Void Walker: A Novel of Lasniniar

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

A Ghost From the Past

Something wasn’t right.

Iarion stepped beyond the southern boughs of Melaquenya, his thoughts churning. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to put his finger on what had been nagging at him for the better part of a week now. A cool, early spring breeze stirred his white braids as he walked. He ignored the cold damp of the dew-soaked grass against his trousers. The ancient trees of the Light Elves’ forest towered behind him. The wind rustling the gold and silver trimmed leaves almost seemed to whisper to him, mocking his unease. The undulating green carpet of the Rolling Hills stretched before him into the distance, blocking the view of the desert that lay far beyond. Iarion stared at them without really seeing.

He felt as if he had lost something, but he couldn’t place what it was. It was as if something inside him had gone missing—something that had always been there. Now there was only an empty hole left behind that he couldn’t help but probe like a loose tooth. It was almost like what he remembered from his past life, when he had been born without a connection to the Quenya—a constant, dull ache of loss that nothing seemed to fill. He had kept the matter to himself for the time being. Normally, he would have tried talking to Lodariel, but his mate was wrapped up in Silvaranwyn’s pregnancy. Getting her to focus on anything beyond the woman who would birth Lodariel’s twin brother’s child was practically impossible as far as Iarion was able to tell.

He might have tried talking to Iadrawyn and Valanandir, but Silvaranwyn was their youngest child, and they were preoccupied with her current state as well, in addition to running the day-to-day affairs of Melaquenya as Ruling Lord and Lady. Iarion had also considered trying to summon Felara to see if she could provide any insight, but something held him back. He had no logical explanation for his reluctance, but he had the vague inkling it was a cue from the Quenya. His connection to the source of the elves’ magic in his current incarnation wasn’t strong, but he wasn’t about to ignore it.

This left Iarion with no one else to confide in, so he found himself wandering the forest alone lately more often than not. If Barlo had been there...

Iarion closed his eyes against the familiar pang.

Barlo is dead. I killed him.

He had struggled for years to come to terms with Barlo’s loss. Even though it had happened long ago, it still hit him from time to time with a fresh wave of grief. Iarion knew he had had no choice. Barlo had been bitten by the Khashada. If Iarion hadn’t killed him, his dwarven friend would have eventually turned into one of the soulless, blood drinking drakhalu—a fate worse than death.

Barlo had even asked Iarion to kill him, but it didn’t make Iarion feel any less guilty about it. His best friend was gone and was never coming back. If Barlo had been an elf, things might have been different. But the dwarves were not connected to the Quenya like the elves were. When they died, they went to the First Father’s Hall, never to return. Iarion tried to find comfort in the idea of Barlo keeping his wife Narilga company at a feast that never ended, but it did nothing to ease his own sense of loss.

Iarion forced his eyes open, his golden-flecked sapphire eyes blinking against the sting of tears. He took a deep breath and forced his thoughts in a more productive direction. Barlo would have been the first to tell him that no amount of moping was going to bring him back.

When did I start feeling different?

He and Lodariel had recently returned from a journey to the newly discovered island of Belidaria, far to the southwest. The journey had been fraught with danger. Aside from Felara and her few allies, the rest of the Unborn had decided Iarion was too dangerous to allow him to continue living. Felara had revealed that the Unborn viewed him as a catalyst. It was through his actions that the boundary between the realms of the Unborn and Lasniniar had been breached, even though that had not been his intention at the time. Now the strange and powerful beings were worshipped as gods among the humans. The Unborn seemed to reason that since Iarion had been the one to free them, he also had the ability to send them back where they came from, or worse.

As if I would even know how to do such a thing...

But the Unborn were taking no chances. They had stirred up their followers against the elves and given them magical powers. Even now, the patrols scouting the northern border of Melaquenya had been doubled to safeguard against attacks, which was why Iarion’s wanderings had taken him to the far south. This put the elves in a difficult situation. They knew the human zealots were only misguided, but the powers granted to them by their Unborn masters made them dangerous. Iadrawyn and her eldest daughter, Andirlynia, were forced to hold a magical shield over the border of the forest in shifts, with Silvaranwyn spelling them out as needed. Some of the Light Elves were growing tired of maintaining a defensive position and were even talking about facing the humans in battle. Valanandir was struggling to maintain order among them. These issues only made Iarion’s internal struggles seem even more insignificant by comparison, but he couldn’t seem to focus on anything else. The same elves who wanted to fight also tended to blame Iarion for the humans turning against them, which only gave him another reason to wander outside the forest in an attempt to clear his thoughts.

I don’t remember feeling this way on Belidaria.

The realization surprised him. The strange island was host to two races of creatures that were a cross between humans and felines—the Lion Folk and the Cat Folk—along with a pantheon of strange gods from another realm. He would have thought his visit there had something to do with his current sense of unease.

Lodariel and I sailed back from Belidaria and returned here.

He knew this for certain, but the details of the journey were hazy at best. In fact, the more he tried to focus on them, the more elusive they became. Single moments of the adventure were quite clear—Lodariel finding Rasniwyn and Prince Ahmose, Lodariel fighting King Menes in single combat—but others continued to slip through his fingers. He had no memory of meeting with Queen Iset in private, but he knew she had begged them to find her missing son, which had not happened during their public audience.

Am I going mad?

Would I even know?

A ripple of fear stirred to life in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he had brought back some kind of magical illness from Belidaria that hadn’t set in while he was there. Even though he questioned everything else, Iarion knew he hadn’t started to feel strange until after his return to Melaquenya. It felt like the only thing he really knew for certain, even though he had no way of proving it. He shook his head.

I need to figure this out, or it really will drive me mad.

He knew he was lucky Lodariel was so distracted with Silvaranwyn, or she surely would have noticed his abstracted behavior lately. He began to pace, stirred by the sudden need to be moving. The sight of the clear, blue sky, towering trees behind him, and undulating hills receded from his vision as his thoughts centered inward. Time lost all meaning as the sun rose in the eastern sky.

He whirled at the end of the flattened track of grass he had created and uttered a startled oath, drawing his long knife from its sheath.

A large, feline form the color of smoke wove through the grass toward him. Iarion blinked. His memories jarred against one another, flooding him with a fresh wave of grief. The wildcat was a bit smaller, her eyes were golden instead of green, and her markings were slightly different, but otherwise, she was the spitting image of Sinstari, Barlo’s deceased companion. A vision of Sinstari flinging himself at the Khashada as a distraction overwhelmed Iarion for a moment. The wildcat had sacrificed his life to buy Barlo the chance he had needed to kill the half-changeling, half-drakhal elf woman who had threatened to overrun Lasniniar, but not before she had bitten him. Sinstari had originally been Iarion’s hunting companion, but he had formed a strong bond with Barlo after Iarion had died in his previous incarnation.

The cat in the grass strode toward him, dispelling the vision. She sat back on her haunches and looked up at him with an intent expression, her tufted ears swiveled toward him. She uttered an inquiring meow.

Iarion’s thoughts swirled. He knew this cat...

“Golhura?” he said in a tentative voice. He leaned down to hold out a golden-skinned hand in greeting.

She butted her head against his leg in response. Iarion’s thoughts formed a cohesive trail as he stroked her soft fur. Golhura was a cub of Sinstari’s line. Lodariel had found her in Melaquenya before their adventure on Belidaria. He hadn’t seen her since... Well, he couldn’t remember.

Golhura paced around him in a slow circle. She sniffed at him with her mouth slightly open, her whiskers quivering. The look she gave him when she was finished was unreadable.

Can she tell something is different about me?

“What are you doing here?” Iarion asked her in Elvish. “Why aren’t you in the forest?”

He hadn’t been paying attention when she had initially approached him, but she seemed to have been coming from the northeast and not from the wood.

Golhura sat back on her haunches and tilted her head, giving the impression of being puzzled. She meowed again. Her tail lashed back and forth in the grass in agitation.

Iarion spread his hands. “I don’t know what you want.” Her resemblance to Sinstari made him feel Barlo’s loss even more keenly than before. Why had she sought him out?

Golhura pawed at the ground for a moment, appearing to be in thought. After a moment, she stood and turned away from him toward the hills. She took a few steps forward and looked back over her shoulder.

“You want me to follow?” Iarion asked.

She took a few more steps and looked back once more.

Iarion shrugged, feeling at a loss. “All right. Lead the way then.”

Golhura led him a short distance through the hills, pausing only to make sure he was still following. She seemed to have a particular destination in mind. A few moments later, she stopped in front of a particularly large hill with... a window in the side?

Iarion frowned. “What is this place?”

He approached the hill with caution. It looked like some kind of burrow, but definitely not one that belonged to any animal. He walked around it in a slow circle and found a sturdy, wooden door. He gave it a tentative knock.

“Hello?”

No one answered. Golhura walked up beside him and scratched at the door.

Iarion sighed. “I suppose you want me to open it?” She held his gaze and gave the door another scratch. “Very well then. Although it doesn’t seem like very good manners.”

Iarion tried the doorknob. It twisted easily under his hand. The door swung open on silent hinges. Golhura didn’t hesitate. She darted into the waiting darkness inside.

Iarion shook his head, but found himself following.

“Hello?” he called again. “Is anyone home?”

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the burrow. He spotted a lantern on a table near the door and took a moment to light it with the flint he carried on his belt. The warm glow revealed an entryway that led to what appeared to be a sitting room with burrow’s only window. The air was a bit stale, but otherwise breathable, and the furniture only seemed to have a thin layer of dust.

Someone had been living here not that long ago.

The ceilings were high enough for an elf, but no elf would live in a place like this. Even the former Earth Elves who lived in Melaquenya preferred the forest’s caves, and wouldn’t live beyond the edge of the Quenya’s domain.

Iarion continued his exploration. He found a basic kitchen and a tunnel that sloped gently downward, even farther underground. He took a steadying breath and followed it.

He found three sleeping rooms along the passage, each with its own privy. The first one contained a bed long enough for an elf, but the second housed a much shorter bed. It was decorated with some elven beadwork, and a vase held a bouquet of flowers that had long since dried out, giving it a feminine air. The rushes on the floors of the rooms crackled even beneath Iarion’s light footsteps. The last bedroom...

Iarion swallowed as he entered with the lantern. It housed another short bed, but that wasn’t what caught his eye. A tartan flag hung from the wall. It bore Barlo’s clan markings. He went to sit down on the bed before his legs gave way and almost tripped over Golhura. An underground home with dwarf-sized beds and Barlo’s tartan...

“Barlo could have lived here,” Iarion said in a choked voice. If he had lived, his mind taunted him. “But who else would live here with his tartan?”

Golhura sat on the rushes, staring up at him as if silently willing him to hear her thoughts. Her tail swished back and forth.

“Maybe someone from Barlo’s clan moved here...” Iarion mused. “But who? What dwarf would forsake his mountain home to live near the elves? The only dwarf I’ve ever known who might do such a thing is Barlo, but that’s not possible.” Golhura’s ears flattened.

“You don’t agree with me, I take it,” Iarion said. “Well, how would you know? You never even met Barlo.”

Golhura’s ears flattened again.

Iarion shook his head in bemusement. “You think you have met Barlo?”

Golhura butted her head against his knee.

Iarion frowned. “Nothing about this makes any sense. You lead me to some empty burrow that looks like it belongs to a dwarf, who must be a member of Barlo’s clan, and now you’re telling me you’ve met Barlo, even though he died before you were even born.”

Golhura pulled away and startled him with a low growl.

Iarion gave her a long look. Between his own jumble of memories and emotions, and Golhura’s sudden appearance, he didn’t know what to think.

“Look, I can see you’re worked up about this, but Barlo is dead.” Iarion’s voice cracked on the last word. “I should know. I killed him. Maybe some other dwarf has taken on his name—another dwarf from the same clan. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Even though he said the words, and he knew they were rational, his heart desperately wanted it to be otherwise.

Golhura growled again, her tail lashing back and forth.

This entire situation is crazy. Maybe I am going mad.

“I suppose the only way to find out would be to go to Dwarvenhome and ask around,” he said, thinking out loud. “Barlo’s sons would know if anyone from their clan had made their home here.”

Golhura butted her head against his knee again with so much force, it nearly knocked him over. Her rumbling purr of approval filled the small room. Iarion stroked her face, allowing himself to take temporary comfort in the presence of a wildcat that reminded him so much of Sinstari.

The idea of getting away for a while appealed to him. Lodariel would hardly notice his absence with Silvaranwyn’s pregnancy to keep her occupied. Maybe it would even do him some good and help to clear his head.

Why not? A journey to Dwarvenhome should distract me from whatever it is that haunts me, if nothing else.

At least, that was what he told himself.