But it felt - real. Fearfully real.
“Why do you bother with this nonsense?”
The voice from behind the wizards was sweet, lilting. One more figure paced forward as the ranks of the army backing the wizards parted to let him pass.
“You are quite alone, Herald-Mage Vanyel. “ One of the wizards stepped two paces to the side to allow the newcomer through to the center, to face Vanyel.
He was beautiful; there was no other word for him. A perfectly sculptured face and body, hair and eyes of twilight shadow, a confidence, poise and power so complete they were works of art.
Except for the dark eyes, he could have been Vanyel’s brother; except that he wastoo perfect, he could almost have been a younger Vanyel.
He was clad in dull black armor, like his soldiers, but carried no weapon. He didn’t need one; hewas a weapon. He was a weapon with no other purpose than the destruction and death he molded into his power. Unlike the knife which could cut to heal or harm, this weapon would never serve any other purpose than pain. Vanyel knew that as well as he knew himself.
“You are, “the beautiful young man repeated; smiling, choosing his words to hurt, ‘ ‘quite alone.’’
Vanyel nodded. ‘ ‘You tell me nothing I was not already aware of. I know you. You areLeareth.” The word meant-
‘ ‘ Darkness.’’ Leareth laughed. ‘ ‘I am. Darkness. And these are my servants. A quaint conceit, don’t you think?”
Vanyel said nothing. Every moment he kept Leareth here was one more moment speeding Yfandes down the road with Tylendel -
- but Tylendel was dead -
“You need notremain alone,” Leareth continued, moistening his lips with his tongue, sensuously. “You have only to stretch out your hand to me, Vanyel, and take my Darkness to you- and you would never be alone again. We could accomplish much together, we two. Or if you wish- I could even- ‘‘ he stepped forward a pace; two. ‘Icould even bring back your long-lost love to you. Think of him, Vanyel. Think of Tylendel- alive, and once more at your side. ‘‘
“NO!”
He struck at the terrible, beautiful face, struck with all the power at his command- and wept as he struck.
:Dreams, young Vanyel.: A blue-green voice froze him in mid-strike. : Nothing but dreams. They vanish into mist if you will it.:
The army, the pass, Leareth, all whirled away from him into another kind of darkness; this was a darkness that soothed, and he embraced it as eagerly as he had repudiated the other.
Cool, green-gold music threaded into the darkness; not dispelling it, but complementing it. It wound its way into his mind, and wherever it went, it left healing behind it; in all the raw, bleeding places, in all the burning channels. It flowed through him and he sank into it, drifting, drifting, and content to drift. It surrounded him, bathed him in balm, until there was nothing left of hurt in him -
- except the place Tylendel had left behind - the place that still ached so emptily -
The green-gold music was joined by another, a blue-green harmony like the voice that had spoken to dispel the dream. And this music was no longer letting him drift aimlessly. It was leading him; it had wound around his soul and he had no choice but to follow where it wanted him to go.
The blue-green music took the melody, the green-gold faded to a descant, and the voice spoke in his dreams again. :Look; you wish control -here is your center -so to center andso to ground -:
The music led him in a dance wherein he found a balance he hadn’t known he craved until he found it. The music spun him around; he spun with it, and he knew that having found this point of equilibrium he would not lose it again.
:So, so, so, exactly so,: the music chuckled. :Now, you would protect yourself-thus the barrier, see? Dense, and it keeps all out, flexible to your will. Always your will, young Vanyel, it is will and nothing less-
It spun him walls to keep others out of his mind; he saw the way of it and spun them thicker, harder - then raveled them again down to the thinnest of barricades, knowing he could build them up again when he wanted to.
Then the blue-green music faded, leaving the green-gold to carry the melody alone. It sang to him then, sang of rest, sang of peace, and he dreamed. Dreamed of waking, moving to another’s will, to drink and care for himself and sleep again. But no more dreams that hurt, only dreams full of the verdant music.
Then he woke - truly woke, not dreams of waking - to the sound of it; breathy, haunting notes that wandered into and out of melodies that he half recognized, but couldn’t identify. There was a scent of ferns; a smell of growing things, a whiff of freshly-turned earth, and a hint of something metallic. Behind the music, he heard the sound of gently falling water.
He was no longer drugged. And the mind-channels within him no longer burned and tormented him.
He opened his eyes, slowly.
He thought for one mad moment that he was somehow suspended in a tree. He was surrounded on all sides by greenery, and luxuriantly-leaved branches hung over his head. Then he saw that while the branches were real, and the leaves, they were not the same organism. The branches supported huge ferns whose fronds draped down like a living canopy over his bed, and the greenery about him was a curtaining of multi-layered, multi-shaded green fabric hung from a framework of more branches, each layer as light and transparent as a spiderweb, and cut to resemble a cascade of leaf shapes. He had never in his life imagined that there could be so many colors of green.
Weak beams of sunlight threaded past the fern fronds. The blankets - if that was what they were - were a darker green, like moss, and felt as soft as velvet, but were thick and heavy.
He tried to sit up, and discovered that he couldn’t. He was absolutely spent, with no strength left at all.
The music beyond the curtains finished with a breathless, upward-spiraling run, and a few moments later, the curtains parted.
Vanyel blinked in surprise at the young man who stood there, framed by the green of the curtain material; he knew he was staring, and rudely, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d never seen anyone who looked like this -
A young man - silver-haired as any oldster, with hair longer than most women had, and with eyes of light blue that measured and weighed him, full of secrets and thoughts that Vanyel couldn’t begin to read. He wore a sleeveless green jerkin, and breeches of a darker green, and in the hand that held back the curtains there was a white flute that looked as if it had been carved from luminescent, opaque crystal.
Vanyel suddenly realized that, indeed, he couldn’tread the young man’s thoughts; there was presencethere, but nothing spilling over into his own mind.
He stammered out the first things in his mind - not terribly clever, and certainly not original but - “W-w-where am I? W-w-who are you?”
The young man tilted his head to one side a little, and Vanyel saw a faint hint of smile as he replied, very slowly and with a strange accent, “Well. ‘Where am I?’ you ask me - better than I had feared. I had half dreaded hearing “whoam I?’ young Vanyel.” He tilted his head the other way, and this time the smile was definite. “You are in k’Treva territory in the Pelagir Hills, and before you ask, your aunt, our Wingsister Savil, brought you here. We are her friends; she asked us to help her with your troubles. I am Moondance k’Treva; I am Tayledras, and I have been your Healer. That is my bed you are lying in. Do you like it? Starwind says it is a foolish piece of conceit, but Ithink that this is only because he did not think of it first.”