Dylanna sighed. “Of course, I see that as plainly as you.”
A young Kestrel approached. “Sire, a dragon is waiting to speak with you in the Iron Wood.” His voice trembled with excitement.
Jemson looked up from his plans, surprise flitting across his face. “Thank you, Nethua. I will be there directly.”
The Kestrel nodded sharply, standing a bit taller as he left. Leila watched him, noticing that he stood a little straighter and walked with a more confident stride. That boy would never forget the moment when his king called him by name. She considered Jemson with new respect.
Jemson rose and gestured to his companions. “Please come with me. This sounds important.”
They followed Jemson through the camp and, curiosity peaked. It was a little distance to the tree line. When they reached the forest edge, the dragon moved out of the trees and into view, striding gracefully on his four strong legs, wings folded along his back. His neck arched up to his enormous, horned head. He was covered in scales of obsidian and his eyes were like two argenteous stones. He was the largest dragon either of the wizardesses had ever seen, and even Shentallyia reacted with awe, bowing her head in deference to this majestic creature who bore age and wisdom in every line of his body.
“Welcome,” Jemson greeted the dragon. Dylanna was impressed that the young king’s voice bore no hint of tremor.
“Are you King Jemson?” the dragon asked, his voice a thunderous growl.
Jemson nodded. “I am.”
“I received your message. My name is Khoranaderek, and I am here to do my part in this battle.”
“You are more than welcome,” Jemson beamed. “I had hoped for a verbal response, but I never dreamed you would come here, much less prepared for battle. You, my new friend, are unbelievably welcome.”
The dragon bared his teeth; they glinted like sharp rows of spears. “I was already on my way here when news of your message reached me,” he said with a deep chuckle. “I came to bring you warning of an enemy that marches towards Llycaelon, but I believe the news has already reached you,” he nodded to Dylanna. “Wizardess, you are known to me.”
Dylanna bowed back, stunned.
“There are others,” Khoranaderek continued. “And they bring with them survivors from many nations already left desolate by this foe. We know of the power that rises behind this Ghrendourak; he will not be ignored. I hoped to persuade you to welcome my people as allies, and shelter these survivors. They follow and will be arriving here soon.”
“Others? You have brought others?” Jemson asked, and now his voice did tremble. Unashamed tears clouded his vision. Jemson turned to the others, each of whom was also suddenly misty-eyed. Their faces provided all the assurance Khoranaderek needed to make his long flight worthwhile. “Any refugees who have survived the destruction wrought by our common enemy are most welcome here,” Jemson spoke around the lump in his throat.
“Excellent. I had hoped you might say that.” Khoranaderek stretched his long neck up into the air, muscles rippling beneath his scaled armor. “Ah, but it is good to take this form again,” he said, his teeth snapping as he worked his jaw. “You show wisdom, young king, in your decision to bring us back out into the open.”
“Not everyone will think so,” Jemson’s voice was regretful.
“That is true,” Khoranaderek replied. “But your open support of our people will make most of those think twice before they complain out loud. Yes, you show wisdom, especially in the friends you keep,” he nodded towards the three women. “Yes,” the dragon continued in a thoughtful tone, “I think I might like you, Jemson, king of Llycaelon.”
❖ ❖ ❖
“Justan,” Zara’s tone was no-nonsense as she entered the room where Rena lay, the room felt old and stale and Zara reeled back at the stench. It had only been a single day, but the darkened chamber reeked of sickness, death, and despair.
Justan looked up, his expression dull and vacant. He did not even acknowledge Zara’s presence as he continued his vigil. Kessella knit her brows together. She had taken human form in order to navigate the stairs better and she remained in that form now. She appeared as an elderly woman—full of wisdom and experience—though her back was straight as an oak tree. Her hair was pure white, but there was a youth about her as well: her dark face was smooth and her hands were steady.
“I see what you mean,” Kessella said, her tone grave.
She strode over to Justan. He did not look up at her approach. She spoke his name once, but he did not react. Then she reached out her hand and touched his chin, drawing his gaze gently away from Rena. At first he resisted, but then he gave up and looked at Kessella with impatience and a touch of anger.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” he asked.
Kessella shook her head. “No, but I can help you anyway.”
“I don’t need help,” Justan said. “It’s my wife.”
“I know. I’m a healer. Zara has told me about the situation and I have come to see what I can do.”
For the first time in days Justan’s face filled with life. “Is there hope?” His voice lost a bit of its toneless quality and his cheeks flushed with color.
“There is always hope. But you must choose to see it.”
“I don’t understand.”
Kessella sighed. “I will try to help her. But you must do something for me if there is to be any chance of your wife returning to this side of wakefulness.”
“I’ll do anything,” Justan said.
Kessella’s tone was icy. “Do I have your word on that?”
“You do,” he replied firmly.
“Good. The first thing you must do is open that window and let the outside air into this room, it’s stifling in here. Even healthy patients would languish in such a place.”
Justan obediently hurried to the window and flung it open. A cool breeze entered and Kessella took a deep breath. Zara felt a bit of the oppressiveness of the room fade and she relaxed slightly.
“That’s much better,” Kessella murmured. “Now, you must go down to the kitchen and get a bite to eat, and you must not return to this room until I send for you.”
Justan’s face darkened. “What? But…”
Kessella raised a stern hand. “You gave your word. If I cannot trust that, I will turn around and leave this place without ever looking back and you can attempt to bring your wife back on your own.”
Justan clamped his mouth shut on the arguments he wished to make. With a glower at Kessella he turned and left the room. He muttered under his breath as he left, but he obeyed. Zara shut the door behind him.
“That was well done,” she said.
Kessella nodded brusquely. “Yes, the healing process for that one has begun. You must go to him now. Speak to him, ask him questions. But make sure you don’t tell him what to do,” Kessella cautioned. “Just ask him questions—about the coming war, his duties, it doesn’t matter, really. Even questions you don’t know the answers to might help. His own curiosity will do the rest, and he will attend to his duties once more. I will stay here with the Song Bearer.”
“Do you think you can help her?” Zara asked.
“I am unsure. Whether or not I can help her remains to be seen. She is very distant. It is hard to explain. It is like she is sleeping, or in a deep dream. I might be able to establish a link to her, maybe even communicate; I do not know. She isn’t gone, you know, she’s not even unconscious, she’s just focusing all of her effort in one spot and has no energy to perform any other autonomous acts.”
Zara nodded. “I know. I have formed such a shield before, it drained me as well, but not like this. Rena was right to avoid using the dragon pipes. I never should have asked it of her.”
“You cannot blame yourself for doing what needed to be done. Who knows how many lives your actions may save. Rena sacrificed herself willingly, it was not your doing,” Kessella said. “I will see what I can do for her. You must go to Justan
. He will find himself somewhat at a loss, and you need to help him find balance.”
“I will. Perhaps he will work so hard looking for answers that he might actually find them.”
“That is what I hope for,” Kessella said, her voice softening. “Go now, I will tend the Song Bearer.”
❖ ❖ ❖
From where she stood in her small kitchen, Ina turned her face towards the window. Golden rays of light bathed her skin. She stopped in the midst of her dishwashing and stretched her hands up to it. She was beautiful, innocent, standing there in the glow; younger too, resembling a child despite her forty odd years. She twirled around, arms flung wide, her face tilted upwards, an expression of beaming delight on her lips as she felt the warmth caressing her skin.
Colas sat across the room, whittling a piece of wood into what would soon become one of many carvings that he would take into town to sell, or perhaps use to trade with the occasional passing ship. It did not matter where he sold it; most people considered his work the best they had ever seen, and merchants paid him well for the trinkets.
He took his time as he carved, his body relaxed as the creativity in his fingers guided the knife across the little piece of wood. There was no hurry in his motions, no intensity in his concentration. The carving gradually took shape in his expert hands.
“It’s a lovely day,” Ina said, beaming with wonder and excitement, as if she had only just discovered that she was alive.
Colas paused in his work to look up at his sister. Every time he looked at her she surprised him again. He always expected to see an adult when he looked at her, but he doubted he would ever see anything but a little girl of five. And yet she was a woman, with their mother’s gentle tone and her own wisdom and grace. It was a startling combination. She bore their mother’s burden with such poise. The memories never dragged Ina down; she never struggled under their weight. Colas wished he had such a talent.
“Do you think Rhoyan and his friends have any chance of completing their quest and bringing all of this to an end?” Colas realized as he posed the question that he had no hope for it, himself. Suddenly he felt very old.
“Of course they have a chance,” she replied, her tone indicating it should be the most obvious thing in the world. “There is always hope.”
Colas sighed and turned his attention back to his carving, but his pose was no longer relaxed, and the knife felt clumsy in his hands. He grunted in frustration.
Ina walked to him and patted his head. “They have the minstrel with them. They will find their way.”
Colas looked up at the window. “I hope so. I don’t know much about what is going on, not as much as you do, I don’t have the sight like you. But I know that we are all at risk. And I know that those seven travelers are our best and only hope for survival.”
“Our best hope, yes. But not our only hope, never that.”
“If you say so,” Colas shrugged again. “But I don’t see anyone else volunteering to save the world.”
“If they fail, another else will rise up to carry their burden,” Ina said.
“How can you be so sure?” Colas asked.
“I’m not.” Ina’s words were ominous, but her tone was carefree. “But I have faith in Cruithaor Elchiyl. He has a plan, and he will not let the world fall to this darkness.”
Colas shrugged and shook his head with a sigh and returned to his whittling. When Ina spoke like this it was best to stick with the things he understood best, those he could touch and shape himself. Ina saw what could not be seen, and while Colas respected her gift, it also frightened him. The piece of wood began to take a shape under his skilled fingers, but Colas did not pay much attention. Carving was his gift—he had discovered it while passing long hours on Captain Delmar’s ship. Oftentimes he had watched in fascination the wood-carving of a fellow sailor. One evening, the man had handed Colas a block of wood and a small knife, telling him to give it a try. The sailor only meant to be kind to a lonely boy, but something marvelous happened to Colas when he began to whittle away at the little wood block. It had practically formed itself in his hands, taking on a life of its own and turning into something beautiful. Ina called it magic, though others referred to it as skill or talent. Colas did not care which it was; the carvings made him happy, it was how he relaxed and found peace. Living on an isolated island was not always easy. It got lonesome in their little cabin. Storms and wild animals often threatened their tiny garden. And then there were the rumors about Ina that sometimes troubled them in the form of unwelcome visitors. Their trials were different than those of many, but that made them no less real.
“What are you making today?” Ina asked.
Colas shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”
It was his usual response. Colas rarely ever began a carving with a clear idea of what he wanted to make. The wood knew what it wanted to be, he often said, he just helped it along. Ina moved about the little house, cleaning and straightening. She went outside and picked a bouquet of the wildflowers that she had planted along the path, bringing them inside to decorate the table.
“Do they look pretty?” she asked.
Colas looked up. “Beautiful,” he affirmed.
“Are you finished yet?”
“Almost.”
Ina was always excited for him to finish a project. One of her favorite things was to take the carvings and try to guess what they were before he told her. When Colas finished this one he held up the piece of wood and stared, amazed and a little unnerved by the image he had made. Ina tilted her head, missing the sound of the knife scraping away at the wood.
“Are you finished?”
“Yes, it…” he swallowed hard, not quite sure what to say.
Ina held out her hand and Colas placed the figure in her outstretched palm. She traced the lines of the carving with her fingers, exploring it with a curious expression on her face. At length she shrugged and handed the carving back to Colas.
“I can’t tell. What is it?”
“A mandolin,” Colas murmured, “like the one the minstrel carried. My fingers must have remembered it. But there are tiny carvings all over it, a sword, a dragon, and a star.”
Ina nodded, a look of wisdom clung to her face. Colas looked at her warily for a moment, but she did not speak.
“Ina, what does it mean?”
“And in the end, the fool will guide them all,” Ina intoned.
She may have been responding to Colas’ question, or she might have been reciting a line from an old story, Colas could not tell and her words did not answer any of his questions. But the look on her face was faraway, and she spoke in dulcet tones, her mind filled with memories that were not her own.
❖ ❖ ❖
Justan was pacing the castle walls like a caged gryphon when Zara found him. She walked across his path and stood looking over the stone wall at the sea. Her face was calm; she appeared to take no notice of Justan at all. After a few minutes he came over to stand by the wizardess. He placed his arms on the top of the wall and leaned on them with a sigh.
“What should I be doing?” he asked as he joined her in staring out over the ocean.
“It always helps me find calm,” Zara said, “coming out here and watching the waves roll in. I can’t remember how many times I’ve stood here, feeling like the world was either about to crash down upon my shoulders or bestow upon me all my dreams. I was never quite sure which would be worse.”
Justan turned, his expression anguished. “Zara, please, tell me what to do. Don’t play wizardess games with me. I am without direction and I cannot abide it any longer.”
Zara pursed her lips, her gaze pensive. “You need to look to the defense of Aom-igh,” she said the words tentatively. “Our enemy will not be stopped by the shield for long. And we ought not be taken by surprise. It will not help Rena if she wakes to find our country in ashes. It would be a waste of her sacrifice.”
Justan flushed and looked down in sudd
en shame. “You are right. I forgot my responsibilities in my despair. There is no excuse for that; the world is bigger than me, and I was left in a position of authority. King Oraeyn trusted me to serve the people, and I forgot about them in my grief.”
“But you have remembered them now,” Zara reminded him softly. “And it is not wrong for you to grieve over your loss.”
“I will not forget again,” Justan’s voice was determined, although sorrow still clung to his words.
Zara looked at the knight with compassion, his heart was breaking, yet at last he was standing strong in the face of it. “Yes, King Oraeyn knew what he was doing when he left you in charge.”
“Zara?”
“Yes?”
“Do you believe Kessella can help Rena?”
“She has determined to try,” Zara replied, “and that is all we can ask for now. She will not give up if that is your question.”
Justan’s mouth twisted, but he did not speak. He turned and left Zara standing at the castle wall by herself. She watched after him for a moment, noting how the strength had returned to his stride. He had been reminded of his duty and his mission was now clear. Justan had returned to himself. Zara hoped that Rena could be persuaded to return as well. She stood there for a moment by herself, staring out at the sea. A moment later, Arnaud joined her. He came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on the top of her head.
“I remember standing here with the weight of the crown pressing down upon me so hard that I thought I might as well just sink to the ground and give up, and there are days it is still a wonder to me that I did not,” his voice was soft and full of many things he did not say, but Zara understood.
She leaned back against her husband. “You never did,” she watched the birds wheeling above the sea, contentment on her face.
“How is he?” Arnaud nodded in the direction Justan had gone.
Yorien's Hand (The Minstrel's Song Book 3) Page 26
