Chapter Twenty-Eight: Dreams and Memories

“Though the Winds of Fate are all-knowing, there are certain people who remain immovable, like stones in the flow of a river. It is these people who change the direction that the Wind blows. It is these people who will ultimately decide the fate of us all.”

—Morene Gylfaginor, The Codex Gylfaginor

Merrill and Rhinne passed through the gates of Caerlon early in the afternoon, dragging Ein behind them. Inquisitive looks and hushed whispering followed them everywhere they went. Between their decrepit demeanour, Ein’s rambling and Merrill’s occasional coughing, the townsfolk avoided them like the plague.

“I’m surprised we haven’t been pulled over by the guards yet,” Rhinne murmured. It was her turn to drag Ein, and her face was flushed red with exertion. She looked at Merrill and then nudged him.

“Sorry?” Merrill blinked, dazed. He’d been too busy staring at the buildings and the people, gaping at how much there was to take in. So much noise, so many shops, so many sights and smells. It was like being at Founder’s Eve again, multiplied a hundred-fold.

“Here.” Rhinne shook her head in annoyance and passed the harness to Merrill. Merrill reluctantly pried his eyes away from the town and strapped it across his body. “Follow me. I’ll lead the way.”

They got off the main road as soon as they could, taking Ein with them. Merrill’s head was already swimming as he tried to remember all the twists and turns, the forks and branches that darted from each path. The buildings were packed shoulder-to-shoulder, several layers high like giant monuments of wood and stone. Rhinne didn’t falter at all, striding along the alleyway with purpose. How could she be so calm and relaxed? The town felt like a monster to him, and every step they took only took them deeper into its bowels.

They weaved their way to a small street that smelled faintly of urine. There were several stores here, dubious little blocks with barred windows and rickety wooden doors laced with dead ivy. There weren’t many people—in fact, they were completely alone. Maybe the stores were simply closed for the day. Business couldn’t be blooming, surely not in times like these.

“Leave the sled here,” Rhinne instructed, pointing to an alcove in the wall where people had dumped all manner of crates and barrelfuls of rubbish.

“What about Ein?”

“We’re taking him with us. Just get rid of the sled; it’ll only draw unnecessary attention.”

Merrill complied and lifted Ein off the piece of wagon, grimacing as he stepped into something sticky. Rhinne kicked the sled deeper into the pile of rubbish and then came next to Merrill, grabbing Ein’s other side. Together they dragged him back along the stores, his heels grazing the ground. They came to a stop in front of one of the doors. Rhinne let go of Ein and slammed the knocker three times.

The door opened after a few terse moments. Merrill caught a glimpse of a crinkled eye and a flat nose.

“How can I help you—” the man began. He took one look at Rhinne, Merrill, and the shuddering Ein, and made to close the door. Rhinne wedged her bare foot into the gap, holding it open. She didn’t even flinch as the wood rubbed against her exposed skin.

“Lord Drakhorn,” she said. “We need your help. Please.”

The man froze and opened the door an inch wider, revealing more of his face. He was clean-shaven with sagging cheeks, thinning white hair combed across his head, and he wore a velvet tailcoat and breeches. Merrill recognized the outfit as one that only middle to upper class men were supposed to wear, though it looked like a cheap imitation rather than the real thing. He guessed the man to be about fifty or sixty years old—there was a certain point where ten years no longer held any significant meaning to a person, and this “Lord Drakhorn” had reached that point.

“That’s Master Drakhorn to you,” the man said, though his tone was more curious and less dismissive. “I haven’t been a Lord for some time.”

Rhinne shook her head. “That doesn’t matter. Let us in, we need your help.”

“And who are you, young lady?”

“Rhinne.” She pulled at something around her neck. At first Merrill thought it was a heart-shaped ruby, but as she brought it to the light he realized it wasn’t quite the right texture to be a gem or a piece of metal.

A scale, he realized. That’s what it is.

A similar expression had crossed Drakhorn’s face. “A crimson Heartscale…” He looked at Rhinne as if seeing her with new eyes. “Rhinne, you said your name was? Little Rhinne? From across the mountains?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Now please, let us in. We’ve drawn enough attention as it is.”

“Surely this can’t be a coincidence,” the man muttered, gesturing for them to come inside. “The Winds of Fate must be at play here…”

They hefted Ein through the door and into a well-lit room with a counter in the far corner. It quickly became apparent to Merrill that Drakhorn was a tailor of some sort. The walls of his store were lined with expensive-looking furs, fancy coats, and leather jackets from all manner of strange and exotic animals. There was a shelf with boots and another with hats and gloves, and a small section of stitched cotton shirts and trousers that the more common folk might be able to afford. In another corner of the room was a bench with a measuring tape and scissors, and several rolls of shimmering fabric resting against the wall.

“Rhinne,” Drakhorn said. “I can’t believe it. How you’ve grown…”

“I’d love to talk, but I need your help now. Ein—the one who’s unconscious—is sick, and I don’t know how to cure him.” Merrill lowered Ein to the floor and stepped back. Drakhorn frowned, bending down beside them. He ran a hand along Ein’s forehead with a practiced touch.

“A fever,” he said. “How long’s it been going for?”

Rhinne looked at Merrill. “This would be the third day,” he said.

“Not good. Not good at all.”

“I tried giving him fever medicine,” Rhinne continued. “Honeycomb, mint, moonthistle and whitebark oil. It worked on Merrill here, but not his friend. I think it might be Soulsickness.”

Drakhorn paled. “Soulsickness?” He looked to Merrill. “Your friend… he wields the Soulsong?”

Merrill shrank under their gazes. “I-I don’t know,” he stammered.

“He called down lightning with his voice,” Rhinne said.

Drakhorn lifted Ein’s eyelid and peered into it. Ein mumbled something under his breath.

“Soulsickness,” the man confirmed. “A golden ring around his pupils. Rhinne, get me my medicine kit from beneath the counter, and close the shop while you’re at it. Go, now!”

It was as if a switch had been flipped. The man before them now was Lord Drakhorn and not Master Drakhorn. Rhinne sprung to her feet and rushed to the front counter, drawing a leather carrying-bag from underneath.

“Move aside,” Drakhorn said. Merrill fell to his feet as the man lifted Ein’s sleeve and felt for his pulse. As Rhinne returned with the kit, Drakhorn pulled out a pair of gloves and slipped them on.

“Do exactly as I say,” he commanded, “and I will save your friend’s life.”

Ein sat by the window, staring into the terrible darkness outside. The sky flashed, followed by a deafening boom of thunder. Mugs and plates rattled on their shelves as the forge itself shook.

“Don’t be afraid, Ein,” his mother said. Rhea patted his head gently, placing her arm around his shoulders. She smelled vaguely like steam and iron shavings. “It can’t hurt us if we’re indoors.”

“I’m not scared,” he said. A part of him felt that he should be, but the only thoughts turning in his head were of how wild and beautiful the storm was. It intrigued him—the violent wind whipping blades of rain against the windows, the arcs of white lightning in the sky, the tumultuous storm-clouds that flashed as if a heavenly battle were occurring before his very eyes. Every time the sky roared and the forge trembled, Ein felt a small shiver run up his spine. His heart pounded in his ears. The hairs on his arm stood on end.

The furnace burned with a fiery vigour, snapping and spitting, feeding warmth into the forge. The air cracked again as another fork of lightning lit the sky. Cinnamin began to cry, filling the room with her shrill bawling.

“Ein’s a brave one,” Alend said, cradling Cinnamin in his arms. “He doesn’t need you to comfort him. Cinnamin on the other hand…”

Rhea rolled her eyes. “You were never good with children,” she said, taking the small bundle that was Ein’s sister into her arms. “There, there, Cinna. Mama’s here.”

“Sing her a song,” Alend said. “She always likes it when you sing.”

“I’m not a bloody songbird, you know,” Rhea said, but she smiled anyway.

“Thunder and lightning,

The giants are fighting.

It’s raining and roaring,

Isn’t it frightening?

Thunder and lightning,

The giants are fighting.

Look up above,

The sky is brightening!”

Cinnamin immediately quietened, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes. Ein turned his attention back to the window as his father joined them.

“How about a game of Capture?” Alend asked, hefting a pouch of stones in his hand. “You still haven’t won against me yet.”

Ein shook his head.

“Suit yourself, I guess.” He peered outside the window. “It’s really pouring down hard, isn’t it? The river will probably flood again.”

Rain pelted the roads, turning them into brown sludge. Giant puddles already covered half the village. Ein always looked forward to the morning after a storm, especially an intense one—it was fun wading through puddles, even if he was always scolded for coming back dirty. Sometimes the water was so deep they could almost swim in it, he and Evaine. Merrill never joined them, though. He was afraid of everything, even water.

Ein looked back at the clouds. If only I could walk among them, he thought.

And when he looked down again, he was no longer five years old or in the forge. He was on the beach once more, walking across the colourless sand, tasting the storm on the horizon. The air was heavy and unnaturally still, like a cup of water filled to the very brim, ready to spill. The rain was gone, the howling wind and the crashing thunder, all gone, replaced by a lone voice singing a song.

He saw her almost immediately this time, standing on a rock jutting out of the sea, the hem of her ragged dress swirling around her ankles. There was no walking to be done, no exploring the barren wasteland in search of her. There was a sense of finality to the dream this time. He was climbing a mountain and he was almost at the top. Nothing would be the same again once he reached that peak.

He took a step forward and into the sea. The water lapped against his feet, cold and cool. It wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. Step by step, he sank deeper into the water, feeling it rise above his ankles and knees, his waist, up to his chest and his neck. Then he was swimming, slow and steady breaststrokes, like a frog kicking out across a pond. The sky let loose a low and throaty growl as he breached the gap, stroke by stroke.

At one point, Ein no longer became aware of the song. All he heard was the viscous sloshing of water as he pushed it behind him, his leaden limbs feeling blindly for the way forward. He was alone with all his senses robbed. How long had he been swimming for? Every time his head rose above the water, nothing seemed to change. Was he even moving?

Then his hands touched rock and he felt a strong grip latch around his wrist. With one last burst of effort, he dragged himself out of the sea and onto solid land once more.

The woman watched and waited as he coughed and spluttered, gasping for breath on all fours. Water streamed through his hair and into his eyes, running down the rugged crag in rivulets. He shook himself and climbed to his feet. He should have been freezing, convulsing from the cold, but he wasn’t. In fact, he might even say he was warm.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, smiling. She was relatively young, perhaps ten or so years older than Ein himself, though at times she looked much older. It was in her eyes, a stormy grey that constantly shifted, never staying still. He saw the fury of the storm inside them, ever-changing, untameable. Her hair was as black as the clouds except for a streak of stark white. She was beautiful, ethereally so, in a way that made Ein worried she would disappear if he touched her.

“Who are you?” he asked.

She turned around and looked at the sky, the wind whipping at her hair. She had the build of a fighter, lean and lithe, though her skin was unblemished.

“They’ve called me many names in the past,” she said. “The Lightning Blade, the Lady of the Storm, Stormdancer.”

“Lady Reyalin,” Ein breathed. “From the Age of Magic…”

“That was the first of my titles,” she said, looking back at him, her eyes sparkling. “I take it you’ve heard of me?”

“I… yes,” Ein began. “But you’re… you’re dead.” He looked around, staring at the endless expanse as it ate away at the rock they were on. “Does this mean I’m…?”

Reyalin shook her head. “Don’t worry, Ein. You’re not dead. This is a dream, remember? Your body would wake you up before you died.” The sky flickered above them.

“How long have I been here for?”

Reyalin’s expression darkened. “A long time, Ein. Not long for me, but long for those around you. In fact, you came close to dying yourself.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. A tingle of heat raced up his arm. “You have a strong spirit. Few vessels are capable of hosting my Wyrd.”

“Wyrd? What are you talking about?”

Reyalin frowned. “Are you not a Songweaver?”

“Songweaver? Like the King’s Songweavers?” Ein wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t. “No way… I’m don’t have magic in me.”

Reyalin looked taken aback. She brought a hand to her lips, frowning. “An untrained weaver wielding the Soulsong… to think that such talent still exists, in this day and age…”

The heavens opened at that moment and rain came pouring down in a veil of grey. Thunder boomed across the horizon.

“You have a long and arduous path ahead of you, Ein,” Reyalin said. “I only wish I could be there to guide you. Unfortunately, it may be a long time before we meet again.”

“Wait,” Ein said. “What did you mean by—”

Reyalin closed the gap between them and thrust her palm into his chest. Ein took a step back, feeling the wind leave him. His muscles locked up as something hot went pouring into his blood, flooding his veins, spreading to every inch of his body.

He clutched at his heart, vision blurring. Lightning lanced down from the sky and pierced his chest. Thunder followed. He was blind and deaf for an instant, though it didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as he expected it to. All he felt was heat and the spinning of his head as he struggled to figure out what had happened.

“It is done,” she said. “Our fates are intertwined now.”

Ein lay panting on the ground, face streaked with rain, tears and sweat. He tried to climb to his feet, but his body convulsed and he fell back down. His head was swimming.

“You must be careful now,” Reyalin said, her voice moving further and further away. “Now that your Wyrd has awakened, it will be even harder to conceal your presence from the Forsaken One.”

“Lady Reyalin!” Ein rolled onto his knees and reached out through the rain.

“I will be watching you, Ein. Until the Wind shifts and I return to the Hall of Heroes, my power is yours to wield.”

Lady Reyalin was gone, and he was alone once more. The place where she’d touched his chest still burned. Although the storm was in full force around him, it was strangely silent.

The sky cracked in two as another thread of lightning traced down, striking the rock beside him. Time seemed to halt, freezing the bolt in place. Ein took a step forward and into the air. It was as if gravity had disappeared, as if he’d somehow gained control of this solitary world.

With deliberate steps, Ein climbed the path of lightning into the sky, higher and higher, until the jagged rock was but a small speck beneath him. The beach was gone; there was only the stormy sea beneath, stretching on to infinity. The rain continued to fall but it swerved around him, following alternate pathways to the ground. Words came to Ein’s lips automatically—a prayer to the storm, his storm. The words of Lady Reyalin’s Song of Lightning.

“On lightning I dance,

For the storm sings to none other.”

And then he broke through the clouds and out of the rain, out of the world. A strong wind took him, tugging at the edges of his being, threatening to scatter him into a sea of voices. There were so many voices, above, below, everywhere around, even inside him. Voices of people, animals, even faint whispers from bushes and trees. He was in a great black void, a swirling maelstrom of cosmic energy, tiny lights whizzing past him like shooting stars. He was everything and nothing. Like a droplet of water in an ocean. A grain of sand in a desert.

Ein’s mind nearly shattered as the torrent of information streamed through him. He had no body, yet his head felt like it would explode. The wind tore at his being, eroding it, threatening to wash it away. Thousands of years, millions passed in the blink of an eye. He knelt down, clutched his head in his hands. But he had no head. Ein opened his eyes. He had eyes now. Slowly, the years unwinded. His body came back to him. He tightened his focus and an arm appeared, then a leg. The pieces of his broken mind came coalescing together. The stars flitting past him slowed down and reversed. He recognized some of them. If he gave them his full concentration, he could hear their individual voices.

I’m glad I decided to leave, said a girl with short brown hair, dancing through the streets of a large town.

To think there would be Faceless even here of all places, said a broad-chested man, lying in a bed.

Time grows short… I must find the Dragonstone, murmured a flame-haired girl to herself, seated by a table.

She grows weaker every day… surely there’s something you can do, Father? said a princess, sitting in a garden.

Coward, spat a prince, kicking at a table.

Tired… so tired… a girl mumbled to herself, chained to a stone.

Gods, I hope he’ll be okay… I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him, too. No… don’t think about it… she’s gone, she’s not coming back…

They plunged through him, jostling him, clipping the edges of his existence. Some of them were brighter than others, louder, more distinct. Some were familiar. Some were completely foreign. At once, the void was no longer a void. It was a whirlpool of information, an entire universe. A realm that transcended the senses.

Where am I? Ein thought. His voice reverberated inside his head. He was thinking. He was capable of thought. His body had a form. He had weight. The wind was no longer strong enough to blow him away.

He thought about the caravan and the Children of the Wind, and as he thought he flew. The void rippled beneath him and he saw a distorted image of a dark cavern, bits and pieces of wood and wheels floating adrift, dismembered limbs sunken in the depths. He thought about Evaine and he saw her in a room he didn’t recognize, crying quietly to herself. He thought about Alend and the void rippled, washing away into a candle-lit room and a bed where his father lay, fists clenched. He thought about Merrill and the void rippled, taking him to a small kitchen where he sat next to a girl with hair like a flame.

Then he traced his memories, sifting through them one by one, trying to find where they’d ended. He traced them back in time to the night of the storm, back to the night they’d been pursued by Worgal riders, when the Apocalypse Knight with the black cloak had appeared…

I SEE YOU.

It was like a hammer had come down on his skull, cracking it with the weight of a thousand worlds. He fell to his knees under the pressure, fighting to keep himself from flattening into a pancake. His head was an anvil, his arms and legs encased in lead. Breath shuddered through his lips as he fought to keep himself from extinguishing like a flame.

I SEE YOU, FATEWEAVER. YOU CANNOT HIDE.

The voice blared from everywhere at once. The lights around him shrunk, winking into darkness, plunging him back into the void. There was just him, the voice, and the overwhelming pressure.

YOU WILL FALL, FATEWEAVER. YOUR FRIENDS AND ALLIES, ALL OF YOU. NO MATTER HOW MANY, NO MATTER HOW STRONG, YOU WILL FALL.

Ein’s ears were bleeding, not blood but the essence of his soul. He clenched his teeth together, so hard that his jaw ached.

“Who… what… are you?” he managed.

I AM THE END.

Ein saw an image of a flat, smooth face, half of it burned to a blackened crisp, half of it a sterile chalk white, looming so dark and wide above him that it pushed against the corners of his mind. It had no ears, no nose, no mouth, only a single bloodshot eye that gaped open from the ruined half of its face and two bladed antlers stretching out like wings. The eye blinked, and somehow he knew it was smiling.

“Al… Ashar…”

The image disappeared and the pressure came back, stronger than before, holding Ein’s head in a vice-like grip, splintering his bones, squeezing his brains out of his ears. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he screamed as the cosmic wind blew harder, unravelling him…

And then it was gone.

Ein opened his eyes to the ceiling of a room, panting, his heart struggling to escape from his chest. His entire body was sore, from the tips of his fingers to his toes. He craned his neck, feeling a pillow shift beneath his weight, and saw Merrill sitting next to him with a mixture of surprise and disbelief on his face.

“Ein…” he whispered. Tears of relief began to form in the corners of his eyes.

Ein smiled weakly. “I’m back.”