Tales of old spoke of a line of Crons—one of the people groups of the South World known for their fair skin, short stature, and lust for adventure—called Treasure Hunters. A hunter was born with a unique eye color and a mythical power which could only be accessed to its full potential if the Treasure Hunter found the stone that matched their eye color. The hunt began when they were young, sometimes only twelve years of age, with a quest that could often take up a lifetime, fraught with perilous journeys through forest and field. Citrine felt light-headed at the idea of a quest, but it was the end goal she anticipated.
Citrine was a Tider, and out of the four people groups of the Four Worlds, Tiders were known for their height, love of mountains, and thoughtfulness. While Citrine desired knowledge and enjoyed compiling her book of spells, she did not lust for adventure the same way Crons did. However, she felt protective of her beasts and, given past negative experiences, Citrine had a reason to mistrust people. The city of Sanga Sang was full of individuals each with their own mysterious and often conniving goals. It was not safe for her to stay near such a great city and each passing day her discomfort grew. The spell of protection over her beasts would wear off after a time, and she needed, nay, she craved to find a place like the land of Novor Tur-Woodberry—a world that belonged to her and her creatures. To find it, she had to travel, and now that the book of spells was compiled—although she’d always add onto it as she learned more—with the coin she’d earned, it was a good time to hunt for a new home for her beasts.
In anticipation, she’d sent Morag ahead to seek out land. As a water serpent, it was much easier for him to transverse the Jaded Sea and listen to the tales sung by the monsters hiding in the green waters. She’d also asked him to seek out word about stones. It wasn’t so much that she desired to find the stone. It was the power she wanted, for she’d seen what could be done with power. It was Novor Tur-Woodberry—an immortal Duneíthaír who owned Paradise and kept it safe from evil—who had showed her what could be accomplished with power. She’d never considered walking in the footsteps of a true Enchantress, but after staying three months in a magical land where trouble ceased, she understood exactly what she wanted. Novor Tur-Woodberry’s paradise was gone, but she could create her own, and for that she needed land, and she needed a stone which allowed her to access powers beyond her current abilities.
4
Without Consequence
Tor Lir needed sleep. Weariness made his bones sag as he hunched over a tankard of ale, the bitter flavor lingering on his tongue and burning his throat as he took yet another sip. Uproarious conversation filled the air with a dull roar as mortals told stories, often shouting over each other as they shared empty words of no consequence, easily spoken and just as easily forgotten.
“Ye look tired, mate,” the male across from him drawled.
Tor Lir rested his fingers on the edge of his mug. The hour grew late, and yet she had not appeared. He glanced around the crowded tavern once more. “Is it always like this?”
“Aye, that’s the beauty of it, eh.” His companion’s voice slurred under the influence of ale.
Tor Lir frowned, narrowing his eyes at the male who sat across from him. Bram was his name, a lad from the city who’d been hired to work the harvest on one of the larger farmlands. Bram, Cedric, and Olms had joined him, for it was the night after the weekly market. The liveliest conversations could be found before and after market day at the tavern. All kinds of unlikely people flocked to the city, and with the coming harvest, the influx only grew.
Bram went on. “Ye say you’re searching for stories. Everyone has a story here. Whether it’s true or nay is the difficulty…”
He dipped his tongue back into his mug and chugged it until it was empty. With a drunken sigh, he slammed the mug onto the table, letting out a loud burp.
Tor Lir leaned back with disdain and unwrapped his fingers from around the mug of ale. He was done waiting. It was clear she wasn’t coming tonight. “I think I should go. This was a mistake.”
“Nay, mate…stay…” Bram slurred and swung a leg over the bench. He stood on two feet as he made his way back to the bar to order another tankard.
Tor Lir glanced at the other two males, but they were engrossed in conversation with two rather engaging females.
Tor Lir stepped outside of the tavern, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Two or three males, drunk on fine ale, burst out behind him and struck up a song as they stomped into the night. They still held mugs, lifted high as they stumbled from side to side, arms around each other to keep from falling face down in the cobblestone road and losing a tooth or two.
Tor Lir smirked and shook his head at the mannerisms of mortals. Narrowing his eyes, he pulled his hood over his dark head, turned his back on them and strode across the forsaken streets to his temporary living quarters. Perhaps she’d been delayed and would meet him there instead.
Torches at street corners gave a dim glow to the city, and provided visibility to the road, although he had the ability to see in the dark. The past year had been nothing but a learning experience as he dwelled among mortals and learned their habits, thanks to some guidance from Citrine the Enchantress.
The winds of autumn swirled around him with the sharp warning of cooler weather. Soon the bite of winter would fill the air, leaving the mortals huddling over warm fires drinking boiled water with leaves of peppermint adding a sweet flavor to the mixture. The Festival of Harvest was only a few days away, and a sudden nostalgia struck him as he strode through the seaport city known as Sanga Sang.
It was only his second harvest away from the forest of Shimla—his birthplace and home for the first twenty years of life. He missed the odd gaiety of the immortal creatures—the Iaen—and the unique celebration they held to honor nature and the bounty given them. But he did not miss the dark questions that flew through his mind even though he tried to distract himself to keep them at bay. Who am I? Where do I come from? What is my name?
Time spent alone with his thoughts led him to uncomfortable sensations. He walked faster, gliding through the night-lit streets like a shadow. He moved uphill, for the tavern lay near the shore, close to the port where ships came into harbor, bringing newcomers and trade to the prosperous city. The road sloped up, zigzagging on a hill to the very crest where the tower perched. It was neither castle nor home to any, but the seat of power lay there. Once over the hill, the city spread out, flowing into the countryside where farmers raised animals and grew crops. They drove wagons into the city to barter at the marketplace, altogether making a comfortable living that supported the city and encouraged trade.
Tor Lir flexed his fingers. Citrine complained he did not fit in with the mortals because he did not have a trade. Volunteering for harvest on a bountiful farm was his first step, and it reminded him of working in Shimla, something frowned upon by the Iaen. It seemed odd to sacrifice his freedom for work, but the more time he spent in the city, the more he realized that was all the mortals did. Work. And spend their evenings drinking to relax from the work.
It was an endless cycle which left him with a doubtful sensation of emptiness and a gnawing hunger. He tapped his fingers in the air, restless. Longing for what? He did not know. Perhaps it was time to leave the city of Sanga Sang and strike out for something that would force an excitement into his life.
As he strode up the road, a dark mass blocked out the sky and he shuddered as he neared the temple. Something about the structure made the hairs on his body stand on end. He’d heard the rumors about the friars who dwelt there—a secret sect studying the wisdom of the Four Worlds, a knowledge he wished to avoid. The sounds of his leather boots clipped the chill air, and the moonlight rushed back behind a cloud as if shy of showing its haunted face to him. A sour aroma permeated the air like the heavy scent of raw meat roasted over a hot fire, burning and stinging, impossible to get out of the throat. Blinking, he eyed the temple as the hollow feeling of discomfort grew within like an air bubble. A fa
int murmur whispered, and he paused, unsure whether he should continue. Tilting his head, he listened. A baby cried in the distance, an owl hooted as it hunted, and an object splashed into water.
Tor Lir took a step, his heart thudding in his chest as the discomfort grew. Suddenly a shrill scream shattered the silence of the night. The odor increased as a door banged open, and down the temple steps stumbled a male. He was slender and wore a gray robe that reached to his feet, tied at the waist with a rope-like cord. His light hair was wet and wild, sticking up in all directions as his feet pounded the ground. One hand clutched his heart where red blood streamed from his chest, and he glanced frantically back at the temple doors, searching for his pursuer. It was the glance behind that killed him. Although he reached to gather up his lengthy robe, all the same he tripped on his own blood and fell head long, hurling toward the bottom steps. A second later, a dark form bolted out of the temple and hurled itself over him. The shadow melted into the night in such a way that Tor Lir, straining his eyes, could barely see it. It was only the shape that covered the friar, and even though he knew it was wrong and he should help, he took a step back.
The friar let out a terrified howl as the darkness covered him. His legs kicked out, at first violently and then slowing to small tremors. His shrieks and moans faded away as the darkness ate him alive.
Tor Lir’s jaw dropped, and he stared. Crying for help seemed useless, especially since the male would be dead by the time anyone came to assist. Stretching his long fingers, Tor Lir wished he hadn’t left his bow and arrows tucked under the straw mattress on which he slept. Such rich gifts were a target for thieves and would catch a high price in the marketplace. Frozen with indecision, unable to peel his eyes away from the horror, he watched the shadow finish its meal. With a hiss, it turned around, searching the darkness for witnesses. In that moment the moon came out of hiding and the creature fled, but not before Tor Lir glimpsed amber eyes and a scaly hide.
He dashed after it, seeking to follow its trail to its lair. The creature disappeared around the temple, but when Tor Lir caught up, there was nothing. Furrowing his brows, he stepped back as the realization struck his chest, just as if a sword pierced his heart. Reeling back, he gasped, awareness of an imbalance coming over him. Something evil was adrift in the city. His next thought was of Citrine. Why would she let one of her beasts run free without consequence?
5
Burn It Down
The setting sun hid Zilpha from curious eyes as she slunk from shadow to shadow, following the wagon to the richer side of town. Alleyways became scarce and high stone walls with vibrant flowers planted alongside them gave off the air of supremacy. Zilpha had been to Lord Arden’s manor house once. He insisted on living in a house near the tower, despite having to ride out to monitor his farmland and hired hands every day. The farm lands weren’t too far from the city, but the journey took an hour or so on foot, slightly faster on horseback.
Green ivy climbed around the walls, and the wooden gate stood open while the wagon rumbled through. Zilpha came to a halt, using the wall as cover. Once the sound of the wagon faded, she rose on her tip-toes, her fingers scraping ends of broken wood. A grassy lawn traveled to the foot of the manor house with four gables framing long windows. The house was made of stone—a luxury for the wealthy—yet it provided work for the laborers. Stone had to be quarried and dragged to the city, and while it was back-breaking work, it paid well.
A row of bushes grew just after the gate, and Zilpha crouched behind them, watching the familiar rise of land and the barn where the wagon was stored and the horses lived. As Zilpha examined it, she saw another structure—a small, one-room thatched hut, much like her home. Lady Hava walked out of it and Zilpha ducked, squeezing her eyes shut as if that simple action could keep her from being seen.
“Rodrick, my horse!” Lady Hava’s voice rang out, clear as a bell, feminine yet commanding.
“Rodrick, spare the house and go home for the evening after you finish feeding the stock,” a stern voice interrupted. “Hava, a word.”
Zilpha knew the voice anywhere. Lord Arden. She narrowed her eyes and peered between the leaves of the bush to watch. Prickly leaves made her skin burn. She squeezed her fingers together to keep from rubbing the itch on her arm and giving away her hiding spot. A sour stench met her nose. She hoped she was not sitting in horse dung.
Hava paused, a cool expression coming over her face as she strode across the grounds. She stopped a few paces from her father with her back to the bushes, the two swords on her back blocking Zilpha’s view of Lord Arden. Hava spoke without pause, her tone steady. “I kept my end of the bargain and you don’t intend to keep yours? I need my horse for tonight’s events.”
“I made no promises about tonight. After tomorrow, you are free to go as you wish, I ask no more of you.” There was the sound of coins clanging, and Hava’s body moved as if she were catching a bag of coins. Zilpha’s fingers flew to her waist, recalling the bag of coin she held there. “Use this wisely. There will not be more.”
“Have I ever disappointed you?” she asked scornfully.
Zilpha could not imagine facing someone with the blatant disrespect Hava showed her father. If Zilpha so much as spoke to an elder that way, she would be punished and likely sent to the temple.
The temple perched on the path between the Jaded Sea and the farmland, situated to give access to the rich and poor alike. An air of secrecy and reverence surrounded the temple, and only those chosen could study the ways of the Creator and understand the deeper knowledge of the Four Worlds. The friars and priestesses that dwelled there gave up the normal way of life for something higher. Something Zilpha did not understand.
A resounding slap made Zilpha jerk and gasp, almost giving away her hiding spot. Hava spun away from her father, a red hand print taking form on her cheek. With one hand holding the bag of coins, she stalked toward the manor house, shoulders back and head held high, as if she’d won the fight. Zilpha trembled, wishing she was far away. It was only due punishment for disrespect, but all the same it frightened her. What if Lord Arden threatened her when she returned without full payment?
Hava disappeared inside and Lord Arden mounted up. A few minutes later, he galloped out of the gates, mud flying up and splattering Zilpha’s dress. She groaned. She despised wash day.
A few more moments passed. The lanterns were lit, and the hired help closed up for the night before drifting off. Zilpha sat still until she determined her presence had, indeed, gone unnoticed. Then, relieved at being able to scratch her itches, she emerged from the bushes. Using the dim light, she made her way through shadows toward the hut. The uneven ground made her stumble as she walked. The nicker of a horse gave her pause, until she realized it was just the beasts in the barn eating dinner and settling in for the night. She traded hunger for worry, yet her mouth felt dry and her throat raw from thirst.
The hut was dark and quiet as she approached, her heart thudding in her chest at her daring actions. If she were caught trespassing, the consequences would be dire. Yet she could not help remembering—her debt would be paid off if not for Hava.
The door of the hut held fast, likely by either a lock or a bar put in front of the door. But Zilpha thought if it were similar to hers, there would be a window, set low enough to the ground so she could peek in. Sneaking around the side, she peered in to semi-darkness. Someone had left a lantern hanging by the door to light up the space. Zilpha’s eyes widened as she took in the loom, baskets of wool and silk, colorful cloth, reeds, and wicker for weaving baskets. Zilpha gritted her teeth. A surge of rage hurtled through her. Even the supplies Hava had were much better than hers. Being poor and consumed with paying off her debt, she used grasses and rushes to weave baskets. Now and then she stumbled upon some wicker or other strips of tree bark she used to make smaller baskets. Hava, in all her wealth, could afford better supplies, but with the wool and silk, there was enough to last a lifetime.
Emboldened by her anger, Z
ilpha gripped the ledge of the window and pulled herself up, using the uneven wall of the hut to give herself leverage. Grunting, she scraped her legs and pulled her knees up to the ledge. As she turned to sit down on the windowsill and slide into the room, her dress caught on the lip of the window frame. Using one hand, she reached down to tug it free and lost her balance. Her hands flailed as she reached for the ledge to halt her fall. Her dress ripped free and she fell backward into the hut. The impact of her fall knocked all the air from her body and a sudden pain split up her back. She lay still, gasping for air and patting down her chest and torso with her hands to ensure she was all there and unbroken.
The flame of the lantern danced in glee at her mishap. A whispered oath came from her parted lips as she sat up, and a layer of fire went down her back at the sudden movement. Rubbing her backside, she stood, eyes wide, almost holding her breath as she listened. What if someone had heard her? But all was silent in the darkness.
Zilpha walked around the room, at first to regain her sense of balance, but then because the work supplies called to her. She ran her hands over the soft wool and silk as cool as midnight air. A sudden yearning came over her as she ran her hands over the reeds and wicker, bending them back and forth—a strong desire to weave baskets out of them. She sat down among the luxury, tears pricking her eyes. As hard as she worked, it was all in vain. When the sun came up, she’d return to meet with Lord Arden and make a partial payment while begging for an extension. Why did Hava have to appear on this market day? From all appearances it seemed as if someone did not want her debt to be paid off. She furrowed her brow and chewed her lip as she held a piece of silk. It slid from her finger tips like butter. What would it be like to wear something as light and as effortless as silk?
Legend of the Nameless One Boxset Page 20
