The Mirror of the Moon (Revenant Wyrd Book 2)

by Travis Simmons

  Finally he spoke in his strong, silken voice that conjured peace within them, a subtle serenity. Listening to his words was like a hymn.

  “The Mikak’e have accepted you and shown you the future. The truth is hard to grasp, and harder yet to accept, but accept it we must. We praise the Mikak’e for showing us the future, showing us the way, and helping us past our grievances. The Mikak’e have accepted you, and so shall we.” Lockelayter finished and raised his right hand slightly to signal the female elves behind him.

  The elves came forward and laid offerings at their feet.

  Behind the female elves Lockelayter came and embraced each of them in turn, planting firm kisses on their brows. He welcomed them formally with the title Star Sister and Star Brother accordingly. He then explain the gifts lain at their feet.

  “To each of you are given clothes of elven weave and dwarven craft. Light weighted the clothes will not burden you with warmth during the hot days of summer, nor will they allow you to catch a chill during the bitter nights of winter.”

  Jovian, Maeven and Angelica unfolded tunics and trousers of black materiel stitched intricately with the dwarven language around the hems. Black boots finished off their outfits as well as silver belts like the ones the elves now wore. To Joya was gifted dress and slippers in the same color and décor. The skirt and sleeves of her dress were full and slit up each side for easier movement and riding—though the waist and bodice of the dress were tight—and her silver belt was obviously more for show than any practical use.

  “Lastly we give you each one gift that is suited to your character. To our Star Brothers Maeven and Jovian we gift bows and arrows of mahogany which will never break and will never be lost.” As the men hefted the long bows to look at them and get a feel for the weapons, Lockelayter turned his attention to Angelica. “To our Star Sister Angelica we gift a tome with the full story of First Elf and the Mikak’e. Star Sister Grace informs us that you have an affinity for religion, and so you have been gifted the tale of Dungan Steelbender from the dwarves as well. May you find much wisdom in our teachings.” He turned then to Joya, who peered at the wooden case before her in speculation. “To our Star Sister Joya we gift a case of those herbs rare to the realms but found aplenty atop our mountains; use them well as with the parchment with their qualities found within.”

  He then turned his back to them and motioned for Grace to come into the octagon. Carefully the old lady stepped among the gathered bodies and went to each of them with tears in her eyes. It was evident that she was weeping not for their progress tonight in understanding what and who they were, or for her grand accomplishments as their tutor and guide. Rather, the old teacher wept silently for the mother they had lost, a mother that was so like a daughter to her.

  “She would have been proud of you all,” Grace said as she embraced them lovingly and kissed them, a mere graze of quivering lips on soft cheeks. In turn they embraced her tenderly, and Angelica and Jovian shared a feeling of remorse and love beyond words for the lady, despite their desires not to trust her. They were uncertain where the affection came from. They exchanged glances with one another as she moved to Maeven and embraced him as well, speaking words of love. The feeling welling up in them was not one of respect but of love, love for a mother figure in their life. The emotion made them wonder if they had come to think of her as the mother they had been deprived of at birth.

  Slight movements from across the fire turned their attention from their shared thoughts to Lockelayter.

  Lockelayter raised his hands as Grace was permitted to sit between Maeven and one elf. She tenderly took hold of Maeven’s hand and patted the back of it, and she was rewarded with a warm smile that lit up his dark brown eyes.

  “So it is that the Mikak’e have welcomed these four among our ranks. With visions they have shown them the way, and shown them to be a treasured part of our elven brethren. With ritual we have acknowledged their station among us.” He looked to all the assembled elves in turn seeking concurrence in each of them. Finally he nodded and raised one fisted hand high in the air. A resounding yell came out of each elven throat, which signified the beginning of the celebrations. Lockelayter’s instructions to greet and celebrate with their new brothers and sisters were unneeded and largely unheard over the din.

  Elves rushed forward to sniff and embrace their newest members, and food and drink were passed out. The merriment lasted until the stars bedded down for the day, and only then did people begin finding their own beds amid white branches and silvery-blue carpeted clearings to sleep off the effects of the ceremony and celebrations.

  For another week they stayed with the elves, resting from the long journey they had so far made and the celebration. They all knew that the next stage of the journey would only be more strenuous from what they had previously endured.

  On the last day they were given the symbolic gifts of the Star Sisters and Brothers: pieces of the stone that had been brushed against First Elf’s forehead giving him spirit. The gifted stones, they knew, were nothing more than blue topaz, but it was the symbolism that counted, not the power behind the stones.

  As they parted company with the elves and descended the mushroom-lined stone path into Betikhan Valley, a sense of mourning overcame them, mourning so intense it emanated from the very earth itself.

  Even with the indescribable melancholy, the descent from the Mountains of Nependier was still not as somber as the ascent. The five of them had the chance to marvel at the wonders of their surroundings this time, Grace with eyes that had seen these pathways that twisted out of the mountains many times, and Jovian with eyes that were seeing the wonders for the first time.

  The biggest wonder he saw was not the way the large stone slabs were designed to resemble stairs twisting down the mountain in a convoluted path, nor the waterfall that cascaded from the highest peak of the Mountains of Nependier miles before splashing uproariously into the pool below—a massive body of water that was as yet unseen. The waterfall, named the Falls of Nependier, possessed a wyrd all its own, being shades of blue and green where the water trickled thin enough to glimpse the moss blanketing the rock behind. During the daytime, the falls would glow a warm honey gold shot through with icy silver.

  But no matter how beautiful the Falls of Nependier or the fern-lined stepping stones were, it was the large mushrooms that peaked out of the deep green foliage at the edge of the pathway that caught their attention most. If the Falls of Nependier seemed to possess Wyrd, then these fungi possessed an abundance of Wyrd for it seemed the mushrooms could sense when someone was drawing near, and they would light up to show the way. At night several others lit up as well, and if it had not been for Grace’s expert navigating through the maze they would have been sidetracked by the falsely glowing mushrooms. The old lady informed them that the mushrooms either led allies along their way or led foes to their doom. Jovian suppressed a shudder as he thought how alike the mushrooms were to the Hobbedy’s Lantern whom he had almost fallen prey to, now a hazy memory of the past.

  It was the third night down the glowing path when they were all asleep that the dreams started suppressing Joya again. In this particular dream Joya was surrounded by darkness, and she was frightened beyond the ability of words to describe. She was alone, she had lost all that she had held dear in life—her family, her friends, and her sanity. She had killed them all with her own hands, her own wyrd. Though she could not see the dead bodies, or see herself killing them, there was a sense that it was true; what she had done raged in her mind, breaking it, shattering her sanity into a thousand tiny shards. She had let loose her wyrd and killed them all.

  And then he came. This time he was not as a darkness that threatened to poison her mind; instead he represented the only light she had ever seen. A force of good that promised to take her from all this and return her to salvation.

  No words were said. He floated toward her in his white robe, light following him as if the sun were rising on the darkness that had surrounde
d Joya’s mind.

  He nodded once, and though he did not utter even a word, she knew what he was thinking. Take his hand and none of this would happen … learn how to use her wyrd … let him teach her and she would be able to stop the dream’s horrid revelations. Take his hand and learn from him, then she would be able to abate the horrible future; only through training would it be forestalled.

  She nodded in return, the tears drying in her eyes. Already it felt like she was growing into her wyrd. He held one long fingered hand out to her. Joya slipped her hand into his and felt the pure energy that radiated from him slither up her arm like warm water lapping around her wrist, working its way up her body until finally she was submerged in the warm liquid embrace of his wyrd.

  And when she woke the next day to birds singing in a silvery morning, the mountain path clogged with heavy, warm fog, it was with a smile of pure joy on her face.

  As the day wore on, the sun cleared up the remainder of the fog and lit the path a cool, steely grey of stone slabs, green ferns, and bulbous white fungus. It was truly a different world than what they were used too, and Jovian was glad for their trip through the Wyrd Holdings so far. He only hoped that the rest of the trip could be as pleasurable as Whitewood Haven had been.

  Around evening they caught the first sight of blood-covered fern, like a strange painting of scarlet and dark green, and Jovian feared that Whitewood Haven had only been a respite from what they had endured so far.

  Grace’s eyes had taken in the whole sight before the rest of them could force their eyes to follow the path of blood to the five prone figures that laid mutilated on a mossy stretch of stone not far from the path.

  Woodenly, Grace walked the rest of the distance to the scene. The onset of night made her squint to study the scene.

  “Why would they carve out their eyes?” Joya asked bewildered.

  “Not just their eyes,” Grace said around the sickness rising from her stomach. “They also removed their tongues.”

  “But why?” Joya looked down at the five nearly identical women who were lain out on the ground, almost as if arranged after their death.

  “Because,” Maeven came up beside them, “these five women are nymphs of Betikhan Valley. Nymphs are the only creatures that can see into the ether.” He leveled a gaze at Joya, and she felt for the first time that she wished to shrink away from that gaze. Underlying her need to remove herself from his sight was also the need to remove herself from this valley; something inside her did not want to be found out, and that nearly frightened her more than his gaze.

  “Ether?” Jovian asked as he joined them.

  “It is the energy that runs through us all. Some people lump it in the same category with wyrd, and others say that it is the Goddess, but truthfully it is far more than that. Ether is everything that is, from the void of Chaos to the glory of the Goddess. The elves would call it the Decision from their creation myth.” Maeven seemed as comfortable with teaching as Grace ever had at the plantation. “To see into one’s ether is to see into one’s soul.”

  “And they carved out their eyes?” Joya hesitated.

  “One would think the attacker carved out the eyes because these five saw something they did not wish seen.” A strange voice greeted them, one that was heavy with sadness, thick with tears, and resonantly male. “The tongues would have been removed so that if, by chance, they survived the initial brutality they would not be able to relay what they had seen.”

  There was no need to ask who the attacker was; all of them—except the man behind the new voice—knew who it was. The shadows parted and the owner of that beautiful voice stepped into the light of the blue glowing fungus. His torso was well muscled and cast in blue light heavy with shadows as was his short blond hair. He was small of stature, though most of his lack of height was due to his goat legs and not his long upper body. If no one had ever seen a faun before, they might argue that he was not proportional from bottom to top, but Grace knew otherwise. Long spiraled horns rose from his forehead at the line of flesh and thick blond mane. He was beautiful, built of earthen colors and smell, and possessing a strength that was as visible as the elves’ strength had been implied. Looking at his lean muscled body made Grace flush with desire, and judging how all the others averted their eyes they were all feeling the allure of this fertile creature.

  To stop herself from thinking such thoughts, Grace looked back to the beautiful blonds splayed on the rock. Their long blond hair curled in loose ringlets now matted with congealed blood. Eyes that Grace knew would be the same green as the moss on which they laid, their full pink lips stained with the blood from their missing tongues. All in all she knew that as a race the nymphs were like porcelain dolls, diaphanous white dresses forming to their every ample curve, skin that was so filled with life, with wyrd, that it blushed healthy and pink. Eyes that glittered bright green in the moonlight, yet were so green to almost be black in the light of the day. There were only slight differences in each that made them unique, though those differences were mainly nonphysical. One description summed them all up: stunning.

  “I notice you do not ask who attacked these nymphs,” the faun observed as he watched them studying the stricken women. “Some might think you know who had done this, and those same some might also align you with the assailant.”

  “Then someone, Orilyn, would be making a deplorable judgment of character,” Grace spat in the most dangerous voice they had heard yet.

  “Fair enough,” the faun consented with a bowed head. “It is only through knowing you, Graysyn, and your link with the elves that I mean you no disrespect.”

  “Please sir,” Maeven stepped forward, “we would like to attend the last rights and pay our respect.”

  “It shall be done. Grace, pay close attention, even in death the nymphs might reveal what was seen.”

  Grace’s eyebrows knitted together, but she asked no questions for she knew that was the only information she would get from Orilyn. Instead she turned her attention back to the nymphs to begin looking for whatever clue they might have conveyed in their death to her.

  “What you seek will not be found outwardly,” Orilyn stated as he turned from the scene. Leaving the path behind, he slowly treaded his own way farther down into the valley with a clopping of hooves on hardened earth.

  “We have to open them up?” Joya asked with a gasp, and for the first time Grace truly appreciated how dim-witted Sylvie’s second born was. With a scowl the old lady silenced Joya’s absurd notion and led the procession in Orilyn’s wake.

  It did not take the group long before they arrived at the floor of the valley. It was then they found the reason for the melodious splashing of water they had heard ever since leaving Whitewood Haven.

  A huge basin of water took up nearly the entire base of the valley, shining a deep, ethereal blue like the color of a winter sky. The blue of the lake looked completely out of place in the center of such dark green. Everywhere Jovian looked his eyes were greeted with views of green splendor from the green ferns that lined the edge of the lake, to the towering pines that grew on the opposite side of the valley from where they came.

  Jovian knew without a doubt that those trees were where the fauns lived secreted away. The splashing of the water from the Falls of Nependier roared over their inaudible speech, and the further they traveled into the valley—while their senses were accosted by the pungent smell of earth crushing under their boots—the more muted the noise became, until they neared at the edge of the lake where the whole population of nymphs and fauns gathered around a crackling fire. It was here that the roaring died down to a dull rush of noise.

  Several of the fauns and all of the nymphs were crying or in a similar state of despair when the group approached them and Maeven felt awkward with not knowing what to say to console them, as should have been his duty as a votary. He reflected then that so little was known of the religion of fauns and nymphs that his words would most likely have gone unheard, or even worse unwanted an
d offensive.

  If they had wanted to stay for the last rights of the nymphs Porillon had doubtlessly killed, it seemed they had arrived in the nick of time. A small group of fauns came up the path behind them carrying the five nymphs along on stretchers made of grapevine and lush green ferns. Their eyes had not been closed, nor had their mouths. It was customary in the faun and nymphs society that a dead body should be given last rights as they had been found for there was no shame in death.

  Reverently the fauns arranged their litters in a circle at the water’s edge, and a masculine faun and one of the most beautiful nymphs in attendance stepped into the center of the circle as the rest of the procession took respectful steps back.

  Orilyn had told these two of the arrival of the humans, but they had neither looked at them nor seemed to care about their presence.

  There was no ceremony like would be traditional for humans, nor were there any words spoken in supplication as most other races would do. The nymph knelt in the grass and rubbed her fingers through the shifting, jewel-like blades as the faun took up a position at her side, hands clasped before him, one wrist held firmly in his other hand.

  They closed their eyes, and the nymphs began to hum, a noise that seemed to echo the splashing water of the Falls of Nependier.

  The nymph began to chant in a language that Maeven did not understand. The more he listened though, the more he understood that what he was hearing was not any kind of language. What the nymph was saying spoke not to the mind but to the soul. Her words were a mirror of her emotions; they were not hollow words made for decorum and ceremony, nor were they empty words that sought to console others as the rites of death were given. What she gave voice to resonated music, music that was given from one soul and reflected in every soul gathered, for what she felt was what she made vocal, and it was what all of them were feeling: grief.