by A. R. Wilson
CHAPTER 17
Jurren followed the butterflies with the same dread from when Neywan led him to the Mistress of Knowledge’s cave, nearly forty years ago. Around and through canyon paths, he hiked until he came to the place where the forest and undergrowth gave way to a steep, jagged ravine. After four decades, the sight still gave him the impression of a god reaching down from the sky to rake vengeance on the land. Rocky canyon spurs reached into the depths below. Dwarfed trees scattered along the canyon walls, leading into the belly of the mountain. He picked his way along the carved steps as the twisted stairs worked their way to the distant bottom. Of all the places for the Elders to assign an oracle to make her home on this island, it had to be in the most difficult place to get to.
A line of flitting color streamed past him to enter the cavern. Probably, to announce his arrival to the Mistress of Knowledge. As he continued his descent, more ribbons of butterflies came and went into the depths. Just like before. At the base, canyon spurs created tunnels leading into the heart of The Peak. The tallest mountain on Orison. He didn’t need to remember which one would take him where he needed to go, for another line of color rippled past him.
The walls took on their iridescent shimmer, from the mosses and algae growing in the dim passage. Light glowed up ahead. The tunnel opened into a wide cave covered all along its floor and walls with grass and flowers. In the middle, sat a beautiful woman atop a cluster of rocks. Transparent wings stretched from her back, with ragged tips and thick, black spines. Her pale skin stood out in stark contrast to her long, dark hair. Several locks pulled behind her shoulders, as though moving of their will. She turned her head. Black eyes widened as her mouth spread into a childlike smile. When she spoke, her voice sounded as it always had: like a choir of a hundred performers speaking in perfect unison.
“Jurren, son of Raynen, son of Presch. You are late.” She dipped her chin away from him, bare feet tucking under her dull-white robe.
Butterflies jumped out of the meadow, stirring to dance an intricate circle around her. He narrowed his gaze. None of this was real. It couldn’t be.
“After all these years, you won’t even greet me?” A lock at the side of her face pulled into a curl, her wings drooping slightly.
“Hello, witch.”
She breathed a hot, angered sigh. The butterflies scattered along the walls. “You dare insult me?”
“You serve the Fates. What other greeting would you have me give?”
With inhuman grace, she came to a stand. “I have watched you since your banishment. You know this.”
“Yes. Your little messengers travel wherever you wish.”
“Would you like to know how your wife fares?” She turned partly away, glaring at him from the corner of her eye. “Or your daughter?”
“I fear nothing from you.”
Her hair swirled and flowed over the spines of her wings. “Nothing?”
“Speak and be done with it. The sooner I leave this realm, the better.”
She slid from her perch to walk towards him.
Now I know this has to be an illusion. She never leaves her place, just like the Siren on this island. They are bound to where the Elders placed them all those centuries ago.
The dull-white robe billowed around her from an unseen wind. Her wings lowered until they hovered above the flower buds. She pulled her hands behind her back. Walking until she stood mere inches away, she leaned towards his ear.
Screams and cries from two women raged in Jurren’s mind. Images of Heluska curled into a corner, with a goblin tearing at her auburn hair, slashed behind his eyes. Tascana clutched the sides of her head as blood ran along her face. More screams. Scene after scene of their pain and horror washed through him.
Jurren steeled himself, refusing to give in. “May I continue on my way, now?”
“If you so strongly desire to leave, then why are you here?” She remained poised to whisper in his ear.
“Your minions sent for me, and would not allow me passage.”
“Are you certain?”
He didn’t response, nor did he flinch when her hair whipped over his face.
“Did you try to leave after they returned to me?”
“Have you grown so weary of being a plaything to Highlanders, that you are reduced to the taunting of those passing by?”
She pulled back, her eyes on his ears. “They do suit you.”
“I learned what trapped the Siren to the landslide during my studies in Ukiah. Along with the imprisonment of the Nothing, and the Water Sprite. What tethers you to this room?”
“I choose this place.” Her voice cascaded like a rushing river.
“Unlikely. With all that your messengers have seen in the world, surely you desire more than a dimly lit cave.”
She took a step back. “You never did know when to stop searching for one more detail.”
“What did you do to earn your punishment?”
Her wings snapped out to the side. “Mind your tongue, Highlander.”
Standing his ground, he stared into the dark pools of her eyes. “I am no Highlander.”
“Then I am under no obligation to warn you of what comes next.” She shrugged. Her mouth curved into a malevolent grin as she walked backwards to her pile of rocks.
“You have nothing more for me, witch?”
“Leave if you wish. Stay if you wish. Either way, you will find out, soon enough.”
“Will your little minions allow me to leave?”
Stretching her wings high, she turned away. Black hair swirled to gather between the spines on her back.
When will this pointless distraction end?
He marched out the tunnel, and made the long trek to the top.
A voice screeched as he crested the final step. “There he is!”
He turned to see Threnody, Neywan, and three other Highlanders Jurren vaguely remembered, walking towards him. They spread out as though to surround him. Threnody folded her arms. Her long, dark hair draped forward of her shoulders. The intensity of her beauty was only rivaled by the depths of the bitterness she carried. She wore the same graying lavender robe from the day of Jurren’s banishment.
“You will return with us.” Threnody dropped her chin as she spoke.
“I will do nothing of the sort.” Jurren moved to walk around her.
Two Highlanders gripped his arms. Snapping his right arm free, he pivoted to punch the one who still held him. He mule kicked the first one, then caught the second one with a jab to the stomach. Both of them dropped to the ground.
“Jurren, please.” Neywan clasped his hands near his heart. “The Elders only wish to speak with you.”
“This distraction has gone on long enough.”
The third Highlander moved his hand as though readying to tackle. As soon as Jurren cocked his elbow to counter, the other man backed off.
“For the sake of your honor, abide by our laws.” Neywan closed his eyes as he spoke.
“I choose to live in my banishment. Your laws hold nothing over me.”
Threnody sauntered forward, a fist pressed against her chest. “So be it. The choice is yours to make.”
She opened her hand, palm up, near her mouth. As she blew across it, a fine dust caused him to cough. Stinging threads spread into his eyes. His head swelled, feeling puffy and fat. The forest spun, and the world fell black.
The next thing Jurren knew, he was lying on something soft. When he opened his eyes, a horrifyingly familiar sight surrounded him. The same tables, drapes, chairs, and tapestries of his former home spread before him. Both travel packs rested on the floor under the window. Bolting up, he threw open the drapes. Outside, he saw that old, familiar view of Ukiah. The trees and shrubs lining his small courtyard, with taller wild trees in the background.
Snatching up both packs, he charged for the door. He yanked at the handle to find it locked. After a few hits and kicks, he went to the back door. Same thing. Glancing sideways he picked up a vase and thr
ew it at a window. The vase shattered, and fell to the ground. Every door, every window, even the chimney to all three fireplaces refused him access. He was trapped.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Jurren? Are you up?”
The sound of his old friend and teacher calling through the door gave him a glimmer of hope. Erlafoss had been an island of peace in the ocean of chaos that was life on Orison, but he was still a Highlander. And yet, if Erlafoss could open the door, then Jurren would have a way out. He crept towards the entrance.
“Come!”
The handle turned. As soon as the door creaked ajar, Jurren ripped it open and slammed into an invisible wall. Rebounding onto the floor, he jumped to a stand.
“Threnody and The Eldest have placed you on house arrest.” Erlafoss stood on the threshold, his short-cropped, brown hair spun in its usual disarray. “You will not be allowed to leave until the spell upon your home is lifted.”
Heaving the packs onto the floor Jurren spat at the man’s feet.
Erlafoss stood with both arms folded into the sleeves of his drab, gray robe. “It is so good to look upon you again.”
A distant memory simmered to the surface as Jurren’s eyes drew to the sleeves. One of those hands was missing. The right one. The result of a training practice gone too far. Erlafoss knew it had been an accident. However, Jurren never really forgave himself that momentary loss of control.
“What do they want with me?” Jurren stared at the wall, struggling with the surge of memory.
“To understand. You’ve changed much since you left.”
“And when can I leave?”
For a full minute Erlafoss hesitated to answer.
Jurren turned to look him in the eye. “When can I leave? I need to go back.”
“Why did you come, if you did not intend to stay?”
“I didn’t come, I was sent. I’m trying to find my way back.”
“Is it true you have a daughter?” He eased forward at the waist, testing Jurren’s response before crossing into the room.
“Yes.”
Erlafoss lowered his head. “Where is she?”
“Say to me what you came to say and be done with it.”
“Where is she Jurren? Did she come with you?”
“No.”
“Is she somewhere safe?”
Jurren lowered himself to a squat, forearms plopped on his knees. “No. And every day that I am delayed increases the danger she is in. You must let me go to her.”
“We are all in danger.” He slumped into the nearest chair.
“How?”
“Don’t you remember the prophecy concerning your grandson?”
“He will break the barriers of refuge from long ago.” Jurren recited the adage Neywan ingrained to him.
“And in all your travels, do you now see why that is a great danger to this world?”
He raked through his hair. “How much do you know of the world outside Orison?”
“I knew it was a mistake to let you off the island.” Erlafoss itched at the stump hidden beneath his sleeve. “I warned all of them what could happen if you ever left this sanctuary.”
“This is no sanctuary. It is a prison, built on lies.”
“It is a haven, built on hope!” Erlafoss stood to pace in front of the window. “A team is being assembled as we speak to search for her.”
The sheer audacity of the claim made Jurren’s neck twitch. “Release me from this nonsense, and let me return to my quest!” He directed his words as much at Erlafoss as the spell playing this game out.
“Pause in your anger, and search for understanding. Surely, whatever caused the change on your ears gave you wisdom to know why the barriers of refuge must stand.”
With a long, slow inhale Jurren rose to a stand, daring himself to ask his next question. “Are you certain the prophesy speaks of the barriers separating the elves from the race of men?”
“You have seen the destruction caused by one halfling, haven’t you? We cannot allow another mixing of the bloodlines.”
Jurren wasn’t sure if he nodded or gave a blank stare, but Erlafoss continued as if Jurren had answered ‘yes’.
“Imagine what an entire nation of halflings could bring to this world. Do you now see the wisdom in hiding your lineage as a race of men? Your origins had to be protected to prevent the lines from joining. If that halfing ever finds your daughter, he could produce an heir capable of receiving his soul.”
“What?” Jurren pressed a palm along his forehead. “Receive his soul?”
“Yes! Purge the soul of the child and put himself in the shell that remains. He would possess the full restoration of the magic of Adjh, and immortality. The halfling only has a handful of years left before his body gives out. He will stop at nothing to find your daughter.”
His ears began to ring. A mixture of sour and bitter filled his mouth. This had to be the most perverse torment imposed on him yet. Dizzy and overwhelmed, he moved to slump into a nearby chair.
Erlafoss shook his head and moved towards the door. “I’m sorry Jurren, but your daughter must be found and brought here. Both for her protection, and ours.”
“If you would allow me to leave, I could find her myself.”
“But would you do what must be done?”
“I will keep her safe.”
“Then you have not the courage the Elders demand.”
“What are you talking about? What have the Elders spoken?”
“They will do what is necessary to prevent your grandson from fulfilling his destiny.” Erlafoss walked out the door.
Jurren followed close behind to find the invisible wall still holding him prisoner. “I will find a way out of here, and I will protect her!” He pounded his fist against the doorframe.
Once Erlafoss turned the corner around the last hedge, Jurren frowned at the room behind him. He spent the day beating at, and prying at, everything throughout the house. There had to a loose board, gap in the stone, crack in the wall, or something that might grant him an escape.
The next day he tried again. And the next.
In the middle of the night on the following day, he woke to sounds of high-pitched wailing. Screams of an infant. He moved to a window and saw two men walking in hooded robes. One of them held a newborn by the ankles. Jurren’s heart sank. He slammed a fist against the force keeping him imprisoned. Any Highlander child born with any perceivable birth defect took a one-way trip to be discarded in a secret pile, high in the mountains. Children as old as twenty-five years of age could be forced into the Pit of the Unwanted if they were deemed ‘unfit’ by their parents or other elders. Most died of thirst within a few days. Jurren’s own sister would have been cast there had she not been born in the Lowlands.
Additional memories tried to surface, and he clawed his hands through his hair. Hunting purglings, the plague which took out most of his kin, the death of Erlafoss’ wife and child, the dozens of students murdered. Sinking to the ground, Jurren rapped his forehead against the wall. Both to drown out the screams of the infant, and to override the memories with physical pain. Anything to escape the floodgate which threatened to rupture in his soul.
By morning of the seventh day, anxiety had become like an infection on his skin. Everything itched. Everything aggravated him. Cuts and scrapes along his arms glared as a testament to his failed attempts at finding an exit. The stupid croix stones were useless, as well. No matter how many times he tried to contact Montanya, nothing happened. And not a single item in Azredan’s pack was of any more help than the items in Jurren’s own pack.
I can’t really be trapped in this place. I can’t—
His throat started to constrict again. Only this time, no amount of forcing himself to calm down had any effect. It was too much. While he idled away in a home he never wanted to see again, his daughter lived under the thumb of a warlock. Possibly facing an imposed pregnancy. Along with the warning that Highlanders might be tracking her down to kill her.
>
Heluska, I’m so sorry I failed you.
Balling his fists against his face, he curled into a ball.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Azredan’s final words taunted Jurren as he drown in his misery. Good thing that elf left just in time to have the whole journey fall apart. Azredan deserved every word Jurren threw at him. If serving the Ever One was such an honor and privilege, then why did so few do it?
Another wave of tightness cinched in his throat. This was it. The fear and anxiety would finally have its way. Then it would be over. The thought didn’t even scare him. If anything, he welcomed the idea. Once he died, then this entire nightmare of a life would finally be over.
“And then what, Jurren?” His wife’s voice shattered through the darkness.
He could almost see her sweet, nervous smile. The way her lip quivered when she feared him retreating into himself. Those words always pulled him back, reminding him they were a team. She alone understood his need for isolation. But that need came with a price. When he pulled into himself, he pulled away from her. Where would he be without her love and devotion? What kind of man would he become if he let a woman like her fall victim to a man like Einiko?
With his last ounce of strength, he punched himself in the chest. His eyes opened. He stuck himself again. Gritting his teeth, he hit his chest a third time. The anxiety strangling his throat loosened, and he took a shuddering breath. Pushing onto his hands and knees he sucked in more air.
For her. I can do this. I will suffer through anything for her.
He stood in the middle of the disheveled living area. What hadn’t he tried? Glass crunched under his boot as he surveyed the room. His mind drifted to the promise that Azredan would come back when he was needed most.
“I need you.” He scanned the walls, waiting for something to change. “Please, Azredan, I need your help to get out of this place.”
Nothing.
He repeated his plea with the same result.
Was there anything strong enough to break the spell holding him there? The tug of his inner knowing pushed him to an answer he didn’t want. That same prodding he had put so much energy into ignoring since coming to this island. An answer so obnoxious, he nearly vomited at the thought. Why should he try to pray to Azredan’s Ever One when that elf had made so many mistakes? How many times had Jurren corrected their course to a better path? Clearly this Ever One wasn’t as easy to understand as the vision Jurren received. And yet, Azredan insisted the vision came from Him.
