Kellanved's Reach

‘And on that you bet your life,’ Dancer muttered, shaking his head once again.

Kellanved shrugged. ‘Well, ’tis done. Ah!’ He pointed his walking stick. ‘The tunnel.’

Dancer glanced behind: indeed, the way by which they had entered was open again. Kellanved extended an arm, inviting him to lead on.

Outside, in the howling contrary winds, the mage paused for a time, peering out at the long stretch of the headland where it extended straight out to the choppy iron-grey sea, which itself stretched on to the cloud-choked horizon.

‘Such a feature could be called a “reach”,’ the mage mused aloud. He squinted to Dancer. ‘And such a portentous and important place ought to have an equally portentous and weighty name – do you not think so?’

Dancer eyed him, suspicious. ‘What do you … No. You can’t … you didn’t!’

The mage gave a distorted twitch that might have been an attempt at a wink. ‘’Tis done, my friend.’

Dancer pressed a hand to his brow. ‘Gods, no.’ He half turned away. ‘Let’s just get back to Malaz. They must be certain we’re dead by now.’

The mage tilted his head, then his brows rose in surprise. ‘I can reach Shadow now! Perhaps because our trial is over …’

‘I think you’re still on probation,’ Dancer muttered.

This drew a vexed look from Kellanved. ‘Faith, my friend.’ He gestured and shadows gathered about them in the manner now familiar to Dancer. They thickened, blotting out his vision as always before. He felt himself being shifted in the alien, cold fashion of Shadow. Yet at the last instant a new and unfamiliar greyness seemed to inject itself into the swirl of shade and he felt a sharp sideways yank that tore a shout of pain from him as if he were being ripped in two. He blacked out.

Noise of soft surf, and a soothing warmth, woke him. Groaning, he sat up, blinking and holding his head. It ached like murder – far worse than any hangover or blow he’d ever endured. He peered round, wincing at the bright sunlight. He was on another shore, but one as different from the earlier one as was possible. The soft warm sand of a beach lay beneath him, and turquoise wavelets lapped gently. Inland, a wall of rich verdant foliage stood solid, seemingly impenetrable.

And no Kellanved. Panicked, he rose – which was a mistake as he was assaulted by a wave of pain and nausea and almost fell. He was standing, hands pressed to his head, fighting the dizziness, when Kellanved spoke.

‘Ah! There

you are.’

He peered up, blinking, to see the man off a distance, upon a dune, apparently none the worse, and he gritted his teeth. ‘What happened?’ he ground out.

The little fellow came gingerly down the sand slope. ‘We were intercepted in mid-shift,’ he explained. ‘Not an easy accomplishment, I must add.’

‘Intercepted?’

The mage nodded. ‘Yes.’ He pointed his walking stick. ‘By whoever it is in a tent just down the shore here.’

Dancer was still cradling his head. ‘I don’t like him already.’

‘Now, now. Let’s see what he has to say.’

Dancer tried straightening and shuddered; he realized he actually felt physically ill and he looked to Kellanved. ‘Why do I feel so sick?’

The mage nodded. ‘Ah. It affects you strongly, does it? I suppose it must, you not being a talent so having no way to shield yourself.’

Dancer gritted his teeth anew. ‘What does, damn you!’

‘Chaos itself. Our host here appears able to draw upon it more directly than anyone ought.’

‘Chaos? Am I going to get sick?’

Kellanved eyed him closely. ‘It should be temporary.’

‘How very helpful.’ He tried a few tentative steps, pointed ahead. ‘Let’s get this over with as quickly as possible, then.’

A short way round the shore of what looked to be a very small island lay a sprawling tent of canvas and hides, its many ridgepoles poking up like mismatched ribs. Oddly, given the heat, smoke rose from almost every gap, tear and hole.

Dancer and Kellanved eyed one another, uncertain, then made their way up to it and the mage used his walking stick to edge aside a flap.

Within, it was unnaturally gloomy, given the bright sunshine outside – hazy with hanging smoke, and uncomfortably hot as braziers of shimmering coals stood here and there about the interior. A hunched and broad shape, draped in rags, appeared to rise across the murkiness.

‘You made it – excellent,’ called a strong voice.

‘Your invitation was rather … abrupt,’ Kellanved answered.

The hunched figure, his head almost hidden so low was it, like an old bent ancient, nodded. ‘Apologies. Given my, ah, state I cannot venture beyond my sanctuary here. And so I must reach out to those I wish to address.’

Kellanved waved the hanging layers of smoke from his face. ‘You wish to talk, then?’

‘Yes.’ A rag-wrapped lumpy hand rose to point. ‘I have had my eye upon you for some time, my tricky friend. I think we are much alike, you and I.’

The mock-elderly mage peered at the deformed figure. ‘Oh? I fail to see it.’