So finally close to finished. Rhydin?s old graveyard never looked so welcoming. Corwin looks half dead, feels moreso. His robes are tattered and torn, the clothes beneath them - lacking the woven enchantments of layers of protection - little more than rags. His glasses are broken and twisted on his face, his eyes pale and watery through their shards. His staff so scarred the runes engraved upon the ash wood can hardly be made out. An ending, at long last.
But there?s always one more fly in the ointment, isn?t there??
He feels it before he sees it, the spirit flickering into existence just at the edge of vision. It?s almost become a routine, the ritual of banishment; the half sweep of his leg to plant his stance, the spin of his staff until it points at the shade like a loaded cannon, the chant falling from his lips like a summer rain - a scattered drizzle, then a thunderous downpour.
The spirit shrills and holds up its hands. There isn?t much left of it; a gray silhouette, little more than the outline of what was once a man. ?Pax, pax, Corwin! Pax!? it cries mercy in a voice like a shout from a distant mountain, little more than an impression against the ear. It wasn?t the first dead man to know his name - the worst of his scars came from those who had spoken his name even as they clawed his flesh - but still, there is something that made him pause. Not familiarity, but - something like the familiarity of familiarity.
?I do not know you, spirit.?
?No, but I know you. Or I know of you. I know Niima.? It flickers, like a candle on the verge of going out, and Corwin finds himself reaching out like a drowning victim - for all that he knows, too well, what the touch of the dead can do to the living. It was like being struck by a cold spray, a frisson of fear and wonder. Niima. His one friend when he?d first fled to Rhydin. The one who?d been there when Tarna left and Paladin vanished. The one who?d been there? until he disappeared. And when he?d finally returned from the magical stasis or time slip or whatever had stolen nearly seven years of his life from him, she was gone. And nobody in Rhydin had known her name or to where she had vanished.
?Stay, spirit! You cannot go with words unsaid!? The scream is all but ripped from his lips. Perhaps his focus gives it energy, perhaps it has reservoirs yet untapped to draw upon. Still, it solidifies and steadies, a candle with more wick exposed and the wax run away.
?A bargain,? its voice a high pitched whine. ?A bargain with you, O? mage. I tell you of Niima - where to find her - and you free me, take me from this place.?
?If she is dead-? There is a threat there, or a warning. Corwin isn?t sure which.
?She lives, she lives, she lives!? The Ghost Roads follow the old rules. What I tell you three times is true.
?Then I give you my word as a magus and a man; tell me where I can find her, and I will remove you from these lands.? No second thoughts, no hesitation. The ouline of a man sharpens further, and Corwin almost thinks he can make out his features. Not an unhandsome face, but - cruel. Cold. Self-indulgent.
?A bargain made, Mage!? The triumph in that distant voice makes Corwin?s skin crawl. ?I met Niima years ago, searching for her missing friend; a mage all in gray, yclept Corwin. She was a lost soul, helpless and forlorn - so I helped her.?
Corwin felt his knuckles pop as they grip his battered fighting stick. ?And what help did you give her, shade??
?She was alone and without purpose, so I - I gave her purpose.? The dreadful glee in the spirit?s voice, that cruel satisfaction in its barely seen eyes; like a glutton sitting to table after a long fast was the dead sadist with a new victim to watch squirm, telling tales of old cruelties long done. Corwin?s voice is nearly broken from the endless screaming and chanting the Ghost Roads have pulled from him, but it is not that abuse that makes him hoarse as he asks, ?And what purpose did you give her, shade??
?All she wanted was someone to care for. I gave her that someone; her owner.? The gloating made the mage dizzy, sick.?I bound her with a rune of ownership, that only the one who possesses her is real to her. All the rest of the world is as I am now - dust and echoes, an endless parade of shadows.?
?You-? Corwin?s fist threatens to snap his staff in two. His voice breaks. ?-enslaved-? He takes a breath, forcing his anger back with the iron control the Shadowkill Academy had beaten into him. Always control. A mage without control is a danger to all worlds. ?-the kindest, gentlest person I knew. Know. You enslaved Niima.?
?And you?ve promised to free me, Mage.? Vicious laughter tore at Corwin?s mind, like a thousand jagged blades. ?So, our bargain fulfilled - you?ll find her in an alchemist?s shop in Rhydin?s Market, if you can beat me there. But remember, the dead travel fast.? Mocking, gloating. Corwin found his emotional center, and he made a sharp, snatching gesture at the air with his free hand, murmuring words that could only be heard, and forgotten.
?The dead travel fast, shade, but you?ve misunderstood. Free you? I said nothing of freeing you. I said I shall remove you from these lands, and so I shall. You find it meet to enslave, to imprison? Then it is only just that such happens to you.? Lightning quick, his hand dives under the shreds of his gray robes and emerges with a crystal clutched in it, so tightly that its jagged edges cut his fingers. He doesn?t care; the blood helps the spell, creates extra connections to the binding he feeds with his fury and outrage, and the crashing waves of guilt. You left her. You went away and this happened. This is all your fault? There?s a long, drawn out wail of agony and anger, and the spirit rushes at him, shadowy hands reaching out to claw and tear - and though the moment cries out for a long slurping sound like the last of the bath water running down the drain, there is only silence as the spirit is sucked into the gem.
Corwin staggers, the effort of battling the dead man?s will - conquering it, as he had no doubt conquered many before - draining his already depleted reserves. Without the battered staff, the gray mage would surely have fallen to his knees; and once fallen, he knew he would never regain his feet before the roaming hordes of the dead, or yet another shadow from his past or specter of the future yet to come, found him. For a long moment, he can only cling to consciousness like a drunk man clinging to a lamp post, praying for the world to cease the spinning that threatens to buck him off. Eventually, by increments, he is able to stand again. The gem is blackened and smoked, the angry spirit inside it like a thunderhead that threatens to escape. Corwin murmurs a spell of binding as he tucks it away into a pouch, secures it fast against the road ahead.
He could lay down and die here, his long journey finished; but avenging Niima isn?t enough. A rage burns inside the gray mage now, a fire that gives him reason to push on. Rhydin is ahead; the end of the long road that has cost him so much. He has friends awaiting him, and family, and an obligation that will drag his soul straight to hell before he lets it go unfinished. Leaning on his staff for comfort and support, Corwin starts down the Ghost Road towards home, and all the legions of the dead dare not further bar his path.
But there?s always one more fly in the ointment, isn?t there??
He feels it before he sees it, the spirit flickering into existence just at the edge of vision. It?s almost become a routine, the ritual of banishment; the half sweep of his leg to plant his stance, the spin of his staff until it points at the shade like a loaded cannon, the chant falling from his lips like a summer rain - a scattered drizzle, then a thunderous downpour.
The spirit shrills and holds up its hands. There isn?t much left of it; a gray silhouette, little more than the outline of what was once a man. ?Pax, pax, Corwin! Pax!? it cries mercy in a voice like a shout from a distant mountain, little more than an impression against the ear. It wasn?t the first dead man to know his name - the worst of his scars came from those who had spoken his name even as they clawed his flesh - but still, there is something that made him pause. Not familiarity, but - something like the familiarity of familiarity.
?I do not know you, spirit.?
?No, but I know you. Or I know of you. I know Niima.? It flickers, like a candle on the verge of going out, and Corwin finds himself reaching out like a drowning victim - for all that he knows, too well, what the touch of the dead can do to the living. It was like being struck by a cold spray, a frisson of fear and wonder. Niima. His one friend when he?d first fled to Rhydin. The one who?d been there when Tarna left and Paladin vanished. The one who?d been there? until he disappeared. And when he?d finally returned from the magical stasis or time slip or whatever had stolen nearly seven years of his life from him, she was gone. And nobody in Rhydin had known her name or to where she had vanished.
?Stay, spirit! You cannot go with words unsaid!? The scream is all but ripped from his lips. Perhaps his focus gives it energy, perhaps it has reservoirs yet untapped to draw upon. Still, it solidifies and steadies, a candle with more wick exposed and the wax run away.
?A bargain,? its voice a high pitched whine. ?A bargain with you, O? mage. I tell you of Niima - where to find her - and you free me, take me from this place.?
?If she is dead-? There is a threat there, or a warning. Corwin isn?t sure which.
?She lives, she lives, she lives!? The Ghost Roads follow the old rules. What I tell you three times is true.
?Then I give you my word as a magus and a man; tell me where I can find her, and I will remove you from these lands.? No second thoughts, no hesitation. The ouline of a man sharpens further, and Corwin almost thinks he can make out his features. Not an unhandsome face, but - cruel. Cold. Self-indulgent.
?A bargain made, Mage!? The triumph in that distant voice makes Corwin?s skin crawl. ?I met Niima years ago, searching for her missing friend; a mage all in gray, yclept Corwin. She was a lost soul, helpless and forlorn - so I helped her.?
Corwin felt his knuckles pop as they grip his battered fighting stick. ?And what help did you give her, shade??
?She was alone and without purpose, so I - I gave her purpose.? The dreadful glee in the spirit?s voice, that cruel satisfaction in its barely seen eyes; like a glutton sitting to table after a long fast was the dead sadist with a new victim to watch squirm, telling tales of old cruelties long done. Corwin?s voice is nearly broken from the endless screaming and chanting the Ghost Roads have pulled from him, but it is not that abuse that makes him hoarse as he asks, ?And what purpose did you give her, shade??
?All she wanted was someone to care for. I gave her that someone; her owner.? The gloating made the mage dizzy, sick.?I bound her with a rune of ownership, that only the one who possesses her is real to her. All the rest of the world is as I am now - dust and echoes, an endless parade of shadows.?
?You-? Corwin?s fist threatens to snap his staff in two. His voice breaks. ?-enslaved-? He takes a breath, forcing his anger back with the iron control the Shadowkill Academy had beaten into him. Always control. A mage without control is a danger to all worlds. ?-the kindest, gentlest person I knew. Know. You enslaved Niima.?
?And you?ve promised to free me, Mage.? Vicious laughter tore at Corwin?s mind, like a thousand jagged blades. ?So, our bargain fulfilled - you?ll find her in an alchemist?s shop in Rhydin?s Market, if you can beat me there. But remember, the dead travel fast.? Mocking, gloating. Corwin found his emotional center, and he made a sharp, snatching gesture at the air with his free hand, murmuring words that could only be heard, and forgotten.
?The dead travel fast, shade, but you?ve misunderstood. Free you? I said nothing of freeing you. I said I shall remove you from these lands, and so I shall. You find it meet to enslave, to imprison? Then it is only just that such happens to you.? Lightning quick, his hand dives under the shreds of his gray robes and emerges with a crystal clutched in it, so tightly that its jagged edges cut his fingers. He doesn?t care; the blood helps the spell, creates extra connections to the binding he feeds with his fury and outrage, and the crashing waves of guilt. You left her. You went away and this happened. This is all your fault? There?s a long, drawn out wail of agony and anger, and the spirit rushes at him, shadowy hands reaching out to claw and tear - and though the moment cries out for a long slurping sound like the last of the bath water running down the drain, there is only silence as the spirit is sucked into the gem.
Corwin staggers, the effort of battling the dead man?s will - conquering it, as he had no doubt conquered many before - draining his already depleted reserves. Without the battered staff, the gray mage would surely have fallen to his knees; and once fallen, he knew he would never regain his feet before the roaming hordes of the dead, or yet another shadow from his past or specter of the future yet to come, found him. For a long moment, he can only cling to consciousness like a drunk man clinging to a lamp post, praying for the world to cease the spinning that threatens to buck him off. Eventually, by increments, he is able to stand again. The gem is blackened and smoked, the angry spirit inside it like a thunderhead that threatens to escape. Corwin murmurs a spell of binding as he tucks it away into a pouch, secures it fast against the road ahead.
He could lay down and die here, his long journey finished; but avenging Niima isn?t enough. A rage burns inside the gray mage now, a fire that gives him reason to push on. Rhydin is ahead; the end of the long road that has cost him so much. He has friends awaiting him, and family, and an obligation that will drag his soul straight to hell before he lets it go unfinished. Leaning on his staff for comfort and support, Corwin starts down the Ghost Road towards home, and all the legions of the dead dare not further bar his path.