It was a much different place than the rest of the Trans-Falls. It was much more rugged than the shop-lined streets she had just walked on. This strange place, which seemed a world of its own, was filled with hidden targets and obstacle courses that were perfectly hidden in the trees and brush.
Goose bumps prickling on her skin, Stephania wondered if she had been here a long time ago.
“Artigal himself trained you and Trojan on these grounds a few times, long ago,” Jargon said, as if he could hear her thoughts.
“Wow.” Her eyes were wide with awe, her breath caught in her throat in disbelief. A burned target in front of her caught her eye.
It was obviously old.
Whatever wood hadn’t been burned had been rotted by time. She wondered why it hadn’t been torn down, seeing as it was useless now. An eerie feeling settled inside her.
Her eyes quickly darted to the other targets around her.
They were all kept in pristine condition.
Though Jargon was leading her down a path to her right, she continued to walk straight toward the target.
“Stephania?” Jargon turned to call her back, but it wasn’t his voice she heard.
“How far do you usually shoot away from the target, Stephania?”
“About fifteen paces, sir.”
“Then shoot twenty paces away.”
The glade faded around her. She felt a bow in her hand, felt as she pulled back the string, felt as she aimed at the target, felt as she released the string. The target in front of her burst into flames, and she stumbled backwards, gasping in shock. The target morphed into a black cloaked figure with a gaping mouth dripping with blood. Screams filled the air. The creature lunged for her and sank its claws into her …
“Stephania!”
Stephania gasped, her eyes flying open. She gripped Jargon’s arms as he roughly shook her awake. Sweat dripped off her face, saturated her shirt, and clung to her. Her mind was clouded; her breath evaded her.
“Stephania, are you okay?”
Her eyes traveled beyond Jargon to the old, burned target. It was still there. The vines were still growing on it. The wood was still rotten.
“Yes, I think so.” She held her throbbing head, her eyes never straying from that untouched target. “What happened?”
Jargon helped her to her feet and steadied her when she swayed. His gaze followed hers to the target, a frown creasing his forehead.
“I think, you had a sukunhale.”
She frowned in confusion, her eyes seeking his for answers.
His face was full of worry, but also wonder. “A sukunhale is the Duvarharian word for a curse lift. It means that something inside of you is trying to lift the curse Artigal put on your memories.”
Her frown only deepened. “Is that even possible?”
He shrugged, his eyes wide. “Sometimes, yes, but only for minor spells. The kind of spell Artigal put on you is not only very complicated but it was also made from very strong magic. A curse can only be lifted by magic which is stronger than that which put it there.”
Stephania didn’t know what to say, her mind having gone blank a while ago.
“How long have you had these hallucinations?”
“All my life.”
“All your life?”
She nodded. “I’d have them about really weird things too. Like, I couldn’t look at my piano without a man appearing and playing it before he would turn into this faceless creature and everything would get really cold and … terrifying.” She shuddered subconsciously.
Jargon’s eyes were dark and narrow. “Those would be the gaps in your memory where it wouldn’t quite be able to surface. What other things have you seen?”
Tears clouded her vision. “I keep seeing—” She found herself unable to continue, and Jargon held her hand tightly. “I keep seeing a man and woman being killed, but …” she sobbed, and added, the image bright in her mind, “But I’m the murderer. And there’s a purple lizard, or, no—” She shook her head. “It’s a dragon. And I have a scar. Down my face.” Absentmindedly, her fingers trailed down her cheek.
Jargon muttered something like a curse and a name under his breath.
“It’s only bits and pieces, but I feel everything that he felt.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she stifled back a sob. Her eyes closed then opened. Sometimes, like now, she could see all the blood and death when she closed her eyes. It never left her. It was always there, lurking in the back of her mind, waiting to torment her in a dream or a vision. “It’s awful.”
He wrapped her in his embrace, and she clung to him, wishing she didn’t feel as vulnerable as she did, wishing that she would just stop talking, and put her mask back on, acting as if nothing was wrong, and hating when the crushing need to tell someone, anyone, overcame her.
She sniffed before pulling away. “But then, sometimes, it’s just little things. Like there’s this room I keep seeing in my dreams. And a mountain. It’s always the same. And sometimes, that man and woman are there, but I don’t know what they’re doing or who they are.”
“These definitely sound like memories.”
Her eyes suddenly pierced into his. “Then who are they?”
He opened his mouth and then closed it, suddenly avoiding her gaze. “I can’t say.” He forced a realistic smile onto his face and only met her gaze for an instant. “They aren’t my memories, you know.”
A small smile shone on her face momentarily. “I know.”
He was just about to hurry her along to their destination when she suddenly frowned. “But sometimes, I don’t think they are memories.”
He cocked his head at her, a strange glint of intrigue in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s this man, and he looks a lot like the man that plays at my piano, but he’s more clear somehow. He almost even has a face. But he stands there a lot, in the mountain.”
“In the mountain?”
“Mm-hm.” Her eyes were slightly glazed. “And he talks. He’s looking for someone that he’s lost. He’s desperate, hurt, broken.”
Jargon followed her dazed gaze, but nothing stood in front of her. “Trojan, perhaps?”
“No.” She quickly shook her head. “No. He is a rider, and he has lost so much more.” Her fingers trailed the air in front of her.
“I don’t know what to say, Stephania. This is beyond my control. Artigal knows much more about this and will have the answers you search for. I know you are upset with him, as you should be, but you need to put aside your persistent anger and see your options. He can and wants to help you.”
She grumbled but, for once, decided not to argue. Jargon was right. She needed to start acting like a Duvarharian leader and the Farloon, not some pathetic, whining human.
“But perhaps what you are experiencing is also a sukunhale, even if it takes a shape different from the others. Something inside of you is trying to get your memories back, but it isn’t quite able to. Again, Artigal will know what to do.”
She shook her head and brushed the red curls from her face. “But that doesn’t make any sense. I mean, I can’t control magic very well, and Artigal has the most powerful magic of anyone I know.” Her eyes slowly focused and turned to him. “How could I possibly have the magic to bring back my own memories? It just doesn’t make any sense.”
Jargon smiled softly. “I know. It doesn’t make sense, but somehow it’s happening. Artigal would know more about it than us though, which is exactly why we’re here—to talk to him about your memoires.”
Finally, she nodded and let him lead her to a strange, earthy hut that was well-hidden in the forest.
“Stephania, Jargon, welcome. May the suns smile upon your presence,” beckoned a deep, almost milky voice from inside the hut.
Jargon nodded his head and trotted up to the door.
He opened it, and they quickly stepped inside …
About the author:
Effie Joe Stock
Effie Joe Stoc
k is the author of The Shadows of Light and the creator of the world, Rasa. You can usually find her working outside on her small homestead farm, playing music, studying psychology, theology, or philosophy, running her small businesses, or riding her dirt bike. She looks forward to continuing her publishing dream with the six books and multiple companion novels she has written for her epic fantasy series, along with a few other works in progress.
Instagram:
@effie.joe.stock.author
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Website:
www.effiejoestock.com
Child of the Dragon Prophecy Page 33
