Jayson’s gaze drew inward as if observing some distant memory. He did not see the embers now, or anything around him. He saw her. He saw Ivanore. Marcus was sure of it.
“She called me her rock because I was strong,” Jayson continued. “I stood up to her father, vowing to protect her at any cost. And we were happy for a time. Until . . .” His voice broke off. He raised his hand and ran it through his disheveled hair. The expression on his face grew anxious.
“Until what?” Marcus coaxed gently. “What happened to her?”
Jayson now turned his gaze on Marcus. His eyes were vacant, as though they did not recognize him, but the emptiness was fleeting. “In time her father’s soldiers discovered our location,” he said. “I was exiled. The last I saw of my Ivanore, she was standing atop the cliffs of Dokur watching me sail away shackled to the mast of her father’s ship. That was nearly fifteen years ago.”
Marcus’s interest intensified. “Exiled? But why?” he asked, appalled.
“Isn’t the answer obvious?” said Jayson bitterly, holding his clawed fingers to his face. “He did not want me to pollute his daughter with my impure blood. Since then not a day—not an hour!—has passed that I have not thought of them and vowed one day to return.”
Jayson rose to his feet. “The hour is late. I must rest for a bit before I continue my journey. I will be leaving at sunrise.”
“Is that where you’re going, back to Dokur? To Ivanore?” asked Marcus, eager to hear more. It seemed to him that Jayson was a mystery waiting to be solved.
Jayson walked across the room to the staircase, his shoulders hunched as though carrying an unseen burden.
“Yes,” he replied, pausing on the bottom step. He stared ahead and did not speak for several moments. He drew a deep and troubled breath, and Marcus expected him to speak again. Instead he continued up the stairs, saying nothing. Marcus was alone with so many questions left unanswered.
THE SEARCH FOR TRUTH
Eighteen
he next morning Marcus awoke to the sound of a rooster crowing, ushering in the new day. He was accustomed to waking at that hour since he was responsible for milking Zyll’s goat and gathering eggs for breakfast. As an orphan, it was his duty to tend to the general chores of the cottage. Thus, while all the other children in Quendel were still tucked snugly in their beds, he was up sweeping out the chimney, or scraping ice from the well, or darning stockings. So on this morning when the cock crowed, he awoke with a start as his companions slept on.
Remembering his conversation with Jayson the night before, he quickly pulled on his clothes and hurried outside. He found Jayson in the square filling his water skin at the well.
“Jayson!” Marcus called out. Jayson turned and pulled the hood of his cloak off his head.
“Marcus, what are you doing up at this ungodly hour of the day?”
“You’re not leaving, are you?”
“I’ve several days’ walking still ahead of me to reach Dokur, so I’d better get on with it.”
“You’re going to Ivanore,” said Marcus.
“Yes, if all goes well. I don’t know what sort of reception I’ll have when I get there. At the very least, I expect to be exiled all over again.”
Marcus shivered from the brisk morning air. He had left his cape back at the inn. “Why go at all then?” he asked, rubbing his hands together to stay warm. “Why not send word to your wife and have her meet you here?”
“I bear an important message for Lord Fredric, her father. The fate of Imaness rests on delivering it in time.”
“Then let us come with you.”
“That’s enough, Marcus!”
Jayson’s tone was severe, but immediately his countenance softened. He replaced the plug in his water skin and slung it across his back. “I should not have told you what I did last night,” he said apologetically. “I’m afraid the ale got the better of me. You mustn’t tell the others.”
“But why?” said Marcus. “We came here to find you. How can you allow us to continue our quest in vain?”
“Your quest is not in vain,” Jayson spoke in earnest now. “If Zyll wants you to bring the Rock of Ivanore back to Quendel, then I should be obliged to accompany you there, but I must first go to Dokur. If I am discovered, I will be arrested and perhaps killed. No one must know I am here until I have safely delivered my message. Will you keep my secret for me?”
Marcus replied quickly. “I promise,” he said.
Jayson smiled with relief. “Thank you. And I promise that I will rejoin you in one week’s time.”
“Where will we meet?”
“Follow the main road toward Dokur. Stay in the village there. I will find you.” Jayson pulled his hood over his head and began walking away.
“And what will I tell the others?” Marcus called out after him.
Jayson answered without turning around. “Tell them I said the stone you are seeking may be in those parts. Let your search carry you along.”
Jayson’s form disappeared behind a stable just beyond the border of the town square. Marcus turned and hurried back to the inn. He wondered how he would manage to keep such a secret from Kelvin and the others for so long. But then again, he had given his word, and by withholding Jayson’s identity, his successful quest might be better assured. He would reveal the truth later, of course, after Jayson had delivered his message. Then he and the other boys would return to Quendel in triumph.
Nineteen
errid Zwelger flung off his covers and cursed under his breath. The sight of Marcus’s empty bed sent a jolt of adrenaline through him that immediately chased any remnants of sleep from his brain and body. The chill morning air bit into his lungs as he took his first breaths unprotected by the heavy, woolen blanket that had covered him during the night.
He had gone to bed long after everyone else had retired for the night. After supper he had laid his head on the table and fallen asleep. He guessed it was well past midnight when he had awakened and inadvertently overheard a private conversation between Marcus and Jayson. He had been about to make it known that he was awake and excuse himself from the room when he heard Jayson utter a statement that made his blood run hot.
Jayson, the Rock of Ivanore? Could it be?
Jerrid remained motionless on the table and listened intently as Jayson spoke of a secret marriage and exile. After Jayson and Marcus went upstairs and the embers in the hearth had cooled, Jerrid sat with his face in his hands, turning Jayson’s words over and over in his mind.
Zyll had given six boys a charge to retrieve the Rock of Ivanore and bring it back to Quendel. In keeping with tradition, those who returned from their quests in triumph received the greatest of honors and rewards. Those who failed were destined to a life of mediocrity and shame.
Jerrid’s father had never missed an opportunity to remind his son of his own quest many years earlier. “I was one of nine,” he always began in his grating, pompous voice. “Quendel had a different master then, much more clever than Zyll. We were to slay a Cyclops and bring back its eye. We found him in the Caverns of Feolina, in the southern mountains. It was a young one, probably strayed from its herd. We surrounded him and closed in for the kill. Bartholomew Tendall was to fire the first arrow, but he was nervous. He hesitated—and the beast turned on him in a rage.”
Here his father always curved his fingers as though they were claws and snarled like a wild animal. “One swipe and poor Tendall lay in pieces on the ground. The moment I saw him I knew what must be done. I flung myself upon the monster’s back and slit its throat with my knife. The other boys gave me the honor of bearing home the eye.”
A turn, a sweep of the arm, a pushing out of the chest as he relived that moment of glory from so many years ago. Surely no less glory awaited his son if he were to return to Quendel with the mystery of the Rock of Ivanore solved and in his possession.
But as his eyes blinked in the morning rays that escaped through the slats of the inn’s low roof, Jerrid knew that h
is chance at such glory had slipped from his fingers.
Jerrid hurried down the stairs and through the dining hall where the innkeeper was just preparing the morning meal. He dashed out the front door and ran toward the town square. He was out of breath when he met Marcus walking toward him, shivering from the cold.
“Where is he?” demanded Jerrid, white wisps of warm breath curling up from his mouth and nose.
Marcus drew his eyebrows together and breathed into his cupped hands. “Who?”
“Jayson! Has he gone?”
Marcus nodded and continued past Jerrid into the inn. The smell of smoked ham and eggs wafted through the door. Jerrid’s stomach rumbled inside of him, but his thoughts were not on his hunger. He ran past the fountain and on to the edge of the village. He searched the horizon for the dark cloak, but he could see it nowhere. How long had Jayson been gone, he wondered. Minutes? Hours? And to where?
Dokur!
But Dokur was several days’ journey from Noam. If I leave now and travel quickly, Jerrid thought, I could catch up with Jayson by noon. But how could he coax Jayson to return with him to Quendel? And what if he was wrong?
Jerrid shivered, and he realized that he had left the inn dressed only in his nightshirt. His feet, bare on the cobblestone, felt like blocks of ice. He would return to the inn, he decided. They had all agreed to pay a visit to the library, and Jerrid thought he just might find some useful information there. He would try to get more information from Marcus later. Then he’d leave—maybe while the other boys ate lunch. By the time they realized he was gone, he would be hours into his journey. The next time he’d see them would be as he greeted them on the day they returned empty-handed to Quendel.
Twenty
he Noamish Library was the oldest and largest of its kind on the Isle of Imaness. It was the tallest building in Noam, tall enough for two full-grown men to stand on one another’s shoulders and still not touch the roof. The arched entryway was intricately carved with graceful curved markings—runes from a language unfamiliar to the boys.
Tristan Tether put his nose up to the door and squinted. “I can’t make it out. Just a bunch of gibberish.”
Jerrid Zwelger grabbed the scarf around Tristan’s neck and pulled him out of the way. He peered at the door, ignoring Tristan’s hostile glare. “It’s in the ancient tongue, that’s why!”
“Can you read it?” asked Zody, hovering closely behind Jerrid.
“What a stupid question. Of course I can’t!” said Jerrid. “None of us can. Only Zyll still knows how.”
Clovis cleared his throat, and suddenly all eyes were on him. “His apprentice should be able to read it,” he said.
Marcus felt his face grow flush. Kelvin, who was standing beside him, gave him a nudge. “Go on, apprentice,” he said. “Give it a try.”
Marcus stepped up to the door and read the markings, slowly mouthing out the syllables. “Inil camru obraith os belu.” As he struggled to think of the correct translation, he wished he had brought Xerxes with him to help instead of leaving the walking stick in his room. Remember your studies, he thought to himself. Remember the tomes of the ancients!
He closed his eyes and tried to picture in his mind the characters scrawled on the brittle, yellow pages of Zyll’s books. He had often taken them from the shelves, blown dust from their covers, and laid them on the table to read. It was true that Marcus had found the study of language dull, but now he wished that he had seen the value in it.
He opened his eyes and read the words once more. As he gazed at the letters, it was as if they transformed themselves before his eyes. “Your quest,” he read slowly, “begins behind these doors.”
He was quite pleased with himself and waited for the praise he felt he deserved, but no thanks or appreciation was offered.
Marcus reached forward and gave the door a gentle shove. It opened as easily as if it were a curtain of silk, opening on silent hinges. As he stepped over the threshold, he felt as though he were entering a new world. Shelves laden with books and scrolls reached floor to ceiling. The smell of dust and leather let off an acrid perfume. There were no windows. The only light in the room emanated from oil lamps suspended from the high wooden beams crossing it above.
Directly in front of them stood a tall desk made of dark wood. From it, a lean, pointy-faced man glared down at them over the rims of his silver spectacles.
“Not open!” he screeched in a forced whisper. “Not open today!”
“The door was unlocked,” Marcus stammered. “We’ve come to find—”
The librarian shook a long bony finger in the direction of the door. “Can’t you read?”
“Yes,” answered Marcus. “But—”
The librarian leaned over the desk and eyed Marcus with obvious contempt. “If you can read you should have known we are closed today, for I put the sign up myself.”
This time it was Kelvin who responded. “There’s no sign on the door but the one engraved on it.”
“What! No sign?”
The librarian climbed down from his perch and hobbled over to the door. He stepped outside and glanced at the door. He returned to the desk, grumbling. “I put up that sign myself! Someone has stolen it! Very well,” he said, “but make it quick! I have a luncheon at noon.”
Marcus and the other boys craned their necks as they took in the vastness of the library. With so many volumes to choose from, how would they ever find what they were looking for, especially since they didn’t really know what they were looking for?
The librarian seemed to sense their confusion. Once again he got down from the desk. He started up a narrow aisle and motioned for the boys to follow. “What’s your topic?” he asked curtly. His voice sliced through the cavernous room like a hatchet.
“The Rock of Ivanore,” answered Marcus.
The librarian turned and scrutinized them through narrowed eyes.
“What do you want with her?” he said suspiciously.
“Her?” asked the boys, bewildered. Marcus felt as though the secret he bore must be evident on his face, but no one looked at him.
The librarian continued. “What do you want with Ivanore?”
Kelvin spoke for the group. “We are on a quest to find the Rock of Ivanore,” he said, “only we don’t know where to find it.”
“I’ve never heard of a rock of Ivanore,” continued the librarian. “But there isn’t a soul in these parts that doesn’t know of Lady Ivanore.”
“Lady?”
The librarian started down the aisle again. He turned one corner and another. Finally the librarian stopped beside a wide table made of the same dark wood as his desk and polished to a high sheen.
“Wait here,” he said and disappeared down another aisle. Several minutes passed before he returned bearing a large leather book, which he laid carefully upon the table. Brushing the dust from it with his shirtsleeve, he read its title aloud: “The Recent History of the Isle of Imaness, compiled by Enarin Blotch and Cloret Snidely,” he said proudly, as though the work had been his own. “You’ll find what you need here. When you are finished, leave it on the table. I’ll re-shelve it after you have left, which,” he added, “I expect you’ll do before noon!”
The librarian wandered away down yet another aisle, leaving the boys alone with the massive volume. At first they all just stared at it. Kelvin flipped through several pages but found nothing of interest.
“Try the index,” Zody suggested.
“Good thinking,” said Kelvin, turning to the last page and drawing a finger along the list of names and locations. “Here it is,” he said at last. “Ivanore of Dokur, page 572.” He turned to the correct page. The faces of the others hovered over his shoulder as he read:
IVANORE OF DOKUR – Daughter of Lord Fredric Isley, ruler of the province of Dokur, having dwelt in the Fortress of Dokur until her sixteenth year, at which time she was kidnapped and forced to marry an Agoran half-breed. For one year, her whereabouts were unknown, but upon the captu
re and exile of the culprit, Ivanore returned home. Within days of her return, however, she disappeared again. It has been suspected that the Agoran’s supporters took her to avenge him, but such claims have gone largely unsubstantiated. From the day of her disappearance, there have been no reports of her. While some claim she is being held captive in the kingdom of Hestoria on the mainland, others believe she died a tragic death long ago.
Kelvin closed the book.
“So where does this leave us?” asked Zody.
“Nowhere,” said Clovis, his shoulders drooping with disappointment.
“One measly paragraph,” complained Tristan. “So Ivanore is some dead woman. I knew Zyll was crazy sending us on this quest.”
Discouragement permeated the air around the table. Marcus felt a twinge of guilt that he had pledged to keep Jayson’s true identity secret when his friends so desperately wanted to succeed. He thought of what the book had said, that Ivanore had been kidnapped, possibly murdered. Had Jayson lied to him? And if so, would it hurt to tell the other boys of his plan? No, Marcus reassured himself. I gave my word.
“We know one thing,” Marcus said aloud. All eyes turned to him. “We know she came from Dokur.”
“So?” said Tristan.
“So,” Kelvin said, “we go to Dokur.”
Twenty-one
arcus stepped out of the library and shielded his eyes from the bright afternoon sun. It was a brisk day despite the clear skies, and he felt inclined to trade his cape for a heavy blanket and a bowl of hot soup. He and the other boys made their way toward the inn. There was a commotion outside as they approached. The Noamish innkeeper was in a heated conversation with a redheaded man. Six other men stood beside him. They were much taller than the first, however, and twice as broad. No, not men, thought Marcus. A second look and he knew immediately what they were: Mardoks!
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