She shivered a little at the memory. Fresh, vibrant, haunting. Jahrra clenched her back teeth and fought against it. They had hurt her, ridiculed her, belittled her. But, she had resisted it all with a ferocity and stubbornness she didn’t know she possessed.
More to herself than anyone else, Jahrra whispered, “If only they hadn’t taken Jaax.”
It was the tone of the Mystic’s voice, more than the words she spoke, that stopped Jahrra short.
“How long are you going to stoke this rage that dwells within you, Jahrra?”
She didn’t respond for a long while. Her fingers tightening around the cool metal of the door handle, her knuckles going white. She took in several deep breaths, letting them out just as slowly. Willing that anger, that rage Denaeh recognized, to settle into a pit of calm heat. Never gone, just banked.
Her own voice was worn down and tired when she finally admitted, “Until it burns away my sorrow.”
Then, without a backwards glance, she pulled the door open and stepped out into the hallway.
* * *
The stable hands didn’t ask Jahrra any questions as she strode into the stables to visit Phrym. They had grown used to seeing her there, often before dawn, mouth grim, dark circles under her eyes. They were accustomed to her silence and knew she preferred to take care of Phrym on her own. The semequin in question poked his head out from his stall, mottled ears pricked forward, smoky eyes finding her own. Her lips cracked in what might have been deemed a smile. At least she hadn’t lost Phrym, too. That much she could be grateful for.
“Hello, old friend,” she murmured, rubbing her palm down his forehead.
He lipped at the folds of her cloak, looking for treats.
“Maybe later,” she murmured, then got to work saddling him.
As she led him from the stables, the sun’s brilliant light had already burned away most of the morning’s lingering fog. A beautiful day that did nothing to warm Jahrra’s heart.
Sighing, she climbed into the saddle and pointed Phrym southward as the curious castle guards gazed after her.
The forest of the Great Sloping Hill was relatively silent, save for the chittering and rustling of a handful of songbirds and small animals. Even Phrym’s footfalls thudded quietly against the soft sand. Jahrra drew in a deep breath and let it out in a long stream, the heat of it misting in the air. Despite what Denaeh and Ellyesce thought, she hadn’t given up trying. She needed time, and she needed solace. Living in the castle with all Oescienne’s returned nobles and courtiers only scraped at those soul-deep wounds.
Perhaps that’s what convinced Jahrra to finally venture to the Castle Guard Ruin.
You’ve lost loved ones before, she reminded herself once again, thinking of Hroombra. You survived your parents’ deaths and even Kehllor’s. You will survive the loss of Jaax.
Eventually, the trees parted ahead of her, and a rolling field came into view. A narrow creek meandered from the other side of the forest, passed beneath a sturdy wooden bridge, only to cascade down the side of the hill. As they crossed the bridge, Phrym’s hooves thudding dully upon the thick wooden planks, the remains of an ancient structure came into view.
Jahrra’s heart nearly cracked at the sight of her old home, but her breath caught at something even more extraordinary. Sprouting from the ground where Hroombra had fallen, there grew an oak tree. A full-grown oak tree with sprawling branches supported by a thick trunk and roots. Forgetting the ruin for the time being, Jahrra led Phrym a few dozen yards farther and pulled him to a stop below the tree’s canopy. She dropped from the saddle to let Phrym search for sweet clover and approached the tree. There had been nothing growing in that particular spot when she and Jaax had left so long ago.
And then a memory sparked to life, of her finding the acorn from the Sacred Oak and planting it in this very spot. Jahrra gasped. This tree couldn’t be the product of that acorn, could it? But then again, it was a seed of the Sacred Oak, a tree several times larger than the one standing before her. Emotion roiled through her as she let her head tilt back, her eyes squeezed shut against burning tears. She remembered every detail of that day, when she had raced home to find her guardian dead, Jaax standing over him like some grave sentinel. She remembered the funeral pyre, and the soft, warm loamy earth as she had planted the acorn.
Taking a shuddering breath, Jahrra brushed away her tears and stepped forward. Holding out her palms, she moved slowly towards the tree, needing to touch its bark. The moment her skin pressed against the rough surface of the oak’s trunk, sensation flashed through her. Brilliant, warm, overwhelming emotion: happiness, regret, delight, peace, yearning …
Jahrra drew in a sharp breath, meaning to pull free, but the tree’s essence, its magic, its soul, anchored her in place. Memories, most of them joyous, swirled in her mind like a cloud of brilliantly colored butterflies: reading by the fire with Hroombra, Kruelt lessons, Solsticetide gatherings. And then a familiar presence settled over her, warm and heavy and comforting, filled with love and pride.
Jahrra gasped, half-choking on an exclamation of wonder and disbelief.
“Hroombra?” she rasped, tears spilling freely down her cheeks now.
The warm presence pulsed around her, and for a moment, the shadows that haunted her soul vanished as pure elation suffused her very being.
“Hroombra!” she cried out more loudly, crashing to her knees but not daring to remove her hands from the tree.
And then another presence joined Hroombra’s spirit. This one was not as open, not as all-encompassing as her former guardian. In her mind’s eye, Jahrra pictured a cloud of warm, golden light, subdued but strong. Brave, selfless, honorable. And then she knew.
With a choked sob, she whispered, “Kehllor!”
The low-burning spirit of Kehllor flashed bright, as Hroombra’s had, contentment and calm pouring from him.
I am at peace, Jahrra, he seemed to say without words. Do not mourn me. I was able to help you save Ethoes. No greater honor could have been bestowed upon me. Do not let your soul despair for my sake.
“I miss you,” she sniffled, eyes still squeezed shut. “I miss you both.”
Hroombra’s presence swelled. You are not yet done with your life, Jahrra. You still have so much more to give, and there will be joy again. Believe me. This darkness will not last.
Jahrra wanted to believe him, but she could not see how she would ever recover from her wounds.
Jaax. The name rasped across her conscious. Where’s Jaax?
She needed to speak with the Tanaan dragon who had been guardian, her companion, her best friend. She had to tell him she was sorry she couldn’t save him, that she missed him, that she loved him. Only silence greeted her mind, Hroombra and Kehllor present but no longer burning as brightly as before.
“Please!” she pleaded, aloud this time. “Where is he?”
Still, the spirits of the other dragons remained dormant. Panic swelled, threatening to choke off her breath, but she fought it. No! Jaax! She screamed in her mind, her heart, her soul. And then, that anger she had adopted flared to life, the rage that kept the overwhelming sorrow and pain at bay. Just as she had done so as a child, she sharpened that rage into a point and aimed it at the memory of her dead guardian.
Curse you, Jaax! Curse you! Why did you have to leave? Why didn’t you fight harder!?
Worst of all, why did he now refuse to reach out to her? Was he angry with her for her own failures as well? Jahrra’s fists pounded against the tree, leaving scraps along the edges of her hands, her nerves stinging from the abuse. She didn’t care.
Snapping her eyes open, Jahrra stared stubbornly at the tree’s rough bark, then screamed in frustration. She could still feel Hroombra and Kehllor there, dim specks now in the recesses of her mind, slowly retreating back into the void, wherever that place was.
“No!” she screamed, pulling her palms away from the tree, then slapping them against the bark once again. “No! Please don’t go!”
; The magic of the tree was fading, the spirits of her lost loved ones sinking back into the warm darkness.
“No!” This time she clawed at the tree, her fingernails tearing and growing bloody.
Behind her, Phrym whickered nervously. Jahrra stopped her assault, her breath coming in great, heaving gasps.
“No,” she managed weakly.
Trembling, she fell to her knees and pressed her palms against her thighs, taking several, wracking breaths. Panic squeezed at her heart and made her feel light-headed, but she couldn’t give into it. Instead, she pushed aside her stinging disappointment and thought about what had just happened.
The tree was a conduit to the spirit world, as all the sacred trees of Ethoes were. How had she not realized that before? She had always assumed it was some sort of magic, and in a way it was. Glancing back up at the young oak, she furrowed her brow. But this wasn’t a sacred tree of Ethoes. It was the offspring of one. Perhaps, if she just delved deeper, or if she gave it time …
For the next several hours, Jahrra attempted, and failed, to reach her friends’ spirits through the tree. As the sun dipped behind the dunes, and twilight started creeping in, she carried on without rest. Jahrra kept pushing herself, her hands scraped, her mind going blank with weariness, seeking those sparks she’d discovered just hours before. Only when Phrym walked up to her, nudging her with his nose, did she concede. Frustrated and beyond exhausted, Jahrra climbed into the saddle and let him carry her back to the castle.
The guards cried out at her approach, and several people came running with torches, their voices frantic, worried she’d been carried off by dremmen wolves or boarlaques.
“There are no dremmen wolves or boarlaques in Oescienne,” someone, Denaeh, Jahrra realized, grumbled. “Ellyesce, help me get her to bed. I don’t know what she’s been up to, but she clearly needs sleep.”
The last thing Jahrra saw as her friends carried her up the stairs to her suite was the prince gazing after her, his eyes burning with some emotion she didn’t want to consider. Fortunately, she was in no shape to think about anything at the moment. As the Mystic and the Magehn placed her on the bed, tucking her into cozy sheets, Jahrra allowed the weighty drowsiness to sweep her away into unconsciousness.
Tomorrow … Tomorrow she would go back to the tree and try again. And again. And again … Until she found Jaax. For the first time in many nights, she slept for several hours in blissful oblivion.
-Chapter Thirty-Five-
A Conversation Long Over Due
Something woke Denaeh from her sleep, but for once, it wasn’t bad memories masked as haunting nightmares. As she lay in the wide bed, blinking away her drowsiness, she tried to cling to the last vestiges of whatever it was she had been dreaming of. Usually, she had no trouble remembering the scenes that visited her during sleep, but this morning she did. Frowning, she sat up, carefully so as not to disturb Ellyesce as he dozed beside her. His own sleep, to her great relief, felt unburdened. Good. She did not want anything to ever cause him pain or heartache again. She had been responsible for enough of that in his past. The future would hold only happiness and peace, not just for her and the Magehn, but for everyone else she loved as well. At least, if she had anything to say about it. Perhaps that, and not cold memories whisking just beyond her clutches between wakefulness and sleep, had been what stole away her rest so early in the morning.
Denaeh took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she eased away from the warmth of the blankets. Her bare feet touched down on a soft rug, but only a few steps away lay the cold stone floor. The fireplace across the room glowed softly, its heat only a kiss of warmth from where she stood.
Casting one final glance at Ellyesce, Denaeh padded silently over to the corner where her robe hung on a hook. She wrapped it around her body and secured the ties before reaching for her warm cloak as well, adding one more extra layer before sliding her feet into a pair of slippers. Her mind was troubled, and she needed fresh air. As silently as she could, she crossed towards the door of the chamber, adding a few more logs to the dwindling fire along the way, before slinking out into the hallway. The door latch snicked shut softly behind her, and the wide, dark corridor enveloped her in a slight chill. Shivering a little, Denaeh pulled her cloak tight and made her way to the southwestern tower. She passed a few sleepy guards along the way, ducking her head in greeting as they snapped to attention. Eventually, she reached the circular staircase winding up to the roof of the castle.
Denaeh expected the parapet walk to be empty. After all, the prince had been in Oescienne for only a few weeks, and not enough guards had been recruited to watch every corner of the castle yet. Those soldiers willing to take posts were situated closer to ground level with maybe a lookout or two in each of the towers.
Ever since she began taking these early morning walks along the stockade, Denaeh had met with no other soul. So when the outline of a tall, dark figure faded into view just as she turned a corner, Denaeh paused, not sure if she should make her presence known. Torches lining the crenellations cast just enough light to fall upon her fellow early riser. He wore a plain tunic, the hem pulled free of his trousers and falling to mid-thigh. Despite his inappropriate dress for the brisk, foggy morning, he had obtained enough sense to pull on a pair of knee-high boots. As Denaeh moved closer, the color of his hair became apparent, though the early hour stained it several shades darker than usual. She should have known, for no other person in the entire castle cut such a regal figure, even when standing with his shoulders rolled forward. The Mystic relaxed a little and allowed the sphere of cloaking magic she’d cast around herself fade. Her slippered feet dragged against the rough stone, and the prince of Oescienne tensed, turning to see who had intruded upon his solitude.
“I did not expect to find anyone up here,” Denaeh commented casually, “least of all, you.”
Aeron turned back around, his gaze cast towards the southwestern wall below them.
“I could not sleep,” was his simple answer.
“Nor I. Troubled dreams?” the Mystic inquired as she stepped up to the edge of the wall beside him.
“Troubled memories, and thoughts,” he admitted.
“What are you looking for?” Denaeh asked, trying to peer past him.
Before he could answer, she saw it, the faint flicker of shadowed movement below. Someone wearing a hooded cloak crept through the kitchen gardens and headed toward the small gate. The Mystic didn’t have to guess who this person was. And now, her restlessness made sense. The figure pushed the gate open with a faint squeak, then closed it behind her before fading into the mist. She was headed in the general direction of the stables.
Denaeh turned to face the prince. “How did your dinner go the other evening?”
She didn’t really have to ask him. She had heard enough from Jahrra herself, and the faint bruise marring the prince’s nearly perfect features only highlighted the fact. But, it was always good to hear both sides of an event before casting a final judgment.
Prince Aeron’s mouth drew into a tight line, his gaze still fixed on the spot where Jahrra had disappeared. As if staring long and hard enough would draw her back out of the mist.
“Poorly,” he grumbled.
The Mystic arched a brow and crossed her arms. “I see. Care to indulge me?”
Aeron snapped his head around to glare at her. “No. I do not.”
“Ah, very poorly then. What did you say to the young woman?”
Despite his desire not to speak of it, Aeron ran his fingers through his hair, an act of frustration, and released a sharp breath. “Barely ten words shared between us before she was flashing those fierce eyes of hers, a hot mix of wrath and loathing roaring up within her. With a grand finale of her storming from the dining hall only to have me chase after her like an idiot. I should have left her well alone. Given her time and space to cool off. Instead, I let my impatience and temper get the better of me and dared to touch her.”
“And she touched you rig
ht back. With her fist.”
Denaeh couldn’t help a small smile as the prince’s expression darkened, and his eyes filled with shame. Not for letting Jahrra get the better of him, oh no, despite what the young woman thought, Aeron had far more honor than she was allowing herself to see. If he felt shame, it was for pushing her when she felt cornered. But, that was his own fault, and Denaeh let him know it. Time was running short, and if they, if he, wasn’t careful, Jahrra might be lost to them forever.
“You’ve waited too long to speak with her,” Denaeh said softly. “And now, it might be too late.”
The prince’s eyes gleamed in the flickering torchlight. “What have you foreseen, Mystic?”
Denaeh lifted her chin. Nothing. That was the problem. Her powers of foresight had been alluding her for weeks. She blamed the efforts she’d put forth during the war. But she also wondered if maybe it was no longer in her power, no longer her path, to forge what was to happen next. Perhaps Ethoes was once again putting the sole responsibility of the world and her people into their own hands.
“You must speak with her. No more excuses, no more putting it off. I do not like this feeling I have, this strange desperation I woke to just a few minutes ago. Something isn’t right. I don’t think Jahrra is just running off to find some peace and quiet this time.”
Aeron’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Denaeh turned to face him, moving a little closer to the young prince of Oescienne, and placed a hand on his forearm. His fists were clenched at his sides, but that one comforting touch drew off some of the tension.
“Go. Tell her. For her sake. For yours. For all our sakes.”
He let his eyelids drift shut, then jerked his head once, the hard lines marring his handsome face easing a bit. Without another word, Aeron stepped away from the Mystic and headed in the direction she had come from.
“Your Majesty?” Denaeh called out softly, her voice almost trembling.
His footsteps halted for a moment.
“Wear your green cloak.”
The Legend of Oescienne--The Reckoning (Book Five) Page 50
