She supposed she wasn’t turning back now. So Myrian climbed into the basket and sat on the seat, which was surprisingly warm and comfortable for a simple slat of wood.
The basket began to move, and she grabbed on to the sides to steady herself. She rose slowly, and the trip took a while. As the ground fell away below her, she looked out across the dark rolling hills. It would have been peaceful if the night had not been imposed upon the day. She was already beginning to miss the sun badly, and wondered what would happen if it never returned. But a demon could not do such a thing, could he?
The owls would know. And they would help. If they had protected this place, perhaps a group of them could travel back with her to Moonglow Castle and help her family. Just thinking of her family brought tears to her eyes. Gods, she hoped they were all right. And what of Gisella. Poor girl.
I no longer serve you. I have a new master now.
The thought of Gisella with her eyes coated black, reciting those words with evil glee, made her stomach turn sour. The worst part was that some part of her handmaid had actually seemed to like what had happened to her. And where was she now? Myrian had left her in the middle of the open plains. Had she made it back to the castle? Or had the animals that roamed the land attacked her?
Myrian shivered with the thought, trying to put it from her mind. She took a deep breath as the basket pulled up to a landing. There before her was the oldest looking little woman she had ever seen.
The owl-mage hunched with her hands on a gnarled wooden cane. Her eyes were huge and dark, glistening with curiosity as she studied Myrian. Her face was craggy with wrinkles, her white hair frayed in a wild corona.
“I am Magda,” she said. “Welcome to our home.”
And here before her was the great owl-mage Magda. The Oracle. Some called her Magda the Wise. Myrian had never been so relieved to see someone in her life. Her heart had skipped a beat when she’d seen the wide, dark eyes, but soon she realized that was just the way the old woman looked. She was definitely not possessed.
Myrian had so many questions. She wanted to start asking them before she even stepped out of the basket, but then her head began to swim with exhaustion.
“Come, my child,” Magda said, taking one hand from her cane and waving Myrian out of the basket. “You’ve had a long day.”
That was a gross understatement. Or maybe it was wrong. It was actually the shortest day she’d ever experienced. She knew what the old woman meant, but a ragged, tired little laugh escaped her lips anyway. She sounded a little hysterical, even to her own ears.
Perhaps that’s why she’d been so demanding of Zak. Had he made it here unharmed? Once again she felt a pang of regret for treating him as she had, for not staying with him.
She stepped out of the basket and took Magda’s hand. It was as wrinkled as the woman’s face, but the muscles beneath felt like hardwood.
Myrian opened her mouth to ask a question. What's happening? That was the biggest one, the one she wanted answered the most. Can you help my family? Are they still okay? And on and on. But before she could speak, the owl-mage spoke first.
“You have many questions,” she said. “But the best thing you can do right now is rest. It is almost midnight, or would be, if the day had not been corrupted. We will find you a warm bed, and if you like, we will bring you a hot meal.”
The bed sounded like a godsend. But even though she was also hungry, she wasn’t sure she would like what the owls had to offer. Perhaps they dined upon mouse soup here. She let out another unhealthy giggle.
Magda simply looked up at her and smiled sympathetically. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I don't know,” Myrian said, and that was true.
They traveled up a winding walkway, and Myrian was surprised how little trouble the old woman had climbing the wooden steps carved into the surface of the tree.
Magda finally showed her into a room hollowed into the wood, a cozy little chamber with a neat quilted bed and furniture that all seemed to be carved out of the floor or walls.
Myrian yawned when she saw the bed, and the old woman chuckled, patting her on the arm. “Sleep now,” she said. “You are safe here.”
“But my family—”
Magda’s face grew serious. “You were right to come here,” she said. “And the best thing you can do for them right now is to try to rest and regain your strength. We are at war now, and we all have a part to play, some larger than others.”
War? Myrian hadn’t thought of it in those terms. But what did the old owl mean with her cryptic line about parts to play?
She opened her mouth to ask, but Magda patted her arm once more.
“No more questions,” she said. “Sleep. We will talk in the morning. All of us.”
The owl-mage had a way of making new questions sprout up in Myrian’s mind with nearly every sentence she uttered. But she found her eyes could barely stay open now. Had Magda made her even sleepier than she was with some sort of magic? Myrian thought she did not really need to. She was exhausted all on her own.
“Very well,” Myrian said. “Thank you.”
Magda smiled, but there was sadness in it. “Before long, you may not feel so grateful. Good night, child.”
And there it was again, another quizzical reply. Why would she not continue to be thankful? But Magda had already turned and headed down the ramp into the darkness.
The door to the chamber swung on intricate wooden hinges, which, like everything else in the room, looked as if they had been carved out of the tree itself. She swung the door closed, expecting to be enveloped in absolute darkness. But Moonglow dragons could see very well in the dark, and she thought she would be fine.
She was surprised to find that the ceiling and walls seemed to glow with a faint blue light. Was this sorcery, or some sort of moss or algae that grew within the tree and was used as a light source?
Another question to ask, though far less pressing than the others. She made for the bed and stretched out, pulling the quilt up to her chin. Even though she was incredibly fatigued, she did not think she would be able to sleep between the anxiety she felt for her family and the questions that plagued her mind.
But within a few short minutes of closing her eyes, Myrian was fast asleep.
9
ZAK
He woke up not remembering where he was at first. The room was pitch dark, which made him tense up. The sun had gone dark. Everyone and everything had gone crazy and was trying to kill him.
But then he smelled the wood. He was in an enclosed space and the air around him had a rich oak scent. He was in a bed as well, as soft and comfortable as any he could imagine.
Zak sat up. As if reacting to his movement, the walls and ceiling began to glow a soft blue. He was in a small room, hollowed out of the interior of a tree. Then he remembered how he had gotten here.
After he had parted ways with Myrian, he had made the walk to the base of the tree. Once he’d gotten there, the bark had stretched into a door, allowing him to enter. He had met an old woman. What was her name? Mabel? Maggie? And then they had ridden up through the center of the tree in some kind of lifting device. At first he had thought it was powered by magic, but the old woman—Magda, that was her name—had said the system had been devised by an owl crafter hundreds of years ago. It ran on sap. Zak had been too weary to wonder how such a thing might work.
He couldn’t see outside, but it felt as if the lift had carried them higher than he had ever been in his life. His ears had popped on the way up. He'd swallowed, making them feel better. And then they had popped again. After stepping out of the carrier, she had led him to this room, telling him they would speak in the morning. Was it morning now? Was there even such a thing anymore?
Zak pulled the soft quilt aside. The bed was so comfortable he didn’t want to leave it. But now that he was rested, his curiosity was afire once more. He wanted answers, if the owls could give them.
He swung his legs onto the floor, then go
t up and pulled on his clothes. His tunic was musty, but then, wasn’t it always? Likewise, his boots were damp. As he dressed, another memory came to him, not a crystal-clear image, but more of a feeling.
As he’d made the hike to the tree, he had gotten that feeling again, as if he were being watched or followed. It was like an itch on the back of his neck. But every time he had felt it, when he stopped and looked behind him, he couldn't see anything. It was probably nothing more than a side effect of the darkened sun, a general feeling of unease and paranoia. And yet the sensation had been strong.
A knock came at the door.
Zak rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stood up. “Come in.”
The small door swung open. He remembered now how the day before he had stooped to walk through it.
And he gasped as light, true morning light, spilled in through the opening door. Was it over? Had it all been some horrible nightmare? But then, why was he here?
Standing in the doorway, framed by the warm morning light, was the old woman from before. Hunched over her cane, looking up at him with huge eyes from out of her wrinkled face, she seemed more owl than human.
“Good morning,” she said. Rarely did anyone ever bid him a good morning, though he had heard the phrase used. Until now, it seemed to carry little meaning. It was a pleasantry and nothing else. But after having seen the sun go dark and wondering if morning would ever come again, the words carried a special meaning.
He felt himself smile as he squinted at the light pouring into the room. “Yes,” he said. “Good morning.”
“If you will come with me,” Magda said, “we can have some breakfast and talk.”
He followed her from the room, the door closing on its own behind them. Out on the walkway, Zak looked out across the horizon at the rising sun, exactly halfway over the lip of the earth. Never had he seen anything more beautiful.
“It’s over then?” he asked, looking down at her.
Her lips were set in a grim line, her large dark eyes looking up at him gravely. “Oh no, my dear boy,” she said. “It has just begun.”
Her words made the hair on his arms prickle. What did she mean? The sky was light again. The sun was whole. But before he could ask, she turned and trundled up the walkway.
He fell in behind her, surprised at how quickly she moved. “What do you mean?” he asked. “How is it not—”
And then he saw her, sitting out on a round platform built upon outstretched branches.
Myrian. She was sitting upon some kind of stool that seemed to have grown up from the platform. She was looking away from him, out at the sun, taking tiny sips from a wooden cup cradled in both hands. Her white armor glistened in the light, hugging her body, and he felt something stir in him again.
Other than Myrian, the landing was empty, though there was a table and several other stools. Magda led him across a tiny bridge to the platform. When Myrian heard the footsteps, she turned.
He expected her to look at him with disdain. They were the only two sane people in a world gone mad, and he had left her alone because his pride wouldn’t allow him to treat her like the royalty she was.
But he was happily shocked to see her eyes widen as she saw him, a smile forming on her lips. Gods, she was beautiful. And seeing her there basking in the morning light that he was not sure would ever come again, his heart swelled and he felt a hitch in his throat.
Myrian put down the cup and stood. “Hello, Zak.”
“You made it,” he said. Though of course she would. He almost felt silly for saying it out loud. Then he remembered to add, with as much sincerity as possible: “Your highness.”
She shook her head as her smile grew. “Thank you,” she said. “But there’s no need for that.”
“Come,” Magda said, walking to the table. “Sit.”
Zak followed, and everyone sat on the stools around the circular stump of the table. He looked sideways at Myrian. The sunlight filtering through her long, silvery hair made something ache inside him. He did not want to stare at her, but he could not help himself. Suddenly, whatever the old owl-mage had to say seemed far less important than simply being here with Myrian and looking upon her.
But he was being ridiculous, was he not? She was the same entitled brat that he had met the day before. She had gone out of her way to remind him he was a peasant. She had made him feel small. So why then could he not take his eyes from her? And she had smiled when she just saw him again. And that look in her eyes. She wanted to see him again. Was that not the message in her look?
“Vish’Kazir.”
The name fell upon him like a bucket of cold water. He saw Myrian’s smile disappear at the word as well.
He turned to look at Magda.
“That is the name of the demon,” she said. “We know very little, but this we do know. He was imprisoned long ago by members of our order, but he has been set free once again upon our world. He was the one who made the sun black yesterday.”
“But it is over now,” Myrian said. “Is it not?”
Magda shook her head. “The spell he worked is complete, yes,” she said. “Even a demon as powerful as he is could not darken the skies for longer than a day. But that was all he needed. The damage is done. He meant to turn man and beast against one another. We do not yet know how many are dead, but we do know each of the five kingdoms are now in disarray.”
Zak was fascinated by what she said, but why was she telling him all this? He was, as Myrian had so indelicately pointed out, a peasant. And not just any peasant, but a swamp rat from a family of thieves. Why was he sitting here with the princess of a ruling clan and the high mage herself?
“That was his plan,” Magda said. “To weaken any resistance he might face. He means to sweep over the entirety of the world and take it for his own.”
The idea was horrifying if the new world was to be anything like the taste of it they had experienced the day before.
“Can you not stop him?” Zak asked.
Magda sighed, looking down at the table. “No. It took all our combined power and knowledge just to keep this place protected yesterday. Though when the darkness struck, we still lost many of our kind in the initial chaos, before we realized what was happening. No, the teachings of the magic that bound him are long lost. The council convened throughout the long night, and we concluded that we cannot stop him.”
“What then?” Myrian said, her voice on the edge of tears. “What are you going to do?”
Magda looked up again. “Not us. You.”
Myrian looked at him and he stared back. What did she mean "you"?
“The demon cannot be imprisoned this time,” Magda said. “He must be confronted. He must be destroyed. And you must be the ones to do it.”
Zak laughed in disbelief. Maybe the old owl was mad after all. “I saw it,” he said. “I saw the demon stop Sorian Nightshadow with the flick of his hand and hold him in place while his daughter cut his heart out.”
“You cannot do it alone, of course,” Magda said. “You will need help.”
Zak looked at Myrian, who seemed about as convinced as he did.
“With all respect,” Myrian said. “I’m no warrior.” She looked at Zak patronizingly, and he felt himself angry with her all over again. “And no offense, but Zak is merely a—” She was going to say commoner, or peasant, but he could see her searching for a less insulting word. “—bystander.”
“No, he’s not.” A voice came from behind them, and Zak turned to see another small old woman standing on the bridge. But this one he recognized. She was the owl from the swamp, the one who had touched a claw to the gator’s snout and saved his life.
“Hephta,” he said.
She smiled. Her features were so similar to Magda’s that he thought they could be sisters. Maybe they were.
“You remembered,” she said, walking towards them. She wore the same white robes as all in the owls in the order. She stopped to stand before them, giving a small nod to Magda. “Zakarai, it
is time you learned who you really are, and what you are capable of.”
What was she talking about?
“Stand up,” Hephta said.
He looked at Myrian, who gave a small shrug. Magda nodded at him.
So he stood up from the stool, standing nearly double the height of the little old owl.
“Hold out your hand,” she said. “And will it to be a dragon’s claw.”
“What?” he said. If he had wondered if Magda had lost her senses, he was now certain this woman had. Make it into a dragon’s claw? He didn’t have the first clue how to do such a thing.
“You think you can’t,” she said. “But you can. Think it, and it will be so.”
He snorted a laugh of incredulity, looking at Myrian. But she was leaning over the table now, rapt with anticipation.
“Very well,” he said, holding his hand up high. He thought back to all the times he had tried to become a rat, to be like his brothers and sisters. He had thought he had felt something, but nothing had ever happened. And he had always told himself later that it had just been his imagination. Something had gone wrong with him. He was a stillbody, unable to shift.
But he did as the old owl said, to humor her. He pictured the claw of a dragon. He thought of the one he had just seen yesterday, when Myrian stood upon the shore of the lake drinking water.
To his amazement, he saw his hand begin to twitch. He felt the muscles in his fingers and palm pulse and begin to grow.
What is happening? he thought. But it was plain enough to see. His hand was becoming a massive claw.
His skin became black, the palm staying smooth. He turned his changing hand over to see the skin on the back sprouting shiny black scales. They reminded him of the scales that his Ma scrubbed from him. Scabby, his brother had called him. He wished Muggs could see him right now.
His nails grew and curled into razor-sharp curves. His claw was now twice as big as his hand had once been. And it felt good. It felt powerful. But it also frightened him.
“What is this?” he said, hearing the shaking in his voice. “Are you doing this to me?”
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