Page 61 of The Dragonrider and the Void
As he reached for the final page, something caught his eye. It was a small passage in the old dragonrider script that hadn’t been visible in the library’s dim light. Though he couldn’t read most of the symbols, Tel had begun teaching Venrick the runes of the first rides. One phrase stood out.
The corruption seeks division. Unity is its bane.
Venrick stared at the words, fighting to understand their significance through the growing brain fog.
The corruption seeks division.
He pressed the pages to his chest, using the sharp edges of the metal to force himself to focus. The footsteps behind him were growing louder, more persistent. He had to move.
The tunnel ahead opened into a small rectangular chamber where dusty old Vermillion Keep tapestries hung on the walls, lit by iron sconces in the shapes of dragons holding dimly glowing mage-lights on either side. Multiple passages branched off in different directions at the opposite end. In the center of the chamber stood a crumbling statue, so ancient its features had worn away to near-featurelessness.
Venrick’s vision blurred around the edges, but he recognized the unique shape. It was a dragon and rider, standing back-to-back a fae figure, like the ones from the mosaic in the North. Though time had erased the details, he could see where the solitary had horns, wings, and a long tail.
Three powers united against the dark,Venrick read the words that had survived on the base of the statue.
He leaned against the statue, trying to gather what remained of his strength. The whispers from the spell passed into his mind with the same faint, phantom voice. “Surrender now and the consequences of your actions will be forgiven,” it said, the voice having grown more insistent than before. Then a series of images forced their way into his head: Lark’s suffering. Her being tortured in a dozen different ways, each more evil than the last. The whispering returned, saying, “Her pain can end if only you would surrender the pages.”
“Not real,” he gasped. “It’s not real, it’s only the spell.”
But doubt gnawed at him.What if that voice is real? What if Lark is being tortured while I escape with the pages? What if?—
A small sound from one of the other tunnels jerked him from these spiraling thoughts. Not the heavy footfalls of armored guards, but something lighter, more cautious. Venrick tensed,forcing his hand to his sword hilt despite knowing he could barely stand, let alone fight.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice rougher than he intended.
Silence answered him, then a faint shuffling sound. Venrick squinted into the darkness, wishing he had Lark’s ability to summon mage light. Then he saw it. A small figure pressed against the wall of one of the adjoining tunnels. It was hunched into a ball, hugging its knees and trying to make itself invisible against the stone.
Not a guard, nor a rimeshade. A child?
The hunched figure in the shadows shifted slightly, and Venrick caught a glimpse of wide, terrified eyes watching him. A boy, no more than ten or eleven years old, dressed in the simple garb of a Keep servant. His face was smudged with dirt, and a dark stain spread across one sleeve.Blood, he realized.
“I won’t hurt you,” Venrick said, trying to soften his voice despite the pain racking his body. He slowly lowered his sword, wincing as another pulse of the King’s spell sent darkness crawling further up his arm.
The boy pressed himself tighter against the wall. “You’re one of them,” he whispered. “The intruders. The bells were ringing.”
Venrick glanced down at himself. The fine merchant’s coat he was wearing was now torn and bloodied, the black corruption was visible on his skin, the strange metal pages clutched against his chest.
I must look like a monster in this child’s eyes.
“I’m not your enemy,” Venrick said. As he spoke, he was struck with a fresh wave of pain that drove him to one knee. The metal pages clattered against the stone floor once more as he flexed to brace himself against the burning inside.
The action startled the boy, who flinched and tried to retreat deeper into the shadows. As the boy moved, he gasped, his hand going to his side.
“You’re injured,” Venrick observed, forcing himself to focus beyond his own agony.
The boy hesitated, then gave a barely perceptible nod. “When the fighting started upstairs, I was delivering messages. Something exploded. The wall,” his voice trembled. “I got lost trying to find my way back.”
Cheyanne’s distraction, Venrick realized. Their allies must’ve created a more violent form of chaos in the upper levels of the Keep. This child had been caught in the crossfire.
The rational part of Venrick’s mind screamed at him to keep moving. Guards were pursuing him. They would know he was somewhere the tunnels beneath the Keep’s main level. Yet he found himself setting the pages carefully aside and approaching the boy slowly, hands open to show he meant no harm.
“My name is Venrick,” he said quietly. “I used to be a Squire for a Paragon from this Keep, you may have heard of him before, Tel Roan.”
The boy’s eyes widened slightly. “But... you’re with the intruders.”
“Life has become complicated since Tel’s fall,” Venrick admitted, now close enough to see the extent of the child’s injuries. A nasty gash ran along his side, and his ankle was twisted at an unnatural angle. “What’s your name?”
“Edgar,” the boy replied after a moment’s hesitation. “I serve Lord Cardwell’s household.”
