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

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  “Kitry! Kitry!” she screamed over and over again. The commotion atop Fortress Hill overwhelmed her. A steady beat like the pounding of a war drum pulsed in her temples. Nothing was more important than finding her small daughter. She darted through the crowd, searching frantically. “Kaitryn!” the word burst from her throat in a scream.

  A hand on her shoulder halted her frenzied hunt. Cold metal pressed into the palm of her hand.

  “Play!” a voice commanded her.

  “My daughter! I cannot find her!” Rena replied, but the crowd of people surged around her and whoever had handed her the small object disappeared from view.

  She stared down at the item in her hand. It was a set of shepherd’s pipes, small, unassuming. Captivated by the music she knew was contained within, Rena lifted them to her lips. Thoughts of her daughter faded as the first note was released from its captivity within the instrument and floated out into the air.

  It hung there, and all of creation paused, frozen in awe at the perfection of that single, pure note.

  Then more music poured from the instrument. It started with an old, familiar melody, a song Rena had known since she was a child. But when it ended, another began, this a song that Rena had never heard. It sprang from the pipes, tearing its way out into the air and bursting across Aom-igh. A strange shudder coursed through Rena’s body and she felt wild and free and strong all at once, and yet also strangely powerless. In that moment she realized that she was the true instrument, not the Dragon Pipes.

  She played on and on until in exhaustion she fell to her knees, barely able to draw another breath. The precious pipes slipped from her nerveless hand, releasing her. As the song ended, the melody cut off abruptly, and Rena collapsed. All that was left within her was a shadow of her former distress concerning the disappearance of her daughter.

  “Kitry,” she whispered just before losing consciousness.

  Rena remembered with a shudder that sensation of being drained of self. She had poured more than breath into the pipes. It terrified her, and she had no wish to experience that again. She winced, but knew there was no way she could withhold her aid if it was needed.

  “I will play the pipes again,” Rena managed to keep the tremble out of her voice as she spoke, “if they are the only way.”

  “Hopefully we will not need them,” Zara replied, understanding more than she could express.

  Rena nodded, hoping her face did not betray the relief she felt. The music still called to her. She could hear it, an ever-present whisper of temptation to get lost once more in that exhilaration of complete power. But she resisted it, ran from it. She believed that if she ever gave into its song, she would be used up completely, becoming little more than a memory of a melody the powerful instrument had once sung.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Inky blackness surrounded Brant, closing in on all of his senses, attempting to drive him mad. His first reaction was to lash out at it, to struggle against it and wrestle it away from him, but he doubted this enemy could be defeated by brute strength. Instead, he forced himself to remain calm. He was blind, deaf, and dumb, and more helpless than he had ever been, but he continued walking, placing one determined foot in front of the other, down into the unknown chasm. Then the images began to come.

  One by one they approached, assaulting him with emotion and lies. They dangled in front of him tantalizingly, just out of his reach. Memories rose up to haunt him in the forms of familiar and beloved faces. A few called out to him, beckoning him to follow them, enticing in their promises. Others were frightened or lost or alone and they cried out to him to help them. He turned a deaf ear to their pleas, but still he saw them. He steeled his heart, forcing himself to plunge through the specters, stopping for no one. He tried uttering his oath, but found that his voice had been stolen. He gritted his teeth, telling himself the people were not real. He clung to what Kiernan had implied, summoning an image of Dylanna, filling his mind with the sound of her voice, the fragrance of her hair, the way she pursed her lips when she was angry or annoyed, how she tapped her foot when she was impatient. For a moment, he felt it, the tenuous glimmering of a path before him, and an unshakable knowledge that Dylanna was at the end of it.

  The other images faded, becoming more subtle, more surprising. No longer did he hear cries for help or see playful faces beckoning him to follow. Instead, he found himself transported to an eerily familiar place. He stopped, gazing about in shock. A green field lay spread out below him and before him sat a small, but quaint, little cottage. He recognized the shutters he had painted with such painstaking care as a surprise for Imojean. He heard the burbling of the little creek that ran through one of his pastures where his son Schea and his daughter Kali had once played with the happiness that only children can summon. His nose caught the scent of bread baking and lamb stew cooking over the fire. He reached out and touched the little door that he had carved himself. He could feel its smooth wood beneath his hand. He was home.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  For the first time that anyone could remember, the seheowks were gone. The men of the Border Patrol looked around in wary triumph and disbelief. A few muttered about the dragon and wondered where their captain had gone, but Jemson walked among them and reassured them that Devrin would return. They looked to him with trust as they turned to the sad task before them of honoring their fallen brothers.

  Jemson worked alongside his men as they buried their dead and tended to the wounded. He wondered what had become of Devrin, but did not worry for his safety. He had learned about dragons and their wards from his uncle, and it occurred to him that Devrin might be a ward. Whatever the case, he believed the man would return. Though Jemson was still unsure why the young captain’s attitude was so chilly towards him, he understood that Devrin had too much invested in his identity as an aethalon to desert his post. Whatever issues Devrin needed to work out, Jemson could afford him the time he needed. He had earned the love and esteem of his men. Regard from the warriors now surrounding him far outweighed the regard of a single captain. And though Jemson hoped he had earned Devrin’s respect as well, he now understood that he did not need it.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Devrin threw his head back, reveling in the feel of the wind on his face. His battle wounds were forgotten and his worries faded as he felt himself lifted up into the sky. Night had fallen above the clouds, and the twinkling stars were brilliant against an obsidian sky.

  There was no fear now, no uncertainty about the things Shentallyia had told him about dragons and wards. The confusion was gone, shattered perfectly. They belonged together, dragon and ward. An emptiness within himself that Devrin had not even known existed was filled to overflowing. He realized how lonely he had been, but the loneliness was gone, replaced by the bond tying them together. They could share thoughts without speaking aloud. There were no walls between them, no guards or doubts, simply an understanding of each other, a friendship that had flared to life. It was unexplainable. It was magic.

  My dragon, Devrin thought, elated, and I am her ward.

  He felt a brush of answering fondness from Shentallyia.

  Where are we going? he asked.

  It doesn’t matter, she answered, I just felt your longing to fly.

  His heart soared. Life had been nothing more than fragments and dust before, without the dragon. Sudden fireworks burst before him and all around them, lighting up the sky. Lightning arched across the heavens and stars fell around them.

  What is it? he asked.

  Like it? The dragon’s voice in his head sounded playful and Devrin could feel Shentallyia’s delight at his awe.

  It’s beautiful.

  It’s your magic.

  My magic? But I don’t possess any, Devrin was confused. Nobody in Llycaelon does. It has been gone from our land for many years, most people have forgotten it even exists.

  Magic never left Llycaelon. And even if it had, you are a dragon ward. Shentallyia’s thoughts were
filled with mirth. Magic would re-enter your country through you.

  As if that explains everything, Devrin thought wryly.

  Doesn’t it?

  Devrin was silent for a moment. He did not understand everything, but suddenly it did not matter anymore. He had been born a dragon ward, and while it was hard to accept such a simple explanation, he found that he had to. Maybe that meant magic was part of his heritage as well, he reflected absently.

  You are beginning to understand, Shentallyia said, sensing a small part of his thoughts. You did not become my dragon ward, you were born into that calling. It is your heritage, passed down through the generations without ever taking root, and somehow it has been handed to you to use. Devrin…

  Yes?

  Use your gifts wisely.

  I will, he said solemnly, his shoulders drooping beneath the weight of responsibility that came along with his newfound identity, I will.

  A startling thought struck him. This was what it had always been like for the royal family. A crown, a responsibility, handed down through generations. The throne was a heritage, and the man who took his place upon it was no more or less worthy of the chair he sat upon than Devrin was the dragon he now rode. A person couldn’t choose his heritage, he could only attempt to be worthy of it. Shame at the way he had acted around King Jemson flooded Devrin’s thoughts, and true repentance began to grow. If Shentallyia could hear or feel what he was thinking, she wisely refrained from comment.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  The moment Brant stepped into the portal Oraeyn’s head and arms were yanked in after him. The unexpectedness of the warrior’s move had left Oraeyn unprepared for the sudden weight of the doorway attempting to close again. His head and shoulders were pulled inside and he nearly lost his grip on the Fang Blade. He began to slip even further into the portal. He let go of the sword with one hand and flailed wildly for something to anchor him to the tiny island, but there was no purchase, nothing for his searching fingers to grip.

  Then he felt a strong hand grasp him by the shoulder, and another wrapped around the hilt of the Fang Blade alongside his own. Steadily, he was pulled back until he was firmly on solid ground once more. Only when he was safely kneeling at the portal’s edge, with both hands once more wrapped tightly around the Fang Blade’s hilt, did Kiernan let him go. Oraeyn gasped for air and felt that he had forgotten what it was like to breathe freely.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, the horror of what had nearly happened overwhelming him.

  Kiernan Kane nodded slightly and looked down into the portal. Oraeyn’s hands began to shake, and he clenched them around the sword, trying to hide his unsteadiness.

  “Will Brant be all right?”

  The minstrel shook his head. “I don’t know. If you can hold the portal open, if he can fight his way through all the traps within, he might be able to find his way out again.”

  “You said it would be more dangerous for him. Why?”

  “I have encountered chambers like this before. Brant has not, and therefore he has no idea what to expect or how to counter it. I did, that is how I could enter the doorway safely and be fairly certain that I would return. I was not sure, mind you; there is always the risk of being trapped, but I at least knew what awaited me.”

  “Is there any chance he will return?” Oraeyn asked.

  “I do not know,” Kiernan replied, “he is strong, and his strength comes from both his heart and his mind. Perhaps he is strong enough to do what is needed. Perhaps he is even stronger than I.”

  “Can’t you go in after him?” Kamarie demanded, stepping forward and clutching Oraeyn’s arm with both of hers.

  She glared at Kiernan accusingly as if to say that all of this was the minstrel’s fault. Yole attempted to urge Kamarie to come back away from the portal, but she was holding onto Oraeyn’s arm protectively and her eyes flashed blue fire daring anyone to try to pull her away. Kiernan gazed at her for a moment and the princess’s defiant glower slipped slightly.

  “I cannot go in after Brant,” Kiernan Kane said. “Unless you want him, Oraeyn, Dylanna, and me all trapped on the other side with no way to get out.”

  “No, of course I don’t want that. But you went in and came back out why can’t you go in and find him? You brought Leila out why not Brant and Dylanna too?”

  The minstrel put a gentle hand on Kamarie’s shoulders. “There are many reasons why I cannot go after Brant. I would lack the same awareness for Brant that I did for Dylanna. Two may enter the portal together, but they will not walk the same path. Brant and I would not even know or recall that we had entered together. I already know I cannot find Dylanna, and I am certain I would not be able to find Brant. Also, do you see how Oraeyn strains to keep the door open?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were I to re-enter, he would be pulled in as well. Brant’s sudden rush inside nearly caused Oraeyn to fall in as well. The portal became unstable when I entered it, and I damaged it even worse by leaving and bringing Leila with me. Right now it is incredibly fragile. Even without me re-entering, I do not know if Brant can make it out before it collapses completely.

  “But I will offer this: I may not know for certain whether Brant can succeed. For any other man there would be no doubt, and I would have shut the portal immediately upon my escape. My doubt has less to do with Brant, and more to do with how long Dylanna has been trapped inside, if indeed she is inside. I was certain Leila was there, but have no sensation of Dylanna at all. In this matter I choose to trust Brant. He has earned that trust, wouldn’t you say? If I have a fear for Brant it is not because of any weakness in him, but rather because of the strength in him which could fuel the trap into which he has plunged. For just as a sword has no power of its own other than the skill which belongs to the person wielding it, so the portal has no more power than what it can gain from the person who enters. In this case, Brant’s strength will be the only thing that can help him return to us, but it is also the thing that gives the portal the greatest chance of preventing his escape.”

  Kamarie’s face grew even more worried. “What can we do?”

  “All we can do is wait,” the minstrel said, his voice gentle.

  The waves lapping against the tiny island were the only sound to be heard for a long moment.

  “You can trust the Minstrel,” Thorayenak rumbled.

  Oraeyn looked at him, then nodded. “So we wait.”

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  Brant stared at the door of his home in disbelief. For one moment he allowed the memories to flood over him. They were familiar and achingly welcome; he could slip into them as easily as breathing, these visions of the only time in his life when he had been content to be still.

  He could see his wife, beautiful Imojean, standing in the kitchen, hair wrapped around her head in a braid. Long skirts swished around her feet as she moved with gentle grace about the kitchen, turning housework into an art. He ached to hold her in his arms as she welcomed him home once more. The light of his life: she made him content to remain in one place, taking away his need to wander. He could hear her sweet voice, scolding him for trying to steal a bite of whatever she was cooking and then he could see her pretty face turning soft as he leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.

  Golden-haired Kali sat on the window seat, brilliant daylight surrounding her and making her appear as if she belonged in the fairy world. And there was Schea, his first-born, clomping around the house with an ear-to-ear grin, bright eyes twinkling with mischief and an intense love of life. His skin was browned and his hands were continually stained and dirty from all the time he spent outside.

  A sudden pang throbbed in Brant’s heart, an ache he had thought buried deep beyond his consciousness. But here, in this strange world where anything was possible, the pain rose to the surface. Tears he had believed long since passed welled up within him and he found he could not breathe around the lump that had lodged itself in his throat. He reached out a
hand, touching the doorknob, longing to open the door and step into the picture he knew was on the other side. Beloved faces awaited him there. He yearned to reach out and touch them, he ached to turn his memory into a reality. He longed to kneel on those wooden floorboards and embrace his children, hold them close to his chest, and protect them forever. He could hear their laughter, smell their sweet breath, and feel their little hands patting his cheeks in search of any whiskers he might have missed while shaving.

  For one moment of joy-filled agony, he let himself consider opening the door and slipping back into the life he had lost, and losing himself inside those happy memories forever. With a monumental effort Brant forced himself to lower his hand. With an exertion that left him weakened he turned his back on the door.

  He roared into the hollow emptiness that greeted him, his voice tearing its way out of his throat and shattering the silence that tried to hold him captive in a thundering cry that felt like it might never end. He screamed his anger and pain until his throat grew raw and hoarse, and then he slumped to his knees in a kind of exhaustion that can only be brought on by despair.

  “It’s not real,” he rasped through a broken sob. “It would never be real. I would gladly remain here, lost in this dream, but it would be a lie. My wife and children are dead, and you will not trap me here with their faces. You will not defile their memories in this way. They have been laid to rest, alongside so many others I have loved and lost, and you cannot keep me here with deceptions about them being alive again. I would rather remember them as they were and move on than disrespect all they meant to me by taking part in a charade that does not let them rest.”

  No sooner had he spoken, his sobbing voice echoing into the nothingness that surrounded him, than the little cottage disappeared. Though he knew it was not real, Brant was not prepared for the grief that swept over him at its leaving. He swallowed, forcing the tears back down into their place deep in his heart. He raised his hand in a gesture of farewell and continued on towards his goal.