Rhoven

**Stormweaver—unfinished manuscript**

D. M. Lawson

Galen caught his breath against the burn of poison.  The room was small, and there was just enough light to ensure that he had not been left for the fish.  He blinked, expecting cold.  Northaven was always cold.  He was looking down on his own body, bound to his spirit by a cord as thin as thought and as strong as truesilver.  He reached for fear, for hatred, for some emotion to remind him that he lived.  Here was the fear, but not for himself.  If Rhoven had caught him, he would draw Silverleaf to him, as he already had the Darkweaver mage, rendered spirit again by his defeat at Irret.  At least Silverleaf might be strong enough to resist him, for a while.

               He looked around the room.  There was his body, the form he had worn in his years as a mortal.  Perhaps he would return to it, if enough was left of it for him to claim.  Like a shadow, he could see Rhoven’s presence in the room, casting some spell on his remains.  He spoke to the air, as if he knew that Galen’s spirit lingered, and could hear him without being able to answer.

               “Here are two of the three I need, then.  Enric believes I will not dare to open the Stormgate.  Enric believes that the Lightweaver will stop me.  Enric believes many things which are not true.  I will gather those who have touched the Lightweaver medallions, and I will use their strength to augment my own.  Then we will see what this world remembers about Darkness.  From that, we will see what can be remade, since I am assured by the King’s best mind that everything will be unmade, as if it had never been.”

               Galen shivered, even in spirit.  Rhoven would trap, draw, and twist anything he could reach toward his goal.  Not unlike the Darkweaver mage.  But very unlike him in the amount of power he could bring to bear on the task.  Enric had held several forms, at least one of which had held the Darkweaver medallion for a very long time. 

               Rhoven wished he had had time to discover what Silverleaf knew.  He had not made a study of Elven magic.  The power that survived in Irret was stunted, easily broken, scattered.  The scraps would be gathered up and used for whatever suited Rhoven’s purpose.  The Darkweaver had created the tyxi, several depths of shadow, and any number of other creatures that would suit his purposes also.  The Darkweaver had tried to prevent the burning of Irret.  Rhoven had not understood why, still did not.  Now that the Darkweaver was gone, there was one less barrier to the resettlement of Mergan.  Rhoven smiled.  He planned to relocate his capital there.  The city in the center of the elven forest had a reputation, and no doubt there were tools there who–which–would be useful to his schemes.  He looked at the husk that had once, would again if he was lucky, hold Galen’s spirit.  He was too stubborn to give up.  He was too devoted to the Lightweaver mage.  Rhoven had seen a little of that devotion, that he had risked his own life to see her freed from his scheme to draw her power without having to see her in Northaven.  Now, with Enric and Galen here, there was almost no chance that he could keep her at a distance.  He laughed.  Of course he would be pleased to see her.  And just as pleased to see her surrender her life to his schemes.  He knew just enough to be certain that she would fight.  And that hers would be an interesting death to watch.

               Rhoven finished his study of the corpse.  The poison would wear off soon, and iron would have to do.  Enric had been easily trapped in Truesilver.  He set himself to discover, in the next days, what might hold Silverleaf, if it became necessary.  When he left, locking the door firmly behind him with a large spell and a small key, he was whistling.

               Galen drew a little of the magic Rhoven doubted, and slithered back into the form he knew.  The poison had been enough to render him senseless for a longer time than he thought.  He had no idea what day it was, and the light did not make it easy to discover if it was dawn or twilight.  Either light was enough for Rhoven.  The weight of the world Galen knew was a comfort.  The cold air was an annoyance, but he had been dressed for travel when he was caught, and that cloak began to warm his shoulders.  The room was indeed small, large enough for himself and Rhoven and some little bits of iron that were doing an interesting work of holding him in one spot.

               For a few minutes Galen tried to free himself from the iron.  Of course, it did no good.  But, now that he had tried, he felt better.  He was here, in Northaven.  Mor and Rudan would, he had no doubt, be sent back to Vankhar in Torrinth.  What story they would be given to tell, Galen did not know.  Likely, it would be as full of pomp and threats and empty posturing as the missive Vankhar had burned in Torrinth.  Rudan would believe whatever he was told.  Mor would accept what he was told, but unless he turned fool, he would not believe it.

               Galen spared a thought for Miri and Eamond.  He wished, for a long moment, that it had not felt so good to recover that friendship, to have a link to the life he had known when he still believed it possible to flee Aara’s fortune for himself.  Now, he knew better.  Aara would demand a price of him.  He wondered, in this cold cell in Northaven, if he would be ready to pay it, when it was demanded of him.  Certainly, the rewards of his time in Torrinth had been sweet enough that he could hardly refuse.  If they had been allowed to escape to Torrinth, Galen had no doubt that his friends would find a haven there.  There were many men who might find a use for Eamond.  Perhaps Kolin Sailchaser.  Dovic was young enough that he should be in school.  Miri would find some work.  He wished them well of Aara’s fortune, and gave more thought to his own.

               With a sickening jolt, he was reminded of the magic he held.  It rolled and roiled around him for a dozen heartbeats.  A reaction that was not training let him bring some order to the confusion.  A brittle shell of protective shadow, slightly darker than the air around him, tried to shield his physical form.  Since he was in no danger, he gathered up the power and swept it around the room.  The echoes of the spirits of dying men cringed away from the assault, but there was no one else here and there was no way out that would accept his physical form.  The door shimmered once in acknowledgement of his quest to open it.

               Since he found no way out, he looked in again, at the tattered and faint image he presented, hanging there in the view of magic.  Slowly, he gathered details he remembered.  One detail, two, brought others with them, until he could have walked the street in any city in the Kingdom and no one would have thought him a spirit.  He cursed himself for a fool, for trusting Rhoven DuPer to pour anything that was not vile. 

               The memory of what Rhoven had done to Silverleaf made him angry.  With that anger came more magic, dark and warm and comforting in this cold place.  The promise he had made, to see Rhoven to justice for his actions, to see him removed as master of Northaven, to see him suffer, to see him fail in his fool’s quest to open the Stormgate, brought Galen strength.

               Even the naming of the Stormgate made it seem bleak in this space.  Galen wondered what, of anything at all, was on the other side of the gate.  Was there, truly, all the darkness in the world, waiting to reclaim the light things that had been made?  Were there drakes?  Real ones?  He had seen Drakhaven, once, from a distance.  Certainly it looked like some giant creature made its home there.  The water was violent, and sailing too close would have been insane.  But he had seen the point of land above the rocks that looked like bones.  From that place, once, a long time ago, he had seen the world.

               That world, the one he had seen, did not exist, or not yet.  It had been the stuff of tales much darker than Silverleaf told.  Drakhaven was a place of dragons and darkness, a place that was so large it swallowed forever and made it seem like yesterday.  A place where things could be broken, truly and finally, a place where all the world, and everything in it, could be unmade.  And yet, the place, and his memory of it, was real enough.  There had been a great deal of power there, washing the place with torrents of magic.  He let the memory draw him in, and it was sweet, for a moment.

               “Do you know what I want from you already?  Or did you really come to Northaven to seek it for yourself, and all your anger with me was just a bone to throw your paper King?”

               Galen startled badly when he realized Rhoven was there in the cell with him, speaking to the place in the air where he was.  The door was closed, and the light of the single torch in this small space was like brilliant sunshine.  He watched the fire consume the end of the torch.  So slowly.  He had been gone a long time, maybe, in his dreams of Drakhaven.  “I will not give you what you want.”

               Rhoven was pleased.  He laughed, and the noise made the walls ring.  “No, you will take it for yourself.  And why not, when you have been the toy of a small King for so long, in spite of the magic that runs in your blood?  You will find the Stormgate.  You will try to seize it.  And when you do, I will take it from you.  And then, I will kill you with it, you and many others.  It will be beautiful.  And such a triumph, to draw even the magic of the Elves into the Stormgate.  What will we have then?”  Rhoven vanished.

Galen was still secured to the floor, in body.  In spirit, he was draped over his form, wishing he had been more aware of himself.  Wishing he did not feel that he had forgotten something it would be very necessary to know.  Wishing he did not feel the fool.  It was very real to him, now, that he was trapped here.  That made him angry, but not as angry as the thought that Rhoven enjoyed the knowledge that he was trapped here, and would now be questing for Silverleaf, using him as bait.  Needing to believe that Rhoven was distracted with his triumph, Galen willed himself back in to the body he knew, the one Silverleaf would know and trust.