“Kallendbor,” said the River Master distastefully. He bore no great affection for any of the Lords of the Greensward, Kallendbor least of all.
“I stole it from his sanctuary while he slept, stole it from beneath the noses of his watch because, after all, Lord River Master, they are only men. I stole it, and I brought it to you—my gift for a gift in return!”
The River Master fought back the wave of revulsion that passed through him as the shadow wight laughed hollowly. “What is this gift?”
“This!” the wight said and pulled from the sack it carried in its withered pink hand a white bottle with red dancing clowns.
“Ah, no!” the River Master cried in recognition. “I know this gift well, shadow wight—and it is no gift at all! It is a curse! It is the bottle of the Darkling!”
“It calls itself so,” the other said, coming closer still, so close its breath was warm against the River Master’s skin. “But it is indeed a gift! It can give the bearer of the bottle…”
“Anything!” finished the River Master, shying away despite his resolve. “But the magic it employs is evil beyond all words!”
“I care nothing for good or evil,” the wight said. “I care only for one thing. Listen to me, Lord River Master. I stole the bottle and I brought it to you. What you do with it now is of no concern to me. Destroy it, if you wish. But first use it to help me!” Its voice was a hiss of despair. “I want myself back again!”
The River Master stared. “Back again? That which you once were?”
“That! Only that! Look at me! I cannot bear myself longer, Lord River Master! I have lived an eternity of non-being, of shadowlife, of scavenging and horror beyond all words because I have had no choice! I have stolen lives from every quarter, thieved them from every being that is or was! No more! I want myself back; I want my life again!”
The River Master frowned. “What is it that you expect me to do?”
“Use the bottle to help me!”
“Use the bottle? Why not use it yourself, shadow wight? Haven’t you already said that the bottle can give the bearer anything?”
The wight was trying to cry, but there were no tears in its ruined body. “Lord River Master, I can give myself nothing! I cannot use the bottle! I have no being and cannot invoke the magic! I am… only barely here! I am only a shadow! All the magic in the world is useless to me! Look at me! I am helpless!”
The River Master stared at the shadow wight with new-found horror, seeing for the first time the truth of what its existence must be like.
“Please!” it begged, dropping to its knees. “Help me!”
The River Master hesitated, then took the sack from the creature’s extended hand. “I will consider it,” he said. He signaled back the watch. “Wait here for a time while I do so. And be careful you work no harm on any of my people, or the choice will be made for me.”
He moved away a bit, holding the sack loosely, slowed, and looked back. The shadow wight was crouched upon the earth, huddled like a broken thing, watching him. He had not the power to heal such a being, he thought wearily. And if the bottle’s magic should give him such power, had he even the right to try?
He turned sharply and walked away. He passed from the park into the city, passed by the dancers and the merrymakers, walked down pathways and along garden rows, lost in the barren landscape of his thoughts. He knew the power of the Darkling. He had known of its power for years, as he knew of the power of most magics. He remembered the uses to which it had been put by the old King’s careless son and the dark wizard Meeks. He understood the way such magic wove bright colored ribbons about its holder and then turned them suddenly to chains.
The greater the power, the greater the risk, he reminded himself.