Dalamar The Dark

Upon a broken roof tile of the Temple, a dove dropped mournful notes into the silence, sounds like weeping. Though he did not turn to look, Dalamar knew the dove sat above the little room where the Ceremony of Darkness would soon take place. The ranks of the Wildru

Alhana lifted her head, her lovely eyes unreadable. "My lords," she said, her voice cold as winter night. "We are gathered here in reckoning and judgment. First, we reckon."

She gestured, a small motion of her white hand. Caylain stepped forward. Head high, plainly forcing herself to look into the eyes of the si

Dalamar stood in unyielding silence.

Caylain looked uneasily around, for tradition decreed that the accused must speak or that someone must speak for him. No one stepped forward. No one even moved. Faces like marble, pale and hard, eyes like diamonds glittering, the guard of Wildru

Her voice unsteady, Caylain went on, "You have no champion, and you will not champion yourself. You will go into the Temple, into the Circle of Darkness. In that place a man who protests his i

Dalamar looked nowhere. He needed nothing. In his belly, fear turned sour and cold.

"Take him," Alhana said, her voice low and quiet as the dove. Ah, but a stone dove, a dove whose resolve could never be bent or reshaped. She nodded to Ko

"Aleaha," he said, snapping the name like a command. "Rilanth. Take him to the temple."

They came forward with jaws stubbornly set, the elf-woman Aleaha Takmarin and Rilanth her cousin. They came as though they'd been asked to take a dragon into the Temple. Determined, they seized him, one by each arm. Seeing him bound did not make things easier for them. Their fear communicated itself to Dalamar; he smelled it as a wolf would. He smiled, and he didn't care who saw it. Their fear acted on him like a tonic. It is said in all the houses of the powerful: In the fear of others lies power for the man who can recognize it and use it. Though Dalamar knew no use for the fear of these two, still it energized him and lent him strength.

Groaning, the wind grew stronger. Alhana's hair whipped about her face now, darkly foaming around her cheeks and shoulders. Again, a dragon cried, one loud long shriek of rage and joy drifting eerily on the air. Another answered, and one of the Wildru

The sun climbed limping up the sky, a sickly dull ball seen only dimly through the ever-shifting green mist, the last breath of Lorac's Nightmare hanging over the land as the two Wildru

Praying ritual prayers, three clerics unwound a length of chain, thick and heavy. They made a circle around the whole of the little chamber, stitching the floor and creating a magical space from which Dalamar could not move.

"From darkness, O E'li," they whispered, "from darkness preserve us. From evil, O E'li, from evil defend us. From darkness, O E'li…" Thus did they pray to the very god who had not thought to shield them from darkness, who had not lifted even a hand to defend them from the evil that yet ravaged their city and tormented their land. The chain set, they lit wands of pungent incense and, trailing smoke and prayers, walked around the outside of the circle, sunwise three times. Low and stern, their voices demanded that evil not be allowed to enter into this chamber.

Dalamar watched them, narrow-eyed. They prayed, and yet, here evil was, standing ready to learn its fate, evil in the shape of an elf who was not blinded by the light.

At Caylain's command, Dalamar went and stood in the exact center of the circle, finding the place more easily than did she who directed him to go there. She was afraid of the circle, the ceremony, and the little room itself. He, too, was afraid, but he had the strength to keep his fear to himself, unwilling to lend weapons to enemies. He stood proudly defiant in the center of the circle, a servitor in dun clothing, a dark mage uncovered, bringing all his will to bear and forcing his weary muscles to keep still.

Burnished platinum mirrors hung upon the walls and even upon the door. These shone dully in the dim light that sifted down from the ceiling. By this light he saw himself in hazy reflection: a tall young elf, straight-backed, shoulders braced, head high. Not the least suggestion of dismay marked his face or dimmed his clear eyes as the Council of Truth-Alhana Starbreeze, Porthios of the Qualinesti, Lord Ko

"Dalamar Argent," she said, her voice dry as the rattle of naked branches, "hear the judgment that has been passed."

Alhana's hands clenched and unclenched; the pulse at the base of her neck jumped. Dalamar saw this in the mirrors. She looked like a woman standing in the halls of an ancient crypt where the souls of the dead do not rest easily. Porthios took a small step toward her, a side-step no one saw except Dalamar.

"This is what will be," Caylain said, and if her voice did not tremble, her hand certainly did as it absently smoothed creases from her white robe. "You will stand within this circle for the space of twelve hours. You will stand alone, and things will be shown to you, things of which I ca

These were the words of ritual now, not Caylain's own.

"As the images emerge, a thing will happen," said Caylain, "or a thing will not happen. In accordance with your guilt or i