Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

For after all, I was reasonably confident of my own prowess. I’d survived three decades of warfare and duels. I’d destroyed a fire elemental and the undead warlock in the vaults under Keenspur House. It was conceivable that I could defeat Dromis, too, no matter what tricks he had in store.

But I didn’t really believe it. My instincts warned me I was in desperate trouble, and the only honorable way out was to uncover Dromis’ secret.

Of course, not everyone would agree that house-breaking was “honorable,” but given the circumstances, I was willing to make allowances.

Skulking in the same dark, narrow space where Tregan had performed his divination, I watched Dromis’ school until all the lights went out and for a candlemark thereafter. Then I tied on my mask and, hooded lantern in hand, scurried across the benighted street and around to the back of the building, where there was a secondary entrance.

I didn’t know how to pick a lock—I kept meaning to learn—but I did know how to break open a door with a crowbar. I waited until I was certain no one had heard the crunching noise it made, then crept into what proved to be a kitchen.

Shining my light only when absolutely necessary and only for an instant at a time, seeking the way to the top floor, I groped through darkness. In time, I passed bedchambers and heard the snoring buzzing from within, and I’ll admit, it crossed my mind that I could settle this whole affair by killing Dromis in his sleep. But that would have made me just as vile as he was, especially considering that, my suspicions notwithstanding, I didn’t yet have any proof that he and his pupils were cheats.

I pulled a folding staircase down from a ceiling to reach the garret. Once there, I risked letting my lantern shine continuously. As I played the beam about, it illuminated cobwebs, dusty trunks and crates, and then something more interesting.

It was a block of dark, silver-flecked stone, about the size of a horse’s head, sitting on a little table with a chair in front of it. Though I’d traveled far before settling in Mornedealth, I didn’t recognize the type of mineral, nor the style of the glyphs carved into it, either. I certainly couldn’t hazard a guess as to their meaning.

What I could tell was that the block was broken, some of the sigils marred or defaced. Either the artifact had fallen from a height, or someone had taken a hammer to it. And I could sense the power emanating from it, like a hum so faint that a man didn’t quite realize he was hearing it.

Plainly, it was the talisman whose presence Tregan had discerned, and if he were here, playing burglar along with me, perhaps he could have told me what the magic did. In his absence, I’d have to try to discover on my own.

I sat down in the chair and inspected the block at close range. It didn’t look appreciably different, nor did it react to my proximity. Warily, like a man testing the edge of a blade, I touched a fingertip to the front of it.

That one light contact was all it took. Suddenly everything vanished, including my sense of my own body. In its place there suddenly rushed a torrent of darkness that tumbled me along like a raging river. Except not exactly. But that’s as close as I can come to describing the sensation.

Terrified, I reached out—not with the hands I could no longer feel, but with sheer willpower, I think—for something other than the black rapids. It worked; abruptly, the nature of my experience changed. I could still feel the current sweeping me along, but now I was more like a man floating precariously on the surface than one drowning in the depths.

As a result, I could see. Mornedealth lay far below me, as if I were a hawk floating on the wind, while the sky arched overhead.

But the sky wasn’t behaving properly. It flickered from dark to light and back again in an instant, quick as the beat of a hummingbird’s wing.

Then the trees dropped their leaves almost as quickly. Snow blanketed the earth, then melted away. Several new houses sprang up, the frames clothing themselves in solid walls like a man pulling up his breeches.

Frightened and befuddled though I was, I had a vague idea what was happening. The dark stone had drawn my spirit from my body. That trick was common enough that even nonmagical folk like me had heard of it. What was unusual was that in the process, it had also yanked me loose from my proper position in time. Now something—perhaps simply the inexorable momentum of time—was whisking me into the future.

I was afraid that if it carried me too far, it would prove impossible to get back. I started swimming against the current, though my struggles had nothing to do with stroking arms or kicking legs. As before, it was a matter of pure resolve.

For a while, I couldn’t tell if I was making any headway. Then, for just an instant, I caught a glimpse of the room and moment from which I’d come.

Unfortunately, my body wasn’t alone anymore. Dromis was creeping up behind me with a dagger in his hand.