by Licia Troisi
The Last Talisman
Licia Troisi
to Giuliano, for everything
Prologue
My name is Sennar and I’m a sorcerer. Nihal and I met five years ago on the terrace of the tower city Salazar in the Land of the Wind on the very same day I won a dagger from her in a duel. She was thirteen years old. I was fifteen. So much has happened since then. The Tyrant, who was already in command of four of the eight lands of the Overworld, led an attack on Salazar. The city was destroyed, and Nihal’s father, Livon, was killed. Soon after, Nihal found out she was the last remaining survivor of the half-elves, a race annihilated years earlier by the Tyrant’s forces. Determined to become a warrior so as to avenge her father’s death and the massacre of her people, Nihal managed to pass all of the tests that the Supreme General Raven set for her and gain admission to the Academy. There, she met Laio, her one true friend during those months of solitude. Then came her first official trial: battle. Fen, the Dragon Knight whom Nihal loved, was killed. He was the life companion of Soana, the sorceress who had introduced Nihal to the art of magic. During her training period, Nihal was apprenticed to the dwarf, Ido, and at long last she met Oarf, her dragon.
Just as Nihal began her apprenticeship, the Council of Sorcerers, on which I serve, entrusted me with an important mission, and thus, nearly a year ago, I departed for the Underworld, a fabled continent. Its exact location was unknown. My mission was to request military aid from the inhabitants of that world and secure their support in the war against the Tyrant.
The voyage was not easy. I set sail on a pirate ship commanded by Rool and his daughter, Aires. Together, we made it through an endless storm and escaped from the hideous jaws of a monster guarding the kingdom of the depths. I faced the very last trial on my own, setting off in a small boat to reach the only known entry to the Underworld, an enormous whirlpool that seemed to swallow up the horizon itself.
I thought I would die. The whirlpool’s incredible force, the quaking of the boat as it splintered into thousands of pieces, water filling my lungs—and then, it seemed, I was drowning. …
I survived and made it to the Underworld. A family took care of me until I regained my strength. Then I set out in search of the count, the one man who might be willing to hear my request.
Zalenia, as it is called by its inhabitants, is a dangerous place for people who, like me, come from the Overworld. Anyone who dares descend from above risks punishment by death. I was taken prisoner and locked in a cell, and it was there that I encountered an unexpected ally, a beautiful girl named Ondine, the sweetest and saddest memory of the three months I spent in the belly of the sea. Ondine looked after me during my days as a prisoner and came to my aid just when it seemed all hope was lost, pleading with Count Varen on my behalf. Once I convinced Varen of the importance of my mission, I was granted a hearing with Nereo, the king. I brought Ondine along for the journey, because I needed her there with me and because I thought I loved her.
In the end, I obtained what I sought in Zalenia, but at a great price. As I stood before the king and the people of the Underworld, pleading for military aid, an emissary of the Tyrant tried to kill the king, and war descended upon the Underworld, which had known only peace for so long.
Once I’d accomplished my mission, it was as if I were suddenly thrust back into reality, and that’s when I realized that my feelings for Ondine were an illusion. I was forced to leave her, but not without making a promise to her and to myself that I hope one day to keep.
During those months I spent in the Underworld, many things happened above. Nihal became a full-fledged Dragon Knight and battled the most powerful warrior in all the Tyrant’s army, the man who destroyed Salazar, Dola, the dwarf. In the end, she defeated him, though to do so she relied on forbidden magic, and this only worsened her nightmares, stirring the spirits already haunting her dreams.
For Nihal, the most difficult part of that duel came in the days after her victory, when she discovered that Dola was Ido’s brother and that her teacher had once fought in the Tyrant’s army, aiding in the massacre of the half-elves. But Ido and Nihal have a very special bond, one not easily broken. They managed to weather this trial, too.
Nihal and I were reunited, and Soana returned from her long journey. She’d gone to look for Reis, her one-time teacher, and it turned out that Reis was eager to speak with Nihal.
Reis is an old and wicked woman. Her eyes overflowing with hatred, she revealed to us that Nihal had long ago been consecrated to a god by the strange name of Shevrar, and that only Nihal can save our world from the Tyrant. She will have to collect eight stones, spread throughout each of the Eight Lands. Once she has gathered them, she must place them in a talisman and use the device to invoke a powerful enchantment, capable of stripping the entire Overworld of magic. We also found out that it was Reis who’d sent the nightmares that plagued Nihal, hoping they would force Nihal to find the courage to agree to this endeavor. I dragged Nihal away from Reis’s clutches and convinced her not to set out on the dangerous journey, not to do what Reis had asked.
Unfortunately, the situation worsened. The Tyrant devised a new weapon. He found a way to awaken the spirits of the dead, and suddenly we were battling against our own fallen soldiers, our swords swinging in vain through their ghostly bodies.
Soana and I developed a spell that gave the steel of our soldiers’ blades power over the army of phantoms, but this did not prevent our defeat. In a single day, we lost the greater part of the Land of Water and Nihal was wounded by the spirit of Fen himself.
The situation is grim. The troops arriving from Zalenia are but a slender hope. I understand why Nihal stood up during the Council meeting that evening, and part of me knows it was the right thing to do, but there was no way I could allow her to travel through enemy territory alone, with only her haunted dreams to keep her company. That’s why I decided to put everything on the line—for her.
The Free Lands
Thus it was that the gods, angered by the pride and recklessness of the inhabitants of Vemar, decided upon their destruction. And so a great disaster struck the land that years before had been the object of divine favor. The sea rose to touch the sky, the earth plummeted into chasms, crazed rivers of fire flowed through Vemar. For three days and three nights, the sea and earth raged, while men prayed to the gods for mercy. On the fourth day, Vemar was lifted into the sky, turned upside down, and replaced by a vast gulf in the form of a perfect circle. Vemar, First Fruit of the Gods, existed no longer. In its place, the Gulf of Lamar, Fury of the Gods, appeared. Two towers rose at its center in reminder that no earthly creature is great enough to rise to the height of the gods.
Ancient Tales, paragraph XXIV, from the Royal Library of the city of Makrat
1
The Start of a Long Journey
Nihal pulled her cloak up over her nose. It was cold in the forest for that time of year. Pine trees swayed beneath the gusts of bitter wind, and the fire faded.
Nihal, the last remaining half-elf, as attested by her blue hair and pointed ears, was weak with fever and tormented by the spectral voices that echoed in her nightmares. She examined the medallion around her neck—the talisman, powerful enough to steal her life and determine the fate of the entire Overworld. The eight empty niches seemed to tug on her soul like eight impossible questions.
Sennar and Laio, her travel companions, had collapsed in exhaustion on a trunk. Even Oarf was sound asleep. She could feel the dragon’s steady breathing on her back, which rested upon his emerald-green scales.
They’d been on the road for six days now, having left just after Nihal’s last meeting with Reis, the sorceress.
In th
e light of the fire, Nihal closed her eyes and focused on the calm rocking motion of Oarf’s breathing, trying to chase away the memory. She could still picture the old woman’s pale eyes, almost entirely white with age, and her gnarled fingers. She could almost hear her sinister voice.
The wind blew bitter cold, and yet Nihal was sweating. Again, she studied the talisman. Its central stone gleamed in the dark, adding a stronger light to the reddish glow of the flickering fire, spreading its brilliance just as it had in the rank air of the sorceress’s hut. Reis’s words echoed in her mind.
“The location of each sanctuary will be revealed to you, and only you, by the talisman, Sheireen. Once you’ve reached the sacred ground where the stone is kept, you must recite these words to begin the process: Rahhavni sektar aleero, ‘I come to request your power.’ Each stone must then be placed into its proper niche in the amulet, at which point its power will flow into you. Once you have reached the Great Land, you must call upon the Eight Spirits, uttering the name of each: Ael, Water; Glael, Light; Sareph, Sea; Thoolan, Time; Tareph, Earth; Goriar, Darkness; Mawas, Air; and Flar, Fire. Together, the eight stones will activate and the spirits will be summoned. The medallion will suck out your vital forces. Its energy may be used to invoke another spell, which would be a waste of its power and would mean your death, or else its energy may be liberated by splitting open the medallion with a black crystal blade. But remember, you alone are destined to activate the talisman. In the hands of anyone else, it will not only lose its splendor and power, it will absorb the life force of the wrongful possessor.”
Nihal shivered and tucked the medallion back beneath her cloak, pulling the thick fabric tight around her body.
They’d left in a hurry. Their mission was of the utmost importance. Nihal herself had insisted on setting out before the wound to her shoulder, inflicted by a ghost, had healed.
She would have preferred for Laio, her squire, to stay back at the base, but there had been no dissuading him. He was determined to follow his knight. Even Ido, her teacher, had agreed with Nihal. “It would be best for him not to go,” the dwarf had muttered, between puffs of his pipe. “He’s no warrior; he’s not cut out for battle. But you know Laio would never stand for it. He’d never just sit here and wait for you. Even if you left without telling him, he’d trail after you and end up getting himself killed. You have to take him along. It’s the only way.”
She didn’t have to ask Laio twice. Beaming, his blond curls hanging around his face, he immediately set about gathering his things, bursting with eagerness up to the moment of their departure.
The first time Nihal attempted to consult the talisman, she did so reluctantly. As long as she refrained from putting her powers to the test, she could go on pretending that she was merely Nihal, the Dragon Knight. Her other identity, Sheireen, the Consecrated—the hideous name used by Reis—was still but a flicker in her haunted imagination.
The moment she touched the medallion, a vision invaded her mind.
A distorted image. Fog. A swamp. At its center, an evanescent, blue-gray structure. A single word: Aelon. And brief directions. “To the north, along the shore of the Great River, until it spills into the sea.” Nothing more.
So, it was true. She was the Consecrated.
Surrounded by the grim silhouettes of the trees, Nihal was unable to fall asleep. Her shoulder throbbed and her fever had clearly risen. Her wound must be infected.
Nihal watched Sennar and Laio, who were slumbering peacefully. Her eyes settled on the red fluff of hair sticking out of Sennar’s cloak and wondered, for the thousandth time, if they would manage to accomplish their mission.
When they left the next morning, the sun was already high in the sky. They headed due north as snow fell silently and wind shook the treetops, blowing back against Oarf’s beating wings.
They soared above white patches of forest and the many tributaries of the River Saar. Between the bare gray branches they could make out the villages of men and the tree dwellings of the nymphs. Nihal felt they were drawing near their destination.
“We’re here,” she said, and directed Oarf toward the ground.
Below them, the Great River split off into a thousand streams, drenching the earth, and the forest gave way to a water-logged landscape. This must be the swamp Nihal had seen when she’d consulted the talisman. They flew toward it, but soon a dense fog blocked their view. Here and there they spotted the leafless branch of an occasional tree, but nothing else.
“We have to land, or we won’t be able to see anything at all,” Laio suggested.
The moment they set their feet down and the damp, gragy light wrapped itself around them, their nostrils were invaded by the smell of stagnant water. They’d arrived at the start of the swamp.
They sat down on a tree trunk to take stock of the situation.
“We can’t go any further on Oarf, at least not as long as this fog hangs around,” said Sennar.
“But we don’t know how far off the sanctuary is, or how vast the swamp,” Laio argued.
Nihal remained silent. She felt a cold chill run up her spine and a flush on her face. She tried to focus, tuning out Sennar and Laio. At last, she decided. “We have to go forward on foot,” she said.
“Okay by me,” said Laio, and he began to rise.
“You’re not coming,” Nihal ordered.
Laio froze. “And why not?”
“I need you to stay here with Oarf,” she said.
“No. You just want me off your back,” the squire exclaimed, his brazen demeanor immediately shrinking into an expression of guilt.
Nihal eyed him sternly. “What you said before was true. We don’t know how far we have left to travel. Oarf is tired, and I need you to look after him.”
“I understand, but …”
“But nothing. I’ve made my decision. Sennar and I will depart tomorrow morning. You’ll be staying here.”
Nihal didn’t get a wink of sleep that night. Her fever had risen, and the thought of arriving at the first sanctuary excited and terrified her all at once. Sennar would be with her, sure, but his decision to accompany her on this quest and thus jeopardize his position on the Council added further weight to the burden she already felt as a result of this mission.
When Nihal informed the Council of her decision to take on this mission, Sennar snapped to his feet.
“I request permission to accompany her.”
Nihal turned to him. “Sennar!”
“That’s out of the question,” Dagon shot back. “It’s thanks to your spell that we weren’t entirely wiped out. We need you here.”
“I request permission to accompany her on this mission,” he repeated. “She may need the help of magic.”
Dagon held him in his gaze for a moment. “Which is why we’ll send another sorcerer with her. Your presence here is too important to the Council.”
“And Nihal’s presence is essential to the army.”
“We will not be sending you, Sennar. End of discussion.”
At that point, Sennar commited an unthinkable deed. He tore from his neck the medallion affirming his allegiance to the Council, the symbol of everything he believed in and everything he’d fought for. “Then I’ll be forced to resign from the Council.”
An astonished whisper spread among the Council members.
“Does the Council mean so little to you?” said Sate, the representative from the Land of the Sun.
“The Council is my life, but there are many ways to serve the Overworld. And accompanying Nihal on this mission is one of them.”
“Who will take your place?” the nymph Theris asked.
Soana stood from her chair. “Until Sennar’s return, I offer myself as his replacement.”
For a long while, Dagon thought in silence. “Very well,” he said at last. “I will permit you to go along on this mission.
But just know, when you return, there is no guarantee you will regain membership.”
Sennar agreed to the terms.
Nihal stared into the red glow of the flames flickering in the frigid night air. All around her, the fog thickened.
2
Aelon
or On Imperfection
As Nihal and Sennar entered the swamp the next morning, they were gripped by a feeling of uneasiness. The fog was extraordinarily dense. If they were to separate for even a second, they’d risk losing each other for good.
Setting foot in that place was like stepping out of reality.
The smell was nauseating, the ground so saturated with water that they sank in up to their ankles with every step. Other than the croaking of frogs and the shrill cawing of crows, the air was heavy with an almost palpable silence.
Nihal lagged behind, trudging forward with increasing difficulty. Sennar slowed and took her by the hand.
“What …”
“This way we won’t lose each other,” the sorcerer replied. “If only we knew the sanctuary’s precise location, I could transport us there.”
“There’s a spell that can do that?”
“Yes, but only for short distances and to places where I know the exact location. It’s called the Flying Spell, though you don’t actually fly.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Sennar smiled. “One day, I’ll teach you how to do it.”
Surrounded by unchanging gray, they quickly lost all sense of time. It was as if they had done nothing but walk in circles. Each tree, each stone, was like the next.
All of a sudden, the sky darkened and it was night. They were in the middle of the swamp, without the slightest idea of how much farther they had to go. Stopping was out of the question. They had to find some sort of shelter, but it wouldn’t be easy in such a landscape.
Nihal lost track of Sennar until she heard him approaching. A luminous sphere resting on his palm cast a glow upon his face. He was worn, tired. On his cheek, the scar Nihal had left in a moment of anger almost a year before stood out against his pale skin. His azure eyes, however, held a glimmer of hope.
