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

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  If the minstrel had any thoughts about the state of the palace, he kept them to himself. Oraeyn realized that Kiernan had not bumped into anything, fallen over, tripped, or stumbled once lately; in fact, the minstrel had proven extremely capable and even deadly with a sword in his hand. Kiernan had certainly been anything but a fool in the past few days.

  Brant’s voice interrupted Oraeyn’s thoughts. “It wasn’t this bad when I was here the first time… though that was a good many years ago. The place has deteriorated since I was here last.” There was a sadness in his voice. “Come.”

  The others looked at him questioningly, but Brant had sunk deep into fell memories that he would not share. All they could do was follow him as he fought his way through the undergrowth towards the great marble steps that led up to the doors.

  Doubtfully, the rest of them trailed along behind the warrior. With long strides, Brant ascended the steps to the once-mighty oak doors. There were paint peelings and chips on the steps. It was obvious that the doors had once been adorned with lavish artwork, but whatever decoration once existed had long since been lost.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Aom-igh was in flames and their defenses were melting before the enemy assault. Each courageous man or woman who fell was a barb in Justan’s heart. They could not withstand this battering much longer. Justan could see the city walls being overrun. Savage were-folk landed inside the palace courtyards spewing devastation wherever they touched the ground. His heart fell with the realization that they were indeed powerless against Ghrendourak.

  Crackling sounds filled the air as the ground shook and a chasm formed outside the city wall. The earth split beneath the were-folk and snaked all the way back to the water. Both the enemy forces and the sea poured into the opening. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the chasm closed, burying its victims. At the same moment, a gale-force wind of sleet, ice, and bitter cold swirled through the air, bringing the battle on both land and in the air to a screeching halt as everyone, warrior and were-folk alike, shivered in the face of the storm. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the wind whipped over the land with no mercy. The sand on the beach, driven by hurricane-force winds, blinded the were-folk and sent them screaming towards the water in search of protection. Justan watched in fascination as their enemies ceased fighting and bowed to their simple need to protect themselves from the relentless elements. A sudden warmth enclosed Justan like a brief embrace. The sensation lasted for a fraction of a moment, and then it was gone with the wind, but Justan recognized the touch.

  “Rena!” he shouted, his voice trembling. “Rena! It’s Rena! Zara, it’s Rena!”

  Zara stepped into the storm at his call. “What? Justan, what are you talking about? What about Rena?”

  “It’s her,” he said firmly. “The barrier fell, but she is still there, still wielding the power of the pipes. She’s using the elements themselves to fight for us. The earthquake, the wind, the storm, it’s all her doing. She must have known the barrier could not hold, and so she channeled the power into a different kind of weapon. She’s still here, she still fights for us.”

  Zara’s face took on a thoughtful expression. The enemy below was hampered by the wind and driving sand, but they pressed forward in spite of the storm. The desperate plight of Aom-igh was not yet over.

  “You may be right, Justan, but Rena’s power must reach its limit before long.”

  Justan sobered. “Yes.” He knew that victory was beyond Aom-igh’s capabilities, but hope had been resurrected in his heart. Rena was alive! He turned to face his enemies with new strength. Oraeyn would have the time he needed.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Brant reached out his hand to push the door open. As his fingers touched the wood he was enveloped by the same sensation he had noticed the first time he had ventured to this place. It was an impression that the palace had once been beautiful and cared for, and that it would care for its inhabitants if it were just given the chance. Brant was aware of the emotions of his companions; there was pity and disgust and horror in their minds. They had not expected such disrepair, such a bedraggled castle with all of its walls tumbling down. Brant found himself fighting down a sudden, unreasonable urge to defend the Great Hall, to tell them what the place had been like once. But I don’t know how the place once was, Brant reminded himself; they would be confused and would not understand. The urge passed and Brant shook his head and lifted his hand from the door.

  “Follow me, but carefully; we do not know if the Enemy has been here or if traps have been set.”

  The rest of them nodded and Brant pushed open the great doors. They proceeded with caution, allowing Brant’s memory to guide them through the palace. After a few minutes Brant stopped.

  “Each of you, take a torch,” he said, pointing to a wall that had a row of sconces attached to it. “We will need the light where we are going.”

  “Where are we going, Brant?” Kamarie asked, a little hesitantly.

  “We are going to enter a secret tunnel that leads from this palace to the heart of the mountain that you saw from the air. It will be a long walk and we will sleep in the tunnel at least once before we reach the chamber where Yorien’s Hand is kept. The tunnel is not lit, and the torches may burn out, which is why we need several of them.”

  Kamarie’s face took on a pained expression. “That doesn’t sound very appealing. Are there spiders in the tunnel?”

  Brant chuckled. “My memory is good, but that I do not remember.”

  Kamarie wrinkled her nose in distaste, then stepped forward and lifted a torch from the wall. “Very well, let’s get it over with then.”

  The rest grabbed torches as well.

  “This way,” Brant said, pointing to a set of stairs leading down towards the cellars. “The entrance to the tunnel is at the bottom of these steps.”

  The companions followed Brant down the stairs and stopped at the door. It was small and simple, as unremarkable as the old key Brant held. The sole noteworthy thing about the door was the fact that the carving upon it had escaped the same wear and aging the rest of the castle had suffered. Brant hesitated as he looked at the door.

  “’Keep this safe and use it well; it will get you through the door you seek,’” Brant whispered.

  Anguished memories chased one another through his thoughts. He stared at Kamarie, but did not see her. Faces of people he had left behind long ago, faces of people he had loved, and faces of people who had died haunted him as he stared at the door.

  “Calla. Imojean. Kali. Schea,” his lips formed their names, though no sound came out. Iron bands wrapped around his heart and he gasped for breath, a drowning man with no hope of salvation.

  “Brant? Come back,” Kamarie’s pleading whisper broke through his memories.

  At her soft touch on his arm Brant shuddered. “Calla.” He shook his head. “I mean, Kamarie. Forgive me, I didn’t know the memories would be so hard to face.” He looked up and met Kiernan’s gaze, and for once, there was only sympathy in the minstrel’s eyes. Wordless understanding passed between the two men, and Brant felt himself strangely comforted.

  He took a deep breath and pushed the key into the lock. Rusty and old as it was, the key turned without complaint and the door swung open. After the loud creaking of the front gate and the big oak doors, the silence was eerie. A blast of warm, humid air washed over them.

  “Well,” Oraeyn spoke at last, “we might as well get started if we’re going to do this.”

  Brant lit the first torch and then stepped into the damp, musty murk. The rest of the companions accompanied him. No one thought to close the door behind them so that they could not be followed.

  The floor of the tunnel was packed earth, but the walls were made of jagged stone. Kamarie gasped and Brant halted, turning in concern.

  “It’s nothing,” Kamarie’s voice sounded embarrassed. “I just brushed against the wall... it was slimy,” she explained.

  Brant hea
rd Oraeyn choke back a laugh.

  “We’re under the mountain now. I believe there is an underground stream running near this tunnel, there’s a bit of a waterfall when we get to the end of it, if I remember correctly.”

  Kamarie edged closer to him and Oraeyn. “I can’t believe you came down here alone the first time, Brant.”

  “I wasn’t alone,” Brant replied quietly.

  “But I thought you…”

  “Two friends accompanied me to this island. Only one of them survived to leave it at the end of our quest.”

  “I’m sorry.” Kamarie’s voice was soft. “Is that what you meant when you spoke of memories earlier?”

  Brant nodded shortly.

  “That name you called out at the doorway… Calla? Was she the one who…?” Kamarie found that she could not finish the question.

  “The one who didn’t make it,” Brant’s voice was filled with regret. “I couldn’t save her from the seheowks, even though I had touched the great Hand of Yorien. She died anyway, horribly, and all I could do was mourn her loss.”

  “It… it wasn’t your fault.”

  “I brought her here, and she died, if I hadn’t, she would have lived.” The words were tight and clipped, indicating that the conversation was over. Oraeyn tightened his arm around Kamarie’s shoulders, but did not speak.

  The small company traveled on in a stiff, uncomfortable silence for the rest of the day, though there was no real way to tell if the day had come to an end by the time that they stopped to rest. Burying the end of one of the torches in the hard ground, they managed to create the semblance of a campfire. As they rummaged through their packs for what was left of their food supply, Kiernan Kane sat down and began strumming a few chords on his mandolin.

  Munching on a chunk of bread, Kamarie sat down close to the minstrel to listen. After a moment Oraeyn and Brant joined her. The minstrel’s fingers danced across the strings of the mandolin. Then Kiernan began to sing:

  The minstrel draws you

  The minstrel calls you

  The minstrel beckons

  Come listen, come hear.

  When the days turn dark

  And the firelight dim,

  When cold are your hearts

  Come listen to him.

  The minstrel sings

  And strums his strings

  Let your heart take wings

  Come listen, come hear.

  When the road seems long

  When your strength is gone

  You’ve forgotten his song

  Come listen, draw near.

  Let the minstrel remind you

  With his song let him find you

  From the darkness unbind you

  Come listen, come hear.

  With his song he draws you

  As he strums, he calls you

  As he hums, he beckons

  Come listen, come near.

  As the last notes of his song faded, so did a portion of their weariness. It was like Kiernan Kane had found a way to bring the Dragon’s Eye into the tunnel with them. Not that the passageway was any brighter, but something had changed, though none of them could have explained exactly what.

  From where he was sitting, Oraeyn picked up an unlit torch and tapped Kamarie’s shoulder.

  “On guard!”

  She danced backwards, then picked up her own unused torch and parried. They batted the torches back and forth for a bit until Kamarie got through Oraeyn’s defense with a fancy flick of her torch and sent his flying through the air.

  “I surrender,” Oraeyn called out, holding up his hands. “Take your prize, my lady.”

  Kamarie grinned triumphantly and leaned forward for a quick kiss, but lost her balance and nearly fell on her face. Oraeyn caught her and they dissolved into laughter and giggles.

  Kiernan continued to strum his mandolin. Brant leaned back, listening to the music and the laughter of his friends, and his thoughts turned to Dylanna. How he wished she could be there with them. His memories of this place were not happy ones, but thoughts of Dylanna gave him the strength to face them and move past them.

  Oraeyn came over to sit next to Brant.

  “How much farther do we have until we reach Yorien’s Hand?” he asked.

  Brant squinted. “I’m not sure. It’s hard to keep track of time down here. I think it’s about a day’s journey to reach the door, and we haven’t gone very far yet, but we expended a fair bit of energy already today. I think it would be best if we tried to get some rest before continuing on.”

  Despite Kiernan’s song, none of them slept surpassingly well. The ground was hard, the sound of dripping water echoed in the stillness, and concern for Yole, Thorayenak, and all the ones they had left behind plagued each of the travelers. Nobody complained when Brant said it was time to move on. They ate an unsatisfying meal of nuts and dried fruit, and then they rolled up their packs and began the tedious march once more. After long hours of travel and a few brief stops for food, the travelers were touched by a breath of fresh air.

  “Nearly there now,” Brant announced.

  His words, and the sudden breeze, urged them forward. A moment later, the tunnel ended abruptly and spanned out into a much larger cave with a clean, sandy floor. The sound of dripping was clearer now, and they saw the stream of water Brant had mentioned earlier dribbling down from the ceiling in a steady trickle. At the far end of the cave was the outline of a door in the rock wall. It was from this outline that the unexpected breeze appeared to be emanating.

  “There it is,” Oraeyn breathed.

  Brant strode to the center of the cavern. “Just as I remembered it.”

  Kamarie was the first to reach the door. She looked at it quizzically. “How does it open? There is no latch.”

  Brant did not react as if he had heard her, he lifted his torch and stared up at the ceiling. Glittering gemstones were embedded into the roof of the cave and the firelight of the torches made them shine as convincingly as real stars. To those who had not seen starlight in what felt like centuries, this wonder was awe-inspiring indeed. After a moment, the others noticed that the pebbles were not scattered randomly or by chance. The stones had been placed with care across the ceiling of the cave in the exact shapes and locations of the constellations in the night sky.

  “Yorien!” Oraeyn exclaimed, pointing towards the ceiling. “And Ethalon, and The Gryphon… they’re all here!”

  “Is it just artwork, Brant? Or is this the key to getting through that door?” Kamarie asked.

  “Chareel is the key to Yorien’s heart,” Brant murmured. He reached a hand up to the ceiling and touched a stone that was a part of the Chareel constellation. It turned and the door of the cave swung open with a quiet click.

  A strident screech filled the air. The noise was excruciatingly loud, but the terror it introduced into their hearts was worse than the torture to their ears. The awful sound hung in the air for a moment and then it was gone as quickly as if it had been whisked away by the wind. Kiernan and Brant shared a concerned look.

  Kiernan Kane was the first to speak. “The Enemy has not forgotten the power of Yorien’s Gift. He has been alerted to our presence.”

  “Then we must move with even greater speed,” Brant replied.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Rhendak led a charge against Ghrendourak’s army. As Rena battered the enemy with rain and howling wind, Rhendak dove at them with fire and tooth and claw. His bright green body swept down over the were-folk again and again, flames pouring from his mouth. In the midst of the rain, the light of the dragon-fire sparkled and shimmered along his silver wings. He was a truly marvelous sight, a creature of ferocity, he winged across the sky like a storm of fire.

  The dragon king soared and plunged. He dove into the seething enemy army and struck with outstretched claws, his powerful tail sweeping through the ranks and wreaking havoc. Then he lunged into the sky, a seheowk clenched in his teeth as
he hurtled higher and higher. When he reached the barrier, he paused. Then he opened his jaws and released the filthy creature; it plummeted back to the ground with an unearthly wail.

  Though many of the creatures below cringed and cowered before the dragon’s attack, a dozen whyvrens rose on skeletal wings to meet the dragon king in the sky. Rhendak did not know it at the time, but two of his own, many miles distant, were engaged in their own death struggle against these same creatures.

  The dragon king let out a roar of challenge and met the whyvrens as they ascended. Thick, inky clouds poured from the monsters’ tails, surrounding Rhendak and momentarily blinding him. In his moment of weakness, the creatures attacked. Together they dove at the enormous dragon, their stingers whipping towards him. Dragon fire erupted from the unnatural cloud and Rhendak streaked upwards, out of reach of the venomous stings.

  The whyvrens snarled in fury and pursued the dragon. To those on the ground it appeared that Rhendak could never be caught. He was speed itself, and the whyvrens, swift as they were, seemed clumsy in comparison. The sight of the great dragon heartened those fighting below, renewing their courage.

  Rhendak exulted in his strength. Warmth filled his body, and he turned to face his pursuers, greeting them with even more fire. The whyvrens were not as afraid of fire as their seheowk brethren, but they were not immune to its power. Two of the whyvrens screamed as they were engulfed in flames. They hurtled from the sky like falling stars.

  The other whyvrens paused, circling the dragon king at a safe distance. Rhendak flamed and darted towards first one, then another of the creatures, but they danced away and then closed back in, staying just out of reach, their fell wings beating a hideous rhythm in the air. They hissed and spat, spewing darkness at him. They flew at him and then away again in infuriating feints that clouded the dragon’s vision with a red haze of rage.