Mystic Dragon

by Jason Denzel

  “When I was a child I stumbled upon a crack in the ground on my family’s estate. Strange fumes rose from that vent. When I breathed them in, I had visions.”

  “What kind of visions?” asked Yarina.

  “When I focused on a particular person, images of their past and future passed in front of me. Although they were not literal representations of what had occurred, when the visions faded I always had a perfectly accurate certainty of what would befall the person.”

  “It sounds as though you truly experienced oracular Unveilings,” said Angelos. “Remarkable indeed. With Crow Tallin upon us, and your presence here in Kelt Apar where the Myst is strong, it is no wonder your abilities shine forth.”

  “I was a young girl when the Unveilings began,” Shevia said. “I still do not fully understand the phenomenon. Since that time, my master has taught me to harness my meager talent. If I do anything today to impress you, it is only because of his grace.”

  Master Ollfur, the jolly baldheaded High Mystic, leaned forward and pointed at her exposed shoulder. “Tell us about your tattoo.”

  Before Shevia could reply, Bhairatonix spoke. “The Mystic who guided”—he sneered the word—“her before I took her as apprentice believed it would add to her allure if she had a freakish marking upon her.”

  Shevia kept her expression neutral. Why was Bhairatonix lying? She thought back to that dark memory, to that fateful night three years ago when she entered his secret laboratory. More disturbing than anything else she had seen in the lair had been the snake-image from her skin chalked upon the floor. Had Bhairatonix been studying her? Was she connected to him in a way that she was unaware of? For three years these questions had filled her mind, yet fear had kept her from asking.

  Her gaze flickered over to the round, glass sphere sitting on the pedestal on the opposite side of the small room. The moth inside rested at the bottom of the sphere, its wings twitching on occasion. She had seen that, too, in Bhairatonix’s laboratory, sketched inside an old tome. More secrets. More lies.

  “It is unfortunate,” Bhairatonix went on, “that in her youthful exuberance, my apprentice decided to use her skills to expand the design.”

  Shevia wanted to scream at him, to rip his secrets out, and to expose him as a fraud to his peers. She met his gaze coolly but willed with all her silent might to speak with her eyes, saying, I fear you no more.

  Yet a part of her wondered if that, too, was a lie.

  Instead, she said, “You are very patient with my eccentricities, Master.” She hoped he choked on her simpering falsehood.

  “I am satisfied. But now we must hurry with our duties,” Master Willwhite interjected.

  Yarina nodded, and Unveiled a small fay bird, which flew out the window to inform the Green Man that they would see the next Mystic. One by one Mystics came to the upper chamber where Shevia Unveiled visions of people in need. With every Unveiling, Shevia’s tattoo tightened a little more, as if it were squeezing her arm.

  The High Mystics droned on, sending Mystics across the island. Shevia’s mind drifted. She paid attention only when she was needed, summoning the Myst to present her visions before easing back into the privacy of her mind to rest. The day wore on, and soon the room became almost unbearably hot. Sweat poured down the back of her neck beneath her hair. None of the other High Mystics seemed disturbed by the heat, although beads of sweat pebbled Master Ollfur’s shaved head.

  During one of the endless meetings with Mystics, Shevia heard a tapping sound coming from the glass orb. The moth inside fluttered furiously, throwing itself at the sphere as if trying to break out. Its attempts to escape increased in ferocity. Shevia wondered why nobody else acknowledged it. At the moment, Yarina was providing instructions to an older woman to attend to a family living remotely on a homestead east of Kelt Apar. The Mystic woman appeared to Shevia to be a walking assortment of twigs and brambles, not much more than a reclusive hex. Many of the Mystics who had gathered at Kelt Apar were so removed from society that it was a wonder they had all once been born into nobility.

  But at least they were free, she mused.

  Suddenly a cracking sound split the air. Everyone whipped their heads toward the glass orb. Shevia’s heart leaped as she saw a small crack, no longer than the tip of her fingernail, running vertically across the glass.

  Silence blanketed the chamber. The moth within rested at the bottom of the sphere, slowly pumping its wings.

  “You have your instructions, Jollasema,” Yarina said to the Mystic woman, but still looking at the moth. “Please travel safely, and in haste.”

  The hex bowed her head to the floor and departed.

  “Our true task becomes more urgent,” Michaela said.

  Shevia wondered what their “true task” was, and what the moth was.

  “Yes,” said Ollfur. “But right now, I recommend a brief recess. The heat is stifling.”

  “Very well,” said Yarina. “I’ll ask Vivianna to send refreshments to each of your cabins. Let us reconvene in an hour.”

  “You work your apprentice very hard,” Willwhite said.

  “She is a fine Mystic,” Yarina said. “And will one day make an exceptional High Mystic of Moth, should the Myst choose that as her path. She excels at seeing larger patterns, and few are as gifted at interacting with the fay. I rely on her for a great deal.”

  One by one the High Mystics left the chamber, leaving only Shevia and Bhairatonix. High Mystic Ehzeeth, the laghart, was the last to file out, but before he left he stopped to peer at the crack in the glass orb. His forked tongue flicked out several times. Shevia could not read his expression to know whether it was concern or another emotion. He had not spoken since her vision of the velten.

  With a final glance at her and Bhairatonix, Ehzeeth shambled out. The door shut behind him.

  “Your smug lies may fool the others,” Bhairatonix said in Qina, “but not me. What else did you see in that first vision? The one you gave to the commoner Mystic girl about the lagharts.”

  Shevia turned a cool expression on her master. “Are you displeased with me?”

  “Do not toy with me, girl! I will—” he said.

  “You will nothing,” Shevia cut in. Her heart thundered in her chest. This was it, the moment when all pretense broke. A storm of emotions raged within her, but fear of this man was no longer one of them. Sitting Mother was with her. The Myst was her ally. She would not be afraid. “You have no power over me any longer,” she said, her voice calm yet forceful.

  “Insolent hetch,” Bhairatonix snarled, using the most vulgar term she had ever been called. “You are nothing without me.”

  “You broke me once, but now I am beyond you,” she said. “My power, dear master, exceeds yours.”

  Bhairatonix surged into the air, lifted by the Myst onto his feet. A storm of rage swirled around him, but still Shevia did not flinch. The knuckles of his visible hand whitened around his staff, while the other remained, as always, in the folds of his robes. Shevia remained on her cushion, looking calmly at him. He bore down over her. “You are mine!” he snarled.

  “Why did you take me as your apprentice?” she asked. “Did you want to control my visions from the Thornwood? You took me far away to Shenheyna, and isolated me from my family and everyone else. You certainly did not see a worthy successor in me because your shriveled ego cannot imagine a time in which you are dead, nor could you bring yourself to care what happens to Qin when you are gone. You took me as an apprentice because you feared me.”

  Bhairatonix fumed, unable to express his rage. Or perhaps unable to contain his surprise that she was right.

  Shevia rose, lithe and graceful, to her feet. “You call me hetch, but I am so much more. You denied me a proper staff. You withheld proper instruction from me. And worst of all, you refrained from giving me a proper name. But I do not need you for those things. I am a Mystic, despite you holding me back.”

  Bhairatonix threw his staff aside and made to grab her throat, bu
t his hand stopped mere inches from Shevia’s neck. She did not flinch. Bhairatonix’s eyes widened as he looked down at his hand.

  “You will never touch me again,” Shevia said. The Myst seethed around her, instinctively obeying her commands. A burning pain crawled across her upper arm and shoulder and chest. It was as though Sitting Mother perched there, guarding her from harm. “I will help the High Mystics and the people of Moth until Crow Tallin is over. But when it is done, you will free me from your service, and never seek me out again.”

  A smile curled across Bhairatonix’s face. His hand remained frozen beside her neck. “How long have you planned this moment? Have you lain awake, practicing this encounter? Has it gone as well as you imagined? I hope it satisfies you, girl. For it will not last. The power you so greedily cling to right now is fleeting. You are empowered by something you do not understand. When Crow Tallin ends, and Treorel passes away, you will be snuffed out and left a charred husk. Only through me can you survive.”

  Shevia thought of the exact time her fear of her master had passed. It had come recently, on a trip to the great city of Yin-Aab. Another memory.

  “You will not control me,” Shevia said. “I’ve been used by Mystics for too long. I will never be used again.”

  Never taking his eyes from her, Bhairatonix slowly moved his other hand, the one he kept hidden away. A shiver crawled over Shevia’s skin as five pale and shriveled fingers crawled from the depth of his robes. The entire arm was scarred, burned, and withered. With it, he gripped the neck of his robes and yanked them down. Shevia gasped before she could stop herself. Her eyes dashed back and forth between Bhairatonix and what she saw on his chest.

  Woven into his skin was a sinuous black and red serpent tattoo, twisting around and through itself. Two large, bat-like wings protruded from its back. But unlike Shevia’s tattoo, the eyes were black and dull, not alive and red like the ones on her skin.

  “You’ve chosen a dangerous game, apprentice,” said Bhairatonix. “There is more to power than mastery of the Myst. There is more afoot than you understand. But by all means, continue with your righteous crusade against me. We will see who prevails at the end.”

  Shevia narrowed her eyes. “Tell me what that symbol is. You owe me that much.”

  “I owe you nothing!” he snarled. “It is you who should be on your knees, pleading for forgiveness. I made you. You think you have power? I will show you power.” His face contorted in effort, and with a supreme act of will he pulled his frozen hand away from her throat.

  “Go,” he said, covering himself again with his robes and slinking his wilted hand back into them. “Refresh yourself and return within the hour. There is work to be done.”

  “I go where I please,” she managed, and this time there was a quaver in her voice. Did Bhairatonix know about Sitting Mother? Did he communicate with her, too? Did he have his own, separate companion that communicated to him through the tattoo? A hundred questions arose in her mind, but she needed time to sort them.

  “As you say,” Bhairatonix said.

  Another sound echoed through the chamber. The moth in the glass flung itself against its prison wall repeatedly, filling the room with tiny tinking noises. Shevia thought she understood how it felt. She could see freedom. She had hurled herself at the glass, and forced a crack. But despite her efforts, she remained trapped within.

  She moved to exit the chamber but stopped at the threshold. The scent of the old wooden door wafted over her. “What is that orb?” Shevia asked.

  Bhairatonix used the Myst to lower his large frame on his cushion. “That is the real reason we’re here.”

  Shevia left the chamber without a response. Her only comforting thought was that eventually the orb would break and when it shattered, like the moth, she would be free.

  FIFTEEN

  THE OUTCAST

  Pomella descended the spiral stairs to find Vivianna still sitting in the foyer. Vivianna must’ve noticed her distracted look because she quirked an eyebrow.

  “Was it really that bad?” Vivianna asked.

  “I’ll dance a jolly when Crow Tallin’s over,” Pomella said, “But right now, we need to find Vlenar. The High Mystics need us to leave immediately for a laghart velten in the northern Ironlow Mountains.”

  Vivianna nodded as she stifled a yawn. “I stayed up late organizing the apprentices and servants to prepare rations. You’ll find them handing out travel packs on the north side of the tower, by the willow.” She glanced at the glowing runes on her forearm.

  “You’re coming with us,” Pomella said.

  Vivianna froze before slowly turning her head toward her. “What?”

  “Mistress Yarina agreed to let you come with me. There’s something big happening with the fay at the velten. I’ll need your help.”

  “What’s happening there?” Vivianna asked.

  “I don’t know,” Pomella said. “The fay are hurting the lagharts, somehow. But…”

  “But what?”

  Pomella bit her lip. It was Shevia who occupied her thoughts, along with all the other unanswered questions from the past few days. The unusual fay, the name Lagnaraste, and the moth in the glass orb.

  “I’ll explain on the road,” Pomella said. “Go pack while I find Vlenar. I’ll meet you past the wall, on the north road an hour after midday.”

  Outside the tower, the merciless sun burned overhead as it ascended toward its peak in the sky. A cloud of fay butterflies danced around Pomella as she stepped out. She took a moment to inhale and collect herself.

  Across the lawn, Oxillian assisted servants with the disassembly of tents. To her opposite side, a group of Mystics sat in a circle having a discussion. Multiple rings of fay birds flew high above them, looping around like a waterwheel. At any other time, Pomella would’ve walked over to join the sitting Mystics, but the sense of urgency from Shevia’s vision and her other concerns weighed on her. She wondered whether those Mystics would sit as easily once they were assigned a task by the High Mystics.

  Pomella’s gaze drifted in the direction of Lal’s cabin. She couldn’t see it from where she stood, but she knew she should probably go see him again. She needed answers.

  “I sssee quessstionsss behind your eyesss,” hissed a voice.

  Pomella turned. Hizrith stood behind her, near the tower entrance. His Mystic staff was curved, similar to a hunting bow, but twice the thickness. He rested both hands on it as he studied her.

  “Yah,” Pomella admitted. “Have you met with the High Mystics yet?”

  “Sssoon,” Hizrith said. “I am hhhere to asssisst Massster Ehzeeth. He isss vvvery old.”

  “He is very fortunate to have you. Seems like we could all use some assistance during Crow Tallin.”

  “And whattt asssistancce do you reqqquire?”

  Pomella gazed at the tower’s upper chamber window. “I need answers to those questions behind my eyes. But I don’t think they can be found here.”

  Hizrith followed her gaze. His tongue flicked out as he thought. “The Hhhigh Myssstics havvve greattt concccerns that afffect usss all.”

  “Yes, of course,” Pomella said. “But it’s us that will be out in the island ensuring that everyone’s safe.”

  Hizrith’s tongue zipped again. “Theirsss is the greatessst resssponsssibility. Withhhout them, Crow Tttallin will unleashhh Lagnaraste.”

  An ice-cold chill rippled through Pomella’s body. She slowly turned from the tower’s window focus on Hizrith.

  “What did you just say?”

  Hizrith’s eyes widened slightly with surprise, telling Pomella that he hadn’t meant to share as much as he had. It vanished in a heartbeat, however. “I sssaid too muchhh. You ssshould asssk your teachhher.”

  “Nobody will tell me anything,” Pomella said, unable to keep the snap from her voice. “Who or what is Lagnaraste, Hizrith?”

  “I’m sssorry. I mussst attend my massster. It isss not my placcce to sssay more.” He inclined his head in polite fa
rewell, and disappeared into the tower.

  “Buggering shite,” Pomella mumbled, staring after the laghart, hands on hips. The air of mystery hanging over Kelt Apar and Crow Tallin infuriated her. It was time to get to the bottom of it.

  She strode to the willow tree and found a handful of servants working beneath it, just as Vivianna had said. At her request, a virga apprentice hurried to provide her with a travel pack containing food, a blanket, and a large waterskin. Pomella sighed inwardly. More travel. If the rampant fay of Crow Tallin didn’t kill her, then fatigue would.

  She silently called to her hummingbirds, who swooped out of the morning sky into her palm.

  “Hector, go find Vlenar and bring him here. Ena, pass a message to Grandmaster Faywong for me.” She paused, considering her message. When she spoke next, she wrapped the Myst around her voice as if to hold and preserve it.

  “‘Grandmaster,’” she said, looking directly at Ena. “‘The High Mystics have me traveling to the Ironlow Mountains to invest—’”

  Both hummingbirds suddenly buzzed their wings and lifted off her hand. Pomella stopped and looked around to see what the fuss was all about. Vlenar walked toward her, leading Quercus, who was saddled and carried several travel sacks.

  “Well, that was easy,” Pomella muttered to herself. Then to the ranger, she said, “You heard?”

  Vlenar nodded. “Vvviviannaaa sssent me a messssage.”

  Pomella loved the ranger’s simplicity and ability to quickly adapt. She found herself glad for his company.

  After she finished her message to Lal, she and Vlenar followed the river north toward the edge of Kelt Apar. Pomella found herself looking back, wondering about Sim. Perhaps she should find him and say good-bye?

  No. She returned her gaze forward. She’d already said good-bye to him enough times in her life. Their brief reunion the previous night had been nice, but she’d have to think of it as nothing more than a momentary assurance that he was alive. She had work to do, and most likely so did he.

  She carried her Mystic staff, of course, which over the years she’d come to appreciate as much as a walking aid as she did an implement to focus and Unveil the Myst. Hector and Ena flew high above her, enjoying the bright day.