“Yes,” he told her. “Though I do not suppose this will be the last you will see of any of us. I’ve got to find them, if they are lost out there somewhere. I have to at least try to seek them out, to see if there is mending and restoration that can still be done for Haven.”
“That is certainly as noble a cause as any we have been pursuing here,” she said supportively. “What do you need of me? I haven’t any ships to carry you across the Itsaso, but if anything you wish is in my power to grant … it will gladly and freely be yours.”
“No, thank you,” Cal said easily. “We are not looking for a ship; I have had enough of the Dark Sea to last a hundred lifetimes,” he laughed. “If only you had some horses, I would most certainly be grateful for an equine companion again.”
Her kind and noble eyes fell in disappointment at this request. “If I had them to give, they would already be yours. But please, accept our finest rams, and the carts to carry your friends who are too, well … too mighty to ride upon their backs.”
“Thank you,” Cal replied. “We would be honored to receive such a gift.”
“Consider it done,” she said with great generosity. “I will have the herd master ready them for you.” She squeezed his hand and raised her brow as she searched his eyes. “When will you be leaving us?”
“As soon as it is possible … tomorrow, if the herd master can manage,” he told her.
“Very well, then,” she said. “Mezulari, will you please see that Gelinda prepares provisions for our friends’ great journey eastward.”
The captain of her guard bowed his head, his stern face now remade in the kindness of peace. “Of course, Lady Steward,” he said as he left to see about her request.
The amber-hued day carried on much like the last many days here in this bright kingdom of the new light. The smithies were particularly busy as they melted and reshaped the ugly, metal blades and armor of the once-vast Raven army into plowshares and tools for the replanting and the rebuilding of Aiénor.
Shaimira was not abandoned, though many of its former residents found new homes in the mansions of Ziohnia. Daily, it seemed, wanderers from all about the Greywood were drawn to the tower of light. As they came forth, they were welcomed with a great feast each silvery evening.
The Oweles did not tarry long in these western lands after the war had been won. Only of few of them had survived after the fighting was finished, and they soon bore their slain brothers back, with great lament and honor, to the eyrie of their birth.
When the great light had burst forth from of the bowels of the Itxaro, the bewitching of the Sorceress, and all the ancient seeds of Šárka, perished under the glorious illumination. Men and women everywhere no longer needed to see in darkness, and so they left behind the former to join the new kingdom of light.
The following morning, the small band of friends awoke with great intention and anticipation for the journey that they would soon embark upon. While the woodcutters and Cal busied themselves with securing their provisions and packing their belongings, Deryn whisked away his violet-eyed friend to show her the makings of his own plan.
In the great courtyard of the shining city, an arbor of Jacaranda trees had sprung out of the new earth, ancient plantings hidden before the beginning of time, resplendent in their violet beauty. Deryn marveled often at them, for the thought of new Sprites being born again into this world filled him with great joy.
“Oh Deryn!” she said as she beheld the sight. “When will these trees bring about your kind?” Astyræ asked as her own, violet eyes marveled at the white trees.
“I am not wholly sure,” he said as he perched upon her slender shoulder. “But I suspect they are waiting to meet their Queen before these flowers will produce any fruit. I do hope to tell Iolanthe all about them soon.” He shook his tiny, azure head as he thought on it. “Can you imagine? Éimhear herself couldn’t contain my excitement if she had ordered it so.”
“Will there be more, do you think?” she asked him.
“Oh yes,” he smiled. “At least … if I have anything to say about it.”
“What do you mean, Deryn?” she asked, her smile inquisitive as she watched his excited face.
Deryn beckoned her to come and see, taking her to a small, carved chest that was sitting at the heart of the arbor. “What is this, dear Sprite? A fairy box?” she laughed playfully.
He shook his head, not offended by much at all these bright days. “Look for yourself!” he told her with great delight.
She kneeled down and lifted the metal clasp on the small chest, opening its cover to reveal seven, small, purse-shaped pods, brightly glowing in a violet aura. She picked one up in her hand and recognized the treasure she held.
“Where did you come by these?” she said in awed wonder as she stared at the Jacaranda seeds.
“I picked them myself,” he said proudly.
“But Deryn?” she protested.
“They are but seeds until a Queen has come for them, never you worry,” he told her with great confidence. “I mean to plant them on our journey back, in hopes of binding the grove of Islwyn to this very arbor here!”
“Those are great plans, my friend,” Cal said as he walked in on their conversation. “Great plans, indeed.”
“Is it time?” Astyræ asked. “I have never been to the east, tree man, and I cannot wait to see where it is that you come from.”
Cal walked over to her and took her by the waist, pulling her close for a sweet kiss. “Aye, and if there is any of it left, I will be glad to show you, indeed. Now, come on already, Johanna is ready for us and it would seem that all of Ziohnia is waiting to see us off.”
She bent down and picked up Deryn’s chest, taking one last look at these trees that had sewn their violet thread through the center of her life.
The three of them walked to the easternmost entry, followed by the small band of woodcutters. What they saw gathered before them made their hearts nearly burst with affection and their eyes fill with joyful tears. Great banners and streamers of fine linen danced in the breeze of the morning, and as they made their way down the brilliant streets, a great cheer went up from the thousands who gathered before them. Bright horns rang out their jubilant notes as they approached the Lady Johanna.
“Seems a bit much doesn’t it?” Oren asked playfully.
“Ah, not at all!” argued Alon. “I was expecting fireworks and maybe even dancing! But this will do, I suppose.”
“Shut up, brother," Oren said with a playful punch to his shoulder.
The procession of travelers included Yasen, Oren and Alon, Gvidus, and the remnant of the woodcutters. Pyrrhus, the one-armed fire knight of Haven, also travelled with them, along with Astyræ, Deryn, and Cal. The Lady Steward stood before them all, a smile upon her face and tears streaming from her eyes.
“I know you must leave, for there may still be those in need of rescue; but I charge you all with this: return to us soon, and return to us often,” she said.
A collective agreement sounded from the gathered friends as they laughed and made their promised intentions known.
“I have carts for you, woodcutters, and strong teams of rams to pull you by,” she told them. “There is plenty of food and wine to drink.”
“And ale?” Oren asked childishly as Alon elbowed him in his side.
“Yes,” she laughed. “Plenty of ale, too. For the stores of Ziohnia are more than abundant! The herd master has given his best rams for your journey, and they are saddled for you, Pyrrhus and Astyræ. May they bear you well along your journey.”
A commotion could be heard as the crowd about her began to part. An older man, whose long, white, hair had been braided and hung in the center of his back, held the leather reins of a silver-white horse.
“Who is this?” Cal exclaimed as he gazed at the horse, whose majestic head sat high upon his muscular neck. Finally, he turned and met the eyes of Johanna. “How did you come about him?”
“Well … he is no Anahi
era, but he is beautiful; a descendant of his Amaian forebearers,” she said as she reached up to stroke his braided, silvery mane.
“But how did you come by him?” Cal asked as he moved closer to the tall, sculpted horse, hands outstretched and a smile on his lips. “You said that your people had abandoned horses?”
“I did not tell you false, Calarmindon. This horse came to us,” she replied in wonder.
“A prince this one is, surely a descendant of Sigrid herself,” he mused as the grey muzzle of this silver-white horse greeted his hand with a warm, soft welcome. “Yes, indeed,” he whispered in a sing-song voice.
“Perhaps the rider in white sent him to aid you on your journey home,” she told him.
“Does he have a name?” Cal asked.
“That is for you to decide, I think,” the Lady Steward replied.
“A prince among horses, indeed,” Cal cooed.
“May I suggest Tersk?” she replied. “It means ‘the prince of horses’; a noble name for a noble purpose!”
“Tersk, huh?” Cal said as he placed his hand on the horse’s high-set neck, just below the jaw line. The groomsman could feel their two hearts pulsing as one, and when the horse let out a long exhale of a breath, it seemed as if the two had melded together.
“Yes,” he said, turning to thank Johanna. “That is a fitting name for such a horse, and for such a gift.” He embraced her, and she him, and the whole of the gathered people let out a cheer of great delight.
“Alright, alright,” Gvidus said as he labored to climb atop the cart. “We have a long journey, groomsman, and I hope that there are some friendly faces waiting for us at the end of it.”
“Very well, then,” Cal said with a beaming smile on his face. And with that, he placed his foot in the leather stirrup and hoisted himself upon the back of Tersk. The horse whinnied and let out an agreeable snort.
“Good boy,” Cal said, stroking his neck.
“One more thing,” came the voice of Sendoa as he moved towards the mounted hero of Aiénor. “The journey may be long, and there still may be dangers unknown along the way.” The captain unwrapped a blue scabbard that held a broad sword within its protection, whose hilt was formed of the wings of the Anahiera, and whose pommel resembled the mighty face of Uriel.
“I know your sword was lost in the battle,” Sendoa offered. “And well … we thought we might honor both you and Uriel in this way.”
Cal picked up the blade, incredulously. It was much lighter than Gwarwyn had been, though no less beautiful.
“Its name is Ikehr, the Visitation,” Sendoa told him. “Euria the smithy crafted this in homage of the visitation of the Anahiera, the second salvation of our people.”
“I will wear it with great honor, and each time I draw it forth … it will be done in remembrance of Uriel, and of all of you,” he said as he cinched the scabbard belt and sheathed the blade. “Though if I am honest, my heart tells me it will be for remembrance sake alone that I will hold it aloft. This light,” he said as he looked high into the brilliant pillar overhead, “has chased away the brooding shadows of the most dangerous places.”
“Return to us soon, return to us often,” Johanna said with great affection. “All of you.”
With that farewell, the departing host rode eastward along the foothills of the Itxaro and into the wilderness north of the Dark Sea.
Every three days as they journeyed along the way, Deryn and Astyræ would plant one of the seven Jacaranda seeds. The Sprite would sing a song of unknown consecration and smile with great anticipation, hoping his Queen would soon return along the same road to give her blessing upon the young saplings.
“You can plainly see the route by which the Raven army took through these lands,” Yasen said to the group. “The ground was abused under the weight of so many men and their machines of war.”
“Good God. How many were there, I wonder?” Pyrrhus said as he beheld the aftermath of their movement. “There must have been nearly ten thousand in the Wreath. Could there have been that many over here as well?”
“It’s hard to tell,” Yasen replied. “But for our city’s sake … I hope we are just misreading the tracks.”
“Who knew the world was so big?” Astyræ said as she rode beside Cal, taking in all of the grandeur of these lands. They had begun to turn southward days ago, and as they did, the mountains crept in all about them, on both sides of the trail. They rose high, with grey rocks and black granite and not much green, save the brambles and scrub pines that protruded from the rock face.
“And it is so much bigger now … now that we can see it all,” he said with a smile.
“Yasen!” came the voice of Gvidus from atop one of the ram carts. “There is something up ahead you should see.”
“What is it, brother?” Yasen replied warily.
“I don’t rightly know,” he told him. “But whatever it is … it’s big.”
“Careful now, lads,” Oren cautioned. “We don’t know what kind of Ravens could yet be hiding in the crook of these rocks.”
“I thought all the Ravens were gone,” Alon argued. “You know, now that the Sorceress is dead and all.”
“I mean … I don’t really mean Ravens now, do I?” Oren retorted. “I mean some kind of scoundrel, or highwayman … or Yasen’s damned demon bear, for all we know.”
“He is right,” Yasen agreed. “Keep a sharp eye about you. Cal, Astyræ, Pyrrhus … ride with me. We need to get a closer look.”
They all nodded their understanding and spurred their mounts as they rounded the outcropping of rock and came face to face with a giant, iron gate, set within the smooth, stone walls of some ancient outpost.
“What is that?” Yasen said aloud as his eye scanned the battlements above. “A fortress? Out here?”
“It’s not one of ours,” Pyrrhus offered. “I don’t think our maps even go this far east, and if they did, we had no reason to use them.”
“No, it is much older than Haven,” Cal said as he cautiously rode Tersk closer to the massive wall. “It reminds me of something, someplace I have been before.”
Cal dismounted Tersk and bade him to stay put as he got a closer look. He ran his hand upon the seamless stone, finding no imperfection in its craftsmanship. He looked high above his head at the ruined and crumpled mess that must have once been a tower. “Do you see that?” he said as he pointed to the heap of rubble.
“Aye,” Yasen agreed. “It doesn’t look as if that mess is as old as this place is.”
“Agreed. I’d wager some great battle happened here, not too long ago,” Cal said.
“Do you smell that?” Astyræ said as she sniffed at the air.
“Like an old fire,” Pyrrhus replied. “But not too old … the smoke is still present in the morning air.”
“Look at this!” Cal exclaimed curiously as he ran his hand over the ancient, iron portcullis. “It is badly damaged … but from the inside.”
“Whatever it was that ruined this place wanted out … not in,” Yasen surmised. “Does it move, groomsman? Will it lift?”
“Certainly not by my strength alone,” he said as he tried to manipulate the heavy gate. “Deryn,” Cal called out, “can you fly through and tell us what you see?”
Deryn, in a whir of blue light, flew through an opening in the portcullis and onward to see what was on the other side of this ancient gate. “There was a battle alright,” the Sprite shouted back to his friends. “The ground is littered with the arms and armor of the Raven army!”
“Is there any sign of life?” Cal asked his friend.
“Not that I can see,” Deryn admitted.
“Then who opposed them, huh?” Pyrrhus muttered. “The Ravens didn’t just break themselves against the wall. Somebody held this place and defended it against them.”
“You are right,” Yasen said. “But why would they defend it, and then abandon it? That just … doesn’t make much sense.”
“It would if they found someplace better
,” came an unfamiliar voice from inside the gatehouse.
Instantly the company drew their blades, fixing them in the direction of the voice.
“Who goes there?” Cal asked bravely as the light of the morning glinted off the blade of Ikehr.
“As one who is trying to gain passage, I think it should be you who first answers that question,” the voice said.
Cal looked to Astyræ, asking without words if she could see who it was behind the gate. She shook her head no to answer him, and then the blue glint of their Sprite friend gave them cause for hope.
“To gain passage, you say?” Cal said playfully. “We have already made it through.”
“What do you mean—" the voice began to say, but was quite suddenly interrupted by the point of a tiny, azure blade.
“Please, sir,” Deryn said as he held the point of his sword in the flesh of the man’s neck. “We have journeyed far, and still have much to do before our quest is over.”
“A Sprite?” the man said warily. “I don’t understand … is this a jest?”
“I assure you, sir, that my Sprite friend does not jest with his blade,” Cal pressed. “Why would you say that?”
“Cal!” Astyræ whispered as she espied some movement.
Yasen and Pyrrhus flattened their backs to the ancient wall, weapons at the ready.
“Because the Sprites are our friends, that’s why,” the man said, all suspicion now gone from his voice.
“I don’t understand,” Cal said aloud.
“Tell me your name, friend of Sprites,” Deryn said, not relinquishing the advantage for a single moment.
“My name is Johnrey,” the white-bearded man said. “I was once a corporal in the army of Haven. I served under Captain Armas, and I serve now alongside Lieutenant Marcum.”
“Johnrey?” Pyrrhus said as he came away from the wall to have a closer look.
“And what Sprite do you claim friendship of, Johnrey?” Deryn persisted.
“All of them … I mean, I thought it was all of them,” he said, dumbfounded at the question. “Though I would say the Queen has the affection of all who have made their home within the mountain.”
The Coming Dawn: Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 3 Page 38
