Mystic Dragon

by Jason Denzel

  Without thinking, or knowing why she did it, Shevia screamed. It was not a normal scream, but one formed of power. Her tattoo burned on her shoulder. The scream exploded out of her, shaking the room and knocking both the Unclaimed and High Mystic off their feet. The dagger clattered across the floor.

  Bhairatonix found his feet first. He lifted his staff, and as he did so the man formerly known as Ahg-Mein rose off the floor as well. He clawed at his throat as if a hand held him there. His boots kicked at nothing in the air.

  “Becoming Unclaimed was too good for you,” Bhairatonix said. He tilted his staff slightly, and the Unclaimed man’s spine bent with it. Shevia gaped. The man’s back went farther and farther until it finally snapped with a loud popping noise.

  Bhairatonix lowered his staff and dropped the corpse. He looked at Shevia.

  “So there is power in you. Good. I claim you as my apprentice.”

  Shevia gaped. Her father rushed forward and fell to one knee.

  “Master,” he said. “I would gladly give you my daughter if you command it, but please, understand. We are but humble merchant-scholars. It would bring shame and ruin to our house if it was known that our daughter dabbled with the Myst. The Mystic—I mean … Ahg-Mein—he assured us it was of no concern because nobody could prove her visions came from the Myst.”

  Bhairatonix considered him. “Very well. From this moment forth the blood of the Minam family is noble blood. You may tax those who live on your land, and you are charged with their well-being. May you and your House rule with wisdom.

  “I also claim your so-called Thornwood,” he added. “None are to trespass on it, under penalty of becoming Unclaimed. Set a guard, night and day. I shall return to study it from time to time.”

  He flicked a finger through the air and the gold jewelry that had been around Ahg-Mein’s neck snapped free and floated to Shevia’s mother.

  “Your first gold jewelry, Lady Minam,” Bhairatonix said. He turned to Shevia. “Come, girl. Your true education begins now.”

  Shevia’s mother looked from the gold necklace—the mark of nobility—to her daughter. For the first time in her memory, Shevia thought she saw something that resembled affection in her face. But a heartbeat later it was gone, lost as she bowed low to Shevia.

  “You served your family well, Daughter.”

  Tevon, Typhos, and Tibron looked at one another.

  “So that’s it,” Tibron said, stepping forward. “You’re just going to take her?”

  Tevon yanked Tibron back. “Know your place.”

  Bhairatonix looked from her brothers to her parents. “Three twins? Bad luck indeed.” His tone sounded amused.

  Shevia’s father stammered, “M-m-master, I apologize for my sons. They are good men, if a bit overprotective of their youngest sibling.”

  Bhairatonix considered. “No man should ever apologize for his sons, especially a noble. They seem hearty. I will allow them to come with us. I will see their training completed, but not as Mystics.”

  Shevia’s father bowed. His voice cracked as he spoke. “I would be honored, if that is their choice.”

  Tibron spoke first. “I’ll go.”

  Tevon sighed. “I go with my brother.”

  Typhos shrugged and nodded his agreement to go.

  “Then it is settled. Come. Bring nothing. New possessions will be provided when we arrive at Shenheyna.”

  He crossed toward the entrance, stepping over the mangled body of the man he’d killed. The man was not important. He had been Unclaimed. Her parents would have to arrange for another Unclaimed to come and drag the body away. After that, Shevia wasn’t sure what would happen to it.

  Despite her long legs, Shevia had to hurry to match his even longer stride. “Master,” she said, the word sounding strange on her tongue, “are there formalities we must—”

  Bhairatonix gestured with his staff to dismiss the idea. “Needless ceremony.”

  “But what about my staff?”

  He halted and loomed over her. “You will never question anything unless given leave to do so. I decide what you need. But if a staff is what you desire, then so be it.”

  He peered at a nearby servant closet, whose door banged open. A mop with a long handle flew toward them. Shevia jolted in surprise and caught the mop. Bhairatonix snapped the air with the top of his staff and the bottom portion of the mop disintegrated, leaving Shevia with nothing but a long handle in her hand.

  “Congratulations, apprentice,” Bhairatonix sneered, and continued to the manor exit.

  Shevia stared in disbelief at the pathetic handle in her hand. Tibron put his hand on Shevia’s back, urging her forward. She tried to look back at her father, or even her mother, but Tibron and her other brothers blocked her view.

  NINE

  VISIONS OF PAIN

  Flickering fire from a multitude of torches illuminated Pomella’s face as she returned Master Bhairatonix’s hard stare. Every part of her mind screamed to look away, to yield to her superior. This was a High Mystic! He was one of the most powerful people in the world, and one she’d been taught to give respect to at all times.

  But by the Saints, if he wasn’t going to properly acknowledge his superiors then neither would she. Somebody had to stand up for Lal. Because that’s what a student did when her master was treated with disrespect. Pomella wondered what sort of grudge Bhairatonix had against Lal.

  “Thank you, Pomella!” Yarina intoned. As always, her voice was a melody, carried easily over the gathered crowd. She shifted her gaze to Lal. “The High Mystics welcome you, Grandmaster. Your wisdom and experience will be an asset to us during Crow Tallin.”

  Pomella noted that Yarina still did not invite him to join the other High Mystics on the raised hilltop. She bit her lip, resisting the urge to demand that Lal take his rightful place among them. The High Mystic addressed the crowd once more, as if to move on from the uncomfortable topic.

  “Mystics and guests,” she said, “for the safety of everyone gathered, Kelt Apar shall be sealed against outsiders until Crow Tallin concludes.” She nodded to the Green Man, who stepped forward and lifted his arms.

  The crowd shifted as the gathered Mystics exchanged glances. Pomella frowned. What did Yarina mean?

  A deep rumble answered her. The ground trembled beneath her feet. A cracking noise sounded in the distance. At the edge of the Mystwood, a thick wall of wood, dirt, and stone rose from the ground. Even at this distance, Pomella could smell the freshly churned soil as it was torn from the depths of the ground and fortified upward. The wall spread north and south and curved to encircle the entire compound. Its uppermost edges dwarfed most of the surrounding trees so that only the tops of the tallest could be seen. A chorus of angry cries rose from beyond the wall until they were drowned out by the thick hedge.

  “By the Saints,” Pomella whispered.

  A figure sprinted across the lawn, coming from the distant shadows near the wall. Pomella couldn’t see who it was, but she suspected it was a commoner or other person who, intentionally or not, had found themselves on the inside. A second, hunched figure streaked after the first. Vlenar.

  Pomella stared in horror as Vlenar tackled the runner. In the dim light she could only perceive a tumbling of shadows, but quickly Vlenar had the person pinned to the ground.

  It was just one person, but the implications worried Pomella. In the days approaching Crow Tallin, the High Mystics should be helping to comfort and protect people, not push them away with walls. A brief, irrational worry crossed Pomella’s mind. What if the man struggling on the ground against Vlenar was somebody she knew? What if it was Berrit, the minstrel she’d met at the Rolling Forge? There was nothing to indicate that it was him.

  Yarina went on, as if nothing was amiss. “For nine hundred years we have gathered to protect the world. At times like these, some sacrifices must be made for the greater good.”

  Pomella gave Vlenar and the intruder a concerned glance. She wasn’t sure the greater go
od was being served, but there was nothing more she could do about it right now.

  “Treorel’s passing is a time of transition and change,” Master Ollfur said with his constant smile. “It burns old ways, and ignites conflict. But we are called to rise above that. We are gathered here to bring unity and guidance to the world.”

  “Master Ollfur is correct,” said Master Willwhite. He turned his shifting face toward the crowd. “There is no time for strife among ourselves. Without us, Moth may fall into chaos, and if that happens, so might other civilized lands.”

  “The time to unite is now,” said Mistress Michaela. A wind shuddered through the clearing, flickering the firelight and the High Mystic’s white hair. Shadows danced across her and her brother’s face. “The days of Crow Tallin begin tonight. Already Treorel rises in our night sky. Soon, it will be visible, both day and night.”

  “In eleven days,” said Master Angelos, “Treorel will briefly drift behind the moon, during which time Fayün and the human realm will overlap completely. The fay will roam our world freely, and ordinary people will find themselves stepping into the silver realm.”

  “Be mindful of your studies!” Yarina intoned. “These next days will stretch our resources. The world looks to us, the guardians and custodians of the Myst, to guide them to safety and assure them that the hardships will pass. To address these needs, you will be dispersed, beginning tomorrow, across Moth to where the need is most. Already we’re receiving daily reports of unusual phenomena that call for our attention.

  “Oxillian”—she gestured an upraised palm toward the Green Man—“and my student, Vivianna Vinnay, will give you specific instructions as needs arise.”

  Bhairatonix lifted his staff, and its long shadow stretched across the hill. He kept his other hand hidden in the folds of his robes. “I propose an alternative solution!” he intoned. Pomella shifted uncomfortably. The High Mystic’s haughty tone grated on her nerves.

  “A different solution to the dangers of Crow Tallin?” Master Ollfur said, and chuckled.

  A scattering of chuckles arose from the crowd at the High Mystic’s good-natured joke, but Pomella saw a shadow darken across Bhairatonix’s face.

  “An oracle has arisen in Qin,” Bhairatonix said.

  The last of the crowd’s laughter died. Pomella glanced at Vivianna, who frowned. Just beyond her, Lal stood behind the rest of the crowd, all but forgotten. He listened to Bhairatonix without expression. Pomella wondered what Bhairatonix was getting at. There were occasionally reports of certain individuals from the Continent who could see the future, but most ended up being false or exaggerated reports surrounding the exploits of a local Mystic.

  Bhairatonix gestured toward the rear of the crowd, which parted as it had earlier. Three rangers, tall, young, clean-shaven, and well-dressed with bloodred capes billowing behind them, strode down the path. They moved with confident assurance, backs straight and eyes darting everywhere, constantly monitoring for danger, even here. Pomella couldn’t help but admire how handsome they were. Each carried a curved sword at his hip. They had tanned skin, jet-black hair, square jaws, and sharp facial features. Their faces were polished reflections of one another. They had to be brothers. Triplets.

  The brothers made an impressive procession down the line. They moved with graceful ease, keeping their attention straight ahead. As handsome as they were, their expressions told Pomella that they were as sharp and as deadly as the swords they carried and undoubtedly knew how to use.

  Another figure emerged behind them, drifting in the wake they left with their passing. She was unusually tall, skinny, with long dark hair and a short Mystic staff that was as thin as its owner. The crowd buzzed as she glided down the path. The Myst stirred around Pomella. It was the woman she’d seen earlier surrounded by the crowd of Mystics.

  The rangers arrived at the base of the hill and waited, hands on sword hilts and eyes turned down.

  “Is this sort of parade normal?” Pomella whispered to Vivianna.

  Vivianna shook her head. “I wasn’t alive for the last Crow Tallin. But I didn’t see anything in the old books about the introduction of anybody besides the High Mystics.”

  The newcomer joined her ranger escorts. As one, they bowed before the High Mystics. The rangers bent at the waist while the girl spread her arms wide and eased downward into a slow and graceful curtsy.

  Each of the High Mystics examined her, weighing her as a noblewoman might eye a feast-day tribute brought forth by the commoners working their land. Pomella was reminded of a time during her apprentice Trials when she’d encountered a unique fay creature with the ability to speak. Mantepis had spoken of how true masters could instantly see beyond a person and discover the potential they possessed. They could Unveil you with a glance, he had said.

  The woman at the center of Kelt Apar now bore the judging gazes of seven High Mystics, not to mention those of over a hundred other Mystics. Even Master Ollfur’s smile had slipped, leaving behind a serious and concerned expression. Master Ehzeeth’s slitted eyes narrowed and his tongue flicked out as if to taste the woman’s potential. Pomella knew how she felt, having had the same attention only minutes ago.

  “I found her in the rugged valleys of the highlands,” said Master Bhairatonix, “in a prestigious House. For ten years I’ve trained her, focused her, and she has become one of the foremost Mystics of the land. I give you Shevia Minam, the Oracle of Thornwood.”

  The woman, Shevia, turned. Her sleeveless red dress had a scooped neckline, baring skin with the same tanned shade as the ranger brothers’. The wind fluttered her dark hair across her face. Upon her upper right arm and shoulder was an intricate tattoo of a clawed serpent, shaped in the style of a Mothic knot. Again, Pomella thought of Mantepis, who looked like a massive snake with four thin legs. The creature depicted in the tattoo had a barb-ended tail that coiled around Shevia’s arm and ended at her elbow. Its head curved up and over her shoulder to rest below the base of her neck. Shevia projected calm and confidence, perhaps even arrogance. She seemed entirely unconcerned with the most powerful individuals in the world staring at her. Now that the angle and light provided Pomella with a better view, she saw the woman had unusually colored eyes, off-blue, drifting toward lavender.

  Lavender eyes. Where had she seen that before?

  “A true, living oracle, you say, Bhairatonix?” said Master Willwhite. “The world has not seen an oracle in centuries. Are you certain?”

  In reply, Bhairatonix leaned his staff against his shoulder and used his right hand to withdraw a carved, ornate box from his voluminous robes. “Apprentice!” he commanded. Shevia ascended the hill and stood below her Master, bowing in deference. The High Mystic towered over her, despite her unusual height.

  He held the box out, and a wisp of light snaked around it and lifted the lid. A cloud of silver-green smoke wafted out. Shevia bent her head and inhaled deeply.

  Pomella narrowed her eyes. “What is that?” she murmured to Vivianna.

  “I don’t know,” Vivianna said. “Some kind of incense, it looks like.”

  Bhairatonix snapped the lid shut. “Now. Unveil the pain of this island,” he said. His words shuddered through Pomella.

  “As you command, Master,” Shevia said with a thick, clipped accent that sounded like Lal’s.

  Shevia curtsied again and then descended the hill. The three rangers stepped back, as did the crowd, to give room. In the firelight, Pomella saw Shevia’s eyes glaze over. She stood straight, slowly arcing her Mystic staff in a wide circle until it was above her head, parallel to the ground. Then, faster than Pomella thought possible, she whirred it downward and jammed it into the ground.

  Warm wind wafted through Kelt Apar, wafting Pomella’s hair. With it came the Myst, building intensity.

  Pomella glanced at Vivianna, who stared in wide-eyed wonder.

  Shevia stood rooted to the spot, with her head tilted back. The Myst rumbled around Kelt Apar. A fist of fear arose in Pomella’s gut. Norm
ally, when the Myst stirred powerfully around her she felt compelled to sing, to harmonize with its essence and join with it. But now she wanted to cower. It was if she were watching an avalanche tumble down a mountain. She wondered if the rest of the gathered Mystics held their breaths as she did. Pomella looked at the High Mystics to gauge their reactions.

  With an almost inhuman voice, Shevia called out to the night. She spoke quickly and with force in a language Pomella didn’t understand.

  Like a thunderclap, the Myst responded.

  Brilliant silver light erupted from Shevia’s staff, momentarily blinding the crowd. The avalanche crashed over them, carrying Pomella along whether she wanted to or not.

  Muffled whispers filled the air, riding the storm of energy. They came from every direction. The gathered Mystics looked around, trying to find the source of the voices. It sounded to Pomella as though they were surrounded by a charging army.

  Silver lines of light streaked into the clearing, only a small handful at first, but then quickly gaining in number. Each beam of light zoomed toward Shevia but stopped short, exploding into a puff of smoke. Within each cloud was the billowing, silvery image of a person. The first was a commoner by her appearance, dressed in a Goodness’ work dress and stained apron. A gentle wind tugged at her hair and the smoke surrounding her.

  “It came from the sky, without warning,” the woman said, addressing Shevia. “As big’n mighty as a stampedin’ ox, I never saw such a sight. It tore my arm, and it still lives outside my house. Help me.”

  Before the words faded, another image spoke, this time coming from a teenage girl, also wearing commoner work clothes and her hair cut short. “I saw it in the loch on the far side of the hill from my grandfathir’s sheep pen. As wide as my arms, with scales like a snake. Help me.”

  A storm of images appeared. They spoke over one another in a jumbled assault of reports and requests for help. Shevia stood in the center of it all, catching her breath. Steadying herself, the girl turned to face the High Mystics.