Dalamar The Dark

Alhana stood beside her father. The king glittered in gold and silks. His daughter, her hand on his arm, shone white as a lily, her dark hair piled high upon her head and dressed in diamonds, her robe purest white samite. As Garan passed them, the lily princess lifted her hand, and Lord Garan removed his helm in salute.

"Lord Garan!" the people cried, the women waving green kerchiefs from their balconies, the men cheering mightily from the windows. "Lord Garan, for E'li! Lord Garan, for Silvanesti!"

On the ground, the voices of the army rose and fell, filling the courtyard and the streets around the Tower of the Stars. To hear the Wildru

These were but a small part of the army massing. In Shalost, to the north and west, Wildru

Out where the southern edge of Garden of Astarin lay shining in the sun, near the Temple of the Blue Phoenix where those of House Woodshaper lived, the gray and green became edged with white, like a cloud dropped low over a hillside. Mages came, a long line of them, and their scent-spices, dried rose petals, oils, and herbs-granted exotic undertones to the smell of leather and steel and sweat of an army gathering. At their head marched Ylle Savath. She who ruled House Mystic would see to the execution of this magical maneuver-this servant's plan!-and leave nothing to chance. It had not been so hard to find spells of illusion, though such were not the province of white magic. What was forbidden among mages here was also recorded. The mages she had chosen for the job were those she deemed worthy, those who had sterling reputations and would swear to discharge this alien magic and never touch it again. Among these, at the far end of the line, was one of whom she was not so certain, and yet one she felt compelled to include. "Let him live or die by his plan," she had said to the king. She felt deeply that such impudence as Dalamar Argent's should be met with the charge to lay his life where he asked others to lay theirs.

The heady scent of magic filled Dalamar's heart. All around him were those who had once counted him as no one among them, and who now knew that he had forged the plan to which they dedicated their strength and their will. In him, the deferred hope flamed. He would come out from this worthy of all House Mystic had denied him. Who would forbid him the knowledge he needed now? Who would say then, "No. You ca

A hand gripped his shoulder, and a low voice said, "Good morning to you, Dalamar Argent."

Dalamar turned to find Tellin Windglimmer beside him. "Have you come to wish me luck, my lord?"

Somewhere a trumpet sounded, a bright note soaring above the rumble of the crowd. A ripple of excitement passed through the Wildru

Tellin smiled, a wry grin. "Well, I do wish you luck." He let a fat pack drop at his feet. "But that's not why I'm here."

"Indeed?" Dalamar drew breath to ask the begged question, then held. Tellin's eye had wandered and, wandering, stopped. On the grounds of the Temple of the Blue Phoenix, a woman stood, hands clasped and gray eyes searching the crowd of Wildru

Again, a trumpet called, its notes like silver floating on the day. From outside the city's gates a war-horn sounded, deep and low. City called to forest, and forest answered. Color drained from Tellin's face, the pulse jumped in his throat, and he said, "I'm here because I'm going north with the army. There are a few other clerics going, too."

"To administer to the souls of soldiers, eh?"

Tellin caught the ironic tone Dalamar didn't try to hard to hide. "Why, yes," he said, "of course."

But his eyes were still on Lady Ly

"My lord," he said, handing the case to Tellin.

Lord Tellin put the case back, looking suddenly defensive. "You are not," he said, coolly, "the only man in Silvanost with dreams."

So it seemed, but Dalamar didn't think his dream would be harder to earn than Lord Tellin's. In House Mystic they respected talent or could be brought to do so. In House Woodshaper they didn't care who you were, cleric or war hero-if you were not of their clan, you still weren't going to marry one of their dear daughters.

Red light glowed in the smallest corner of the brazier. Shadows crawled up the silk walls of the red tent and flowed down again from the top. Tramd dipped his fingers into a black earthenware bowl and drew them out tipped with blood. Heart-blood, he sprinkled it upon the stones ringed round his small fire, painting runes on the stone, hunt-runes, treasure-runes, runes to ensure luck. He was, as Phair Caron guessed, a dwarf. Not here, not now in this tall barbarian shape, but in the far place where he dwelt, in the high towers of his citadel, he was a dwarf. He knew about runes, and he knew about luck, for dwarves count on one as heavily as on the other.

The runes writ, Tramd watched as the fire baked the blood black and small cracks appeared in the marks. Into those cracks he looked-past blackened blood, past stone itself, and into a small corner of the Plane of Magic. The darkness swirled under his glance. He drew a breath in, let a breath out, and the fire danced.

"Come," he whispered, the voice of the avatar shaping the will of the mage. "Come out and be ready. Be ready to run."

The darkness deepened, then shifted, taking form on the distant plane that exists outside the world of the five senses. On the red silk walls, shadows swirled and ran together, small children of that darkness, massing at the top where the vent hole drew out the smoke. In one corner of that mass, something bright grew, like an eye opening.