Moments passed, or hours, or weeks—Brant had no concept of time in this place—when the air around him began to glow. He hesitated, on guard against whatever new threat might rise up to distract him from his quest. But nothing happened. The light merely grew brighter, making the darkness flee from him, hiding itself in corners and deep holes. And then he saw her.
Dylanna’s face floated before him and he dove towards her, forgetting all caution. She flitted from his grasp and he followed her image. The light about him grew brighter the farther he walked, but he could not get any closer to Dylanna. Her face taunted him, always before him but never in reach. Brant’s efforts became frantic as he raced after her, never noticing how he was being guided and shepherded deeper and deeper into the depths of the prison.
Panting and gasping for air, Brant was forced to halt and rest. Dylanna disappeared from sight and the thought occurred to him that she might have been yet another trick.
“Truth,” he gasped, weakly, knowing it was useless, knowing there would be no help from his oath in this place.
To his surprise, the word escaped from his lips and reverberated around him powerfully, bouncing into the depths of the cavernous portal. He stood still, waiting. Then, there she was. Dylanna. This time Brant knew it was no trick. The wizardess was suspended in midair before him, bound in a net that prevented her from moving or having any awareness of her surroundings. Brant could see the net clearly, and he understood how to unravel it. Dylanna’s face was pale. She looked weary to the point of death. The resignation in her expression frightened him; he could tell she was near the end of her struggle.
Brant stepped forward and touched the net. Carefully, ever so carefully, he began to untie the threads that bound it together. He worked slowly. It was deliberate, difficult work, but he knew one slip could cost him everything, so he did not hurry. After what seemed like hours of painstaking work, the net fell away and Dylanna was free. Brant slipped his arms around her and eased her to the ground gently. He knelt beside her, his arms wrapped around her.
“Dylanna,” he whispered. “Dylanna, wake up.”
The wizardess stirred and blinked up at him. She squinted through the brilliant light, peering at Brant’s face. Then she recoiled, shaking and moaning. She raised her arms defensively, pushing at him with feeble gestures and shaking her head in denial.
Brant looked down at her in confusion. “Dylanna,” he whispered again, “it’s me. Come on, wake up, I’m going to take you out of here.”
Dylanna moaned but did not respond. Grimly, Brant gathered the wizardess up in his arms. Setting his face in determination, Brant turned back the way that he had come and began to make his way out of the portal.
He journeyed a long time. Dylanna slipped in and out of sleep as he carried her. The light he had encountered at the end of his search did not leave, it shone around him and guided him. Though he was watchful, Brant encountered no more tricks or illusions. With Dylanna in his arms, the portal no longer held any power over him.
At long last, he stepped through the doorway and into the true light of day once more. The position of the Dragon’s Eye told him that less than an hour had passed outside of the portal, though it had felt like an eternity within the terrible confines of the prison. His companions rushed towards him, concern and relief written on their faces. He could hear Kiernan Kane telling Oraeyn that he could let the doorway close now. Kamarie said something about Dylanna, and Oraeyn, although he looked exhausted, was asking about whether or not Brant was all right. He was vaguely aware of all of them, but he felt that he was watching them from a great distance.
“Is he all right?”
“Take Dylanna, he’s about to fall over.”
“Careful.”
“Brant? Brant are you all right?”
“What happened in there?”
“Help him lie down, he needs to rest.”
“What happened in there? Will he recover?”
The worried voices mixed together, a barrage of repetitive questions and concern. Brant wanted to nod or speak or find a way to tell them that he would be fine. He wanted to tell them to look after Dylanna, but he could not make his voice work. He staggered forward, still holding the unconscious wizardess in his arms. He felt her being taken from him and for a moment he struggled against it, but then he numbly realized that whoever was relieving him of his burden was a friend, and he should let them help. He let her go and felt at peace. He stumbled a step more and then felt himself falling. Strong arms encircled him, helping him lie down. He wanted to thank whoever it was, but he did not have the energy.
I’ll thank them after I sleep for a little while… but I’ll rest now, just for a little while, he thought. Then he fell out of consciousness.
❖ ❖ ❖
When they returned to the camp, Devrin and Shentallyia found everything quiet and in order. Sentries were posted, but there was no movement around the various cook fires and the horses were picketed and grazing quietly. The battlefield was silent and bare.
Devrin looked around, his brow furrowed. “Where is everyone? More importantly, how long have we been gone?” While in flight, Devrin had lost all sense of time and did not realize that a full day had passed since the battle ended. His stomach rumbled, and he became aware of a dryness in his throat reminding him that it had been a while since his last meal. He retrieved a canteen and drank the water inside it thirstily.
Shentallyia shrugged. “We have been gone for a single turning of the day, though it may feel as if it has been only moments to you. I have heard that is often the way of the first flight and mindshare between a dragon and its ward. The revelations and exhilaration cannot be contained, and thus, not measured in mortal time. It is a one-time experience that cannot be captured again... it cannot be captured at all, it merely runs its course.” Shentallyia tilted her head to one side. “Do you hear that?”
Devrin listened for a moment but heard only silence. He opened his mouth to say as much when he heard the noise Shentallyia’s ears had already picked up. It was coming from a valley between the camp and the Iron Wood.
“Come on,” he said.
He strode away towards the forest. When he reached the top of the rise overlooking the valley he stopped short. The men of the Border Patrol were assembled below by rank. As soon as he appeared, someone pointed and let out a cheer that resounded its way around the valley and was echoed back by the rest of the aethalons. Shentallyia stepped up to Devrin’s side, and another cheer shook the valley floor as the aethalons recognized her. Embarrassed, Shentallyia took on her human form once more.
“What is going on?” Devrin wondered out loud.
Before Shentallyia could make any sort of answer, a younger aethalon appeared at his side.
“Captain,” the young man said, saluting smartly, “follow me, if you please.”
Devrin hesitated for a brief moment before both he and Shentallyia followed their guide. As Devrin passed, each aethalon saluted him. Whispers of “dragon” and “hero” susurrated through the air as they walked. Devrin felt a lump of emotion welling in his throat as he passed through the ranks of these brave and noble men. He had been their captain for so short a time and already he felt a strong camaraderie with so many of them.
He reached the end of the rows of aethalons and found himself standing before Jemson. Devrin blinked and had to look twice before he recognized the young king. Jemson was standing up on a mounting step, dressed in formal armor. He wore a scarlet cape with the crest of Arne embroidered upon it. A golden crown adorned his head. His face was stern, the wisdom written upon it belying his youth. Two aethalons holding flags flanked the king on either side. One depicted the crest of Llycaelon, and the other depicted the crest of the Border Patrol. In his hand Jemson held his great sword, the sword which had passed to all the kings of Llycaelon. Some had used it wisely, some ruthlessly, some with pride, and some with humility, but all had held it. It was the legacy of the kings
hip as surely as the crown itself. Jemson held it with familiarity and ease.
Devrin looked up at the young king and felt an overwhelming flood of shame wash over him. Then Jemson raised an arm, his hand balling into a fist. Devrin shifted slightly, ready to either block a blow, or receive it as he now knew he deserved. He looked at the king askance. Then Jemson saluted, fist over heart and bowed deeply at the waist. Devrin’s felt his stomach lurch in surprise and he could hear the gasps of the aethalons behind him. That particular salute was reserved for the king of Llycaelon only, and the king himself saluted no one.
“Devrin of House Merle?” King Jemson’s voice filled the valley as he straightened, but he did not appear to be speaking any louder than normal.
“Yes, Sire,” Devrin managed to choke out the appropriate answer.
“You are a true leader of the Border Patrol. You have demonstrated great courage, creative and flexible strategy in the course of battle, and loyalty to your oath in spite of your misgivings about your king.”
The aethalons burst into a deafening roar of applause and cheering. But Devrin winced. He knew he deserved that last statement, but it hurt in a way he had not expected. He hung his head. Jemson raised a hand and the Border Patrol fell silent once more.
“Our borders are safe, largely due to this man. Devrin of House Merle, I charge you with command of the King’s Helm.”
Devrin blinked. “What?”
Jemson continued: “The King’s Helm was once reserved for the most elite aethalon warriors in our country, and in my view, in all of Tellurae Aquaous. It wore a stain of dishonor upon its name in the last days of my father’s rule, but those days of sorrow are behind us.” He looked at Devrin and said softly, “I hope?”
Devrin nodded, overwhelmed.
Jemson raised his voice once more. “And so, I trust you to restore the Helm to its former stature. If any man can do this, it is you.
“With this honor and corresponding responsibility, I am giving you another task as well.”
“What is that?” Devrin asked warily, unsure how many more surprises he could take this day.
Jemson beckoned for Shentallyia to step up to the platform. The girl-dragon glided forward to stand next to Devrin. A hush fell over the aethalons as they noticed her. They stared in awe, remembering who and what she was. Shentallyia shifted in obvious discomfort, and Devrin could feel her shy embarrassment at being the focus of so much attention.
“Shentallyia, Dragon of Aom-igh,” Jemson began, “we are in your debt. Is it your intention to remain with your ward?”
Shentallyia nodded firmly. “I could not leave him, the dragon ward bond is for life.”
“I thought as much. Your presence is very welcome in Llycaelon.”
The aethalons raised another cheer, and Shentallyia blushed furiously. She looked down and mumbled incoherently.
“It is my wish, and that of my uncle, that Llycaelon remember its heritage once more,” Jemson said. “We have remembered much, but we have also forgotten what ought not have been lost. We have banished the myth-folk, and by doing so we brought the seheowks down on our own heads. I welcome the myth-folk back to Llycaelon. Not as they are now, disguised as humans, no, but as they are in Aom-igh, out in the open, living side-by-side with us.”
Shentallyia looked at Jemson in disbelief. “Is it possible to change hundreds of years of distrust in a single day?”
Jemson shook his head in solemn gravity. “Certainly not. I make no such presumption. However, it only takes one step to begin a journey, and I would like to initiate that step with you today. Shentallyia of both Aom-igh and Llycaelon, you are the first. It is my hope that many more will follow and that we can be of service to your people as you have been to mine. I have seen dragons return to Aom-igh, I believe, with time, it can happen here as well.”
The aethalons cheered again and Jemson raised a hand. “Shentallyia of Aom-igh, Devrin of House Merle, will you rebuild the King’s Helm? Will you work to restore trust and friendship between our peoples?”
Devrin felt dizzy and his face flushed with shame. “Sire... I...”
Jemson raised his chin slightly and Devrin found a well of courage within himself he had only hoped he possessed.
“A few days ago, Sire, you said that you believed you were not my king. You were right.” A hush fell across the ranks of aethalons at his words. Face flaming, heart racing, Devrin pressed on, “You see, my brother followed King Seamas to Aom-igh. He fought in the invasion at your father’s command. He died dishonorably and stained our family’s name. I blamed you and your father for Kelan’s fate. Worse than that, I disrespected you because of your youth and inexperience.” Devrin took a deep gulp of air and rushed on, “But then I met you. And I saw that you were a king willing to fight and die with his men. A king not only full of courage, but also full of daring and pride and strength. Here today, I see more. You bear authority and power, but also humility and gratitude. Your Majesty, you have broken down every belief I had about royalty. You are not what I expected you to be, and at first I hated you for it. I resented you for your lineage and the authority I did not think you had earned, but I did not understand the corresponding responsibility and agony that walks alongside that heritage. Now I do. I am truly sorry for my behavior. You have extended a patience and a mercy towards me that I do not deserve, but that I will try to be worthy of.” Devrin paused and glanced out at his men. Then he knelt before King Jemson.
“If you still wish for my service,” he said in a loud voice, “I will serve no other. I can follow no other. I will do my best to merit the honor you have placed upon me, not from duty, not from virtue, not from need. I pledge my sword to you in humble gratitude to the king I always longed for, but was too blind to see at first. If you will forgive me, I will be your loyal servant... forever.”
Jemson reached down and lifted Devrin to his feet. The warmth of forgiveness washed over Devrin as his king stared down at him. There was no reproach in that gaze, only acceptance. Then Jemson turned to his countrymen and said, “Then let the celebration begin.” He pulled Devrin and Shentallyia before him and stepped back, leaving them in front of the entire Border Patrol. The aethalons there saluted and then unleashed thunderous applause.
Devrin gazed about at the sight in astonishment and pleasure. He turned to Shentallyia and offered his arm. She took it and together they joined the rest of the Border Patrol at their feast. It was by far the most satisfying meal Devrin had ever eaten. A few of the warriors had instruments, which they began to play once the meal had ended. There was jesting and merriment long into the night as the warriors celebrated their victory as hard as they had fought for it.
But deep below the celebration, a sinister presence watched. He had touched all the other lands, and Llycaelon was soon to come. He had not forgotten Llycaelon as so many had. He did not care that the seheowks had been defeated, they were the least of his creatures. He did not even care that the myth-folk were being welcomed back, although it did make his goal harder to achieve. His lips stretched into a stiff, sickly smile, Llycaelon would serve his purpose in the end. Let them celebrate their little victory now, he thought, it would merely serve to make their fear that much greater in the future. He licked his lips, he could almost taste the sweetness of their fear, but he could wait, he would feed soon enough. Llycaelon and Aom-igh had stood together for a time. Now they would fall together.
With the merest thought the great werehawk lifted off the ground, carrying its rider up into the clouds on sharp, argent wings.
❖ ❖ ❖
Dylanna opened her eyes experimentally. The light did not hurt as much as it had before. She had gotten somewhat used to its brilliance again, and after the darkness of her prison, she welcomed the light, no matter how painful. She felt that perhaps at one time she had lived always in the light, and that her time in that hateful cage had only been a few moments in comparison, but it was hard to believe. The caliginous prison was
still so prominent in her memory.
Dylanna took a deep breath and sat up to survey her surroundings. She was in an unfamiliar place, but she was comfortable and warm. She curled her fingers up and then stretched them out again, delighted to have movement back.
She was in a large room that was richly decorated, and resting on a bed covered with fluffy blankets, which had been pulled up to her chin. She snuggled her face down into them, inhaling their warmth and noting the faint scent of lavender that clung to them. The room was full of bright colors: crimson and gold was the theme, though muted blues accented here and there. Memories began to return to her, memories of the time before her imprisonment, but they were fragmented and broken.
At length she noticed Brant sitting in a chair next to her bed and more of her memories came back in a rush, her mind putting the broken images of her life back together. He was slumped over with his head resting on the edge of her bed. His hair was tousled and his clothes rumpled. She stared at him for a long moment, not quite sure if she should believe that he was really there. But the light streaming in through her window was too real not to be believed.
“Brant?” she whispered.
At her quiet voice his head jerked up, and he stared at her, relief and concern chasing each other across his face. “You’re awake,” he breathed, hope and disbelief mixed together in his whisper.
“You rescued me,” Dylanna whispered.
She had the strangest idea that if she tried to speak above a whisper everything around her would disappear again. The visions from the portal rose up in her mind. She shook her head, trying to clear it. This was real, she was certain of it, but a tiny whisper of doubt hissed in a corner of her thoughts.
Brant, having seen just a fraction of what the portal was capable of, understood her struggle. He leaned forward and kissed her. Dylanna felt a jolt of surprise and she stared at Brant as he moved away again. He looked a little startled himself, and his face, usually so impassive, flushed red.
Yorien's Hand (The Minstrel's Song Book 3) Page 19
