David Farland - Worldbinder

“But in the process of twisting it, the Seal of Creation was broken, and the One World shattered into many, into thousands and tens of thousands and into millions-each a world orbiting its own sun, each a flawed replica of that One True World.

“The world that you live upon,” Daylan said, “is but a flawed shadow of that world, like a piece of broken crystal that can only hint at what it once was.”

Daylan Hammer paused, and High King Urstone demanded. “Why have I never heard this lore?”

“It has been lost here upon your world,” Daylan said. “But it is remembered elsewhere, on other worlds.

“There has been a hope, a prophecy, that one among us would gain the power to bind the shadow worlds into one. If so, then I know who has done this. It may be that he has gained that power at last-”

“Or?” King Urstone demanded.

“Or it may be that the enemy has gained such control. Long has she endeavored, hoping to learn how to bind worlds into one. But that skill has eluded her.”

“This is madness,” Warlord Heddick cried. “What proof do we have that any of this is true?”

“If it is proof that you want,” Daylan said, “look inside yourselves. Some of you must feel the change. In the past two hours alone I have heard a dozen people talking of strange dreams, of other lives that they remember. If I am right, many of you have combined with your other self, a shadow self. And our captains tell us that thousands of our people have just vanished. I suspect that they are scattered across the earth, having also combined with their shadow selves. Those ‘dreams’ that you are having are not dreams, they are memories. They are the proof that you seek, and if you question those who have them, you will find that their stories, their memories, corroborate one another. Do any of you have them?”

Several warlords looked dumbfounded. Of them all, Warlord Madoc seemed most affected by Daylan’s words. His face went pale with shock, and he stood, trembling.

The Wizard Sisel bent his head in profound thought and muttered, “This matter…demands attention.”

It was at this moment that Warlord Madoc happened to glance toward the doorway and saw Alun standing there. He smiled secretively, nodded toward Daylan.

Immediately the blood drained from Alun’s face and his heart pounded. He feared that he would be called upon to betray Daylan Hammer, to speak against him here in public, and he was almost as afraid of speaking before the king as he was of dying. He swallowed hard, looked around.

Daylan had asked Alun to lie in his behalf. Daylan claimed that his own plans were superior to those of Warlord Madoc.

But were they?

Did Alun dare let the immortal steal off with the Princess Kan-hazur? Did they dare throw aside their shield now, when the castle had burst apart at every seam?

“What do you advise?” King Urstone asked Daylan Hammer.

“I think,” Daylan said, “that the Wizard Sisel speaks wisely. I think that you should look to your defenses, mend the walls of your fortress. It has served you well for many years, and you will need all of your strength to hold it now.”

The king nodded his head in thought, and Alun knew that he was persuaded to keep his troops home. It was the safest course, and to provoke the wyrmlings would be to condemn his son to death. Even after these many years, the king was loath to do so.

“Wait!” Warlord Madoc said, stamping his foot to gain attention. “Your Highness, before we give heed to the counsel of Daylan Hammer, there is something that you should know. Thrice in the past six weeks, he has left the hunt and gone off on his own. Four weeks past, I sent Sir Croft to follow him, and Sir Croft was found dead. Today, I sent young Alun here.”

He turned abruptly. “So, what did you learn?” Warlord Madoc demanded.

Alun caught his breath. If he told the truth, the warlords would test to see if Daylan Hammer truly was immortal.

If he lied, it could mean death for everyone else.

And then there was the matter of his reward…

“Daylan Hammer went to the Tower of the Fair Ones. There…he met with a wyrmling-” Alun said.

There were howls of outrage from the lords, “Traitor! Death to him!” Instantly the room flew into a commotion.

There was no time for questioning Daylan Hammer. He reached for his saber in a blinding flash, even as he tried to dodge toward the door. The angry lords took this as a sign of guilt.

Among commoners, he would have escaped easily.

But he was among warriors, men bred for battle for five thousand years. War clubs were thrown, and he dodged one, took another in the back. It sent Daylan sprawling, and he flashed his saber and neatly sliced the hamstring of Warlord Cowan. Madoc’s son Connor took that moment to lash out with a vicious kick to the head that knocked Daylan Hammer halfway across the room, right into the arms of Madoc himself, who grabbed the immortal and pinned him to the floor with his bulk.

There were shouts of “Hold him!” “Grab him!” “Ow, damn!” “Throw him in the oubliette; maybe a swim in the piss will settle him down!”

Soon, half a dozen of the younger warlords each had a piece of Daylan-an arm here, a leg there-and though Daylan thrashed and kicked at them, they went lugging him past Alun, taking him to the oubliette.

Alun saw Daylan’s face red with rage and exertion as he passed.

“Alun?” Daylan said in dismay, astonished that the lad had betrayed him.

And then the young warlords were gone, dragging their prisoner to the oubliette.

The king hunched upon his dais, looking old and bewildered, while the warlords waited upon his word.

Alun found himself staggering forward. He wanted to explain what Daylan had done, his reasoning, for he was sure that that would earn Daylan some leniency.

But the very notion that Daylan was conspiring with the wyrmlings proved his treachery as far as the warlords were concerned.

“Uh,” Alun began to say, but a huge hand slapped him on a shoulder, startling him. It was Drewish, leering down at him threateningly.

“Well done,” Drewish whispered. “You will dine at our family’s table tonight. And tomorrow, you will come with us into battle, as one of the warrior clan.”

At the promise of reward, Alun fell silent.

The old king nodded at his men, his face filled with endless sadness.

“Madoc is right. There may never be a better time to attack,” the king said. “For long I’ve hoped to win my son’s freedom, and I’ve listened to Daylan’s counsel. But I can hesitate no longer. The good of my people must outweigh my own selfish desires. Prepare for battle.”

Daylan Hammer struggled against his captors as they bore him to the dungeons. He thrashed and kicked, but even with four endowments of brawn, he couldn’t match the combined strength of the warrior clan. These men had been bred to battle over too many generations and were too large. In fighting them, he only risked breaking his bones.

So he battled them, but at a measured pace. He didn’t want them to guess his true strength.

They dragged him to the dungeons.

There were fine cells at the top, places where nobles had been held captive in ages past. Now, only a few scraggly paupers filled the cells. Justice in Caer Luciare didn’t lend itself to long prison stays. A few lashes with a whip for disturbing the peace, a lopped-off hand for stealing, a day in the stocks for questioning a lord’s character-those were the kinds of punishment that were dealt out. The prison was used mainly to hold criminals for a few hours before sentencing.