"Patience," his companion's deep voice whispered behind him, the black nimbus pulsating with the word. His companion may have urged waiting, but he could hear the eagerness, the hunger in the voice, and it occurred to him that perhaps the being who accompanied him might be speaking to himself instead of issuing a command.

He had certainly been patient himself. It had been two millennia since he'd made his bargain with his companion and hidden from the other dragons. A thousand years had passed since he'd made the box and presented it to the human church in the guise of the human sage, Leomar. A thousand years it had lain unopened, and in all that time, this was the first spiritwalker with enough strength to trigger the trap he’d set. The box had summoned both him and his companion from their separate lives at her first approach, and now it seemed, after all this time they must still wait.

She hesitated.

He watched, cloaked by a shield he'd woven into the box, as she studied the smooth, crystalline lid, studied it without touching it.

She circled around the back of the table to peruse the hinges, probed along the margin of the purple velvet on which it sat. Then she knelt and lifted the cloth to peer at the under side of the table.

“Will she never open the damn thing?” he said.

His heart nearly stopped as she stiffened, almost as if she had heard him. Slowly she rose, drew back from the table, and squinted, scrutinizing every corner of the chamber. When her gaze raked across his hiding place, it lingered there a moment too long before it swept on. Could it be that she was powerful enough to perceive them? He concentrated on strengthening the shield that hid them from her view. It couldn’t be. No one without training should have been that perceptive. His companion had too carefully crafted the beliefs of the humans over the eons, and more important, the disbeliefs.

"Patience," his companion said, and there was warning in the tone. "She’s here only because her need is great. She won’t leave without opening it, and then we’ll have her."

In the silence that followed, he studied the woman. He was not so certain the nimbus was correct, though he would never voice his doubt. His desire to live was far too great for that. The radiance of power swirled bright around her, the opalescent goodness almost blinding, and he worried that when she finally opened the damned box, she'd be strong enough to see through the illusion he had woven to develop on its opening, that illusion on which his very life might depend.

He held his breath as the ethereal spiritwalker glanced over her shoulder, stepped to the front of the table, and reached out. He shivered with the anticipation of an eon as her hands slipped along the edges of the lid and came to rest on the front corners.

Doubt rippled through her, and fear. He could see it in her spirit as dark gray discolored the pearly white of her soul.

"Go on," he whispered, urging her with his whole being.

"Her body is not here with her spirit," his companion said.

It might have sounded casual enough, but after so long, he had learned to hear the challenge. "I planned for that eventuality.”

A thrill shuddered through him as she finally broke the seal. He held his breath as the cover blew out of her hands and the three margasi he'd bound there a thousand years ago burst forth. The gray of her fear deepened until it nearly obscured her raven black hair, and she took a shaky step back as the spirits, suddenly released from their millennia’s wait, gathered themselves out of the cloud that billowed above the box, ready to seize her soul. Then her narrow shoulders squared and she leapt forward toward the table, not away, and snatched the flask out of the box, the bait that had drawn her. She had courage, this one. He would grant her that.

She whirled, her emerald eyes wide behind the haze of her terror, and plunged past their hiding place. He smiled as she fled toward the reliquary walls and the churchyard behind it. She thought she was afraid now! Wait until she beheld the illusion that followed her. . . .

I am all things. In the beginning, I created Alarian and Zaragoth, hands to do my work. Into them I breathed my cira so they were as I was, and they were fair in my sight. With my hands, I created all things, man, margasi, and dragon, the beasts of the field, of the air, and of the deep, and equally into all things I breathed my cira so that all things were as I was, and all things were fair in my sight. To my hands, I entrusted these works, but all things were as I was, Good and Evil, Light and Dark, so that none were fair to my hands, so I took my hands and separated them. To Alarian I gave all that was Good and Light, and to Zaragoth I gave all that was Evil and Dark. All things I separated and gave to Alarian and Zaragoth. All things are fair in my sight. All things are me.

Excerpt from The Book of Lore

"No, Tieg, stop!" One slender, gossamer covered arm reached out to him. "Don’t wake up. I must speak with you!" Riahna’s face darkened and a frown pulled down at her red lips. "You always were the most pigheaded --"

The dream woman’s voice faded with the vision of her as he came awake. Tieg shook his head to clear the last images of the dream from his mind, and ran his fingers through his long hair.

"Not right," he said and threw the heavy, woolen bedclothes aside. "Dreaming of Riahna. Again!"

His breath steamed up in the cold air as he sat in the predawn gloom. Every night for a week he’d dreamed of her, standing at the foot of his bed in that almost see-through gown of hers. For the last two nights he’d tried going back to sleep after he’d been rid of her, but she’d come back a second time. There was no help there, so he swung his feet down onto the rough hewn planking and pulled on his boots.

Funny. He didn't remember her as that beautiful in real life, and he would know. When he’d first met her all those years ago, just hours before she’d been introduced to him as Jerad’s fiancée, she’d worn no more than she wore in his dream. Then the shift had not been gauzy, it had been soaking wet and transparent because of it. She had always been shapely, but this image he had concocted was perfect. Several locks of her raven black hair fell in front of her shoulders, the loose curls framing full breasts and accentuating her narrow waist, and her eyes. There was something about those eyes. They reached right out from behind their thick, dark lashes and grabbed his very soul with their emerald brilliance. No. Riahna was by no means ugly, but this version made his blood boil.

"Not right!"

He shook his head, tossed his wool jacket over his shoulder, and marched from the room.

"Are you alright, Tieg?" The boy who came through the opposing door rubbed his eyes. "I heard you shout."

"Here's a lesson for you, boy. Never think of your best friend's woman as anything other than your best friend's woman!"

With that Tieg stomped out of the house into the crisp, cold morning, leaving the boy to blink in confusion behind him. The slumping barn door squeaked open to admit him into the patchy darkness beyond. “Yeah. Right.”

Tieg turned to the barrel he stored near the door and scooped up a handful of grain. He smiled. The daily ritual was one of the few he kept. The boy would feed Tieg's horse, Milo, his full ration later, but Tieg insisted on being the first to visit him every day. Milo had been a gift from Queen Milorain, and not only was he the finest animal Tieg had ever seen, he had served Tieg with more heart and courage than one could imagine. Fifteen years it had been since the queen had made the presentation in thanks for saving King Korvan's life in the war. Fifteen years since Tieg had last seen a real battle. And every day since then, he had been the first to feed Milo. That horse was one of the few things that Tieg truly loved. The horse, the boy, Jerad, and . . .

"Riahna!"

There she was again, standing next to Milo inside his stall. And this time he was awake! Tieg groaned. It was even worse than when he’d been asleep. A white radiance enveloped the image. Opalescence swirled around her as she stroked Milo's neck. The horse never tolerated anyone else's touch, so he had to be dreaming, but then the damned animal joined in the hallucination by turning to nuzzle the shimmering image in too fond a fashion.

"I've never been the most stable of people,” Tieg said. “But now I've lost my mind!”

“I asked you not to wake up.” The figure turned and studied him. “It was a simple request.”

“Who has control over when they wake up and when they don’t?”

“Do you have any idea what this is costing me?”

"More than your sanity? Because that seems to be my price."

"Tiegmon Moru." Her voice was firm and a shade of blue rippled across the image. "You are not insane. Odd, yes. But not insane." Her smile was warm and the blue that washed her deepened.

"Then how do you explain . . ." He stopped, not sure what he wanted to say, or why he was bothering to argue with a figment of his own imagination. How did she explain that he had been dreaming of another's woman for a week, or how did she explain that he had dreamed her up a vision of perfection that she wasn't, or that he was seeing her now even while he was awake?

He closed his eyes and rubbed them, but when he opened them again she was still there.

Riahna laughed and a green light swirled down through her white glow. "You'll not drive me off that easily this time, Tieg." She chuckled and shook her head. "I'm not the product of your deranged mind. I have come to warn you that I've made a mistake, and as a result, you are in danger."

"Mistake?”

Her brow creased. "Yes," she said with a solemn nod of her head, and an ugly, sickish yellow swept into her aura.

That was unlikely. Riahna rarely made mistakes. She was too careful, too cautious, so why would he dream one up for her? Perhaps if he could figure out why his mind was doing this, he’d be able to stop it before it was gone altogether. Then a thought came to him.

"Are . . ." he said and took a quick step back. "Are you. . .Did your mistake kill you?"

She cocked her head and pale pink shone through the opalescence as she seemed to consider his meaning. "Oh. No! Not yet anyway.” Light blue trickled past the pink. “Truth be told, I think you might be closer than I at this point."

Well that was a relief of sorts. He certainly didn't want Riahna dead. He'd sworn to give his life in her defense as well as Jerad's. On the other hand, his burgeoning hope for his mind was dashed.

Deep red swirled around her. "Tieg, you have to listen to me. I've been watched. At first I didn’t know it and I came to check on you every few months.” The red faded to orange as yellow joined in. “They followed me. They're on their way even now. Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest they'll kill you, Tieg, if you don't get out."

"Please, Tieg," she whispered. A pale gray settled over her so that the light she emitted was dulled, almost as if she had tarnished. She took a deep breath. "Time grows short," she said with an effort, swaying slightly. "I will be unable to return for several days, Tieg. It's difficult to appear before an unbeliever when he’s awake. Take care of yourself."

The apparition stepped away from Milo and bent, and around her flowing, shimmering skirts drew a wide circle with her finger in the dirt. When she completed it, she looked back up at him, and a faded blue filtered through the gray.

"You're a warrior, Tieg." She glanced around the barn. "Not a farmer. We knew you'd want these some day.”

She smiled, but there was a sort of sadness to her eyes, and then a hot, white light flared from her so brightly that Tieg had to shield his face. When it finally faded, the image of Riahna was gone, but on the ground inside the circle lay a wide, flat, wooden case. Tieg stared at the box, unsure what to make of it, but at last, he opened Milo's stall and stepped inside. The horse whickered at him and sniffed at the ground where Riahna had stood.

Tieg knelt and fingered the brass clasps until he found the tiny levers that opened them. Carefully, he slid them to the side, lifted the lid, and gasped at what lay within. Pressed into red velvet in the top were two black, leather scabbards, and the same lush cloth in the bottom cradled two swords. The wide, curved blade of each of the matching cutlasses glowed in the half-light, oiled correctly for storage after the edge had been carefully honed. They reminded Tieg a great deal of his old pair, but those were ten years gone, sold in too much haste and a fit of passion. He stared at them. How like the old weapons they were. The pommel, the fuller that gave the blood some place to run, even the basket that covered the hilt, protecting the hand, was similar, right down to the spikes.

He smiled as he thought back on the day he'd asked the weaponsmith to add the spikes.

"Unheard of," the old craftsman had grumbled.

Tieg had insisted, however, and over the years, he'd seen more and more baskets made that way, even with the same weaponsmith’s mark. He had started a trend, for he'd been right about the usefulness of the spikes. They came in handy against the opponent with no helm.

Tieg's gaze shifted back from the past to the weapons before him. They were beautifully crafted, works of art really, with the gentle, graceful sweep of the steel, and his hand shook as he slipped it under one of the guards to grasp the hilt. As his grip tightened on the smooth ivory, however, he yanked his hand back with a yelp. These didn't just resemble his blades. They were his!

He would never forget the feel of the notch that was cut deep in the ivory just above the pommel. He'd made a mistake, underestimated the margasi he faced. Before he knew what had happened, the devil's steel was under his guard and driving its way home. Tieg had slammed the butt of his cutlass down on the blade as hard as he could, just deflecting it away from his heart. It had left a deep gash in the smooth, creamy grip just between his fingers, and by the end of the fight, his hand was blistered and bloody from rubbing across it. When it was all over, he'd had the rough edges taken down, but he'd refused to have the cut buffed out completely.

"A reminder," he'd explained to the indignant smith.

He stared at the case, at the blades, his blades, sold off a lifetime ago and took a deep breath. How on Alcern had she done it? Perhaps it hadn’t been a dream. Maybe Riahna really had brought the cutlasses. But how had she convinced a Designate to project her image and transport the swords?

He'd met a couple Designates. They strutted in their white robes, peering at each supplicant, judging on appearances, it seemed, how well each adhered to the Book of Lore and its Appendium. And the yellow robed priests who actually saw to the welfare of the people fawned over them. At least here in Kirasar they didn’t have their bejeweled fingers as deeply in politics as those of the other two realms did. As in Dunbraeden and Canrishaen, however, Kirasar’s Designates’ exclusive hold on magic made them a necessary part of life if one wanted to survive the injuries of war.

Tieg shuddered. Designates performed the bindings too. The Appendium called any act of magic performed by someone other than a Designate the most damning of sins, worse even than murder, and the punishment was singularly unpleasant. To have one's soul bound . . . To have it placed in some object for all eternity. . .

No matter. If Riahna had arranged to have his treasured weapons returned to him, she would have taken care to see that the method was church-approved. And if it wasn't Riahna, then it didn't matter.

Tieg turned to leave the stall and stopped dead in his tracks with his hand still on the stall door. There stood the boy, his eyes wide and his jaw hanging clear down to his chest.

Tieg gulped. "Just how much did you hear, boy?"

Quinn's mouth worked, but no sound came out, and Tieg began to sweat under his scrutiny.

Intimidated by an eight-year-old! “Well?”

"The Tiegmon Moru?"

Tieg sighed and his shoulders drooped. “That much.”

"The Tiegmon Moru who stood alone against 200 in the Battle of Korvan's Fall and lived?"

"It wasn't anywhere near that many.” Tieg let himself out of Milo's stall. "And I wasn't alone."

"The Tiegmon Moru who single-handedly saved King Korvan's life?"

The boy's gaze rose to the giant black horse in the stall, and before Tieg could protest that it had really been Riahna who had made that possible, the boy gasped. "Milo.” His eyes grew to the size of bucklers. "Is Milo the queen's gift, Milorain's Favor?"

"It wasn't single-handed, but yes, Milo's given name is Milorain's Favor."

"The Tiegmon Moru, the greatest swordsman who ever lived?"

"Now that's enough!"

Tieg shook his head. He'd met several margasi his better in that battle, and if it weren't for the blessing of the spirits, he'd be dead, and so would Riahna and Jerad.

The boy sagged and his face grew long.

Perhaps he'd been too harsh. "Yes," Tieg said. "I'm that Tiegmon Moru." He had trouble, though, keeping bitterness out of his voice.

The boy glanced around the barn, his eyes glistening enough Tieg thought he might cry. "But you're a hero, Tieg. They made you a lord!" His voice sounded almost plaintive. "What are you doing here?"

Tieg took a deep breath. "Being a hero," he said and swallowed down the waiver in his voice as his throat tightened. "Is not all it's made out to be, boy. Now feed Milo. We can talk about it later." He turned, then, and strode past the still gaping boy, but it seemed his young charge meant to continue dredging up the past until there was no hope for Tieg’s beleaguered mind at all.

"Was that Riahna Lindra?" the boy whispered.

Tieg whirled. "You saw her?" He laughed. Of course. The lad must have seen her if he had heard Tieg’s name. Maybe he wasn't crazy after all.

The boy nodded and a shy grin spread across his round little face. "The legends describe you all as handsome, but they don't say she looks like an angel!"

"Legends?" Tieg frowned. When had they grown into legends? It wasn't true, of course. They weren't heroes. They had just done what they had to in order to survive, and luck had been on their side.

"Everybody knows!" The boy shrugged. "The greatest swordsman, the greatest archer, and the woman who opened Leomar's box."

Tieg grabbed the boy by the shirt and gave him a shake. "Who told you that?" Riahna had sworn to tell no one that she had opened the box, had asked that he and Jerad swear as well. No one knew unless one of the three had told, and he had not.

Tieg set the lad back down and straightened his collar. “I’m sorry, Quinn,” he said and patted the boy’s shoulder. “I was surprised to hear that someone might know that is all.”

"Everyone knows. The Song of Korvan's Fall?"

"There's a song?"

The boy's brow furrowed. "How long have you been out here, Tieg?"

"A long time." Tieg sighed. "Now see to Milo's breakfast."

"Yes, Sir," the boy said and saluted him. "Imagine it," Tieg heard the boy say as he turned to leave. "Tiegmon Moru!"

From The Swordsman, Volume 1 of The Book of Lore, coming soon

All contents are © Copyright 2004 by Valerie Dietrich