Yorien's Hand (The Minstrel's Song Book 3)

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  Kiernan waited, an amused expression on his face until Yole finished. “The dragons like to add a bit of dramatic flair to the legend,” he said, scratching his jaw just below his ear, “but the facts of the story are sound. Gaining superiority through the power of flight, young humans united with dragons and set out to establish peace once again. Surprised by the rise of the dragon wards, the Ancient Enemy remained quiet in his prison and nursed his hatred. Hundreds of years passed, but though he was forgotten, his purpose and power continued to grow.

  “He filled the Nameless Isles with his followers and when he was once again certain of his own invincibility he strode forth. Using his power to deadly purpose, he found a new host in Acintya, who rode out upon a great, silver-winged werehawk across both land and sea. Close behind came all of his creatures, and together they conquered the named world. With fire and numbers they pulled the dragon wards from the sky. Thus began Acintya’s long and terrible reign.”

  “How was he defeated?” Arnaud asked, caught up in the tale.

  “Llewstor, a young boy orphaned by Acintya’s conquest, was found by a wandering bard and rescued. Seeing something in the child that hinted at a greatness lurking deep within, the bard took Llewstor under his wing and raised him as his own, teaching him many things. The bard possessed great power and knowledge, and these he passed on to young Llewstor, along with all the lore he knew. As Acintya and the were-folk held dominion and fed the Ancient Enemy with their terrible reign, Llewstor also grew and learned the skills he would one day need.

  “Though Llewstor was unaware, the bard knew there was one power in the world against which the Ancient Enemy could not stand. A gift, given to the world by Cruithaor Elchiyl himself, though all but a few had forgotten it existed. The bard remembered, and he hoped it would be enough. He led the boy to Emnolae. Deep underground this gift waited: the secret to defeating Acintya and the Ancient Enemy controlling him. The bard did not know if the boy could do what was required, but he hoped.”

  “Yorien’s Hand,” Brant breathed, almost in disbelief.

  Oraeyn threw a brief look at Brant, puzzled. He did not know how Brant had guessed what was coming next in the story. But Brant’s face was even more closed than ever. He stared with deep intensity at the minstrel. If Kiernan Kane’s face was a puzzle, Brant was bent on solving it.

  Kiernan nodded again, oblivious to the scrutiny that poured against him. “Llewstor made the long journey to Emnolae and found the gift there beneath the great mountain. Yorien’s Hand, the fallen star. Wielding its might, he strode out to face Acintya. The battle was long and ruinous, the ancient enemy had used Acintya for many years, and much of his power resided within Acintya’s frame. Their battle shook the earth to its core, but Llewstor prevailed and smote Acintya down. The warrior’s death dealt the Ancient Enemy a mighty blow, severing his connection to the world outside his prison and leaving him weakened to the point of death. Llewstor then became the first High King to rule all of Tellurae Aquaous.”

  “What happened to the bard?” Kamarie asked.

  Kiernan shrugged. “The story does not say. Perhaps he died in the battle.”

  “It seems strange that nothing more is said of him,” Oraeyn commented.

  The minstrel looked up from beneath a furrowed brow. “Do you wish me to continue?”

  Oraeyn nodded. “Please.”

  “The High Kings come to power during such times of great need. The power buried in the depths of Emnolae can only be wielded by certain individuals at certain times. The throne of the High Kings does not pass from father to son as other crowns or titles might, and for many years now the throne on Emnolae has stood empty. The palace is in ruins and quite overgrown. But now… now that the need arises again, Yorien’s Hand calls out to the next High King to come and free its power, to come and rebuild the palace and sit upon the empty throne once more. The Ancient Enemy has bided his time for many ages of men, and there has been no need for a High King since the reign of Artair. But now, he rises again to threaten the world. Only a wielder of the power of Yorien can hope to stand against this threat.

  “Many have heard the story of Yorien’s Hand, but few understand it. For though it calls out for the next High King to wield its power against the Ancient Enemy, it also calls out to the Enemy himself, drawing him towards itself. It was touched by Cruithaor Elchiyl, and above all who live on Tellurae Aquaous, the Ancient Enemy hates the Creator. There is nothing he desires more than to possess the power of Yorien’s Hand, or, if he cannot possess it, to destroy it.”

  Kiernan Kane fell silent, letting the story fade away. The words echoed about the room long after he finished speaking.

  “So… what does that mean?” Yole asked, his tone impatient.

  Kiernan pursed his lips and stared meaningfully at his audience. “It means that the next High King must be found and he must journey to Emnolae, where he will find the only thing that can defeat this Enemy: Yorien’s Hand.”

  “And what if a High King cannot be found?” Arnaud asked.

  “Then Tellurae Aquaous will be conquered and enslaved forever.”

  “How do we find this High King?” Brant asked, one eyebrow raised.

  “There are always clues,” Kiernan Kane said, in a tone that was deceptively soft. “There are stories, songs, and prophecies that tell of what is to come, that aid us in finding the next High King when one is needed. In this case, I believe the clue lies in the verses of an old song.” He took up his mandolin and struck a chord that sounded like breaking crystal, then he began to play, his fingers dancing across the strings. “The words go like this:

  Black death rides on silver wings

  Thirsty for the blood of kings

  Only two can stand before him

  Only one can hope to fell him.

  The answer to the riddle lies

  In deepest, darkest, starless skies

  The ancient foe quivers in fear

  When the wielder of his bane draws near.

  From far off crystal shores he strides

  A golden blade hangs at his side.

  The love of a sylph shall bind his heart

  And gives him strength when they must part.”

  They were all still, as ones frozen in a trance until the words of the song faded completely away. At length, Oraeyn took in a long, quiet breath. His gaze locked with Kamarie’s and she stared at him in obvious distress.

  “The Fang Blade?” she whispered, the words filled with denial.

  “It would appear so,” Kiernan replied. There was a strange quality to his voice as if he were mulling over something that distressed him.

  “You’re talking about... about Oraeyn,” Kamarie said sharply. “You’re saying he’s the next High King? That he must go to this land called Emnolae and fight this Enemy, an enemy so powerful he makes dragons tremble?”

  The minstrel stood silent before her query, but he neither flinched nor backed down.

  “And what if he loses?” Kamarie’s tone grew harsh. “He’s not guaranteed to win, is he?”

  Kiernan shook his head. “The wielder of the blade might fail. The Enemy is crafty, he will know to watch the land of Emnolae, and there will be trials to face before reaching the star. Oraeyn will be tested; Yorien does not allow his gift to be taken lightly. Some may see the star, even touch it, but there is something more to a High King; he alone may master its power.”

  “A High King? Me?” Oraeyn asked. His voice sounded strange, and it echoed in his own ears. Nobody paid him any heed.

  “Emnolae,” Brant’s voice came out in a hoarse whisper, “the ruined palace, and the star that lies beneath the mountains in a ring of…” Brant trailed off, sudden recognition dawning as he stared at Kiernan’s face. He finished his sentence in a voice of steel, “In a ring of cool flames.” He pressed his lips together in a tight line, and anger rippled in the air around him.

  Oraeyn could not have said who frightened him more at that momen
t, Kiernan or Brant. The two men were locked in a silent stare and for an instant Oraeyn was not sure who would win. The intense blue eyes met the cold black ones with equal force; Oraeyn was amazed that there were no sparks where the two gazes met and clashed. Then Kiernan broke away from the contest and chuckled softly to himself. With a shrug of his bony shoulders he transformed from the confident, serious, other-worldly creature into nothing more than an awkward fool. But Oraeyn was no longer fooled. Although the minstrel backed down first, Oraeyn believed it was Kiernan who had won that silent contest, whatever it had been or signified. A tension remained in the air. Yole shifted from one foot to another as uncomfortable and confused as everyone else in the room. Just as Oraeyn felt he could not remain silent any longer, Brant spoke, his voice soft.

  He directed his words towards Oraeyn. “I have been to Emnolae and returned safely. I have touched Yorien’s Hand. I can guide you there.”

  Oraeyn struggled to take a breath. The ominous feeling that hovered around his shoulders closed in and his vision grew blurry. He swallowed hard, trying not to gasp for air, trying to remain calm.

  “Are you sure it’s me?” he asked, desperately wishing that someone would object, or point out how ludicrous this all was. He felt himself struggling to breathe under the new weight of this new responsibility. “Might there not be another who could carry this mantle?”

  “There is no one else,” Brant said, “you are descended from Llian, which might be pertinent, or it might not, but I cannot deny that you fulfill the words of the prophecy.” Brant held up his hand and ticked off the points on his fingers as he spoke, “You carry the Fang Blade: a golden blade hangs at his side. You love a sylph: the love of a sylph shall bind his heart. As a mixture of human, merfolk, and wizard, Kamarie is as much a sylph as her mother. You may not know this, but Aom-igh is referred to in many lands as the crystal kingdom, partially because of its long isolation, and partially because of Calyssia’s shield around Pearl Cove: from far off crystal shores he strides. You must be the one to whom the song refers. I can see our minstrel believes it is so, and I agree with him. Therefore, if our world is to be saved from this threat, you must travel to Emnolae with me, as Llewstor in the minstrel’s tale, you are the only hope our world has.”

  Oraeyn’s mouth went dry; he tried to swallow, without success. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words escaped. He was not sure he could even manage a whisper. He looked around the room at the faces of the people he loved. Yole was pulling at his lower lip and looking very much like he wanted to say something but was refraining. Zara’s face was filled with worry and her arms were half-raised as if she wanted to embrace him and tell him it would be all right. Arnaud was looking after Zara, but his expression was downcast and apologetic. Oraeyn wondered if the former king of Aom-igh felt somehow responsible for the position Oraeyn now found himself in. Brant’s face was more closed than ever, but there was no uncertainty in his expression, and his unspoken confidence in him spoke more than a thousand words and bolstered his spirit. Kiernan was staring intently at him, a look of expectation on his face.

  He turned to Kamarie last, looking fondly upon the face he loved best in all the world. He wondered how she would take being left out of this adventure. He knew she would not like it, but he also knew with startling clarity that this was a journey he must make on his own. Her expression was a mix of worry and distress, sympathy and affection. He stared hard at her, trying to memorize her face, burning her image into his memory.

  Silence hung in the air as Oraeyn fought to regain his composure. Everyone was watching him, waiting to hear what he would say. After a long moment, he cleared his throat. The sound rang out loudly in the room.

  “I will go to Emnolae,” he said at length, “if Brant will lead me there.”

  Like a downpour that has been hovering in heavy, threatening clouds all day which finally bursts forth, everyone spoke at once, their voices clamoring together to assure him that this was not necessary, that he did not need to do this. Zara stepped to his side and put a motherly arm around his shoulders. Arnaud pressed his lips together, but pride shone in his eyes. Kamarie and Yole shook their heads as they adjured him to reconsider.

  Brant merely looked at him, and Oraeyn met his stare without flinching. His stomach fluttered, he felt that he stood on the edge of a cliff and was being asked to leap from it, but determination rose inside him and vied for dominance. He lifted his chin and felt the weight of the burden he had been carrying the past few weeks ease.

  “I will go,” he repeated, raising his voice and quelling the arguments, “if you will show me the way, Brant.”

  Brant nodded. “I will take you there.”

  Zara held him in a tight embrace for a moment more, but she could not argue with his decision. She left the room on Arnaud’s arm, her shoulders hunched like a much older woman’s.

  Kamarie’s face filled with misery and she opened her mouth to speak, but then she caught Oraeyn’s look. He held her gaze for a long moment, and though he had made his decision, the look he gave her begged her not to argue. She closed her mouth slowly and nodded. She turned to leave, and Oraeyn sighed in quiet relief as she shepherded Yole towards the doorway.

  Finally, only Oraeyn, Brant, and Kiernan remained in the room. Brant laid a strong hand on Oraeyn’s shoulder and then turned to the story-teller.

  “That was quite the tale, minstrel. I suppose you’ll be staying behind, or perhaps disappearing... again?”

  A mysterious expression played across the minstrel’s face. “Oh, no, I think I shall be coming along on this adventure,” he replied. “I believe I will be able to offer some help, to you, Sir Brant, in particular.”

  Brant grimaced and glowered. But Kiernan continued, turning his attention to Oraeyn. “Sire, please do be sure to pack plenty of food for the journey, for I shall sorely miss the palace kitchen while we are away, but such is the lot of heroes, and it is unbecoming to complain.”

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Yole flew straight from the palace to the Mountains of Dusk. He hoped to recruit two more dragons to carry Brant and Kiernan in their journey to Emnolae. Oraeyn had not asked Yole to come, but the boy-dragon knew time was precious and flying was the fastest method of travel. The young dragon was not yet wise in the ways of the Kin, but he had carried Brant to and from Llycaelon several times, and it was not a difficult task. Besides, he enjoyed helping his friends when they needed him. They had befriended him when he was nobody, adopted him in a way, and he would never forget that kindness. The other dragons were not so quick to offer flight to humans, but Yole was sure he could convince at least one or two of them of the importance of the mission. This Enemy was a threat to all of them.

  As Yole approached his destination, other dragons wheeled above him and soared through the clouds. It was a beautiful day, and he could see the glint of scales on the mountainside where dragons rested in the open light of day, a luxury that many still reveled in, even after three years. As he landed, an older dragon exited the large cave in the mountain face above the enormous, flat shelf of rock that they called Gathering Peak. The other dragon climbed down to where Yole was standing, his sharp claws gripping the rock and his golden wings spreading slightly for balance as he descended the steep incline.

  “Greetings, Thorayenak,” Yole said, glad to see him responding so swiftly to the mental call he had sent out.

  When Yole decided to take his rightful place among other dragons, Thorayenak had offered him a home within his own lair. He took the boy under his wing and mentored him, seeing it as his responsibility to instruct Yole in his new role as a dragon.

  “Shentallyia is missing,” Thorayenak said when he reached Yole, answering the younger dragon’s unspoken question.

  “What? Missing?” Yole asked in alarm. “What do you mean?”

  Shentallyia was one of his closest friends among the dragons, and he had hoped to enlist her help. But if she had disappeared, Yol
e was not sure what to do. His first thought was to wonder whether Shentallyia’s disappearance might be related to that of Dylanna and Leila. It was unsettling to discover that more people were vanishing.

  “She left early this morning,” the other dragon continued, “she felt the yearning. Said something about fire and rain and then just took off.”

  “The yearning?”

  “For a ward.” The response was given as if it explained everything.

  Yole’s alarm diminished and turned into curiosity. “I thought dragon wards didn’t exist anymore?”

  “They haven’t, not for many years,” Thorayenak said, his tone serious.

  “I know the history of how the dragon wards began, but how does it work?” Yole asked. “And why would Shentallyia leave so suddenly?”

  “I keep forgetting how new you are to the Kin,” Thorayenak said in a kind voice. “When a ward is old enough, anywhere from fifteen to twenty years of age, the yearning begins. There have been rare cases where it began at younger or older ages, and typically these rarer cases have resulted in extraordinary matches. The moment it occurs, both dragon and ward begin to feel that a part of themselves is missing. When ward and dragon meet for the first time, they both know each other instantly, though a moment before they were complete strangers.

  “Shentallyia has insisted that she has a ward since we emerged from Krayghentaliss. I don’t think anyone believed her, it has been so long since dragons and their wards flew the open skies. There has been a great sadness in the hearts of many dragons since the last known dragon ward recently departed these shores, never to return again.”