The Mark Of Iisilée

by T P Sheehan

  “At this rate, we’ll arrive at the Romghold by sunrise,” Färgd deduced.

  “Excellent.” Eamon crouched low holding the saddle horn beneath his bearded chin.

  Shortly before sunrise, the two dragons banked seaward to keep their distance from potential roaming eyes in the Romghold. They ascended to help shave speed and, once almost still, hovered with wings spread to their sides. A mile below, Eamon could see the Romgnian mountain peaks. Atop the westward reach was the magnificent apparition of a foreboding castle designed to ward off unwanted, airborne visitors. Countless steeples sprouted from the rock bed like stalagmites. The Castle windows were dark like the vacant eyes of skulls. Connecting the steeples were buttresses as convoluted and complicated as the wards and spells used to create the deception in the first place. Deceptions and apparitions… the enduring trait of the Order of Irucantî. Eamon shook his head. Such a shame…

  “We shall lead and you follow,” Austagia said.

  “Aye,” Eamon replied.

  Braug tucked his wings and dove toward the Romghold like a crossbow bolt set loose. Austagia sat low in the saddle with Jael’s torso sculpted behind him to minimise drag. Braug punched through the translucent ward-wall, giving away its presence with a shimmer. Braug then disappeared into the true Romghold below. It was Färgd’s cue. Eamon squatted low as Färgd’s serpentine body arched over and fell forward. Eamon shuddered as they punched through the ward-wall. The Romghold revealed its familiar repose to the former Irucantî once known as ‘Steyne’. Eamon instinctively reached for his fire-sword that would have been sheathed behind his back many years ago as a Ferustir. His searching fingers failed to find the pommel, for the fire-sword was wrapped in suede cloth and strapped among his belongings behind Joffren.

  “Curses,” Eamon muttered. He glanced back and eyed Joffren’s body. He imagined his former Semsarian was awake, returning to the Romghold with him. The vision passed as quick as it came. Eamon faced forward and thought no more of it. He combed his eyes over the Romghold through the dim morning light—light his old eyes found more difficult to navigate than night itself, for the moon was waning and the sun was yet to reveal itself. Like the precipice between life and death that Joffren has navigated. Eamon wondered if the precipice had been foreboding for Joffren. Unsettling at the least, I imagine…

  In the inky dawn, Eamon recognised Braug’s gliding body approaching the Romghold’s common. He could see two other dragons. One was to the east of the Temple of Fire—Liné. The other was at the cliff edge of the training field—Brue. Neither Rubea nor the High Priests were visible. As they drew close, Eamon saw a Ferustir seated beside Brue on the training field. Who is that? Another priest exited a temple side door near Liné just as Braug landed. Austagia and Jael leapt from Braug’s back and ran to the priest with lances drawn.

  With their presence known, Färgd threw caution to the wind and landed quickly beside Braug. Forgetting Joffren, Eamon alighted and ran to join Austagia and Jael. He breathed a sigh of relief when Austagia embraced arms with the priest. Jael did the same and then the priest looked wide-eyed at Eamon.

  “Steyne!”

  Eamon squinted in the dim light, then nodded as he recognised the man. “Trax. It’s good to see you.”

  “I never in all my years thought I would ever—”

  “And I never thought I would see this place again,” Eamon interrupted. He peered over to the training field, where Brue sat in silence with the Ferustir. “Who is that?” he mumbled to himself.

  “That’s the Electus,” Trax said.

  “That’s Magnus? With Brue?” Eamon looked to Austagia and Jael who appeared as surprised as he was, so he looked back to Trax. “Catanya… where is Catanya?”

  “I have just come from her. She is in the healing room.”

  “What is her condition?” Austagia asked abruptly and started walking toward the temple. Trax was right behind him with Jael and Eamon following.

  “She is stable, yet lucky to have her life after her altercation with a High Priest.”

  “Where are the High Priests now, Semsame?” Jael asked.

  Trax turned his head to Jael as he walked. “The one who injured Catanya is dead. The other is in a holding cell. Braug seems to have found him.” Trax pointed. Eamon looked. Braug was staring into the holding cell with a deep growl rising in his belly.

  Magnus and Catanya did it… Eamon smiled to himself. A feeling of delight rose in his heart.

  Austagia and Jael reached the door that Liné was guarding.

  “The healing room?” Eamon remembered.

  “Aye,” Jael confirmed. Liné stood, blocking their access to the room.

  “WHAT ARE YOUR INTENTIONS?”

  Eamon stumbled in his step at the savagery of Liné’s thoughts. He gathered she was examining each of their minds to ensure they meant Catanya no harm. Good… Eamon was glad for the dragon’s allegiance.

  Austagia whispered words to Liné that seemed to appease her. She let him into the healing room. Jael had her say and Liné let her pass, too. She was not, however, letting Eamon pass.

  “You’ve a familiar scent, yet not one I’ve known for some time.” Liné’s eyes flicked through a myriad of colour changes but reverted to their natural burning amber. Eamon took a courteous backward step.

  “You do know me, Liné.” Eamon feigned a smile then turned about, hardly in the mood to explain himself. In this place, there’s no leaving the past where it belongs.

  Walking back down the temple steps to the edge of the training field, Eamon stood and crossed his arms. The sun rose over the eastern mountain peaks. It’s tangerine glow shone over Brue and Magnus who sat peacefully together at the cliff edge on the far side of the field. Together, they both turned and faced the sun. Magnus looked at Eamon and smiled. Eamon smiled back and in that moment, all seemed well in the world.

  IRIS

  Catanya opened her eyes, blinking away sluggishness and blurry vision.

  “Magnus?” Catanya shouted, lifting her hips from the hard bed, groaning from the pain. She lowered herself again. “Hannah?” Anxiety gripped her chest making breathing a chore. She looked about the room. The healing room… Is this a dream?

  “Rest, Semsame.”

  The voice was too familiar—“Jael?”

  “Aye. Just rest.”

  Catanya sat up, clenching her teeth at the pain and effort. She looked herself over, spotting the familiar oil-soaked wraps and white robe. It was just as she had been after her ‘cleansing’ on the training field long ago and numerous times after gruelling training sessions—though never as bad as the first time and this time.

  “Have you seen Magnus?”

  “He’s fine. He’s outside with Brue. Rest, Catanya.”

  Catanya looked about the softly lit room, drawing in herbal scents that were comforting, yet disconcerting. She blinked and blinked again. Her eyes were slow to focus but when they did, they found Jael. “How long have I been here?”

  “A few days. Austagia and I arrived yesterday. Eamon as well.”

  Catanya nodded and forced a breath from her aching chest. She propped herself back on her arms and looked at Jael again, squinting her right eye. “Did you say Magnus is with Brue?”

  Jael stared blankly. In time the blankness gave over to a wry smile. “It seems they’ve made amends.”

  Catanya stared a long moment at Jael. She had the same calculating manner about her that she had when they shared vigil over Joffren back in Ba’rrat. Catanya spun her body about, holding the robe over her chest and letting her legs dangle over the side of the table. She chuckled. “There’s the Jael I know.”

  “What does that mean?” Jael asked, a deadpan expression on her face.

  Catanya licked the dryness from her lips then spotted the cup of herbal water on the table. She reached across to it, wincing at the effort and drunk from the cup. She decided not to reply to Jael’s question and instead, finished her drink and asked her own question.


  “What of Trax?”

  Jael pushed a tongue into her cheek and squinted. Her answer was slow to come. “He’s been busy. Attending to your needs, overseeing the surviving High Priest who is now a prisoner, and ensuring the Electus and Brue don’t kill one another.” She stood and made for the external door. “You’re in safe hands. Rubea has guarded that door since you were carried in here three days ago.” She pointed to the internal door, then to the other. “Liné has guarded this door. It seems you owe many a debt of gratitude.”

  Catanya clenched her jaw tight. It hurt as much as the rest of her body. She decided it would be in poor taste to punch Jael in her condescending face. “Thank you, Jael, for your part in my recovery.” She pulled her best derisive smile.

  “Think nothing of it, Semsame.” Jael smiled coyly. “Oh… one more thing. Joffren is dead. Eamon insisted you were present for the funeral.” Jael turned and left the healing room.

  With Jael gone, Catanya slumped forward, dropped the cup and buried her face in her hands. Joffren… She sniffed back tears and drew on the scent of, among other things, jasmine oil. Jasmine… The smell evoked memories of Marsala lifting the tracking spell Joffren placed on her. She looked to the small white table again and remembered the note Joffren had left her on that very table after her cleansing. “Fleatermara.” She remembered was written on the note. “Righteous.” The scent of jasmine turned to bitter bile in her throat. Swallowing it back, Catanya lifted a leg and kicked the small table across the room, sending its contents flying. Though it pained her, it felt good doing it all the same. She thought again of something that had haunted her delirious dreams for the past three days—Hannah!

  Catanya lowered herself over the table edge, easing her feet to the cold ground. She dressed in the white robe and stumbled toward the internal door, opened it, and was greeted by Rubea.

  “Semsame!”

  “Rubea.” Catanya was glad to see her, grateful for her protection, but needed to know… needed to see…

  “You are well! I’m so glad!” Rubea rose, shifting her weight between back feet excitedly, then lowered her head to meet Catanya.

  “Thank you, I am.” Catanya rest her forehead on Rubea’s nose and bathed in the dragon’s thoughts. Rubea plunged through hers.

  “Oh! You have been through quite the ordeal.”

  “I have. I really need to go down to the chamber, Rubea.”

  “You risked your life to save Liné’s egg. When it hatches, he will be kindred to you.”

  Catanya pulled away, stroking Rubea’s snout affectionately. “Thank you,” she said aloud and stumbled toward the fourth door from left along the western wall. I need to know…

  Catanya balanced herself along the bronze railing as she descended the steps. Each one seemed to be a little easier than the last as the blood returned to her limbs and the pins and needles abated. At the bottom of the stairs she followed the curved corridor down to the chamber. Here, the air was thick and the light dim. Scanning the surrounding walls, Catanya saw that only five of the sconces over the twelve doors still held a lit torch, casting their yellow light beams across the even-darker chamber floor.

  “Hannah?”

  Catanya reasoned with herself as she did before that it was a trick—the High Priest playing with her mind. Still, there was a feeling in her heart beyond reason telling her it was something more. The hairs on the back of her neck pricked up and tracked a shimmer down her spine.

  “Fara mi parina!” Catanya shouted the spell. The five torches flared angrily, illuminating the chamber. In the pulsing light, Catanya saw a small object at the very centre of the chamber floor. She stepped and stumbled across the floor toward the object. She knelt beside it and took it tentatively between her thumb and forefinger.

  It was a dried iris.

  Her dried iris.

  The dried iris Hannah had been holding.

  A CONFESSION

  It was a success. All twelve groups of refugees had made it safely to Thwax without incident. Three hundred ninety five souls free from the Quag slave-mongers.

  Bonstaph climbed a short way up the eastern side of the Corville Mountains so he could survey the entourage of travellers as the last of them made their way northward out of the Southern Wastelands. He could breathe a little easier now, knowing Ba’rrat and the well-managed troubles of Brindle were a long way behind them.

  Among the company were the ‘Perimetral’ who were vigilant in their protective detail of the travellers. Once north of the Black Cliffs and into the Southern Wastelands, the refugees had moved as a huddle, keeping the children and elderly shielded as best they could from the unforgiving sandstorms. The Perimetral formed a protective ring around the travellers. Now clear of the wastelands, the Perimetral formed a mile-long line once again, guarding the refugees from the eastern margin of the Corville Mountains. They were about to embark on the last leg of their journey together—through the Southern Plains to the Plains Lake at the border of Froughton Forest.

  Two things about this leg of the journey troubled Bonstaph. The first was a demon from the past that had returned to haunt him. Out of nowhere it would appear, drawing Bonstaph into a blaze of violent memories. At times, the demon came subtly—as the smell of blood or the sound of war cries. Later, the memories hit like the crack of a whip and left a lingering paranoia that was hard to shake. It got the better of him just once. A tap on the shoulder from one of the Perimetral guards made him reel, draw sword and stop just short of severing the guard’s head. Those witness to it dismissed the incident as a reprimand for the guard’s informality. Since then, Bonstaph was vigilant—he had to avoid confusing fiction with reality at all cost. The past is in the past, he told himself. However, migrating north along the Red Pass was walking into the past. The Red River was testament to it.

  Bonstaph was not there when Balgur fell during the great battle, slain by some incomprehensible twist of fate. Bonstaph was further afield leading the Knights of the Realm into the battering ram of Quag legions. Ganister was always by his side in his position of ‘Commander’s Arm’. He would have liked to have Ganister by his side once again. He wished to have him by his side. More than anything, Ganister would have helped with the second troubling issue of the journey—Sarah.

  Sarah had been even more aloof since reuniting with Bonstaph in Thwax. Her presence had become unsettlingly dark, as though her remaining threads of compassion had been traded for something malevolent. Bonstaph wondered if Sarah had worked it out. A gypsy’s intuition runs deep. It was only ever going to be a matter of time. On his travels from Brindle, before meeting up with Sarah again in Thwax, he had decided she should learn the truth about Lucas from him. But her aloofness, together with his responsibilities to the refugees, made it difficult to seize the opportunity. Or at least, that was the excuse he gave himself to avoid the inevitable.

  Bonstaph looked on as the last of the refugees moved beyond the Corville Mountains and into the Southern Plains. Sarah had been walking toward the rear of the travellers since leaving Thwax. This morning though, Bonstaph had not seen her. He looked to his right at one of the Perimetral guards a hundred yards back. When he had his attention, Bonstaph pointed to his eyes with two fingers then to the road back to the south. The guard looked about, then back to Bonstaph, crossing his arms overhead—there were none left behind.

  Where is she? Bonstaph signalled to the guard to move on, who did the same to the next man down the line and so forth. With a sigh, Bonstaph took a step down the mountainside to join the others. Then he heard something. He froze. It was the sound of a small stone tumbling down the rocky mountainside overhead. Something had moved it. Something was above him. Bonstaph looked up but saw nothing. He cursed under his breath, knowing he would have to find out what it was. If there were a group of Quagmen or a storm of wyverns perched high on the mountainside, waiting to ambush them, it was better to learn of it now rather than later.

  Bonstaph felt for the pommel of his sword—now a proper, ha
rdened steel sword that Brindle’s committee kindly gifted him before leaving as a thank you for his service. He pinched it half an inch free of its scabbard, keeping it loosely sheathed. He then took tentative steps up the side of the mountain, careful not to loosen any rocks that would tell tale of his own presence. The climb was steep but seventy yards up, the ground levelled out to a track at the base of a sheer cliff that shot almost directly up half a mile before tapering back again. The track was barely a goat track and disappeared about a corner to the west a hundred feet away. Bonstaph deduced—Whatever was above me is now around that corner.

  Bonstaph started toward the corner, drawing his sword with a firm left-handed grip. He reached the corner and rounded it. A further hundred feet on, he glimpsed a dark purple dress disappearing into a gap in the mountain wall.

  Sarah…

  Bonstaph ran. He reached the gap and saw it was a cave entrance—an entrance into the Caves of Cuvee, no doubt.

  “Sarah!” Bonstaph grunted through closed teeth. He peered into the darkness and saw the glimpse of a shadow moving about. Sarah stepped out into the light of day and stared at Bonstaph. “Sarah, what are you doing?” Bonstaph looked about warily and then back to Sarah. “Talk to me, Sarah, please.”

  Sarah slowly shook her head. “We are past that now.” She turned back toward the cave.

  “Sarah… wait. There’s something I need to tell you… about Lucas.”

  Sarah stopped but did not turn to face Bonstaph.

  “The sorcerer…” Bonstaph swallowed hard. This was impossible. To think he was about to destroy her in this manner and yet, he knew she had to know. “The sorcerer is Lucas, Sarah.” He knew she had to know from him. “Lucas is the one you’ve oathed yourself to kill.”