Broken stone brings broken tears

In silence shall the truth ring clear.

Ferrian slumped down onto a boulder, staring at the mass of water churning past. His thoughts felt paralysed. He couldn't believe what had happened. His mind refused to accept it.

Aari was gone. Just like that. Yet the Angel had been running right there behind him. Right there. Just seconds ago…

Ferrian's head spun and a fiery wave of nausea rose in his stomach. He kept staring dazedly at the water as if expecting Aari to resurface at any minute.

Yet in his heart, he knew that Aari was dead. Sirannor had told them the path ended in a cliff. Even if by some miracle the Angel had not drowned, he would have been thrown over the edge. An overwhelming grief rushed through him, flooding his eyes with burning tears. Aari had been so afraid, so afraid…

Across from him, Captain Sirannor still crouched on the rock ledge. His head was bowed, his face hidden in his long silver-white hair. He was as still and silent as the stone around him.

Sirannor's scream still echoed hauntingly in Ferrian's mind. He had never heard such emotion in the Captain's voice.

Commander Trice was also motionless as he stood beside Ferrian, staring away down the shadowy cleft.

For a long time, no one could bring themselves to speak or move. They were all too consumed by grief and horror.

At last, Grisket stirred. He rubbed his bearded chin with his hand for a moment, still gazing off down the cleft. Then he said: "We can't stay here," very slowly and carefully, as though making a great effort to keep his voice under control. Without waiting for anyone's reply, he turned and started pulling himself up through the boulders, heading towards the lake.

Sirannor rose silently and began climbing the rocks on the other side of the tunnel.

Ferrian swallowed back his sadness and brushed his tears away with the palm of his hand. A sick, gnawing fear cut through the cloud of grief. Commander Trice was right. They had made it out of the tunnel, but they had not yet traversed the pass.

The demon-wraiths were still waiting for them.

He got to his feet shakily and quietly followed Commander Trice.

Sunlight shimmered off the surface of the lake, dazzling their eyes as the three men clambered up onto the rocky shoreline. A thin, sandy beach lined the edge of the water. Far out on the surface, through the glare, they could make out a subtle movement as a large patch of water slowly swirled. Beneath that whirlpool, the lake was gradually emptying itself into the ruined tunnel.

Around them, the mountains rose in sharp peaks, huge and oppressive. Here and there among the rocks, pine trees were scattered around in small clusters, as if huddled together for protection. But behind the trees, cliffs rose like fortress walls, sheer and impenetrable, all the way around the bowl of the valley. There was nothing to suggest another pass, and in the hazy distance to the left and right of them the cliffs dropped sharply into the water. They could not go back the way they had come without crossing the lake, and the only way forward was the now flooded cleft.

They stood for a few moments in silence, letting the cool breeze soothe their weary faces. "We will need to make a raft," Captain Sirannor said quietly.

Grisket unstrapped his pack from his shoulders and let it slip to the ground. Without a word, he withdrew a small hand-axe from his pack and headed for the nearest clump of pines.

Ferrian removed his own pack and began rummaging in it for some rope. Sirannor did likewise.

A tear dropped from Ferrian's eye unbidden and splashed on his hand as he found what he was looking for, and he brushed at his face hastily with his sleeve. Sirannor glanced up.

"Don't blame yourself," he said in an uncharacteristically warm voice. "You are not responsible for what happened."

Ferrian felt tears rise again, but this time, with an effort, he managed to hold them back. "How... how did you know what I was thinking?" he said quietly, staring at the coil of rope in his hands. He couldn't bring himself to meet Sirannor's eyes.

Captain Sirannor did not reply. He merely withdrew an axe from his own pack and stood up. For a moment he just stood there, staring out at the lake. Then he sighed and shook his head. "Fate is a cruel, cruel Lady," he whispered, and walked off to help Commander Trice with the trees.

For the next two or three hours they worked on the raft, sitting in the wickerwork shadows cast by the pine trees. Grisket had not said another word to them since leaving the cleft. He continued to make his way slowly along the shoreline, hacking at the trees, even when they had more than enough wood already.

Ferrian and Sirannor sat on the ground in the pine needles and bound the logs together with rope. Ferrian glanced up from time to time at Commander Trice, ever more anxiously.

"The Commander was very fond of Sergeant Aari," Sirannor said, as if by way of explanation for Grisket's strange behaviour. "The Angel was like a son to him." He hesitated for a moment, and then added softly: "Like the two sons he lost."

Ferrian paused and looked up, and a flash of sadness shot though him. He hadn't known Commander Trice had had children. "He... had two sons?" Ferrian said, feeling suddenly guilty that he had never even asked if Grisket had any family. For some reason he had always assumed that he didn't.

"How did they die?" Ferrian whispered. He did not mean to sound insensitive, but he had a strange feeling that it was important, somehow.

Captain Sirannor was silent for a long moment, working the binding around the logs, his face hard and weather-beaten as the pine wood. Finally, he looked up. He glanced over to where Commander Trice was viciously slaughtering a hapless pine, then back to Ferrian. He seemed to be debating whether or not to answer Ferrian's question. Then at last he said, in a very low voice: "Sorcery."

Ferrian stared at Sirannor wide-eyed, feeling his heart tighten into a cold knot at the word. Sirannor glanced up again to make sure that Grisket was well out of listening distance. "It happened sixteen years ago," he murmured. "He was travelling with his wife and two sons on the old road to Ness. They had recently spent a fortnight in Skywater on a fishing trip, and had decided on a whim to continue south to Ness to visit his wife's mother, who lived there.

"Night had fallen, and they were only two hours out from the town, when one of their wagon's wheels came loose. They were forced to stop in the road for repairs.

"Grisket was halfway through fixing the wheel; his wife and sons were still in the wagon, laughing and chatting about their fishing expedition. It was then that Grisket noticed a sound like faint thunder over a distant horizon. He paused in his work and looked up.

"A black horse came thundering down the road, kicking up dust like a silver sandstorm and running as if its hooves were on fire. It was apparent immediately that the rider did not intend to stop, even though the wagon stood directly in its path, in the middle of the road.

"Grisket leaped up and yelled at his family to get out of the wagon, but it was too late. The rider was bearing down on them impossibly fast. Yards from them, the black-clad rider lifted his arm and a bolt of amethyst lightning licked forth.

"The bolt smashed into the wagon and shattered it to pieces, scattering everything with it across the road. Grisket was hurled several yards from the force of the impact. He managed to lift his head to see the rider hurtle through the debris without slowing and disappear into the night. Several more horses came galloping after him, followed later by a company of Griks, charging on foot down the road. Many dark shadows swept through the sky above them, obscuring the stars.

"When the company had passed, Grisket struggled to his feet and ran to where the wagon had stood.

"He found his family lying dead among the ruin. Those that hadn't been killed by the initial blast had been trampled by the Griks."

Sirannor was silent for a moment. "He fell to his knees beside the bodies of his wife and sons and wept for the remainder of the night. He was still kneeling there the next day, when the sun had risen high in the sky, and would perhaps have knelt there forever if it had not been for two young children, walking along the road alone from the direction of Ness. They stopped by him, and Grisket noticed that one of them, a girl in an oversized cloak, carried a tiny baby wrapped in rags.

"She was not crying, but her face was marked where many tears had been shed. 'Did the sorcerer kill your family, too?' she said to him.

" 'What do you mean?' " Grisket managed to reply, his voice choked by grief.

“ 'All the people in Ness are dead,' she said simply.

"Grisket looked up at the children, and found the pain he felt mirrored in their young eyes. It was there that he also found the courage to go on. If children could find the strength to overcome despair, then so must he."

Sirannor paused again, staring out at the lake, but finding no beauty in its glimmering surface. "Grisket formed the Freeroamers a year later, on the anniversary of his family's death. There were no Watchmen in the Outlands at that time. Grisket believed there should be someone to stand up for honest, ordinary countryfolk: someone to protect them. Perhaps he could not protect them against sorcery, but at least they could be forewarned." Sirannor sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment. "That is why Commander Trice takes even the smallest rumour of sorcery very seriously. It is why he went chasing after you, despite the fact that everyone else thought he was wasting his time."

Ferrian's throat ached with the effort of holding back his tears. He looked down at the raft so that Sirannor would not notice the shimmer in his eyes. "That was why he was so angry with me," he said softly, remembering the day Grisket had rescued him from the Bladeshifter prison.

They fell silent, each haunted by their own dark memories. "Do not tell him I told you all this," Sirannor said, his face hard. "I am the only person he has trusted with his story, apart from... Aari."

Ferrian looked at Sirannor in surprise. "Why did you tell me, then?"

"I believed you should know," he replied enigmatically, and as always, would say nothing further to elaborate.

Sirannor, Ferrian and Grisket paused for a moment to catch their breath. They had just finished manoeuvring the completed raft carefully down into the cleft. This task had been more difficult than they had anticipated, as the raft was large and heavy and the boulders lining the path steep and awkward.

To their relief, they had not as yet caught any glimpse of the demons. The eerie, suffocating silence was broken only by the echoes of the newly created river gurgling away down the narrow pass. Nothing moved save themselves and the swirl of the muddy water. The blue sky was vast and empty above them.

Sirannor had moored the raft to a boulder with a spare length of rope. It sat rocking gently before them in the stream, which had lost some of its ferocity but none of its speed. The cleft was so narrow that there was only around two feet to spare on either side.

"If one positive thing has resulted from all of this," Sirannor said softly, "it is that the stream will carry us much swifter than our feet. The demons should not be able to catch us."

Grisket looked up at the Captain, and for a second Ferrian caught a flicker of fire in his eyes, but the Commander restrained himself from commenting and looked away again, his face dark and bitter.

Ferrian stared apprehensively at the water speeding away between the cliffs. "But… what will we do when we get to the end?" he asked. "I thought you said the pass ended in a cliff?"

"It does," Sirannor replied, letting the coil of rope in his hand unravel. Ferrian watched as he wound the rope about his legs and waist and secured it tightly. When he had finished, he fastened the rope likewise around Ferrian, leaving a yard or so hanging loose between them, then tossed the rest to Commander Trice. He picked up the free end and fashioned it into a large loop.

"When we get to the end," Sirannor said, pulling the knot tight, "we pray that Lady Fate has used up all her daggers."

This did not instill Ferrian with much confidence.

Captain Sirannor picked up the long branch he had cut for a steering pole and stepped onto the raft, dropping into a crouch to balance himself. Ferrian and Grisket followed carefully.

The raft held their weight, and seemed strong and secure. Ferrian tried to brace himself as best he could, but the logs were slippery and their rounded tops awkward to crouch on. He was grateful they had thought to leave loops of rope as handholds.

Sirannor positioned himself at the head of the raft, taking a firm grip on his steering pole with both hands. As he looked back at them, his jaw was set and his grey eyes could have been chips of mountain rock. He nodded slightly to Grisket. "Commander," he said. Commander Trice slid out his sword and slashed their mooring line with a single swipe.

The current carried them swiftly down the cleft. Sirannor did the best he could to keep them off the walls with his steering pole. The taps of wood against stone sounded as loud as water dripping in the middle of the night.

Ferrian glanced up at the dark, grey walls towering on either side. He had an unnerving feeling they were watching him, staring down at the tiny scrap of wood floating at their feet, wondering who would be foolish enough to venture into their silent domain. Ferrian felt a chill run through him. But nothing moved on the featureless rock. There was no sign of the demon-wraiths.

He caught Commander Trice's eye, and knew they were both thinking the same thing. It had been thirty years since Captain Sirannor had ventured into this cleft. It was possible the demons were no longer here.

There was a loud bang as the raft defied Sirannor's efforts to control it and careened into the wall. Grisket and Ferrian were jerked sideways. Ferrian winced as the impact sent a jarring shudder up his arms. He forced his heart back down into his chest and readjusted his grip on the loops of rope. Sirannor cursed softly under his breath, and shoved the raft back into the middle of the stream.

While Sirannor was struggling with the current, Ferrian happened to glance back the way they had come, and noticed something odd.

Something was moving, far up on the face of the cliff where the sun was glowing on the rock. It appeared to be nothing more than a shifting shadow, as if a wisp of cloud were passing over. But the thin strip of sky over their heads was perfectly blue. Ferrian stared up at the sky for a minute, waiting for a cloud to drift across it.

The sky remained smooth and empty.

Ferrian looked back at the rock wall. The shadow was still there, and it was moving steadily along the wall towards them. He felt his heart begin to pound.

Commander Trice caught the sudden look of fear on Ferrian's face. "What's wrong?" he asked.

For a moment Ferrian didn't know what to say. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off the slowly advancing shadow.

Grisket turned and looked back at the retreating pass, trying to locate the source of Ferrian's terror. But at that moment the raft passed around a slight bend in the cleft, and the disturbing shadow disappeared from view.

"There… there was a shadow," Ferrian stammered, finding his voice at last.

Sirannor looked back at him, and then glanced up at the cliffs enclosing them, his face grim.

"The demons," he said in a low voice. "They're still here."

* * *

The quiet solitude of the black library was broken as the door creaked suddenly and Lord Arzath swept into the room. Three paces across the carpeted floor the sorcerer halted sharply and lifted a hand to his temple, wincing.

Over the past few days his strength had steadily been returning, and his memory was now almost complete, save for a few odd details which irritatingly still eluded him - including the location of the secret room which housed his weapon.

Even more alarming, however: there was still no sign of his magic. He had tried over and over to get it to respond, but not a single thing he tried had any effect at all. Infuriatingly, he could remember perfectly all of the spells, all the techniques he needed to make the magic work - but it just wasn't there.

He had spent several hours yesterday trying to move a feather on a table two feet away. He had cried out in excitement when the feather finally did move – only to discover a servant had opened the door and let in a draught.

Suffice to say, that servant was currently becoming intimately acquainted with the dungeon rats.

And as if that wasn't irritating enough: just this morning, the hollow ache that had been ominously growing in his chest ever since the 'accident' appeared to have progressed to his head.

Arzath blinked the pain away and lowered his hand. He didn't understand what had happened to him. Now that he had regained most of his memory and had had time to think, he couldn't conceive of how he had possibly survived that fall from the waterfall. Not even his magical shield could have protected him from that kind of impact. He should have broken every bone in his body. And yet here he was, with no major injuries sustained apart from memory loss and a severe headache. Even more bizarre: he had not had any marks on him from his encounter with Requar.

Something strange had happened to him, and he intended to find out what it was.

Arzath moved to one wall of the narrow, vaulted room and began running his fingers quickly along the spines, his eyes focused and intense as he scanned the titles. There were very few books that actually related to magic in his library. Most of the volumes were concerned with weaponry, warfare, history, crystals and gemstones, and various other things he had found interesting over the years. All of the important spell books - and indeed, anything even remotely useful concerning sorcery - had been kept in the School of Magical Studies library, which had unfortunately been destroyed along with the rest of the School over a hundred and forty years ago. Arzath had managed to track down only two or three of the surviving books. He knew Requar had others in his possession, along with a collection of salvaged magical artefacts. All of which were, of course, locked up safely in that cursed white castle.

He pulled out a book, gave it a cursory fan, and tossed it onto the floor. He repeated the process for several more books, then spun away and began searching the shelves on the other wall. Half a dozen discarded volumes later, his hand hesitated on an enormous, weathered-looking tome bound in musty green leather.

He took the book in both hands and slid it off the shelf, staggering slightly under its weight, and heaved it onto a lectern.

The book fell open with a thud, and he began flicking impatiently through the crackling yellow pages, pausing every now and then to run his fingers over the faded brown writing. The book was written in Ithillic, one of the old Angelic scripts. It was one of the SOMS books: The Principles of Magic. If any book existed that would tell him what he needed to know, it was this one.

He rifled through the pages for half an hour before he finally found what he was looking for.

Arzath smoothed the page out with his hand and bent close, shading the book from the shaft of sunlight that streamed through the imposing window at the end of the room.

The left-hand edge of the page was decorated with a large, intricate border consisting of what appeared to be vines and stars entwined with flaming birds. At the top of the page, in equally lavish script, was the heading: The Phoenix Effect.

He began to read.

It is a well known fact that when a sorcerer passes away, the power contained within his body is released and dissipates back into the natural flow, and any dependant spells which had been linked to that sorcerer's mind are broken.

For millennia, many students of the Divine Arts have dedicated their lives to the attainment of a spell that could prevent death, but as yet, this goal has remained elusive.

However, over the centuries a curious phenomenon has been observed in which a handful of powerful sorcerers appear to have 'cheated' death. This phenomenon has been appropriately named 'The Phoenix Effect.'

It is theorised that a Phoenix Effect occurs when a sorcerer's magical power is equal to his life force. At the point of death, instead of the subject's life force being released as is the norm, their magic force is released in its place.

This effect is extremely rare, due to the fact that a sorcerer's magic force must equal their life force exactly for the phenomenon to occur.

In the few cases that have been studied thus far, the subject has experienced further interesting side effects in addition to their seemingly miraculous revival from death: they appear to have been completely cured of all injuries, including scars and existing damage which was not directly related to the cause of death.

While the exact reason for this unusual side effect has not as yet been established, it is believed that it is the result of the intense rush of magical energy leaving the subject's body upon the point of 'death' and producing a regenerative effect.

It must be noted, however, that a Phoenix Effect cannot occur if the subject's body has been damaged beyond hope of repair: eg., decapitation or severe damage or loss of other life-sustaining organs.

Arzath paused and straightened slowly in wonderment, giving his mind a chance to absorb everything he had just read. This phenomenon described his situation exactly. So he had experienced a Phoenix Effect: he had lost his magic instead of his life. He shook his head, astounded. He had been saved by something only a few sorcerers in the entire history of Arvanor had ever witnessed. It had been pure chance that his magic had been exactly equal to his life force.

Either that, or Fate had a very strange sense of humour.

His brow lowered slightly. But that still did not explain the headaches or the weakness that had debilitated him when he had first awoken…

He leaned back over the page and read earnestly on.

Though the benefits to be gained for one experiencing such an effect are obvious, this phenomenon is not without its drawbacks.

In all recorded cases of the Phoenix Effect, the recipient suffered from Magic Withdrawal (p.1046): the body's reaction to the sudden loss of a great amount of magical energy to which it had adapted to accommodate.

The article continued on with details of all the individual cases of sorcerers who had experienced the Phoenix Effect. Arzath scanned the rest of the page briefly, then his eyes shifted back up to the phrase 'Magic Withdrawal' which was referenced on page 1046.

Placing a hand in the book to keep his place, he heaved over a large chunk of pages and began flicking through them quickly, looking for page 1046.

He found the correct page and squinted through the sunlight at the faded writing.

Symptoms of Magic Withdrawal

Magic withdrawal symptoms may include some or all of the following:

* Temporary paralysis / weakness in limbs (common immediately or shortly after magic loss; the result of the body going into shock as it attempts to adjust to the change)

* Memory loss (may be recurring)

* Tiredness / fatigue

* Irritability / mood swings

* Pain (very common; may occur in various body parts, but most often in chest and head)

* Vomiting

* Blackouts

In most cases, symptoms increase in severity until magic power has been restored to the body. The length and severity of symptoms is directly dependent on the intensity of the original power and the length of time it inhabited the body before magic loss occurred.

Arzath stared at the page. Yes, some of those symptoms were very familiar, though he had not as yet suffered vomiting or blackouts. And he was irritable all the time anyway, so that was no major change. It was the line that followed, however, that disturbed him more than any other: symptoms increase in severity until magic power has been restored to the body.

He noticed the book did not mention what happened if magic was not restored. This was probably because at the time the book was written there would have been no reason to believe a sorcerer's power could not be restored.

But things were much different now.

All of a sudden, the sunlight streaming over him seemed unbearably hot.

Until magic power has been restored…

"How?" Arzath said aloud. "How can it be restored?" He continued reading down the page, but there was no more to the article. He flipped the page over; checked the pages before and after the article, but there was nothing relating to how magic could be recovered after being lost.

"Damn it! How do I get it back?" Arzath yelled at the book. He heaved the pages back to his original location and hurriedly scanned the remainder of the Phoenix Effect article, but found no further useful information.

He was just about to tear the page out in sheer frustration when finally; two pages further on at the very end of the article, right at the bottom of the page, was a small sub-heading: Recovery of Magic. Beneath it were just two sentences:

It is believed that magic loss sustained through a Phoenix Effect is permanent.

Arzath felt as though his bones were melting in the glare of the sun. He stared at the sentence for several seconds in horror before forcing himself to finish the paragraph.

However, in all cases, it was found that the subject's original powers could be restored quite successfully with a moderately powerful surge of magic to the body.

Arzath straightened, still staring down at the book. The last sentence had ignited a spark of hope, but he could feel despair and hopelessness looming up behind him like a great, dark void, ready to swallow him if he stepped backwards. He seared the feeling away with anger.

A moderately powerful surge of magic. Where the hell was he supposed to find a surge of magic? There was no magic any more: except natural, wild magic which was too dangerous, unpredictable, and difficult to locate, and of course the wellspring at Caer Sync, which happened to be deep in Angel territory and impossible to access unless the Phoenix Effect also granted him a pair of wings.

He sighed in frustration. Besides, he needed a controlled surge. He needed another sorcerer. But there were no sorcerers left, there was only…

The thought paused. There was only Requar, of course.

Arzath's fingers slowly curled inwards where they lay on the page, crumpling the paper into his fist.

And then, suddenly, he began to laugh.

The thought was ludicrous! What was he supposed to do, walk up to Requar and make him throw a fireball at him? Well, that wouldn't be difficult. He'd get a surge of magic all right, and be reduced to a pile of charcoal in the process.

He heaved The Principles of Magic closed, then turned away and began to pace, as he had a habit of doing when he was anxious.

The only other alternative was Requar's Sword. If he could somehow get his brother to use the Sword of Healing on him… it would be the perfect solution...

Arzath shook his head in exasperation, dismissing the thought. No, it wouldn't work. Why would Requar want to use the Sword on him? He would be immediately suspicious. And it would mean revealing to Requar that he was still alive, and that he had lost his magic, and that wasn't something he was prepared to do just yet.

His face curled into an expression of bitter contempt. Besides, he didn't trust Requar as far as he could spit. He wasn't going to let his brother come anywhere near him while he was vulnerable like this.

No. He would think of another way, or die trying!

Arzath glared at the bookcase in front of his face. He grabbed the nearest book to hand and flung it across the room in frustration. Its binding broke apart and time-stained pages scattered across the floor.

At the sight of the broken book, he suddenly remembered what he had been thinking earlier, about magical artefacts.

He paused for a moment, staring at the papers on the floor but not seeing them. He walked slowly over to the tall window and gazed past his reflection at the white castle, dazzling in the early sun: silent and empty without its master.

Requar has a collection of magical artefacts, he thought. How powerful are they?

Was there one among them strong enough to rekindle his dead magic?

He rested his chin in his hand and drummed his fingers slowly on the windowsill. An impenetrable magic shield protected Requar's castle. He had been trying for ten years to get into the wretched thing. But now, with Requar gone, perhaps he had a chance to explore it for weaknesses…

The fingers stopped drumming and curled themselves into a fist. I have to get into that castle.

I WILL find a way.