by Flavia Bujor
Suddenly, his reflection was disturbed, and from the lake rose a beautiful creature like a mermaid, with a woman’s body and two tails of equal size covered in golden scales. Her features were delicate, her blue eyes glinted with gold, and her skin was almost too white, too flawless. Her black hair, tumbling in heavy, silken curls to her shoulders, did not seem wet from the waters of the lake from which she had just emerged. In her slender hands she held a golden casket encrusted with pearls.
“Mortal!” she said fearlessly. “You have dared to approach the Lake of Torments! Only those who suffer may gaze at their reflection in its waters; all others drown themselves, having sought here a consolation they did not deserve. My sisters and I are the guardians and mistresses of the lake. We show ourselves rarely, and only to those worthy of us. I have come to speak to you, mortal, for I must give you something that belongs to you.”
“You are mistaken. I possess only my body, my soul — nothing else belongs to me… I am nothing, and do not even have a name. I am called the Nameless One.”
“I know your identity, your past, and even some of your future. There are many who know as much as I do, without knowing you. But even if you were to ask me, I would not reveal to you the name you received at birth, for that is not my mission. The only thing I have the right to give you is this casket. It was entrusted to us, to my sisters and me, many years ago, and we promised to give it to a particular person, destined to appear at the lake in the fullness of time. That person is you, mortal. Guard carefully the contents of this casket. That was the wish of those who gave it into our hands.”
The Nameless One seized the object. Without a sound, the mermaid with the jet-black locks sank back into the depths of the lake. Dumbfounded, but curious, the young man slowly opened the casket, holding his breath, his heart pounding wildly.
In an instant he violently snapped it shut, his intense disappointment shaking him to the core.
The casket was empty.
The Thirteenth Councillor did not often fly into a rage. This time, however, he was in an indescribable fury; he was shaking and his features were distorted with anger. When he shouted, his voice echoed through the rooms of the palace of the Council of Twelve.
“What?” he roared. “You tell me that the entire city of Nathyrnn has escaped? Do you take me for an imbecile?”
The image of a Knight of the Order, quaking with fright, appeared on a large, thin plaque of gold floating in the air.
“Uh… Yes, everyone has escaped,” confessed the man in a voice that was barely audible.
“And how do you explain that?” bellowed the Thirteenth Councillor. “Are you going to tell me, perhaps, that you just happened to be asleep when they escaped?”
“Well, actually — yes,” stammered the Knight of the Order, confused and ashamed.
“You dare to lie to me? Do you not know the fate that awaits you? Death! And dishonour! In the public square!”
“But I assure you, I am not lying.”
“Give me the border of the dukedom of Divulyon — at once!”
The image faded instantly, replaced by the face of another Knight of the Order.
“Commander-in-Chief of the Knights of the Order guarding the border of Divulyon, at your service!” he barked.
“Commander,” snarled the Thirteenth Councillor, beside himself with rage, “did you arrest a large number of fugitives a few hours ago?”
“The thing is…” replied the commander, suddenly humble and hesitant.
“What happened?” cried the councillor. “Don’t lie to me!”
“We did in fact intercept a number of people. We neutralised most of them. We fought valiantly. Our troops were hard pressed. We—”
“I want to know if anyone crossed into Fairytale!”
“Yes,” admitted the knight miserably.
“But that’s impossible!” shrieked the Thirteenth Councillor. “Who was leading this revolt?”
“Apparently, a young man we have not been able to identify.”
“Were there three girls, about fourteen years old?”
“I believe so. One of them in particular was an extremely fine warrior.”
“Don’t tell me she’s dead, or you’ll join her!”
“No, not her. A different one.”
“Which one? Describe her!”
“Blonde, milky skin, pale eyes, simple clothing…”
“What? You’ve just signed your own death warrant, sir knight!”
With a wave of his hand, the Thirteenth Councillor sent the golden plaque back into thin air. He clenched his fists furiously — all had not gone according to plan. If he had managed to prevent the girls reaching Fairytale he could have destroyed them quickly. Now Jade and Amber were beyond his reach… for the time being.
It was time for a new plan. True, Opal had died too soon for his liking, but together, the Stones were a powerful threat. Without Opal the other two were vulnerable — and he would show them no mercy.
Before long, the Prophecy would be nothing but a waste of paper, a meaningless book. At that thought, his face twisted terrifyingly into a grimace of joy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Death
THE COUNTRYSIDE WAS shrouded in darkness, but they could vaguely discern wooded hills and plains of dense, wild grasses.
The former inhabitants of Nathyrnn hugged one another joyfully, their faces transfigured by happiness. How could they not believe in the impossible after seeing the merciless Knights of the Order sheathing their swords?
Speechless with sorrow, only Adrien, Jade and Amber did not share in the general euphoria. Opal’s death had shocked and dismayed them. She was gone, never to return, and had left them so suddenly that they could not quite believe it, although Adrien held her lifeless body in his arms. Her blonde curls tumbled in the breeze, a thin smile was frozen on her pale lips, and her face had a waxen pallor. In spite of everything, even in death, she was still beautiful, and seemed all the more untouchable.
Adrien held back his tears and put on a brave face to hide his grief and bitter regret. Still carrying his sad burden, he led Jade and Amber to a modest but handsome manor, the home of his friend Owen of Yrdahl. The front door to the manor always stood open in welcome, so Adrien simply made his way through dark corridors to a guest room he had often used, paying no attention to the few late-night revellers who looked at him curiously.
When he reached the room, he laid Opal down gently on the bed with its clean white sheets, knelt in front of her, took her still-warm hand in his, and gazed at her in silence.
Standing slightly behind him, Jade and Amber no longer knew what was happening, where they were, or what they were doing. They simply stood there: they did not want to think any more, because Opal was dead, and they had still not managed to grasp that.
Amber couldn’t help crying. Blinded by tears, she wondered why life was so incomprehensible and why it relentlessly pursued those whom it had decided to destroy. She had thought that nothing could touch Opal, that she was in some way immortal. Why had Opal disappeared in such a cruel and untimely way?
Jade felt bad: she hadn’t been able to feel real sorrow at Opal’s fate. She had shed a few tears, but they’d been inspired more by her horror of death itself, by her dread of plunging one day into an endless void, of not being able to think, to dream, of being erased from the world, forgotten… A little ashamed, Jade admitted to herself that she had absolutely detested Opal. Even now that she was dead, Jade couldn’t summon any affection for her, only a hint of compassion. She was aware, however, that she, Opal and Amber had belonged together in some vague way, forming a whole that should not have been wrenched apart. Opal was not supposed to have died, she was certain of that. Her feelings were in turmoil: she wasn’t really sorry that Opal had died, but she felt guilty because of her callousness. She remembered the dead girl’s chilly disdain for her, but a voice, reproaching her for being hardhearted and arrogant, kept reminding her that Opal had been vital to their
quest.
Just then a man entered the room. Well-built, with broad shoulders, he was simply dressed and seemed about twenty years old. He had a frank and engaging smile and appeared beside himself with happiness.
“Adrien!” he shouted. “You’ve come back! I jumped right out of bed when I learnt you were here! Tell me, who are these charming ladies?” Turning to Jade and Amber, he announced, “Let me introduce myself: I am Owen of Yrdahl, an old friend of Adrien’s, and I’m delighted to meet you! Welcome to my home!”
Adrien rose, and now Opal’s body could be seen lying on the bed.
“Look, Owen! She’s dead! Dead! It’s my fault. A Knight of the Order murdered her, but I could have stopped him! And I did nothing…”
Owen’s smile vanished instantly. He rushed to Opal’s side, seized her wrist, and looked at the blood still flowing from her wound. Then he dashed from the room without a word. Jade and Amber stared at each other in astonishment. A few minutes later, Owen of Yrdahl returned with a short, stout middle-aged man who examined Opal without a word.
“This is Lloghin,” explained Owen, “one of our most experienced healers. Of course your friend’s case is not really serious, Adrien, but it would be better if she didn’t lose too much blood.”
“Owen,” replied Adrien miserably, “don’t make fun of me! Opal is dead, and I don’t see how a healer can change that! It’s not something to joke about.”
“Joke?” Then Owen hit his forehead and cried, “That’s right, you haven’t heard!”
“Heard what?” asked Adrien, who felt an insane glimmer of hope return to his heart.
“Death has gone on strike! She hasn’t done that for two centuries, and it’s very annoying. Your friend is alive.”
“Very annoying?” repeated Amber. “I don’t see what’s so annoying about a miracle! What is Death on strike for?”
“Everyone knows that Death lives in Fairytale — in an inaccessible area, obviously. And just a few hours ago, she decided to stop working. So, no one can die any more.”
Jade and Amber were stunned. Adrien, who was used to Fairytale, could only weep tears of relief.
“Death is depressed,” continued Owen. “She claims that no one loves her, which is true, naturally. But she would like to be appreciated for her true worth. They say she wants to kill herself. Since that’s impossible, she’s become even more depressed. Her advisors are at their wits’ end.”
“So Opal is alive!” rejoiced Amber.
“Yes, but it will be some time before she is completely well again. That’s why we must stop the flow of blood.”
Lloghin the healer was now applying balms and compresses to Opal’s wound as he chanted strange words over her.
“The last time Death went on strike there were terrible consequences,” continued Owen. “The strike lasted about ten years. People who hurt themselves or became ill during that time got rapidly better, but those who had already been sick or injured continued to linger in that state with no hope of deliverance through Death. In the end, her advisors managed to make her see reason, but I have the impression that this time, it’s more serious.”
“What a story!” marvelled Amber.
“Now that your worries about your friend — Opal, is that right? — have been put to rest, perhaps we might be introduced to one another?”
“Well,” replied Jade, yawning with fatigue, “we’ve known Adrien for less than a day, but we did liberate a city with him, and we’ve come to meet Oonagh, who reads people’s hearts or something like that. By the way, I’m Jade, but that’s all I can tell you about myself, except that I was driven from my palace by my own father and I have enemies everywhere, which isn’t my idea of a nice life, but what can you do…”
“I’m Amber,” said Amber simply.
“Jade, Opal, Amber,” murmured Owen, as if struck by an obvious thought.
Jade yawned again. She was exhausted, so drowsy she no longer knew what she was saying.
“Sleepy,” she mumbled, feeling her eyelids growing heavier and heavier.
“Ah — yes, of course, I’ll show you girls to a bedroom,” said Owen, adding to Adrien, “Wait here for a few minutes, I’ll be back.”
When he returned, Owen was bursting with excitement.
“The Stones of the Prophecy! You’ve brought the girls all of Fairytale is talking about! You owe me an explanation!”
“They’re unbelievable girls,” said Adrien, “and don’t hold it against Jade if she was asleep on her feet. A little while ago, she fought the Knights of the Order.”
“But it’s so rash of her to reveal her name and her story — doesn’t she realise the risk she’s running?”
“No, I don’t think she does,” replied Adrien. “She doesn’t seem to be very familiar with the Prophecy.”
“Then it’s not for us to enlighten her. Now, tell me what the Outside is like!”
“It’s so different from here,” sighed Adrien. “You just can’t imagine — the two worlds are almost complete opposites. Outside is huge, beautiful, just as you’ve heard on this side, but it’s also hard, violent, and primitive. Life there is rough and archaic. The people don’t know what freedom is, they live in an unjust and class-ridden society.”
“You’re exaggerating, surely.”
“Maybe… no, I don’t think so. How about you, tell me: what has changed over here?”
Owen’s face grew solemn.
“We’ve begun to despair,” he confided in a low voice.
“No… Don’t tell me that… the Chosen One…”
“Yes. He still hasn’t been found.”
“This is getting serious. According to the Prophecy, it won’t be long now until the battle. And if the Chosen One hasn’t turned up, how will we fight? The army will begin to assemble soon, but without him, it won’t help us at all.”
“That’s what everyone is worried about,” said Owen glumly. “They’re losing heart. Oonagh is waiting, but nothing is happening. The Chosen One has not revealed himself.”
“And if he doesn’t come?”
“That will mean that Néophileus was wrong, that the Prophecy is false, and that our hopes are in vain,” concluded Owen with a groan. “But that can’t be possible!”
“If the Chosen One doesn’t exist, then perhaps the Stones don’t have the power they are supposed to possess.”
“And all will be lost,” said Owen grimly.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Ghibduls
THE NAMELESS ONE retraced his steps with great difficulty, but dawn found him back in the clearing, lying asleep next to Elfohrys. The forest was bathed in sunshine, clear and bright in spite of the magnetic field around Fairytale. The rustle of leaves in the warm breeze mingled with the day’s first notes of birdsong as the forest awoke. The young man and Elfohrys opened their eyes. Stiff and aching, and still drowsy, they were nevertheless determined to be on their way
Shrill cries sounded in the distance: the inhabitants of the forest were waking as well. Two races shared these woods, the Bumblinks and the Ghibduls.
Elfohrys belonged to a group of magic creatures that were few in number, but much respected, the Clohryuns, a race from which Néophileus himself was descended. The Clohryuns did not possess true supernatural powers, but Elfohrys knew how to defend himself and did not shrink from fighting adversaries more agile than he. A trusted friend had told him of a path leading out of the forest, and even though he had never taken it, Elfohrys now proposed it to his companion. They would have to be constantly on their guard, of course, because there was always the risk of encountering some Bumblinks or Ghibduls.
The two travellers set out briskly, Elfohrys confidently striding along winding paths bordered with brambles and stunted shrubs. The Nameless One felt no fear, for he attached so little importance to his life that he was not afraid of losing it. After a few monotonous hours, Elfohrys left the paths to head into the thick of the forest.
“There’s no other way,” he told
his companion, who simply nodded.
Now the woods seemed even more threatening. The bare, scraggy trees loomed up against a cloudless sky.
“The closer you get to the heart of the forest,” explained Elfohrys, “the more you can sense the presence of evil beings. I’m surprised that we’ve come this far without any trouble.”
As time passed and the sun rose higher, the atmosphere became muggy, despite the shade beneath the forest canopy. The young man felt strangely tired and would have liked to stretch out under a tree for a nap. He stared blankly into space and began dragging his feet. Sounds became muffled, and images blurred. He was gasping for breath. Finally all grew dark around him and he collapsed. He heard a reedy voice intoning, “Nothing, nothing, nothing, you are nothing, nothing, nothing…”
Then Elfohrys forced him to listen by sending a pleading telepathic message: “Don’t give up, Nameless! It’s a mental attack from the Ghibduls! Wake up, all you need is a little willpower. Don’t let them defeat you!”
But Elfohrys’s voice irritated the young hovalyn, and he wanted to rid himself of it, to stop it from bothering him any more. His mouth was dry, and with great difficulty he tried to tell Elfohrys to be quiet. But instead, without really wanting to, he said clearly, “The casket, in my leather bag!” It was as if someone had put these meaningless words into his mouth. Then he immediately lost consciousness and would gladly have remained in that state for ever.
A few moments later, though, he felt Elfohrys place the pearl-encrusted casket in his hands. Driven by a powerful instinct, he opened it — and was instandy bathed in a refreshing feeling of well-being. He leapt to his feet.
“You’re back!” exclaimed Elfohrys. “I thought you were lost — the Ghibduls’ powers of mental persuasion are very strong. 1 shook you, I shouted, I even used telepathy to help you, but I couldn’t rouse you.”
“Thank you,” said the young man. “If you hadn’t been here, I would not have survived.”
“Yes, you would have, but the Ghibduls would have captured you and taken you back to their lair to torture you.”
