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

by Jenna Elizabeth Johnson

  Denaeh dropped her chin to her chest and nodded.

  “You are probably right,” she admitted. “But, we’ll have to keep an eye on her, nonetheless. I’m still in agreement that returning to Oescienne is the best, but I have a feeling seeing her homeland for the first time in so many years might be hard to take at first.”

  “Then, we’ll have to take one day at a time. For now, let her rest. Dervit,” Ellyesce said, eager to change the subject, “did you happen to find any good board games in those drawers?”

  Dervit shrugged and listed off a few, some of which were missing pieces.

  Ellyesce grinned. “We could always play a round or two of Astral cards.”

  Denaeh turned to face him, smiling. “You mean the Astral cards I gifted you so long ago?”

  The elf returned her cheer, and Denaeh eagerly absorbed it, glad for something other than the bone-deep sadness of late to keep her heart company.

  “The very same,” he crooned in return.

  * * *

  In the end, it took the Creecemind dragons a little over six days to reach Oescienne. They stopped twice along the way, for ice dragons, although able to fly for hours on end, do need rest on occasion. Before dawn on the sixth day, they crossed the Oribiy River, and it took them most of the day to pass over the Thorbet Mountains. By mid-afternoon, however, the great flying reptiles were seeking a place to land on the golden beaches of Oescienne.

  Jahrra watched from the window in the open sitting room, unable to hold back her tears. She had been melancholy the entire trip, quiet and subdued. Returning home, she realized, proved both a blessing and a curse. She had missed Oescienne dearly and had longed to see it again since leaving those many months ago. But, she had always expected to return with Jaax. Now, although she brought dear friends along, it wasn’t the same.

  A few people gathered to welcome the strange dragons and the travelers they carried, though they kept their cautious distance. As Ellyesce gathered their belongings and Denaeh bid a final farewell to the Creecemind, Jahrra searched the crowd for familiar faces, but Gieaun and Scede were not among them.

  Perhaps, they have moved away, she thought bitterly.

  Soon, the four companions had climbed atop their horses and were making their way to the Great Sloping Hill. Nothing, Jahrra realized as the miles melted away, had changed. The vast ocean still churned the pale sands of the coast, the fields and hills surrounding the Raenyan River still wore their verdant green and gold mantels. It was late summer, so some of the farmers had begun harvesting their crops, pausing just long enough to eye the travelers curiously.

  When the horses stepped onto the road that twined up the Great Sloping Hill, Jahrra’s heart lurched. Memories of riding atop Hroombra when she was just a child flashed into her mind and she let her head fall back, her eyes closed, as the rustling leaves of the eucalyptus shaded her face. At the top of the hill, Ellyesce turned the horses eastward.

  “I thought we might settle in the Black Swamp with Denaeh.”

  “If that is where you wish to stay for now, Jahrra,” the Mystic added warily.

  For some reason Jahrra couldn’t name, making Denaeh’s cozy cave her home brought her some comfort. Perhaps because taking up residence in the Castle Guard Ruin, or her foster parents’ old cabin, would roust up too many ghosts.

  The cave was a bit musty and overgrown with dangling roots when they arrived, but free of wild creatures looking for an easy den.

  “It will take us a while to get it properly cleaned, but I believe we could use a little distraction, don’t you think?” Denaeh said with an experimental smile.

  And so, for the next few weeks, Denaeh, Ellyesce, Jahrra, and even Dervit worked to freshen up the Mystic’s old home in the heart of the Black Swamp. An extra space in the back Denaeh had used for storage became Jahrra’s room and soon all the dust, cobwebs, and moldy patches were either cleaned, polished or removed. Ellyesce repaired the small fireplace, and Jahrra helped Denaeh clear out the garden. It wasn’t the same life Jahrra had had before leaving, but it was the start of a new one. She hoped, as the rest of them did, that in time, her sorrow would fade, and she’d find happiness once again.

  -Chapter Thirty-One-

  The Prince of Oescienne

  Dervit stood at the threshold of Denaeh’s cavern entrance and peered out into the mist-shrouded woods. Less than a month had passed since they came to live in Oescienne, and although the physical wounds from the war had healed, the ones plaguing their souls had not. Denaeh and Ellyesce had visited the Castle Ruin from time to time, to remember the fallen prince of Oescienne or to somehow honor him, Dervit couldn’t say. He did, however, tag along with them when they went. He couldn’t tell if they hoped to find the palace restored each time they visited, but since the monarchy of Oescienne was no more, there was also no royal blood to purge this last, lingering taint of Ciarrohn’s.

  The limbit had explored the crumbled stone walls and faded paintings with interest, but Jahrra never joined them. She had told him it would dredge up memories that would bring her sorrow, so he, and Ellyesce and Denaeh, did not push her. Instead, she would spend her days riding Phrym across the fields, through the forests, and up the hills of Oescienne. She would be gone for hours at a time, and Dervit would worry, but always she would return. Sometimes, she would seem more at peace, other times, she’d appear as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. Still, they all waited and watched, wondering when, if at all, Jahrra would be herself again.

  Dervit drew in a deep breath of the misty, autumn air, leaving his thoughts of the past several weeks for another time. Behind him, the cave beckoned. The fire still burned low from the night before, warm and inviting. Although the smells of the Mystic’s strange herbs and mushrooms had been unfamiliar to him at first, they weren’t unpleasant. And, the cave itself was now clean and well-kept. Not that it would have bothered him otherwise. He was a limbit, after all. This small home felt more comfortable to him than all the castles and houses he’d been in since joining Jahrra and her friends on their quest.

  Shrugging, Dervit turned his attention back to the woods. Dawn was not far off, he could tell by the graying light around him. The temptation to step forth from the cozy cavern was strong, but the chill air discouraged such thoughts. That and the unknown of this strange forest and its Black Swamp. He had never been brave enough to venture too far beyond the Mystic’s garden on his own, but this morning, curiosity tickled his mind, giving him that same feeling he always experienced when his instincts drove him towards some new discovery.

  Making up his mind, Dervit turned and grabbed his coat from a nearby chair, then stepped through the tangled roots acting as a door. He wove his way through the strange herbs and colorful mushrooms sprouting up all along the banks of the swamp, then, with one final glance over his shoulder, he disappeared into the mist, heading west.

  * * *

  Dervit had not meant to end up at the Castle Ruin, but after an hour of aimless wandering, the weathered stones of the worn-down walls loomed before him like the ancient skeleton of a Creecemind dragon. The fog had begun to burn off earlier this morning than usual, and the bright beams of sunlight played across the ruin like the prying fingers of a curious child. Eager to search the various, overgrown rooms on his own for once, Dervit trudged deeper into the castle’s remains, stopping from time to time to close his eyes and picture how the palace might once have looked. He was quite content with his exploration until he turned the corner of one ancient wall only to come to a dead stop as shock slapped him hard.

  Someone was standing in the center of the ruined castle, an elf or one of the humans who had returned to their homeland over the expanse of the past several days. He or she wore a tattered, stained cloak of deep brown, but the hood was drawn up and their back was to Dervit, so he had no way of telling who or what this person was. This stranger was tall, though, about as tall as Ellyesce, or perhaps even taller, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and long legs.
So, probably a man, but not necessarily. Either way, he could easily chase Dervit down should he turn and discover the limbit studying him. Besides the nondescript cloak, a sword was strapped at his waist. It was hidden beneath the fabric, but Dervit noticed the shape of it and swallowed. He had seen enough swords hidden under cloaks of late, after all.

  Then, the words of the Creecemind dragons skittered across his mind, about those loyal to Cierryon still lingering in the world. Spirits of his ancestors, could this be a soldier of Ghorium? Come to Oescienne to enact one more act of revenge upon Jahrra? Dervit wasn’t picking up on any ill-will or darkness from this stranger, but there was definitely something about this newcomer that had him on edge. Probably best to leave, then, and not come back alone.

  Dervit loosed a quiet breath and took a step back, ready to bolt, but his foot came down on a small twig, and it snapped. The man in the cloak whipped around, the fabric whirling like a dark cloud. Dervit squeaked and turned to run, only to trip over one of the ruined castle’s many crumbled stones. The limbit tried desperately to scramble to his feet, but the stranger was upon him before he could regain his balance. A strong hand grabbed the back of his jacket, pulling him up so that he hung level with the man’s face.

  Dervit drew his arms up, hoping to slip free of the jacket. He could always get another one.

  “Stop, limbit,” the man commanded, tightening his grip so that the fabric cinched around Dervit’s arms.

  Something in that voice seemed familiar, but he could not place it. Not as he twisted in fear.

  “I mean you no harm. I am not in the habit of hurting innocents. I only have a few questions for you. Then I will release you.”

  Dervit stopped struggling and blinked his eyes at his captor. The hood was still in place, but he noticed a pair of pale eyes studying him from the darkness of the cowl. The man tilted his head to the side, those eyes narrowing, and Dervit caught a glimpse of one ear. Not pointed like an elf’s or a Resai’s. So he was either Nesnan, or, as he had contemplated earlier, one of the humans returned to his homeland.

  “What is your name?” the man asked.

  “D-Dervit,” the limbit managed.

  “Dervit.” The man said his name softly, as if he meant to remember it. “And, do you have any friends, Dervit?”

  He lowered Dervit onto one of the larger stones nearby, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword in warning. Dervit swallowed, taking his meaning. If he ran, the man would stop him. Instead, the limbit answered his question. “I do have friends, though they are not nearby.”

  The man gave a light laugh, the serious visage beneath the hood changing a little. He crossed his arms. “No, I would think not or they’d have come to your rescue by now.”

  Dervit turned red.

  The stranger tilted his head towards the east. “Tell me, Dervit, does the Mystic known as Archedenaeh still live in these woods?”

  Dervit’s jaw dropped open.

  The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but did not drop his guard. “I’ll take that as a yes. Do me a favor and go fetch her. Tell her someone wishes to speak with her at the old ruined castle.”

  The tall stranger took a step back, and as soon as he was out of sword reach, Dervit twisted and leapt from the stone. He didn’t even bother to look back as he vaulted over fallen logs and tore through thick underbrush. With his heart in his throat, he headed straight for Denaeh’s cave, a strange mix of fear, unease, and perhaps a little excitement urging him onward. Something important was about to happen, he could tell, and Denaeh, Ellyesce, and Jahrra needed to know.

  * * *

  Jahrra screamed as the last remnants of another nightmare about Jaax’s death fled her mind, and she was thrown back into the world of consciousness. She kicked against restrictive blankets, her heart pounding, her skin slick with cold sweat.

  “Jahrra, wake up! You must wake up, dearest.”

  Denaeh’s voice.

  “Ellyesce, help me!”

  The sound of soft footfalls, then a palm pressed against her forehead. She flinched, lashing out, but soon a cool, soothing sensation washed over her and she relaxed. Jahrra sighed, sinking back into the bed but not losing consciousness. Eventually, her frenzied mind calmed, and she opened her eyes. The action hurt, and she realized it was because she had been crying in her sleep.

  She turned her head to look at the Mystic and the elf standing over her, their faces pale and pinched with worry. In the corner, a sleepy Milihn grumbled with apprehension. A single tear slid from the corner of Jahrra’s eye, and her bottom lip trembled. She turned away, not ashamed of her pain but not wanting to see their pity. For the past few weeks, she’d been able to escape such horrors at night and wake, if not well-rested, then at least not haunted by awful memories.

  “Jaax,” she managed to rasp, running her fingers through her tangled hair as the images surfaced fresh in her mind. “I had to watch ... him die again.”

  It was a struggle to get the words out, and Jahrra nearly choked on them. She curled up around a pillow and let her sorrow break free as she sobbed, trying to cleanse the pain from her soul. No matter how hard she cried, it never went away. Never dulled.

  Someone sat on the bed next to her, the mattress sinking a little. A warm hand brushed away her hair, and Denaeh’s young voice cooed to her in soothing tones. Jahrra could tell without even looking that Denaeh shed a few tears herself. When the immediate ache passed, Jahrra turned to regard her Mystic friend.

  “I thought it was getting better, Denaeh,” she managed, with a sniffle. “But, it isn’t. I feel as awful now as I did the day it happened.”

  “Oh, Jahrra,” the Mystic said, “it’s going to take time, dear girl. But, you cannot let the darkness best you.”

  “I can’t help it,” Jahrra whispered, hugging the pillow tighter. “I thought the dreams were over, but clearly I was wrong. I can’t fight this forever.”

  Denaeh nodded, then said, “It happens more often than people realize, in the aftermath of war. The bad memories take root and then rise up to haunt us even when we thought we’ve moved on.”

  “Will they ever stop?” Jahrra asked.

  Denaeh shrugged. “I don’t know. I have them, too.”

  “You hide their evidence better than me.”

  The Mystic grinned, though it held no humor. “I have had centuries to learn how to hide them from the world. But, some are as fresh as the day they happened. And now, I have new horrors to haunt my dreams as well.”

  Denaeh let her hand drop away from Jahrra’s hair, and she became still.

  “I’m sorry, Denaeh,” Jahrra said, sitting up. “I fear my own grief makes me forget I’m not the only one who lost loved ones.”

  The Mystic’s topaz eyes met Jahrra’s. The loss of Kehllor and Jaax had left such a hole in Jahrra’s soul, but what must it be like knowing you killed your own son? Could it be worse than what she felt, or just as bad, but different? She couldn’t bring herself to ask, so instead she cleared her throat, took a deep breath and said, “Where did Ellyesce go?”

  He had been there when she first broke free of her nightmare, his elvin magic trying to push away the shadows and pain. She wanted to thank him.

  “I sent him out to seek more calming herbs and to see if he could discover where Dervit wandered off to. That limbit friend of yours sure has a knack for getting distracted.”

  That made Jahrra smile, at least a little.

  The two women didn’t have to wait much longer, for Dervit came bursting through the tangled root door, Ellyesce close on his heels, not five minutes later.

  “Denaeh!” the limbit gasped, clearly out of breath.

  Denaeh jumped to her feet and climbed down from the large alcove acting as Jahrra’s room.

  “Dervit, what on Ethoes is the matter?”

  Jahrra watched as the Mystic flicked her eyes to Ellyesce, but his blank face offered no answers.

  “I went for a walk this morning,” Dervit managed betwe
en gulps of air, “and ended up at the Castle Ruin. There was a man there, human, I think. He asked me to fetch you, Denaeh.” Dervit’s eyes darted to Jahrra, then back to the Mystic. “I think he knows you, somehow.”

  Denaeh went absolutely still, then turned to look at Jahrra.

  “I think you should stay here,” she managed, the edges of her mouth going hard.

  Alarm spiked through Jahrra’s heart. Whatever this man wanted, it had her friend, her Mystic friend, concerned. Eager to shake away her bad dream, Jahrra jerked her head from side to side and climbed out of bed.

  “No. I’m going with you. Just let me get dressed.”

  A half an hour later, they were all outfitted for the cool morning, Gliriant and Phrym saddled and eager to stretch their legs. Taking the semequins cut their time of travel in half, and before long, the four of them were standing before the ruins of the Tanaan king’s castle. All was still and silent, and just as Jahrra turned to ask Dervit if perhaps he had imagined the encounter earlier that morning, a tall figure wearing a hooded cloak stepped from behind a crumbling wall.

  Jahrra, Ellyesce, Denaeh, and Dervit froze, not daring to move as the stranger approached. Dervit had been right. He was tall. At least a head taller than Jahrra. But, she couldn’t get a good look at the rest of him, not with that heavy cloak and hood hiding his features.

  Before anyone could utter a greeting or demand his identity, the man edged forward. In a voice pitched low, he addressed Ellyesce first. The language was foreign, but seemed so familiar to her. It almost sounded like Kruelt, but the accent was different, the pronunciation not quite right. And, the words didn’t make any sense to her. Ellyesce, on the other hand, must have understood him completely, because his face drained entirely of color, his eyes going so wide Jahrra thought they might fall from their sockets.

  The stranger turned to Denaeh next, but before he spoke again, he lifted his gloved hands and pushed the hood back onto his shoulders. Deep, golden blond hair, a few shades darker than Jahrra’s, brushed the man’s forehead and fell just below his ears. He wasn’t facing her directly, but his profile suggested a strong nose and jaw. Jahrra scowled, eager to see the rest of his face but unwilling to draw attention to herself. She still had no idea who this man was. He could be a spy working for Ciarrohn’s followers, for all she knew.