T he scent never changes. Other details fade in and out, insignificant and essential at the same time. But the scent he remembers with perfectly clarity. It is bitter and metallic, sharp to the nose and tongue. Sometimes there is the taste of blood.
Midnight. This time it is a forest clearing during a thunderstorm – the rain so heavy that it drowns out all sounds. Every few seconds lightning flashes overhead. The circle of magic runes glows bright red and in the center of it lies a woman. Her green eyes are staring at nothing. From the edge of the clearing Ander stares, helpless, at his wife. She is dead.
He has dreamed the same scene every night for almost twenty years. Sometimes he is standing over his wife’s body, other times he kneels beside her as she gasps softly, clinging to each breath. At times they are in a cave, a house, or the depths of some enemy’s dungeon. The runes glow red, silver, green, or not at all. Sometimes there is a knife in his hand. The details change and shift, all but the scent, and when he finally gets it right he’ll remember what truly happened and where he went wrong.
Youth is his only excuse. Youth and ambition, combined with an excess of talent and power that no boy should have. He was a Dreamwalker, more powerful than the mages, the alchemists, or even the elves to the east. They could not walk between worlds or control dreams – not without hours of practice and complex rituals. They could not speak to spirits or run wild with the winds. They were beings of study, precision, and caution – he was wild, untamable. At nineteen Ander decided that patience and cautious training were beneath him.
It took less than a year for that decision to end. Although the details of his wife’s death were always on his mind, Ander wasn’t even sure where he had buried her. Several days later he left the home they had created together. Sometimes it felt as though he had been moving on ever since, forever chasing the creature responsible – the demon. He thought of little else. For years he searched without stopping, following legend, rumors, and hearsay, chasing the slightest whisper or whim. He had to find the demon. Nothing else mattered.
As the years dragged on Ander noticed the fire and determination of his youth had left him. He was slowing down. Rumors and legends were replaced by lists and diagrams. They were his obsession. Every night he dreamed that same instance, whether by herb or spell or, rarely now, the natural onset of sleep. During the day he recorded every detail that he could remember, for each night the details changed, even if only slightly. He wrote lists of names – names he remembered from his youth, people he had met during his pursuit of his wife’s murderer, and the many names of the demon itself. Sometimes he spent hours copying older lists when he had nothing new to write down. Eventually it came down to one name: Ambrosine. He had written it so many times that the movements became almost instinctual.
He settled in Delving Vale, a quiet village in the Southern Mountains, far from demons and magi and memories of his mistakes. It was a small village of farmers and craftsmen. The people were friendly enough, though most were aware of Ander’s abilities and knew it was best to leave a magic-weaver alone. Many were refugees from the wars. Some were soldiers – deserters, maybe, but Ander never asked. No one asked about another’s background if they did not wish to be asked about their own. It was a fact that Ander appreciated.
He had lost all desire for material things and lived only on what he deemed to be necessary. Wild game and vegetation that he could provide for himself were the bulk of his diet. He ate well enough, not because he was hungry, but because it kept his mind clear and his body able. He often traded for any items of clothing or tools that he could not fashion on his own. It was the sort of quiet life he wished he could
Similar Books
