Richard Baker - Prince of Ravens

“I’m afraid I couldn’t say,” said Jack. “She might seek to try her ritual again, but now that your mythal is no longer deserted, that would seem difficult. I suppose she’ll return to the surface world, discover that she has been entombed for a century, and make the best of the situation. If the people of Raven’s Bluff have forgotten her, they may have just gained a determined new enemy they know nothing about.”

“Did she have a stronghold or base of any kind? Any familiar haunts?”

“She used a ship in the city’s harbor as her headquarters, but that must be long gone by now.” Jack shrugged. “In her guise as Amber Lynn Thoden, she resided at Thoden Manor.”

The dark elves conferred silently again. After a moment, Dresimil made a languid gesture of dismissal. “Thank you, Jack. You may return to your duties in the fields.”

The thought of returning to the rothe fields sparked a sudden rush of panic in Jack. “If you are concerned about Myrkyssa Jelan, I may be able to assist you,” he said quickly. “No scrying-magic you attempt can discover her. If you want her found, you will need to send someone who knows her appearance well enough to see through the disguises she may adopt.”

The noblewoman shrugged. “I doubt that I have much to fear from Myrkyssa Jelan,” she replied. “Our purposes do not intersect; I am content to let her go her way, so long as she stays out of mine. But if that changes, Jack, then I will know where to find you.” She motioned again to the waiting guards.

Jack ground his teeth in frustration, but he didn’t dare to press her any more. “I am, quite literally, my lady’s servant,” he replied with a bow. He nodded to Jezzryd and Jaeren, and allowed the guards to lead him back to the pastures.

For a day or so after his second interview with Dresimil Chumavh, Jack managed to remain at least a little clean, warm, and dry. But soon enough the toil in the fields took its toll, and he found himself besmeared by the stinking mushroom fodder and rothe patties again. The situation was completely intolerable; he had to escape from the misery of thralldom in the dark elves’ realm, or he would lose his mind altogether. There was nothing else for it-if he wanted to take himself out of cruel toil and brutal drudgery (and rescue Seila, too, if it could be managed) he would have to work out some way to use magic.

Huddled under whatever threadbare blanket he could find to cover himself when he slept, he whispered the words to each spell he knew and groped for the dormant strands of magic in his surroundings. Again and again he built the symbols for the dimension-step spell, the spell of disguise, the spell of invisibility, or even the simple spell of moving things at a distance. No matter how carefully he worked, the enchantments failed each and every time. Magic had always come naturally to him, as simple as learning to add two and two or think up a bawdy rhyme, but the same actions and confidence that had always worked for him before simply yielded no result. He was certain that he was performing the spells correctly, and still nothing happened.

The mystery of it distracted him constantly. “It makes no sense,” he grumbled as he drove rothe from one paddock to another, instinctively avoiding the vicious brutes’ stamping hooves and goring horns. He clearly recalled the exact process by which he worked magic before waking in the gloomy world of the dark elves; he moved his hands like so , and said words such as these , and shaped his mind around this symbol or that analogy … but now those familiar actions meant nothing. Either he had lost whatever mystic sinew he once possessed that enabled him to shape magic or the nature of magic itself had somehow changed. Dresimil had mentioned something called the Spellplague. Could he have caught some sort of arcane contagion while entombed in the mythal?

Unfortunately, Jack could hardly ask his fellow field slaves about the arcane repercussions of the Spellplague. Most were illiterate or belonged to uncouth kindred such as goblin or orc, who could not be expected to know anything of wizardly troubles even if they weren’t inclined to beat or murder Jack on general principle. The drow were probably much better informed, but Jack had learned that it was never a wise idea to attract a dark elf’s attention for any reason at all. No, if the problem had a solution, he would have to work it out for himself.

In the fields he paused in his work, gathering his full force of will and demanding magic to answer his call, only to sense dimly the elusive energies slipping beyond his grasp. When that didn’t work, he tried to frame his spellcasting as a sing-song in his mind, hoping that rhyme or rhythm might spark some unsuspected connection. Other slaves sometimes stared at him or avoided him altogether, but Jack was hardly the only field-slave who talked to himself or gave an appearance of slowly going mad.

Finally, in frustration, he tried emptying his mind of thought and desire, opening himself to any mystic impressions that might come to him … and fell asleep before sensing anything he could grasp for weaving a spell. Work in the rothe pastures was nothing if not fatiguing. He didn’t awaken until Malmor found him and roused him with a vicious kick.

“Ah, ha!” the bugbear cried. “Shirking shirker! To the paddocks with you, human rat, the paddocks! The rothe must be fed! Work!” He flung a shovel at Jack and moved off.

Jack climbed groggily to his feet. “Shirk, work,” he muttered. “When I regain my magic, you will rue every outrage and indignity you have heaped upon me, Malmor.” The bugbear was already out of earshot, which was probably fortunate for Jack. He picked up the shovel at his feet, and stumbled off for another day-or night? — of toil.

Time passed in gray misery, each day blending into the last until Jack no longer knew how long he’d been a prisoner of the drow. Two times he made the weary trudge up to the castle kitchens with the creaking oxcart and failed to catch sight of Seila, but the third time Jack found her tending the cauldron of mushroom-flour porridge that served as the field-slaves’ provender. He breathed a small sigh of relief to see that no harm had befallen her. His future fortune likely depended on bringing her back to the Norwoods safe and whole, after all, and he was rather fond of her, too. He hurried over to the cauldron with an armful of pails to fill.

Bedraggled and exhausted as she was, Seila found a small smile for him. “Hello, Jack,” she whispered. “Kitchen duty again? Malmor must have it in for you.”

“Simply my luck,” he replied under his breath. “I do not mind, though. Fetching supper provides me with an excuse to see how you are getting on.”

“As well as I can in this awful place, I suppose,” she answered. She ladled the thin porridge into the workers’ pails as Jack loaded them onto the cart. Her sleeve slipped up her arm as she poured out the gruel; ugly red welts and purple bruises marked her forearms. Jack realized that she was working with unusual care, her body tense and stiff.

“What happened?” he whispered.

“I tried to slip out of the castle,” she answered. “The dark elves caught me before I’d gone a hundred yards. They had Grelda beaten for losing sight of me, and then gave me back to her … I fought back, but it only made her angrier. I thought she meant to kill me.”

“Brave girl,” Jack said with admiration. “I doubt that she would murder you outright, though. The drow see some value in keeping a Norwood captive. They wouldn’t be so careless with their property.”

Seila grimaced. “Death seems a kinder fate than this.”

“There is still hope. Your family must certainly be looking for you.”