“Is he dead?” Stephran’s voice was heavy and dejected as he came up to stand beside Devrin.
“No,” Devrin replied. He felt slightly awed by the word. It was so simple, and yet so filled with hope. “No,” he said it again, savoring the beauty of it. A heavy word. A freeing word. “Though he should be, by all accounts. He’s unconscious and badly hurt, but he’s alive.”
“The king had them retreating,” Stephran said, his tone filled with wonder.
Devrin nodded, a strange mix of emotions coursing through him. He could not untangle them all, and there was little time to do so. Envy, admiration, and confusion mingled in his mind along with a sensation of urgency. The enemy had drawn back during the king’s sally, but already Devrin could hear the sounds of battle rejoined. He had to get down there, lead his men, but he also had a duty to his king.
“It was like he was King Artair stepped out of the storybooks,” Stephran continued speaking, his words waxing eloquent. It was odd, hearing flowery language coming from the man who usually spoke in such plain, simple language. “Riding the wind on his great steed that was no real horse at all, but something great and majestic…”
“Well, he was riding a real horse all right,” Devrin snapped, a bit irritably, cutting off Stephran’s monologue, “and it’s dead now.”
Stephran noted the frustration in Devrin’s voice and his brow furrowed in confusion. “The king held his own quite well in his first battle. The men rallied to him and are now holding their own; we were nearly defeated before Jemson took the field. I would have thought you’d be a bit more pleased at the turn of events.”
Devrin curled his lip. “The king is injured. He disobeyed my orders and dove into the enemy lines without a care for his own safety. That wasn’t heroic, it was foolish. I could not protect him. He should be dead now, not just unconscious, and the battle still goes on.” He pointed down to the field where the seheowks had regrouped and gathered for their next attack.
The physician looked up at Devrin. “He’ll be fine,” the man assured him. “He took a blow to the head, but he is otherwise unharmed. When he wakes up, he may have a nasty headache. But overall, he’s lucky.”
Devrin nodded solemnly and rose to venture back out into the rain. The mixture of emotions within him solidified into a single flame of determination. He had been prepared to hate this boy, prepared to despise him for his rank, his title, and for all the mistakes made by his family. What had happened to Kelan was unforgivable, and Devrin had been ready to hold Jemson personally responsible.
What he had been unprepared for, however, was for Jemson to win his admiration or his respect. He had not been ready to watch his men stirred to action by a young man—who was little more than a child—riding into battle with reckless courage. And yet, that was exactly what Jemson had done. The men had found the standard around which they could rally: a king who fought beside them, who slept on the hard ground without complaining, who weathered the elements and did his share of the work shoulder to shoulder with them. It hit Devrin with the force of a battering ram: Jemson would lead these men to victory, not Devrin.
❖ ❖ ❖
The island was only a bit larger than it appeared from the sky. As the dragons landed, they discovered it was little more than a large rock sticking up out of the water. It was approximately twice the size of the throne room in Oraeyn’s palace; there was plenty of room for the dragons to land, but no hiding places. As the riders dismounted, Kiernan informed them that they were standing on the top of an underwater mountain; Oraeyn wondered how the minstrel could possibly know such a thing. But since he had no better explanation, he accepted Kiernan’s words as truth.
The rock’s surface was gray, smooth, and domed. The sides of the tiny island sloped gradually down to the sea in all directions. An occasional wave would sweep over its face, making their footing slippery and treacherous. The dragons dug their claws into the rock and everyone else hung onto a dragon to keep from falling. Everyone, except Kiernan Kane. The minstrel paced about the small island, nodding to himself and muttering unintelligibly under his breath. There was no awkwardness about him now. He did not encounter any trouble with his footing or the slippery ground. Oraeyn noticed this and filed it away as information that might be important later. Brant was growing impatient.
“There’s nothing here, Minstrel,” he growled. “Our time is short and such a delay could do irreparable damage to our chances of completing this quest. There is nothing here.”
Brant’s disappointment at the emptiness of the island was acute, making him snappish. A wild hope had gripped him when Kiernan announced that the wizardesses were below them, and the reality of this barren, desolate rock in the middle of the ocean was now more than he could bear.
“Nothing you can see,” Kiernan Kane replied, his tone mild.
“Exactly,” Brant retorted, “because there is nothing to see.”
“Perhaps.”
Brant ground his teeth in frustration as the minstrel continued to mutter and pace; the rest of the company looked on, wondering if Kiernan Kane had lost his senses.
At length the minstrel looked up. “Oraeyn, bring your sword.”
“What? Why?”
“I need you to use your sword to cut open this hidden doorway,” the minstrel pointed down at the rock upon which he was standing.
Oraeyn was completely mystified and wondered if the minstrel had finally taken complete leave of his senses. Sighing in exasperation, Kiernan paced out a door-sized rectangle in the middle of the island. Then he turned to Oraeyn.
Slowly, and enunciating his words precisely as if speaking to a child, or a very thick adult, Kiernan said, “Use the point of your sword to etch a doorway for me. Quickly, boy, we haven’t much time. The shape I just paced out, that is where the doorway is, I cannot open it without your sword. Only the Fang Blade can unlock this prison.”
Still confused, Oraeyn obediently drew the sword from its sheath. The great, golden blade gleamed in the light of the Dragon’s Eye that blazed overhead. Though the moment was tense, Oraeyn was captivated yet again in a moment of awe as he held up his sword. He still could not quite believe the blade was truly his to hold, and often fancied that the sword was simply his to care for until its true owner reclaimed it. Oraeyn often wished that the true owner would come soon so he could be rid of its burden.
The entire world paused as Oraeyn held the blade. The other members of the company stared at it. The great dragon-tooth blade glinted with an inner fire. The silver, dragon-scale hilt fit perfectly in his hand. Oraeyn gazed at the sword with trepidation, he was always a bit loath to actually use it. The last time he had wielded the blade had been in the battle with the Dark Warriors. He remembered how the sword made him feel: as if nothing in the world could touch him. But when the battle was over, he had been overwhelmed by the sobering realization that he had perhaps enjoyed using the sword too much. Now, Oraeyn picked his way over to Kiernan. He nearly lost his footing twice, but he made it to the minstrel’s side without falling and touched the blade to the surface of the rock.
There was a great screeching sound, like that of rusty metal bars scraping together, and the ground threw off sparks where the Fang Blade touched it. Behind him, Rhimmell hissed. Taking a deep breath and tightening his jaw, Oraeyn gripped the hilt of the sword with hands that were steadier than he felt they ought to be. With quiet resolve he began to slice into the rock with the sword, creating a deep gash in the face of the island.
A cold wind poured from the cut. Oraeyn felt his heart begin to race and his palms grew clammy with apprehension as he continued cutting out the rectangle that Kiernan had paced out. He kept his gaze down, focusing on the task. He looked at the blade and the rock he had yet to reach, ignoring what was happening to the rock he had already disturbed with his sword. Just before he completed the task, Kiernan put a hand on Oraeyn’s shoulder.
“Wait,” the minstrel said. “I need to pry open the
door, but you must keep the Fang Blade firmly inside the rock or I will not be able to do what I need to do.”
Without questioning, Oraeyn pressed the blade deeper into the cut and Kiernan reached down to the ground. He grasped the edge of the door Oraeyn had drawn and pulled. The muscles on the minstrel’s arms and neck bulged with the strain. He panted with the effort he was expending until at last they heard a hideous groan and the door cracked open at their feet. Beyond the door yawned a deep, rectangular hole that appeared to lead straight down into the heart of this strange, underwater mountain in the middle of the ocean.
They all stared at the gaping doorway. Kamarie wrapped her arms about herself and shivered, huddling closer to Yole’s warm, scaly side. Kiernan looked at Brant.
“Help me open this the rest of the way,” he gasped.
Without hesitation or questions the warrior sprang to assist the minstrel, pressing his shoulder against the underside of the door. Together they heaved the slab all the way open until it lay flat on the ground next to the opening.
Thorayenak stretched out his neck and peered into the doorway. “What is it? I have never seen anything like it before.”
Rhimmell reared away from it. “There is a stench of malice here. No kindness was lost in the creation of this place.”
“I have never seen anything like it either,” Brant added. He turned to Kiernan. “I owe you an apology.”
They all looked at Kiernan Kane. The minstrel gazed into the hole, then he looked up and met their curious stares with a gaze that was neither blank nor empty.
“It is a portal,” Kiernan’s voice was barely more than a whisper. He paused. “How do I explain it so you can understand? It is like a hole in the fabric that makes up Tellurae Aquaous, but no, I doubt that will make sense to you. Brant, do you understand how the Corridor in Llycaelon works?”
Brant rubbed his chin. “I know a little of what it does, but I have never entered the Corridor myself, and I do not know how it works. I didn’t think anyone knows much about the Corridor, it is a tradition nobody questions or attempts to decipher. There are many things like that in my country.”
Kiernan nodded. “That is true. Very well, I will try to explain. Perhaps using a concept you are familiar with will help a bit.
“Think of the Corridor like a tunnel. Its entrance is a crack in reality itself. A person steps through that breach and finds himself outside the limits of this world, and yet still within the confines of the Corridor. At the end of the tunnel is another crack, this one leading back inside the limits of Tellurae Aquaous once more. What all that means is unimportant. What is important is that the Corridor has two ends: an entrance and an exit. It was created to serve a distinct and beneficial purpose—though it comes with its own hazards, one can still get lost within the tunnel.
“This portal, on the other hand, is one-sided. Think of it like a closet, but the handle is only on the outside, and there is no exit.”
“A prison.” There was a slight tremor in Kamarie’s voice. “If you place an object or person inside a portal like this it cannot get out unless someone opens the door from the outside?”
Kiernan nodded. “Exactly. But it is not a finite closet, with walls. Anything left inside for too long will slowly slip farther and farther outside the limits of our world until it is irretrievable.”
“And you believe Dylanna and Leila are inside this... prison?” Brant asked, the look on his face said that he believed it too, though he did not want to.
Kiernan stared at Brant with a penetrating gaze. “Truly, I do not know. I sensed the presence of this portal, and I can think of no other reason for one of these to be hidden out here in the middle of the ocean. Nor any other logical reason for Zara and the dragons to have failed in being able to locate our two wizardesses than if they were inside one of these. But even if it is not Dylanna and Leila, somebody is being kept prisoner here, and whoever is keeping them prisoner is cruel and ruthless, of that I can assure you.”
Oraeyn stepped back from the portal. The memory of his nightmares clung to him and for an instant he thought he could see Kamarie falling into the portal, her face disappearing from view. His sword hung loosely from his hand, dangling carelessly. Kiernan noticed the pallor of Oraeyn’s face and the limpness of his hand and acted quickly. He leapt to the king’s side and closed his own fingers over the hand that gripped the Fang Blade. He tightened his own hand over Oraeyn’s.
“You must hold the doorway open for me,” he commanded.
Oraeyn froze, his hand tightening reflexively around the hilt of his sword; he stared at Kiernan Kane in disbelief. “How?”
“Keep the blade inside the opening until I return. The sword will hold the doorway open. If the portal closes behind me, I will not be able to get back out, do you understand? You must hold it open for me. You can, you must do this.”
Oraeyn nodded wordlessly and tightened his grip on the sword even more. Kiernan Kane’s face brightened and then he took a jaunty step forward. Brant grabbed the minstrel by the shoulder before he could take another step.
“What are you doing?” he asked harshly, a mixture of concern and accusation in his voice.
“I am not leaving you,” Kiernan whispered, looking at Brant with a steady gaze. “I am going to enter the portal to see if I can find whoever is being held captive here and bring them out.”
The concern on Brant’s face grew deeper. “Should I come with you?”
There was a hint of amusement about Kiernan’s mouth. “Stay here with them,” he nodded at the others. “They will need your strength if I do not return.”
Brant stared at the minstrel and the tension on his face and concern in his eyes spoke volumes, then he released his hold on Kiernan’s shoulder and stepped back. The minstrel glanced at Oraeyn, who met the minstrel’s gaze and lifted his chin in calm resolve. Kiernan’s face turned grim, and he stepped into the darkness and disappeared. Suddenly, Oraeyn caught his breath in a gasp and fell to his knees, holding the hilt of the Fang Blade in both hands.
Kamarie reached out to him in concern. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s trying to close,” Oraeyn said, his voice coming through his teeth in a gasp. He said no more, unable to expend the strength for another word.
Brant knelt next to him and pressed both hands against the slab of rock, holding it open. He knew in his heart that no amount of effort on his part could secure the opening if Oraeyn failed, but he still felt he must do something.
Oraeyn’s muscles strained as he struggled to keep his sword in the doorway. Kamarie threw a worried glance at Brant and saw her own helplessness reflected in his face. She felt her stomach clench. All they could do was wait.
❖ ❖ ❖
Devrin plunged into the battle. He fought like a man who no longer cared whether he lived or died. He waded into the enemy on foot with reckless abandon. He had no notion of where he was and gave little thought to his situation. He had no idea what had happened; something inside of him had snapped. He spun and slashed with his blade, carving a path through the seheowks with no thought other than to fight.
Shentallyia watched her ward in concern. With the fall of the king, the Border Patrol had lost their driving force. The contagious fire ignited by the king’s intrepid charge faded to embers with his injury. The seheowks were no longer retreating, and the aethalons were incurring heavy losses.
Everything within Shentallyia screamed at her to take action, to dash to her ward’s defense, but something else held her back. She could not explain why she hesitated. Devrin got farther and farther away from her, whirling and slashing, cutting a senseless path through the seheowks. It was unbelievable that he was still standing. In spite of his recklessness, his enemies fell back before his battle rage. But Shentallyia could also see that he was tiring, weakening. As he pressed his way through the enemy horde, it was clear that he was not unscathed. He bore many wounds, and the loss of blood was draining his strength. Sh
entallyia could feel his pain, and it was blinding. She could not understand how he could keep moving; she could not see why he did not succumb.
As she watched, Shentallyia encountered a horrible truth: she was afraid. She felt ashamed. She had been so quick to judge Devrin, so quick to be disappointed in their meeting, swift to believe that he had not seen her as she truly was. But now she realized that she had not seen Devrin as he truly was. She had ignored the courage and the heart and the strength residing within him.
Nothing about her first meeting with Devrin had gone the way that she had planned, and her disappointment eclipsed everything else. In her own mind, she had judged him unworthy to be her ward because he had not welcomed her with open arms. She had shown up and expected him to change his mind about everything he had been taught to believe his entire life. She had heard disbelief in his words, and the wound they had inflicted had kept her from seeing the longing that was also there. She had missed the clues that showed how much he yearned for her story to be true, or how much he truly wanted to be her ward.
She was angry at his reaction, and more than a little anxious that Devrin would shrink from her and shun her if she appeared in her true form.
As she stood at the edge of the battlefield, mulling over these thoughts that troubled her mind, Jemson appeared at her side. He had a white cloth wound around his forehead and he looked unsteady, but he wore his leather armor and his sword was buckled at his side. Shentallyia scrutinized him in concern, taking in the pallor of his face.
“Are you well?” she asked. “Should you be up and walking around so soon after an injury like that? Many have given you up for dead.”
Jemson nodded carefully. “I’m all right. What happened?”
The dragoness looked mystified. “You rode into the fray and demanded the attention of these creatures. The battle centered on you as you fought like none I have ever seen. The seheowks fell by the dozens at your feet. And then you shouted the battle cry of your fathers and the Border Patrol rallied to you. The seheowks saw how you inspired your men and became desperate to pull you down. Though you fought them furiously, they overwhelmed you. Your men rescued you and brought you to safety.”
Yorien's Hand (The Minstrel's Song Book 3) Page 16
