R. Salvatore: The Witch_s Daughter

“You should not be out here,” Arien scolded Bellerian. As if to accentuate the Eldar’s words, the spur creaked ominously under the added weight.

“He is my son,” the Ranger Lord replied sternly.

Benador moved right past them both before they even realized he had come out. He dropped to his belly and immediately understood the problem at hand. “Get the wizard,” he instructed Arien and Bellerian, then grabbed Belexus by the front of the ranger’s tunic.

The other two had no choice by to comply, and when Benador was certain they had Ardaz safely in tow, he tugged with all of his considerable strength and raised Belexus to safety.

Arien nodded his approval. “Let us retire from this broken place,” he advised, and he hoisted Ardaz over his shoulder. Benador did likewise with Belexus, and Bellerian led them off the bridge, to the cheers of the now fair-sized crowd that had gathered to watch it all.

The drama was only heightened a few moments later, when the entire section of the bridge fell into the river with a thunderous splash.

“As though it waited for us,” Benador said wistfully. “As though the bridge did not want us all to die this day.”

“Doubt it,” babbled Ardaz, spouting water with every word. “That was the northernmost bridge. Thalasi’s bridge.”

“Then thank our fortunes,” laughed Ryell.

But Arien, staring out over the meandering flow of the great river, did not partake of the mirth. He found few fortunes to thank this day.

Rhiannon walked along in the dim fog, descending a twisting trail that led into a deeper blackness. The young witch was not alone, though-hundreds, perhaps thousands, now made the steady pilgrimage. Rhiannon continued on for many steps, but then stopped abruptly, feeling a certain kindred to another figure moving farther up the line.

“Siana!” she cried, though no sound emanated from her lips. The young girl, moving slowly and staring blankly ahead, did not even seem to see Rhiannon. Nor did Siana take any notice of Lennard and Jolsen Smithyson, walking in the line beside her.

Rhiannon was about to say something more, but an overpowering urge turned her back into the line and held her silent. She understood, then, the spectacle around her. These were the dead, walking to the nether realm, and though death somehow had a lesser hold upon her than the others, she could not but continue her descent.

There was nothing to grab on to, nothing to guide her out from the foggy land.

But once again a singular voice cut through the din of confusion and called to her.

“Rhiannon,” Bryan whispered over and over into the pale woman’s ear. He could not let her die. He would give his own life if it would only bring Rhiannon back. He didn’t look at her now, so fragile. He just cradled her head close and kept calling to her, begging her not to die.

The voice rang like a clarion to the lost witch. She rushed toward it, focused all of her thoughts on it. And when she opened her blue eyes once more, the first sight that greeted her was the shining sun; the second was the smile of Bryan of Corning, brighter still.

Bryan knew at once that she would recover. She had no wounds, at least none that he could see, and the deathly pall that had fallen over her fair skin had already dissipated, gone away like the gloomy overcast of Morgan Thalasi.

“You could not die,” he said to her. “Not now, not after what you did.”

But the answering smile on Rhiannon’s face was shortlived. “Yer friends,” she said, and her grim tone sobered the half-elf’s mirth. “Siana, Lennard, and Jolsen.”

“Dead?” Bryan asked, not even questioning Rhiannon’s source of information.

Rhiannon nodded. “I seen them meself, walking to the dark realm.” Bryan looked away, and now it was Rhiannon’s turn to provide comfort. She reached around his slender neck and pulled him close to her.

“Ye know they died bravely,” she consoled him. She remembered the grim sight of the line of dead. “As have so many others. Ye know their death had meanin’, for all the world is saved now.”

“Then I must hope that my own death will be as valiant,” Bryan replied softly, but the words, like those of the archer to Arien Silverleaf, rang hollow in his own ears; simple proclamations had no strength against the awful reality.

Together they looked back toward the northern fields, to the mass of corpses and the destruction wreaked by the flood, the magics, and the trampling charges of thousands of soldiers.

Rhiannon considered Bryan’s last words in the light of the scene before her. “Me hope’s that ye’ll not find the need,” she said.

“A victory hard won,” Benador remarked to Ardaz when they were alone later that day. The King had asked the wizard for some information regarding the fate of Istaahl, since the White Mage had made no effort to contact him in many hours.

“Harder won than you might imagine,” the Silver Mage replied, his voice somber and controlled. “Indeed.”

“Have you learned the fate of Istaahl?”

Arien Silverleaf entered the tent, saw the King in audience, and bowed and turned to leave.

“Pray remain, Eldar of Illuma,” Benador bade him. “The wizard’s news affects us all, unless I miss my guess.”

“It does, oh it most certainly does,” Ardaz agreed. “Arien’s people more than your own, in the end.”

“Illuma Vale, Lochsilinilume, remains as it was,” Ardaz went on, seeing that he had their fullest attention. “But the age of wizards nears its end-might just be that it has ended already.” He looked Benador straight in the eye.

“The White Tower is no more,” he said, “though Istaahl has survived.” Benador’s sigh of relief was audible, and Ardaz offered him a hopeful wink. “We wizards are a tough lot, you know.”

“We shall rebuild the tower as soon as I return to Pallendara,” Benador decreed. “Sooner! I’ll set men on the task at once. More glorious-”

“No,” Ardaz interrupted, stopping him with the simple word. “You might rebuild a tower, but not the White Tower,” the wizard explained. “It was created centuries ago by the magic of Istaahl. Masons, however skilled, will not replace what has been lost.”

“Then Istaahl-” Benador started to reason.

Ardaz cut him short again. “No,” the wizard repeated. “Istaahl will not find the strength for such a task. Nor can I or Brielle lend him the strength,” he added quickly, guessing Benador’s next inquiry before the King could voice it.

“But how do you know this?” Arien asked, concerned not only for the White Tower but for his own homeland, which was entirely the creation of magic.

“We draw upon the same sources of power,” Ardaz tried to explain. “Our magics come not from within, but from a place removed, a store of energy that we can tap into and channel to our own needs and ways.” The wizard’s head drooped visibly as he muttered the possibilities aloud, lending even more despair to the two onlookers.

“But that place has also been a casualty, I do dare-”

His voice broke, and it took him a long moment to compose himself enough to continue. “We will find the resources for minor magics, and still we’ll make our mark in the world. But the White Tower is gone, and Avalon has burned, though a part of it may remain.”

“And Lochsilinilume?” Arien dared to ask.

“It has fared the best,” Ardaz replied hopefully.

“But it, too, is on the wane,” Arien reasoned. “For without the power of Ardaz, the enchantment will surely begin to falter.”

“But faded, too, is the strength of the Black Warlock,” Benador insisted, trying to inject some light into the darkness. “Even if the Black Warlock survived the attack on the field, never again will he pose so great a threat to Calva, and to all the world.”