Her eyes snapped open and everything faded. Sighing heavily, she slapped the rock with her hand. “Gods of all, this is frustrating. Why can’t I remember?”
Seeing that it was getting late, she hurriedly washed in the refreshing waters of the falls and clear pond. When she had finished her bath and dried herself off to watch the suns set, she couldn’t help but think about building a home right here and never leaving. It would be so much more enjoyable than living in the village. The falls weren’t terribly far from New-Fars; she could still be close to Dalton. Actually, he could live with me if he wanted. But she doubted he would want to leave his cozy home in the country. She frowned.
A chill ran through her, and she shivered. Climbing down from her perch on the boulder, she went to retrieve her blanket from her satchel. As she pulled the rough patch of fabric out of the bag, something fell out and crashed onto her foot.
“Ow!” Biting her lip to quell the stinging pain, she bent down to pick up whatever it was that had fallen. When she saw what it was, she recoiled from it as if it were poisonous. It was the lyre.
Once again her heart raced in her chest. The instrument’s magical pull was like a noose around her neck—unwanted but impossible to ignore. Slowly, she picked it up and stumbled over to the large, warm rock.
Dread settled in her. She realized that she either had to keep the lyre and play it or she had to, in only two days, find a branch and make her own lyre.
Wildly, she jumped to her feet, lyre in hand, ready to cast the instrument into the center of the pond.
Just as she was about to release it, every molecule in her body froze.
“Do not forsake it. Do not forsake us.”
Shaking, shocked that she would have thrown it away, she sank to the ground, cradling the lyre in her hands. Tears streamed down her cheeks. It was heavy to hold, not in her hands, but in her heart. She could feel something from it; it emitted a strong sense of death, loss, loneliness, and evil.
She had forced herself to forget the vision of when she had received it, but the vision resurfaced. A sense of duty settled over her.
She raised the lyre and laid her long, slender fingers across it. Her teeth dug into her lip, her jaw grinding against itself. Whispers tickled her ear. The lyre became heavier. The forest darkened around her.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled her fingers across the strings. A clear, sour note rang eerily through the forest.
Chapter 22
A Quiet Cabin
Mountains of Trans-Falls, Centaur Territory
His brilliant, blue eyes snapped open, and he gasped, his heart pounding in his chest. He leapt to his feet and galloped out of his home, not slowing until he had reached the center of the large, partially hidden city. The refurbished shell of an enormous tree loomed above him. A light shone out of a window at the top of the tree. He hesitated at the large, carved door that led inside, his fist inches from the door, ready to knock but hesitant.
“He’s not here.” His voice was barely even a whisper, as if he were afraid that his voice would startle away what was happening. His senses, he quickly noted, were heightened. He could feel all the life around him. He could sense the sleeping creatures nearby, and he could sense the creatures struggling to awaken from their slumber.
Looking down at the markings on his hands and arms, he gasped sharply. They were glowing brightly, but more than that, they were burning. Shaking his head, he tried to rid his mind of the muffled, wailing voices. He couldn’t tell if they were coming from his mind or the forest. He broke back into a gallop, the trees passing by him in a blur. Through the trees ahead of him, he spotted who he was searching for. Vines trailing from the trees crept across the ground, emitting their own strange light. A heavy fog covered the ground.
Slowing down, the majesty of this forest filling his being, he gently picked his way through the vines so as to not damage a single plant.
A white figure stood in the center of a large circle of strange, old trees.
“The forest—”
The white Centaur raised his hand, turning to face the younger Centaur, who quickly kneeled before his leader. “I know.” The white Centaur’s voice was nearly inaudible. His gaze drifted across the thick forest as if he were looking at something more than what was visible around him. “It is awakening once more. The lyre has escaped the curse, and its strings have been played once again.”
The handsome youth’s face beamed, his unnaturally blue eyes glimmering with hope. “Does this mean that … the forest will awaken? Does this mean it is the end?”
The white Centaur, a rare smile on his sullen face, shrugged his shoulders and turned his face to the trees.
They could both feel it—the life that poured from the forest. The stars faintly danced across the heavens, and the trees matched their movements, as if in the arms of the sky itself.
“Or, perhaps, my son, it is just the beginning!”
Chapter 23
The Waterfall
Base of Shadow Mountain
New-Fars, Human Domain
Again, Stephania plucked a string and listened as the note rang through the silent forest. Anticipation: that was the only word she could put on the oppressing feeling she was experiencing from the air around her.
Braken nervously stamped his hooves, but he didn’t seem scared or nervous, only excited.
Slowly and skeptically, she began to play the simple lullaby Dalton had always sung to her when she was little.
The suns had already slipped past the horizon, and the shadows once more began to play tricks on her mind. The moon rose behind her, shedding a bit of light on the meadow around her.
As she lifted her voice in song, she realized with unease that she wasn’t the only one singing.
Voices rose from around her.
She tried to concentrate on them, because when she did, they sounded like nothing more than the wind.
The lyre became a little less heavy the more she played, and its unearthly green glow increased, filling the meadow with its powerful, beautiful light.
Braken stopped whinnying and pawing and now stood perfectly still and quiet, as if in a trance.
Something scurried over her foot, and she looked down. It was a small lizard of a kind she had never seen before. Another ran up onto the rock, its eyes trained steadily on her. Mystified by this strange behavior, she continued to watch, amazed as a third then a forth crawled out onto the ground.
Having loved reptiles all her life, she was rather pleased with this turn of events.
A few snakes slithered up as well, their colorful tongues flickering in and out of their mouths.
She spotted movement up ahead in the grass.
Cautiously, she continued to sing, though a trifle quieter.
Her eyes widened. Her hands began to tremble. She could see the path the creature was making through the grass. It was enormous.
As it moved up onto the rock and into the light of the lyre, she gasped, nearly dropping the instrument. “Gods of all.”
It was the largest serpent she had ever seen, with its head about the size of her hand. It had a large, green tongue, which flickered in and out of its mouth, its eyes trained on her.
Now she began to panic. She felt the strange peace from the lyre slip away, and fear gripped her instead.
Her eyes roamed around her, focused no longer on the beautiful music. The trees were swaying, their leaves rattling to the beat of the music, and strange shadows that almost looked like people flitted through the trees.
Words echoed loudly in her mind, and memories and years of training flashed before her eyes.
“How do you know if they’re Duvarharian?” Dalton narrowed his eyes.
She tried not to groan. “Because they look freaky.”
“No, girl, think.” He rolled his eyes.
“Strange hair, pointy ears, colored swirls, reclusive.”
“And their capabilities?”
“Fast healing, better hearing, be
tter eyesight, entrancing animals, and sometimes humans.”
Stephania staggered, nearly falling off the rock. The world spun around her. “Oh gods, no. This can’t be happening.”
She backed up, shaking her head in denial and disbelief. The reptiles in front of her swayed, their eyes glazed and staring at her, some advancing after her.
Dalton’s warning mocked her loudly. “Don’t do anything stupid once you figure it out. Okay?”
“No.” She lowered the lyre to her side. A fog covered her mind as if trying to shield her from reality. As the clear, sour notes faded into the night air, the illusions of the forest disappeared.
The snakes and lizards lay passively at her feet, the large serpent staring at her intently, following her movements carefully.
“Those people don’t exist anymore. They never even have. There has to be some other explanation.”
Who didn’t exist? A foreign voice in her head asked.
Them.
Who? Say it!
Panicking, sweat dripping off her brow, Stephania stumbled off the rock, falling to the ground, her breath hot and heavy as she forced air into her lungs. “The Duvarharians!”
Her hand burned as if it had burst into flames. Crying out, she dropped the lyre. As soon as the instrument left her hands, it stopped glowing.
She groaned, gripping her burning hand to her chest, before her other hand began to burn from the heat as well, along with her neck.
Panting through agonizing pain, she unclenched her left fist and brought it toward her face. Rivers of tears rand down her pale cheeks. Now it wasn’t just her hand and neck that hurt, her head throbbed and so did all her muscles. Unfamiliar, debilitating pain filled her. She could only conclude it was her very soul burning.
“What in the bloody realm of Susahu is happening?” she screamed to the silent sky. A flock of birds scattered into the air. “Gods it hurts,” she groaned, her eyes rolling.
Bringing her hand close to her eyes, cries of pain parting her wet lips, she strained to see what was causing the pain.
Choking on her tears, she gasped in disbelief. If she looked hard enough, she could make out little swirls and symbols just a shade darker than her skin tone twining themselves across her skin.
As the pain became almost unbearable, it stopped abruptly, and she found herself staring at very real, very clear legendary markings on her hands and forearms.
“Gods of all.”
§
Thundering hooves hit the dirt, throwing leaves and chunks of earth into the air. The wind screamed in the young woman’s ears as it ripped and pulled at her red hair and the black mane of her horse.
The waterfall disappeared behind her as she fled from the haunting scene. Though she tried to forget, every time she closed her eyes, she could see those staring, glazed reptile eyes piercing into her soul.
After she had calmed down enough to stop hyperventilating, she followed the blubbing sounds of a stream. She soon came upon it and bent to drink ravenously from its clear water.
Unsure if she wanted to see what was on her neck, she peered into her reflection. Tears filled her eyes. The right side of her neck and jaw were also decorated in the cursed swirls, though they were of a much different design.
Thankfully, the bright red of the markings had faded and they were now only slightly redder than the surrounding skin.
She scrubbed at them until her skin was raw and swollen. They didn’t come off.
After crying beside the stream, the tears eventually dried and her mind cleared. She mounted Braken and spurred him into a slow walk as she pondered the legends Dalton had taught her. Now something more than horror and fear began to grow inside her—excitement.
She tried to bite away the smile that crept onto her face. What if I am a Dragon Rider? Could something be as wonderful as that?
That would mean that all those legends were true. That meant that magic was real and she could control it. Her eyes glinted mischievously, but then faded into a frown. At least, she only could in theory.
After much hesitation, she pulled out the lyre and played it. Much to her shock and delight, the birds around her sang along, doing whatever she bid them to.
“Come sit on my hand,” she whispered unsurely to one of the birds after she caught its attention. It felt silly to be talking to wild animals, but it cocked its head and hopped closer. “Come to me.” She put as much of her will into the words. Shock paralyzed her as the bird flew to her and perched contently on her hand. It’s too good to be true. Her stomach turned with excitement. She gazed deep into the eyes of the song bird that sat gripping her finger, gazing at her expectantly. Perhaps I am only dreaming. And when I wake, all will be dull again.
She wanted it to be true, but she also didn’t want to be let down.
She had to know for sure.
A wonderful, horrible idea formed in her mind and she smiled uneasily.
Kicking Braken into a gallop, she guided him through the trees, leading him back to the village.
She was going to control a human.
§
Stephania wrapped her cloak tighter around her, resisting the urge to simply go home and sit in front of the warm fire. It was just barely dawn in New-Fars and only a few people were already out of their homes. Most were just beginning to wake up.
Hopefully, it’s too early for me to be recognized or spotted. She tugged her cloak tighter around her, the hood covering most of her face. She had left Braken tied up in a small patch of trees just outside the town. He would be much too recognizable if she were to bring him here.
Easily picking the lock of the back storeroom that belonged to a man named Grey, she slid behind one of the main shelves and waited.
There was a reason she had chosen this particular man to prey upon. She wanted revenge.
It had happened a long time ago, in his quiet, beautiful meadow, when she was just a girl.
Everyone loved his meadow. It had the perfect combination of sunshine and shade, along with a wonderful fishing pond, boat, and dock, which he let the whole town freely use—except Stephania. He had never liked how intelligent Stephania had proven to be at such a young age, but mostly, as she had overhead from the villagers on many occasions, he was wildly superstitious and truly believed Stephania was a demon from Shadow Mountain’s haunted woods.
On the edge of the meadow, a lovely rose bush had grown. That fateful day, Stephania had decided that she wanted a few of the flowers to decorate her room with and to give to Dalton.
It was a terrible idea.
Grey had never withheld flowers from his bushes to any of the villagers, but Stephania, of course, was different. When he caught her taking some that day, he took the rope he was carrying and beat her.
She never forgot that.
That day, she had on her mother’s ring that Dalton had given her on her tenth birthday. Grey had ripped it from her finger, claiming it as payment for her now trampled bouquet. Thankfully, Grey had been too wary of the foreign engraved words on the white crystal and tree pendant to steal those as well.
The creaking of the door opening startled her from her memory and jerked her back into the present.
Grey quietly stepped through the door and into the storeroom. The door banged shut behind him. His hands fumbled on the shelves as he searched for something to eat.
Stephania slid out behind him silently.
“Hello, Grey McGull.” Her voice, low and seductive, sent shivers down the man’s back, and he slowly turned around.
A gurgled gasp parted his lips, and he dropped the small slice of cheese he was holding. A cold sweat collected on his forehead and his face was drained of all color.
“W—who are you? A demon?” His eyes were wide as he stumbled backwards, his hands fiddling with the small knife on his belt.
A sly smile of satisfaction spread across her face. She was thoroughly loving every second of this. She could feel her eyes glowing red and saw their steady, dark light upon
Grey’s frightened face. Her new markings shone eerily.
“You know who I am, Grey,” she smirked, reaching out one of her gloved hands. “Give back to me what is mine, and I will let you go alive.” She knew he wouldn’t comply, which is what she was counting on; after all, he could only guess who she was and what he had of hers. Her disguise was working perfectly.
He mindlessly fingered the ring on his smallest finger. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” His voice wasn’t shaking as much. Clearly, he wasn’t as intimidated when he saw her small figure.
Raw, torrential rage suddenly tore through her, and she spat in his face, practically screaming in her fury. “You know full well what I’m talking about, you spineless thief!”
Before she could show any self-restraint, even before she knew what she was doing, her hand flew to his throat, clamping viciously around his neck. A foreign strength surged through her.
He gasped and clawed at her hands, trying desperately to pry them away from his throat. He was a big man, standing a head taller than her, and he was strong, but somehow, nothing he did could release her grasp. Somehow, she was stronger.
Her hand tightened around his throat. He could suck in just enough air to stay conscious.
She smirked, her mind cloudy, as if something else were controlling her.
Her left hand and her neck burned as if on fire, but she ignored the pain. She felt the magic within her squirm alive.
The man struggled harder, his face blooming red and his lips blue.
She began to sing. “A small stone, of one you done, nearly every day. A stolen treasure, one beyond measure, taken from a child. Give back to me what is rightfully mine, for though you don’t think so, I tell you, you know me just fine.” The song was crude, with sour, bitter notes sung with it, a mirror to her hurt. However, it wasn’t the beauty of it that mattered—it was the result.
The man’s eyes dimmed, and he sagged. She let go of his neck, and he dropped to his knees, massaging his throat and gasping on the air that flooded his lungs.
Her cloaked figure blending into the darkness of the room, she leaned toward him, her face inches from his. Her eyes and markings burned brighter than before and new shadows loomed in the room. “Now, give to me what is mine.” Her voice was barely a whisper, her lips close to his ear.
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