meet the one on the other side.

And, this time, he understood. It was clear now.

He knew where to find Morthadus.

Memory swelled and rocked like hostile waters, drowning Morthadus in the recurring dream whose end he could only hope would finally bring his own. To wake, and face what was swiftly coming, would be more than he could bear.

He drifted back to the night he’d left the Isle, when he stood looking out on those who slept soundly over soil that buried others whose faces still branded him. He could not watch another grow, see them leave and come back to him with proven strength and new love, as though the extension of his progeny could somehow blur them all into one line. He could never forget the sight of each who shone so much brighter than he, each who crumbled like everything within his falsely youthful shell, into ruin.

The scene rose away from those who lay blanketed in color and warmth, crashing like foam over familiar cliffs. The Dark Mountains’ poisonous touch was a minor sting as he climbed toward the only light amid an endless sea, and the streak of radiant blue mists still fluttered calmly over the very spot where he and Korine had once stood.