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

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  “If we’re to have any horse we want, why can’t we take Hawkspin?” Leila asked.

  Rhian chuckled. “Because you wouldn’t want him, plain and simple. Ain’t nobody can ride him, he’s that wild, and mean spirited, too. The king’s been trying to gentle him, to no avail. King Jemson is as good a rider as we have in Llycaelon, for all his youth, but I think he’s met his match in Hawkspin. That horse will never submit to a rider, that is certain.”

  Leila stared at the great horse. Sensing her gaze, he tossed his elegant head proudly and his long copper mane rippled behind him. He was one of those horses that was never truly still. His muscles rippled with his every movement and he shifted restlessly. Leila had never seen so magnificent a creature. Without quite knowing what she was doing, she walked up to Hawkspin’s stall. She opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Lady, no!” Rhian shouted, rushing to stop her, but it was too late.

  Hawkspin reared up in surprise at Leila’s unexpected move. His great hooves kicked out wildly. Dylanna gasped and raised her hands as if she could ward off the blow for Leila, sure that the huge horse would trample her sister. Then Leila’s voice rose up, quiet and gentle, and Hawkspin’s hooves clattered harmlessly to the ground once more. The horse’s ears twitched forward, listening to the wizardess’s voice. Leila reached up and placed a gentle hand on the great horse’s neck. Hawkspin’s muscles quivered at her touch, but he did not shy away. He stood still as Leila continued to talk, her voice soothing and calm.

  “Easy there, quiet now, Hawkspin,” Leila murmured. “What bothers you so? Why are you so afraid?”

  The horse nickered and made a chuffing noise. He put his soft nose down near Leila’s ear and blew air out through his nose. The wizardess giggled a little.

  “That tickles,” she said, and there was joy in her voice again.

  The horse lipped at her shoulder and snorted. Leila stroked his nose and nodded seriously. After a moment she spoke again.

  “I need your help,” she said. “Will you carry me to find King Jemson? An enemy is coming and he must be warned.”

  The horse gave a questioning whinny and Leila nodded. “Yes, I know how to ride bareback.”

  Hawkspin bobbed his head and Leila patted his neck once more. Then she stepped out of Hawkspin’s stall and looked at Dylanna and the dumbfounded horse-master. Leila’s chin was raised, she had regained some of her old fire and she looked mightily pleased with herself.

  “Apparently I haven’t lost my touch with animals,” she said in a triumphant tone. “Dylanna, find yourself a horse. Hawkspin will be my mount; he has agreed to help us find King Jemson. He says that the king is a good man who takes great care with men and animals alike. Hawkspin is simply afraid of losing his freedom and becoming tame. He has no problem with the king or any man, he just wishes not to be contained.”

  “You… you spoke to the… the horse?” Rhian’s voice was filled with disbelief.

  “Yes,” Leila said casually, brushing a strand of stray hair back from her face.

  “And you’re going to ride him?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Lady, if you can ride that horse, he’s yours!”

  Leila snorted sternly. “Hawkspin isn’t a creature to be possessed,” she lectured. “A beast this noble may be an ally, but never owned.” Then she giggled, her face flushed and her heart giddy. “We’ll see what King Jemson has to say about you giving away one of his greatest treasures, anyway.”

  “He’d say the same thing as me. He’s all but given up on old Hawkspin here.”

  Leila’s face quirked. “Well, I suppose we’ll see. Dylanna, have you picked your horse?”

  Dylanna nodded that she had. She told Rhian her choice. The horse master looked approving as he tacked up the small, palomino mare.

  “You know your horses, my lady,” he said. “This little girl is named Spun Gold, though we all call her Goldie. She looks small, and she’s as gentle as they come, but I’ve never seen a horse built better for stamina. She won’t let you down.”

  “Thank you, Rhian.”

  Then Leila opened up the door to Hawkspin’s stall. The horse stepped out, all power and muscle. He moved lightly though, with a fluid grace in spite of the nervous energy he had been displaying just moments before. He stood in full view, his neck arched and his head high. Then he buckled his front knees, allowing the wizardess to mount. Leila swung up expertly and settled herself on the horse’s back, sitting sidesaddle.

  “Milady,” the groom said, a look of concern in his hazel eyes, “I don’t need to tell you that’s not the most secure way to ride.”

  “Do you really fear for my safety Rhian?” Leila asked.

  He stared at her with a considering look, then he turned his gaze to the giant horse, standing there as quiet and gentle as a steady old mount who has been ridden for years. Rhian chuckled then, a little self-consciously, and shook his head.

  “No, milady, I don’t suppose I do.”

  With that the two wizardesses rode out into the fading daylight. Rhian shook his head, he had never seen the like of that, and he doubted he ever would again. With a cheerful whistle, he returned to his duties, and as he worked he would often look up and stare out towards the border and shake his head in disbelief.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Several hours after the wizardesses left the stables, a strange dragon landed on the lawn in front of the palace. Once, this would have caused a stir among the servants, but now dragons descending upon the courtyard were almost commonplace. Word was sent throughout the palace until it reached the ears of Queen Fiora. The elderly queen descended regally from her apartments to greet this newcomer. Her body was frail, but she held herself with a hint of her old grace as she stepped outside.

  “Greetings, dragon,” she called out.

  “Greetings,” the dragon rumbled back. “I have come to lend my aid to the king of Llycaelon, where can I find him?”

  “He rides to battle at the Caethyr Gap,” the old woman called out in a firm voice. “I am confident he would not turn you away.”

  The dragon nodded in reply. “I also bring a young charge.” He lowered himself to the ground and a small boy clambered down from his back and took a few shaky steps forward. “This is Shane, sole survivor of a small village on the island of Chensar. Will you care for him?”

  The queen stared down at the child and a strange light filled her face. She descended the remainder of the steps and knelt in the dust, arms outstretched towards the little boy.

  The child gazed up at her solemnly for a moment, one finger in his mouth. Then, appearing to find in this woman a spark of much-needed motherly sympathy and tenderness, he toddled into her embrace. Fiora wrapped her arms around him and held him close. A silent tear wound its way down her face, and their was healing in that sparkling trail.

  “Shane,” she whispered. She rose, still holding the child tenderly, and looked up at the dragon. “I will care for him as if he were my own son.”

  “Very well,” the dragon replied. “My thanks. If you will excuse me, I must away.”

  The dragon leapt into the air and soared away. The old queen turned, holding the child to her breast and humming snatches of an old nursery rhyme, and went inside. The lines receded from her face and everyone who saw her whispered that she was much changed. She took the little boy and held him on her lap, rocking him to sleep while the servants prepared a room for him.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Zara descended from Fortress Hill, Rena’s limp body in her arms. The wizardess looked weary, and Justan rushed forward to take his wife from her. Rena was surprisingly light, almost weightless.

  “Is… is she…?”

  “She is not dead,” Rhendak answered the unspoken question, appearing at his side.

  The king of the dragons strode majestically down the hill with Justan and Zara in his full form. The dragon offered his fore claw to Zara,
and she accepted, leaning on it gratefully. Rhendak looked at Justan, his gaze serious.

  “The Song Bearer is not dead,” Rhendak continued, “but neither is she alive. She poured too much of herself into the song. Her life force emptied into the melody and she herself is what now gives the shield above us its strength. That was not supposed to happen, we had planned to control the magic, to prevent this very phenomenon. But Rena allowed herself to flow into the song and held nothing back.”

  “Will she come back when the shield is no longer needed?” Justan asked.

  Rhendak pondered. “I do not know if she will survive. If the shield is broken, there is no saying whether she will return to this shell. Though her heart still beats, the object you hold is but her body. Her spirit is elsewhere. So few have done this before, I do not know what her chances for survival are.”

  “But she might yet wake again?” Justan asked, desperate for any hope the dragon might give him.

  “I do not know.”

  “I understand,” Jemson felt crestfallen.

  The rest of the myth-folk had crowded down around behind them. Rhendak turned and spread his wings, blocking their view, though his people still strained curiously, trying to see what had happened to Rena, the one they called the Song Bearer. Rhendak rose up on his hind legs and they fell silent as death.

  “The Song Bearer yet lives,” he said, his voice booming out. “But her life hangs by a perilous thread. She has stolen us a little time. She has given everything for the chance of our safety. We must do everything we can to make sure her sacrifice was not made for naught.”

  The myth-folk raised a cheer, their voices mingling together into a song that floated up into the sky. Power surged upward as their voices touched the shield, strengthening it even further. Zara looked at Justan sadly.

  “They sing for her,” she murmured. “And they now attempt to anchor her here, so that when the shield comes down she will return to body.”

  Justan nodded to the powerful creatures before him in a grateful acknowledgement of what they were trying to do. His heart was full of gratitude he did not know how to express and he struggled for a moment, trying to find the words. Rhendak noticed the look on his face and he inclined his head regally.

  “They know how much she means to you,” he said, “she means a great deal to us as well. She was the one meant to play the Song that has been locked in silence since before the reign of King Llian.”

  “I just want to thank them,” Justan said.

  “They know. They can feel your appreciation, it echoes their own. They honor one who gave up everything for our safety.”

  Justan nodded, his heart too full for words. He looked down at Rena, lying lifeless in his arms. She could not be gone. Her face was calm and peaceful and full of color. She appeared to be merely sleeping. His heart was heavy with the knowledge that his wife was much farther away than she appeared. Her body was lighter than breathing, but Justan’s shoulders were bowed under the weight of the loneliness she had left behind. To hide the sudden tears that rolled down his face, Justan turned and strode away towards the castle, bearing his burden alone.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  The small company had been flying all day without seeing any kind of landmass at all. Oraeyn was beginning to wonder if any land even existed south of Llycaelon. Every time he looked down, all that could be seen was water. Llycaelon was far behind them, and ahead of them all he could see was endless ocean. He had never dreamed the world could be so big, and he had barely seen any of it yet. They were all weary of flying, but there was nowhere to land or rest. Daylight faded and stars blinked into existence like tiny pinpricks in a vast ebony cloth overhead. Suddenly Brant waved to the others from the back of his dragon and pointed.

  “There,” the warrior said confidently, “Emnolae.”

  Oraeyn and Kamarie peered in the direction Brant was pointing. At first they thought there was nothing to be seen. Then they saw what Brant was indicating. On the horizon, a dusky purple landscape rose up out of the cerulean ocean. Against the sky, the landmass looked like a low cloud formation, but Oraeyn’s heart leapt up into his throat at the sight of it anyway.

  There it is, he thought to himself excitedly, our goal: Emnolae. The home of the High Kings.

  “We should not approach too obviously,” Kiernan Kane suggested. “Ghrendourak will be watching for us.”

  “True.” Before Brant could consider how this might be accomplished, Thorayenak surprised them all.

  “If we wait a bit until true nightfall we can approach the island by sea. Dragons can swim as well as they fly. If you lie down flat on our backs or on top of our wings, we can approach the island without being seen. We will appear as little more than driftwood to anyone who might be watching.”

  Brant pursed his lips. “Let’s do it. I can guide you to a secluded beach I know of where there will be fewer prying eyes, and we can perhaps acquire some help, as well. Keep a sharp watch out for hydras and sea monsters.”

  “There will be no hydras in these waters,” Kiernan replied.

  “How could you possibly know that?” Brant asked.

  Oraeyn thought it odd that Kiernan would contradict Brant’s concern. If anyone would know the perils of this area it would be Brant, who had traveled here before, and yet, surely Kiernan would not make such an assertion out of thin air.

  Kiernan was unconcerned by Brant’s question. “I know these waters,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  After their experience with the portal, no further challenge was offered, and once night had fallen the dragons dipped down to the ocean. They sank beneath the surface of the waves until only their wings remained above the water. Thorayenak’s head came up out of the water and he twisted his neck around to look at Brant.

  “We will need to come up for breath occasionally,” he informed them, “but we can do so without lifting our heads entirely out of the water. Do not worry, you are perfectly safe.”

  Oraeyn turned to look for Kiernan Kane and was astonished at how difficult it was to spot him. He and Kamarie followed his example, lying down on Yole’s wings, content to rest until they reached the shores of Emnolae.

  Oraeyn wondered what it would be like, to set foot on the same sand the High Kings had walked upon, to see the castle in which Artair himself had lived. His thoughts drifted to the star. What would it look like? It was hard for him to build up any amount of excitement about touching Yorien’s Hand; the one real emotion he could summon was trepidation. Brant had seen the star, even touched it, but had said very little about the experience. Oraeyn knew it would be difficult, even painful. Brant had not spoken of it, but his expression of distaste and sorrow and barely controlled anger whenever the star or Emnolae was mentioned spoke volumes. Something had happened there, many years ago, and the memory was not pleasant for the warrior; that much Oraeyn could discern.

  He wondered again if he was truly the one about whom the prophecy spoke. Would he be able to bear the weight of the words the minstrel had spoken? Already that morning on which the minstrel had revealed to them the truth about their situation seemed so far away. Oraeyn wondered how much of himself he would retain throughout this journey, and if he would be able to do all that was expected of him. So much rested on his shoulders, so much depended on him.

  I am just one person, he thought in despair, what can I do? Tellurae Aquaous is so immense why am I the one chosen to stand up and save it? Surely there is one better equipped than I.

  But there was no one, and Oraeyn was not about to flinch from the duty he had been assigned. He was determined to see this quest through to the end, no matter the outcome. He did not even care for himself anymore, his thoughts were all for Kamarie. In his heart, Oraeyn vowed to keep her safe at all costs.

  “Prophecies are never saying what you think they are saying,” Brant’s words echoed again in Oraeyn’s memories. Something pricked at the back of his mind as he remembered what the warri
or had said. Suddenly things did not add up as neatly as Oraeyn thought they had. He was not sure what was wrong, but he was overcome with a sense of urgency, and he felt they had misunderstood something important.

  This sensation was not altogether new; something had seemed out of place about their interpretation of Kiernan Kane’s words since they had left Aom-igh and it had been bothering him all along. Oraeyn focused his thoughts as much as he could, straining to decipher what mystery the words were hiding, but it flitted from his grasp. It was like trying to capture a cloud.

  “Kamarie,” he whispered across Yole’s back. “Do you think we’ve interpreted the prophecy correctly?”

  She turned her face to him though he could barely discern her hazy outline.

  “Which part?” she whispered back.

  “I’m not sure. I just have this uneasy sensation that we’re missing something. Something important.”

  Water lapped up over Yole’s wing and Oraeyn shivered at the sudden cold.

  “I don’t know,” came the response. “Have you talked to Brant or Kiernan?”

  “I tried to talk to Brant about it, but he just said that prophecies are not to be trusted. Which I guess is part of my problem. This all seems too easy.”

  “Perhaps that’s true,” Kamarie replied. “But regardless of whether we missed something in the prophecy, Ghrendourak is real, and Kiernan said the only way to defeat him is with Yorien’s Hand, and Brant has seen it here on Emnolae. We can’t exactly change course now.”

  “You’re right. And it’s not that I think we’re headed in the wrong direction. I think maybe it’s just... I’m not sure the prophecy is really talking about me,” Oraeyn confessed.

  A soft laugh emanated from the other wing. “And that’s why I love you.”

  “I’m serious,” Oraeyn whispered, a hint of vehemence in his tone. “I’m not a hero. I just keep falling into these roles; responsibilities pile on top of me, honor and duties I never sought.”