The Legend of the Lightscale: Book Two of The Scale Seekers

by A. R. Cook

  Desert Rain sighed. Talk about getting off on the wrong foot.

  The canopy of the forest thinned after a while, allowing bright sunlight to ripple down, causing shadows of the leaves above to dance upon the forest floor. The path they traveled was one traveled many times by the Ahshi, through masses of ferns, around small waterfalls, along rock formations that were home to a variety of mosses and flowers. They traveled downhill and uphill, on soft dirt or rocky trail. Eventually they descended down into a small valley, where there was a lagoon sheltered by great palm trees from the gleaming sun.

  These trees provided the homes of Palms’ Dance, each household within the palms’ stilt-like roots, which formed the foundations of tents that the elves could drape layers of leafy fronds over. Like Kapokis, there were few man-made furnishings within the homes - woven mats, wicker baskets, bug lanterns and tree offerings. In the waters of the lagoon floated large lily pads, upon which many Ahshi sat, playing music or merely enjoying the cool waters. There were guests staying in Palm’s Dance, a few Falcolin, Quetzalin, and humans, most in their worn, dusty clothing that they had been wearing when they fled Syphurius. Some had opted for the earthy Ahshi attire, finding it freeing and comfortable. The sight of the Syphurians made Chiriku run faster to reach the copse of palms.

  “I’m surprised to find Syphurians here. I thought we’d have to go farther west,” Desert Rain said to Paki.

  “There were many Syphurians, and the towns in Juka Basin are small. The people were divided between towns to provide enough resources to everyone. Without breaking up families, of course.” Paki walked along calmly, and was greeted warmly by the residents of Palms’ Dance. He spoke to them in elven, and he introduced Desert Rain. She frowned when he added the label “Hijn” to her name. At this, the other elves bowed to her and offered her flowers from their hair and necklaces, making Desert Rain blush in embarrassment. They began to speak rapidly to her in a mixture of elvish and the Mutual Language, and Desert Rain smiled and nodded dumbfoundedly.

  Then she felt something move in her pocket.

  Desert Rain had forgotten that she still had Gothart’s black pouch with her. She put her hand on her pocket, making sure she had not imagined the movement. She felt it again. She politely excused herself from the elves, making a quick excuse of having to go “relieve herself.” She hurried off back into the thick of the forest, and when she felt she was far enough away from any listening ears, she pulled the pouch out. She tried the drawstring, and the pouch opened easily. Peering into it, she saw Gothart, the size of his wind-up toy self, but the form was quite clearly him. He stood within a black space, looking up at her.

  “Finally! I thought I was going to have to make this bag explode to get your attention,” Gothart remarked.

  “Of all times for you to…” Desert Rain checked herself, not wanting to get angry over nothing. “Now’s not a good time, Gothart.”

  “Why, Desert Rain, you look dreadful. You could use a good trip to a salon, if you ask me.”

  “No one did ask you.”

  “Now don’t get all moody. That doesn’t get anybody anywhere. Believe me, I should know.” He cocked a white eyebrow at her. “Why don’t you and I chat for a bit? It’s good to talk out the stress.”

  “I have nothing to discuss with you.”

  “You know, that little peace offering I told you about is still on the table.”

  “I already told you, I don’t want anything from you.”

  “Really? Because I don’t have much need for this.” He snapped his fingers, and before him materialized a brilliant silver sword—it was unmistakable what sword it was. “But maybe you’ll want it after you snap out of this grouchy mood you’re in, eh?” Before Desert Rain could say anything, the sword vanished in a puff of smoke.

  “You…you thief!” Desert Rain was ready to plunge her fist into the pouch to hit Gothart, but managed to restrain herself. “Silverheart does not belong to you!”

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t. Naturally I would have let you have it, but if I had allowed you to wield it on that Wretched back in Syphurius, as I felt you were planning to do, do you really think you would have slayed him?”

  Desert Rain glared at him. No, of course she wouldn’t have. Katawa would rip her apart before she had the chance to raise any weapon to hurt him—if she could bring herself to strike him down. Gothart knew that, but she wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to say that he had in fact saved her skin by stealing Silverheart.

  “What I do is none of your concern,” she finally answered.

  “Oh, you’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? Why don’t you pop on in here, and we can have this talk on an equal level. I feel like I’m shouting up at a giant with no self-esteem.”

  Desert Rain was, naturally, puzzled. “Pop on in? What, you mean come into the bag? I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? I fit in here comfortably.”

  “Yeah, but you’re…you’re you. Whatever you are.”

  “Hey, it’s a fancy trick, isn’t it? Reach your hand down and I’ll give you a tug.”

  Desert Rain sighed, figuring he would probably turn her hand a funny color or something. She reluctantly slipped a hand into the pouch, and a force pulled on her so abruptly that she barely comprehended it when she was sucked into the pouch, headfirst, and was tumbling down along a neverending stretch of black velvet. She landed on something soft, but all she could do was lie there, bewildered beyond words.

  She was staring up at a white ceiling. After taking a moment to collect herself, she realized she was lying on a white couch. Upon looking around the room, she found that everything in it was white, from ivory tables to feather-stuffed cushions to the carpet that could have been made from clouds. There was a fireplace with an elaborate mantle, displaying an array of ceramic vases, candlesticks, porcelain animals, and ornaments. Sitting in an armchair by the fireplace was Gothart, dressed in a white bed robe, reading a white book, smoking an ivory pipe. The vast amount of whiteness was nearly blinding, especially after having tumbled through black velvet. Desert Rain blinked, squinting her eyes until they adjusted.

  “Explain to me how this is a trick,” she said, getting up from the couch.

  “You’re the one who thinks it’s a trick,” Gothart replied, still reading his book. “Like they say, ‘Everything’s an illusion unless you think it’s true’…or something along those lines, whatever it is.”

  Desert Rain observed that there was a portrait over the mantle—of Gothart, of course. “You certainly like white,” she commented.

  “I like things clean,” the goat said. “There was a time when I lived in much more…squalid conditions.” He put down the book, but not before tearing out a couple of pages and eating them. He puffed on his pipe, which made Desert Rain smile a little, for it was rather funny to see a goat smoking a pipe.

  “But I digress.” Gothart put the pipe down on a side table. “As spellbinding as my history is—and I’ll make a note to tell it sometime—we’re here to talk about you. All is going well, I take it?”

  “NO, it is not going well! How can you even ask me that?”

  “Last I heard, you got that bookworm Philosopher to talk to his friends up north. I thought that was a good thing.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve been in your pocket this whole time. Just because you forgot about me, doesn’t mean I haven’t been keeping an ear open. Not much else to do when you’re in a pocket.”

  Desert Rain scratched her head. “Why have you been hanging out in my pocket this whole time? It can’t be very fun for someone like you.”

  Gothart drummed the tips of his fingers together. “It crossed my mind that I might want to lie low for a while. That Wretched friend of yours might still be a smidge angry at me. You know, for taking his memories and all.” He smiled in mock guilt at Desert Rain. “Besides, this situation could be very entertaining, if you would stop taking your sweet time.”

  Deser
t Rain narrowed her eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re gonna wait for the northern elves to come to the rescue? Please. Once they find out how dangerous that Wretched is, they’re going to put extra locks on their doors.”

  “We have to try, Gothart. And I’m sure the Knighthood is looking for Katawa right now.”

  Gothart leaned forward. “Where would they be looking for him, pray tell?”

  Desert Rain didn’t respond right away. She sat back down on the couch, pulling anxiously on her long fingers. “I don’t know.”

  Gothart’s eyes brightened with interest. “You don’t, eh?”

  “No, I don’t! Katawa said he was going after the Darkscale, but I wouldn’t know where to find them.” She paused, thinking. “Although…”

  “Yeeeeessss?”

  “He said something to me, in that storm at Vaes Galahar…a strange word. Probably a demon curse, or something. I can’t even remember it.” She sat back, crossing her arms.

  Gothart mimicked her action, in irritation. “Oh, come on, you can do better than that. You’re going to make this very dull if you can’t remember anything you’re told.”

  “It was something like…T’Lesh…L’Ten…”

  “L’Teth Zurên,” Gothart corrected her with a huff. “Secret bastion of the Darkscale. Guarded by about ten impenetrable gates of dark magic. Not even the other two Courts of the Wretched know how to get into it.”

  Desert Rain stared at him, her jaw agape. “How in Luuva do you know that?”

  “Because I’ve been there.”

  “Wait a second—if that place is so secret and impenetrable, how did you get into it?”

  Gothart grinned. “I’m special.”

  Desert Rain twisted the corner of her mouth, not finding his answer amusing.

  “All right, I got in on an invite. The Darkscale weren’t going to discuss their plans for hiring me at my pen...house. Penthouse.” Gothart bit his lip and scrunched up his nose.

  Desert Rain was, in a way, relieved to see that Gothart was susceptible to making a mistake—he must have had a slip of the tongue to make that reaction.

  Gothart continued quickly to draw attention away from his slip. “At any rate, it’s not the most pleasant of places. Much too dank for my tastes. Not that I could go back. Those demons made it quite clear to me that I wouldn’t ever find my way back there on my own, and even if I did luck out in finding it, they’d—how did they phrase it—‘rip me open and use my blood for wine.’ Eloquent, aren’t they?”

  “What do you mean, ‘if you lucked out in finding it’? You’ve already been there.”

  “The entrance to L’Teth Zurên is hardly, if ever, in the same place twice. That would be the effect of one of those ‘magical gates’ I mentioned. It jumps here and there throughout the Inbetween. You locate it with an amulet of sorts—at least, that’s what they used when they brought me there.”

  Desert Rain pondered, biting her thumbnail. “That, actually, is good news. Katawa doesn’t have any sort of magical devices, as far as I know, so it will take him some time to find that place. Until he does, he’ll keep the other Hijn alive…hopefully.” She glanced up at Gothart suspiciously. “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “To give you peace of mind. Or not. Anyway, getting back to my initial reason for pulling you in here…” He started feeling his robe pockets, and checking his sleeves. When Desert Rain was about to ask him to skip the act, he reached into the back of his robe and withdrew Silverheart. The blade was as radiant as ever, the sapphire-studded hilt a wonder of craftsmanship.

  “Ah, there it is.” Gothart presented the sword to Desert Rain. “I believe you wanted this.”

  Desert Rain gazed at the wonderous sword in awe, and believed she could see an ethereal glow of power eminate from it. She was drawn to it, and the next thing she knew, she was standing before it, delicately placing the tips of her fingers on the hilt. It was cool to the touch. She broke away from the trance, and drew away her hand. “I can’t use this,” she said.

  Gothart lifted the sword a little closer to her. “You were so eager to get your hands on this before. You don’t want it now?”

  “Of course I…but I’m not a fighter. I couldn’t…” She looked at her hands, at her lengthy fingers. “I can’t wield it. I can’t wield any weapon.” Then a thought brightened her countenance. “But I could find someone who can use it. There must be a knight who could use it against Katawa. When the Ahshi knights return…” The bright glint in her smile dropped. “Whenever they return. That could be weeks, not assuming they didn’t go straight off into a wild goose chase after Katawa.” She walked back and plopped on the couch, holding her head in her hands. “I don’t know what to do…I just don’t know!”

  Gothart sighed. “All I asked is if you wanted this sword. Then you go into a tangent about, whatever it was you were saying. It’s a simple yes or no kind of question. Come on—legendary sword of the Swordmaster, one time offer, no strings attached. Do you want it or not?”

  Desert Rain raised her head, looking at the sword in Gothart’s hands. In her mind, she could see the hand of the knight who should be wielding Silverheart, the one to whom it truly belonged. She could see his warm gray-blue eyes, his silvery hair, his pearly armor. She saw that it was not the weapon that held power; it was the one who fought with it.

  “Without Skyhan, it’s no more than a normal sword,” she said sadly.

  Gothart lowered the sword, leaning it against the side of his armchair. “I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then. That’s too bad. But I’m sure there’s some shop that would pay me a few gold for it.”

  Desert Rain snapped her eyes to him, her face flushing in anger. “You would sell it like it’s some piece of junk?”

  “I told you, I have no need for it. I thought you might want it as a keepsake. But if you really don’t care about it—”

  Desert Rain got up, making long, purposeful strides towards the goat-man. She pointed a finger in his face. “Have you no decency? Have you no honor? This kind of greed is what got this whole ball rolling in the first place. If you could get your brain out of your coin purse for one minute, maybe you’d see there are more important things than—” She stopped.

  Gothart lifted his eyebrows. “Money? You must be joking.”

  Desert Rain tightened her lips. “Than thinking about yourself.” She dropped her gaze, closing her hand into a fist. It was easy to say that she was responsible to fix the mess, but she was relying on others to do the work for her. She took a deep breath. She looked into Gothart’s laughing eyes. “I’ll take it.”

  “There we go! Now see, was that so hard?” He picked up and held out the sword to her again. Desert Rain snatched it, and found the sword to be much heavier than Gothart had made it look. Its unexpected weight threw her off balance, causing her to fall backwards onto her rear.

  “How can anyone use this thing??” She sat up, setting the sword in her lap. “It’s so heavy.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’d get used to it after a while.” Gothart sat back in his chair, picking up his book again. “Tell you what. I’ll keep it here in the bag, and any time you want it, you can reach in and pull it out. Easy transfer, no service charge. By the way, you might want to hold your breath.”

  Desert Rain cocked an eyebrow. “Huh?”

  A splash of cold water hit her right in the face. After coughing and sputtering, she opened her eyes. She was no longer in the white room. She was lying on her back, staring up at the sky, and she was surrounded by the faces of Ahshi elves, and one scowling Quetzalin.

  “What in the Eternal Deep happened to you?” Chiriku asked gruffly.

  Desert Rain sat up and looked around in a daze. She was back in the palm grove, lying next to the lagoon. “I’m…not really sure,” she replied.

  “We found you passed out,” Paki told her. “We carried you here. Are you not feeling well?”

  “I’m fine.” Desert Rain rubbed her head. Had she dre
amt that whole thing? No, Gothart must have done something to her, must have used some kind of sleeping dust on her before booting her out of the pouch. She felt her pocket, and found it empty. Then she saw the black pouch land at her feet. She looked up at Chiriku, who had been responsible for tossing it at her.

  “You should get rid of that thing already. Now wake up and come on.” Chiriku grabbed Desert Rain by the arm and yanked her to her feet. “I found a friend of my old man’s staying here. He says he was with Gramps when he and some others were being led to some sanctuary. It’s a few towns over. Let’s get going.”

  “Maybe you could give me a few more minutes,” Desert Rain requested, trying to steady herself on her wobbling legs.

  “You had a nap. Quit complaining and start walking.” Chiriku turned her gaze to Paki. “Well? You’re the guide. Start guiding.”

  Paki was polite and patient, but he didn’t bother concealing his frown. He turned and led them past the lagoon, through the extensive rows of palms, and in ten minutes they were back in the serene forest, following a trodden path.

  Chiriku went in the front of the line, since there was a clear path to follow. Desert Rain and Paki walked side by side in conversation, but they both kept their eyes on Chiriku, making sure she did not get too far ahead.

  “What is this sanctuary that we’re going to?” the Hijn asked.

  “It is one of the garden temples dedicated to the wise Earth Dragon,” Paki explained. “It is said that the elves and dwarves once worked together to build such structures, before the dwarves migrated to the mountains. Such an alliance has not been seen since those times.”

  “Is there a certain reason why Syphurians like Chiriku’s grandfather would be taken there?”

  Paki paused, his face as stoic as stone. “The temple is where we take travelers who have fallen ill.”

  CHAPTER FIVE