The Legend of Oescienne--The Reckoning (Book Five)

by Jenna Elizabeth Johnson

  Why can’t I put my finger on this mystery? he hissed inwardly.

  Ellyesce’s internal diatribe was interrupted by Jahrra’s barked, “What?”

  He blinked and leveled his pale green eyes on her face. The expression there was one of suspicious frustration. Carefully, Ellyesce set his mug down and gently laced his fingers together, elbows resting on his knees.

  “I’ve been picking up on someone wielding powerful magic during our travels. He hasn’t always been within range, and sometimes that magic registers as something weaker than my own. Sometimes it flares brightly. Like a flickering candle held by a child dancing through the woods at night.”

  “Should we worry? Is this person a threat?”

  Ellyesce turned to Dervit, glad to escape Jahrra’s silent scrutiny. Now he understood how Jaax felt.

  The elf shook his head once. “I cannot say for certain. For some reason, my magic is unable to uncover their identity, so, for now, we’ll do our best to keep our distance.”

  “Why are you telling us this now?” Jahrra wondered aloud.

  “Because,” the elf said with a sigh, “whoever this person is, their magic has shifted. The power they are giving off feels closer, stronger. As if they are closing the distance between us and working extra hard to keep their identity, and their presence, masked.”

  He gave a humorless smile. “I’ve been doing my best to keep my identity shrouded as well, so perhaps, they are moving in closer to discover who I am. Whether they mean ill will or good, I cannot say.”

  “Better to assume they mean us harm,” Jahrra stated tightly.

  Ellyesce only nodded, his attention turned towards his folded hands, his expression going grim. “I wish I could tell for sure, but we had best be cautious from here onward. It could very well be a spy of the Crimson King in sheep’s clothing, but what I can say for sure, at least, is that this stalker is a single entity. If he attacks, we stand a good chance of fighting him off.”

  Jahrra gritted her teeth, her hand inching towards her nearby sword belt. Dervit let out a whimper and flung his head around, surveying the top of the canyon walls.

  Ellyesce held up a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep my magical senses sharp. This stranger won’t catch us off guard. Having said that,” he added, “you two might want to sleep with a weapon or two, just as a precaution.”

  Jahrra stood and walked to the saddlebags draped over a tree branch where the horses snoozed. When she returned, she carried her long dagger.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” she grumbled, tucking the knife beneath her pillow, “but we can’t get to the valley of the elves soon enough.”

  A tendril of that familiar magic tested the boundaries of Ellyesce’s shields, then flitted away as swiftly as a mouse. His stomach turned, and he frowned, his fingers clutching his mug of tea more tightly than before.

  “I agree,” he breathed, adding extra strength to his magic as he prepared another sandwich and cup of tea, “I won’t rest easy until we are safely within the borders of Dhonoara.”

  * * *

  Denaeh waited in the rocky outcropping above the campsite, her brilliant red cloak hidden behind a thicket of holly bushes as late afternoon light cut swaths through the lingering mist. Night was approaching, bringing with it the cold, and she had so badly wanted to kindle a fire to keep warm. But being so very close to Jahrra and her travel companions, she couldn’t risk discovery. Not yet. Practically on their heels or not, she still did not know the identity of the third member of their party, the one with powerful magic who had been cloaking himself, or herself, since the Mystic first realized her quarry did not travel alone.

  You will know soon enough, she thought grimly. As much as she wished to uncover this stranger’s identity, part of her quailed at the knowledge. A mage that powerful could prove a true threat to her, and if this individual held the same opinion of Mystics that most did, then she had good reason to fear openly joining their party.

  Above, Milihn let out a quiet complaint. Denaeh tilted her head upward and pursed her lips.

  “I know, old friend,” she murmured. “We won’t be traveling alone much longer.”

  Or, she added to herself with a touch of foreboding, we’ll be dead and won’t care.

  Sighing, Denaeh closed her eyes and cast her own magic out, the way she had done outside of Cahrdyarein and Nimbronia, using the elements to spy on the three travelers. Only three now because Jaax had taken a different road. At least, she could find comfort in the fact that the brooding, tiresome dragon wouldn’t be present when she finally made contact. Knowing him and his shifty moods, he might just as soon burn her to a crisp before giving her a chance to speak.

  Tucking such dismal thoughts away where they couldn’t pester her, Denaeh returned her attention to the present. Her power tripped over tree roots as it headed downhill, zipping through veins of frozen water and creeping through solid stone. Eventually, it found the campsite she sought, and Denaeh was given a murky view of a tiny crevasse in the mountainside. It was a good location to pass the dark hours of the night: veiled from the game path by trees and shrubs, as well as several tall slabs of granite. Black, charred wood still smoked in a rudimentary fire pit, and sleeping rolls littered the ground nearby.

  Denaeh got the impression that all three inhabitants had gone off into the surrounding woods to hunt, scout, or take care of the typical evening ablutions. A further push of her magic proved as much. Jahrra was down by the creek, trying to get clean, her limbit friend nearby fishing for trout. Once again, she could not sense the third member of their party, but she imagined he was checking the perimeter of their camp.

  “If you want to search their packs, now’s the time,” the Mystic muttered to herself.

  Taking a deep breath to bolster her nerves, Denaeh descended the hill swiftly, stepping carefully to avoid tripping or making too much noise. Milihn glided past her on silent wings, searching for a perch so he might act as lookout. It took her nearly ten minutes to reach the floor of the narrow canyon and, casting one more sweeping glance behind her, she slipped into its mouth.

  A soft whicker drew her every muscle tight as a bowstring, but she relaxed when she noticed a trio of horses eyeing her curiously from where the canyon walls split to form the crevasse. No, not horses. A pack horse and two semequins. One was a brilliant, solid white, his intelligent eyes assessing her. The other she recognized immediately. Breaking into a smile, she approached them slowly, clucking her tongue and holding out her hand. The marble gray pressed his velvety nose to her palm and inhaled.

  “Hello, Phrym,” she crooned, scratching his forehead as he rumbled deep in his chest.

  Careful not to dally too long with the semequins, Denaeh turned and started rummaging through the packs. It was horribly invasive of her, but she was hoping to find something, anything, to reveal the identity of the powerful mage. The first pack she went through held dried food items, the second, clothing. Shirts and vests and pants Denaeh judged to be Jahrra’s. The third bag contained tools and utensils used to prepare and cook camp meals.

  Frustrated but undeterred, the Mystic turned back to the horses. Their saddlebags were piled nearby along with some larger cases the pack horse must carry. Denaeh picked up the first set of bags, taking only a brief moment to appreciate the intricate design worked into the leather. She unsnapped the button, and something solid and rectangular fell free, nearly crashing upon her toes. Curious, she set the pouches aside and lifted an age-stained, wooden box. The Mystic brushed her fingers over the carved pattern, her nerves prickling a little. There was something terribly familiar about this box, but she couldn’t say what. A small golden hook looped through a metal latch kept it tightly shut. With deft fingers, she flicked the clasp open and carefully lifted the lid. The hinges creaked a little, but not so much to cause alarm. What was inside the box, however, stunned her. Astral cards, and not a false set. As she picked them up, gingerly shuffling the beautifully painted cards between her hand
s, she realized the magnitude of this find. These were real Astral cards, at least two or three centuries old. Maybe older. As she gazed upon them in awe, drinking in the rich artwork, she noticed a small mark in the bottom left corner of each of the inner faces of the set. She narrowed her eyes, then felt her heart kick up its pace as recognition pulsed through her, along with an ancient, zinging current of magic. Very familiar magic.

  She dropped the deck, both hands flying to her mouth as her eyes widened in astonishment. She knew these cards. She knew them. Not just a very fine set of old Astral cards, but a gift bestowed upon someone a long time ago. A gift both to show a deep appreciation for the intended as well as a way to convey an even deeper regret. She fell to her hands and knees, frantically raking her fingers through the leaves in search of the box and its spilled contents. Memories and emotions spun in Denaeh’s mind, but before she could calm her whirling thoughts long enough to consider what this all meant, before she could grasp one of those frantic memories and pin it in place to study it more closely, she was interrupted.

  The ominous creak of a bowstring being drawn taut was the only warning she was no longer alone. Instantly, her every movement stilled, the hands pushing aside the leaf litter below halting. Even her slow breaths came to a standstill as her heart pounded against her ribcage. How had she been so easily caught off guard? Her magic was unfurled, giving her input from at least a half mile in every direction, aided by the powerful mage diamond tucked into one of the hidden pockets of her bodice. Yet, somehow this person had gotten the better of her. So Denaeh waited, her heart pounding in her ears, as the archer made up his or her mind whether or not to let their deadly arrow fly.

  “Stand slowly with your arms stretched away from your body.”

  Denaeh stopped breathing altogether, and whatever blood remained in her face fled instantly. Her already racing heart nearly stuttered to a stop, her fingertips going numb with shock. She knew that voice. Ethoes above …

  “Now,” he growled, when she didn’t immediately move.

  The Mystic obeyed, rising slowly, her arms outstretched, and her scarlet red cloak lifting like a veil. Her back was to him, but she could feel his presence like that of a blazing fire.

  “Let me see your hands.”

  Her fingers slipped free of the edges of her cloak, their tips stained with the soil from below.

  “Very slowly, remove your hood, and turn around,” the mage demanded.

  Longing, anguish, utter joy, desire, bone-melting fear … All these emotions rushed through the Mystic as, with shaking hands, she pushed back the hood of her cloak, her unnaturally brilliant red hair tumbling loose.

  A sound, not quite a gasp, but a noise of sharp recognition and crippling shock came from behind her.

  So. He now knows who he holds prisoner at the end of an arrowhead, she mused to herself, wondering if it would be best just to bolt and let him lodge that arrow deep into her heart. It would be everything I deserve from him.

  “Turn around,” the elf demanded again, his voice more of a rasp now.

  “Is that really necessary?” she asked, her own tone barely above a rough whisper.

  “Turn, now!” he snarled, anger now spicing his words.

  Without flinching, Denaeh took a deep, shuddering breath and did as he commanded.

  She knew who stood before her, had known the moment he spoke, but seeing his face for the first time in nearly five centuries nearly undid her. Still as handsome as ever, even if his face was ashen, Ellyesce of Dhonoara had not changed. Denaeh dared look him in the eye, the breath crushed from her lungs. Perhaps there were some changes that only time and life’s many trials could bring. Those brilliant green eyes, the same ones that had captivated her so long ago, held far more pain and bitterness than she remembered.

  Can you blame him? she thought to herself. And she was bold enough to wonder how much of that darkness could be attributed to her. But here he was. Whole, real, and unutterably alive.

  -Chapter Eight-

  The Mystic’s Tale

  Ellyesce knew this day would come, this particular encounter. He had just hoped it wouldn’t have come so soon. It was neither provoked nor welcomed, but here he was, facing the woman who had shown him the world, only to crush it into ash. Centuries-old pain and regret blossomed in his heart, the sensation so powerful the corner of his mouth pulled downward against his will and his clear green eyes hardened like near-colorless emeralds. Only that tiny spark of longing, a desire he refused to name or acknowledge, stayed his hand; kept his fingers from releasing the bowstring and letting his arrow fly. It would be better for all of them if he killed the Mystic Archedenaeh now. But the Dhonoaran elves did not love lightly, even if that love had betrayed them.

  Denaeh stood absolutely still, her topaz eyes fixed on his. Her face was pale, but just as beautiful as he remembered it. The same high cheekbones, the same large eyes and sweeping lashes. The same stubborn mouth he hadn’t set eyes upon in five hundred years. As if that great multitude of time had been only months, or weeks, or days ago.

  “Ellyesce,” she breathed, a tear sliding from one eye.

  Ellyesce trembled at the sound of her voice, his instincts screaming at him to rush to her. To take her in his arms. To soothe away her pain.

  No, he snarled at that part of him. No. Do you not remember what she did to you? The part she played in the deterioration of our world?

  Her hands, held open at her sides, curled into fists. With some effort, she unclenched her fingers and lifted her right arm.

  “Do not move,” Ellyesce hissed, adjusting his aim ever so slightly.

  Denaeh’s golden eyes shone with anguish. Or perhaps that was just the tears she had conjured up to fool him again. She ignored his command, her fingers splaying out as her hand crept to her throat. Ellyesce held his breath. The Mystic pulled at a cord looped around her neck, working free some charm or pendant tucked beneath the collar of her dress.

  Without relaxing his stance, the elf narrowed his eyes, his enhanced vision pulling the charm into full focus. Not a charm. A ring.

  It was Ellyesce’s turn to pale.

  “How, where ... ?” he managed, his arm loosening the bowstring and bringing the weapon down to point harmlessly at the ground. He did not take his fingers from the arrow, still nocked in place, but the Mystic was safe for now.

  Slight relief poured from the woman as her shoulders relaxed. She fingered the ring gently, lovingly, as if her own soul lay encompassed within the spirit stone.

  “A cave, in Oescienne. Where the Korli dragon Hroombramantu raised the girl Jahrra. This cavern called to me, and I answered. A skeleton lay within, almost entirely undisturbed. And on his finger, I found this ring. Your ring. The spirit stone ring I had fashioned for you.”

  Her small speech ended with a choked sob, and her fingers tightened around the ring, her knuckles growing white.

  “Gods and goddess of Ethoes, Ellyesce! I thought you were dead! For so long I dreaded it, then when I found your ring! I mourned your death as if we had never parted. Knowing you were no longer in this world tore my heart asunder. But I knew I could not abandon Jahrra and the part I must still play in all of this,” she gestured with one hand, indicating the trees and boulders around them. “And so I traveled north, following Raejaaxorix and his ward, keeping my distance, but never faltering. I had this uncanny ability to stay close, despite the efforts Jaax took to evade me. But now, I know it wasn’t just Jaax’s superb skills at avoiding an enemy, but your magic working as well. And, if not for this,” she thrust the ring forward, the leather cord drawn taut around her neck, “I may never have been able to keep up.”

  Ellyesce moved so suddenly, Denaeh had no time to react. Not that she could do anything but stand there, numb and shaken, far too many emotions, some old, some new, whirling through her mind and body. But in one moment, Ellyesce stood several feet in front of her, just where the tiny culvert swept up into a cluster of granite boulders, the next, he was mere inc
hes from her. True, his arrow was no longer trained on her heart, but the severe look in his eyes, eyes she had seen so many times in her troubled dreams, pierced her far worse than any arrow might have.

  “I died the day you left me for him, the day you chose power, status, and prestige over love. Do not pretend to mourn me, or to be glad to see me, for I have not thought of you for a very, very long time. And the last time your name, your visage, your memory, graced my thoughts it was transformed into something ugly, hateful, and despised. You chose your fate, Denaeh, and I have chosen mine. Our paths split long ago, by your own doing, and they will never intersect again. You are not welcome among our party, so you had best live out your destiny in some other fashion, because it will not be anywhere near me, or Jahrra.”

  The last part of his statement came out as a raw hiss, the venom of his words burning like acid. Denaeh remained absolutely still, neither wishing to provoke him or to reach out to him in case this was some dream she might destroy. His words struck home, at least some truth mingled among them, but she refused to believe him. Yes, the decisions she had made those many centuries ago had been selfish and naive and made for the wrong reasons. But she had been young and seduced by the power offered to her, and it was true, she had chosen that power over love.

  Ellyesce stepped swiftly away from her, and in that natural grace of his, strode away, not looking back, as he headed towards the opposite end of the campsite.

  “Yes,” the Mystic rasped to no one in particular, her hands returning the spirit stone ring back to its sacred place above her heart, “you are right. I did make the wrong choices.”

  She turned her head, her hair a cascade of crimson waves down her back, and cast her eyes in the elf’s direction. “Ever more reason for me to set things right.”

  Ellyesce lifted his bow again, but before he could form any sort of response, Jahrra called out from just beyond the campsite. “Good news, Ellyesce! Dervit and I found some edible winter berries, still on the plant. And there’s plenty more where–”