Swept Away: An Epic Fantasy (The Last Elentrice Book 3)

by S McPherson

  The woman smirks, ‘It is the Heart of Dreldaras, played only by us.’

  Jude cocks his head thoughtfully, slipping into his peculiar guise that leaves others baffled and him at ease. ‘Don’t suppose you have the sheet music on hand?’

  The woman cackles, ‘Foolish. The Heart of Dreldaras can be played by no other. You would not get further than the first three bars before your lips would be welded to the instrument.’ She cocks a thin eyebrow. ‘Shortly after, you would cease to draw breath.’

  ‘What if I tried it on a flute?’

  ‘No,’ she barks. ‘No one, especially not a Corporeal, can play the Heart of Dreldaras. Now, why have you come here?’

  Her anger is like a bucket of frozen needles, slicing through Jude’s armour. ‘I’m here to visit the Court of Coldivor.’ His voice is steady, somehow disguising the tremor of fear he feels each time the woman’s hair billows like shards of night. ‘I don’t suppose you could help?’

  She tilts her head, the corner of her mouth twitching almost into a smile. ‘Do you know who I am, boy?’ she sneers.

  Jude shakes his head. ‘No, but I do wish we had more time to get better acquainted.’

  She chuckles, but coldly, a hollow metallic sound. ‘I am the Dreldaras’s Fae-Queen,’ she announces with pride, as stupendous glittering wings spark into existence behind her. Though thin and near translucent, their tips glisten like points of a blade.

  ‘That’s splendid,’ Jude murmurs without emotion, soon questioning his quick response when her eyes flash gold. He loosens a breath when they again turn hollow.

  ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ and the Fae-Queen opens her palm, allowing Jude to choose to sit or fall off the edge. He chooses to sit, too far off the ground to attempt escape.

  Jude folds his legs and steeples his fingers before his face. ‘What deal might that be?’

  ‘Tell me where Dreldaras Fae-Emyegt is and I will see you to the Court.’

  Jude furrows his brow. ‘Who?’

  ‘Dreldaras Fae-Emyegt,’ she hisses, bending so close that Jude feels the heat of her breath like the entrance to a volcano. ‘She left us, seduced by one of your kind and the promise of a life beyond the tree.’

  ‘We’re not so bad, you know,’ Jude simpers, glancing at his watch—forty-nine minutes to go.

  The Fae-Queen snickers, a sound like bones cracking. ‘She lost her soul to him. Dreldaras’s Fae are forbidden to leave the tree else their soul be forever lost. Do you know what Dreldaras Fae do, Corporeal?’

  ‘No, can’t say that I do.’ Jude’s mouth says the words whilst his eyes seek out an escape. He considers slipping down her arm, shimmying on down the flowing fabric of her dress. How far would he get before she caught him? His weapon would be of no use, a small dagger, no more than a pinprick to this creature.

  ‘We collect and deliver dreams,’ and pride oozes from her like oil, her teeth, like snow-capped mountains, flash as she grins. ‘We are the weavers of worlds in your head.’ But her smile fades. ‘If we leave the tree, we have no more dreams to give. If we leave the tree, we are the bringers of nightmares.’

  Forty-three minutes and counting.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jude says, as sincerely as he can, ‘but this is my first time in your world. I know nothing of Dreldaras Fae or of your lost friend. As I said, I can’t even find my way to the Court.’

  The Fae-Queen studies him through her cavernous eyes then slowly retreats, her nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘No one visits us for it disturbs the peace,’ she says, her body shrinking back into the tree. ‘Don’t worry about finding the Court; they’ll find you.’

  Jude slips from her now slight hand, bracing his arms and legs for the fall. It doesn’t help much. The sand plumes up, raining down around him as he bounces against it.

  They’ll find me?

  And then he hears it, a series of clashes: Rijjleton Guards. Dezaray said he’d be lucky if they showed up, but as they prod him with spears, jab him in the side with a shield and wrestle him to his knees—even though he isn’t resisting—Jude doesn’t feel lucky at all.

  The sensation that follows is by far the most bizarre thing he has ever experienced, and that’s coming from a boy who’s spent most of his life living in an underground world manufactured by magic. Jude frowns as a warm mist seems to cling to his body, to meld to his skin and then tear him apart. He feels nothing around him, not even the weight of his flesh and sees only a swirl of pale clouds. Sound has slipped to silence, save for a faint sizzle. He wants to speak, to call out, but his lips no longer feel attached to him, his voice no longer his own.

  Gently, the haze clears and he registers the faint murmur of voices. Before he can grasp what they’re saying, the Rijjleton Guards drag him to his feet, their stubby fingers and pointed claws digging into him.

  ‘We found this by the Dreldaras tree,’ bellows one of the guards, shaking Jude like a trophy. But Jude barely realises, his mind claimed by the crackle of a burning fire, the scent of rising smoke and the sight of this magnificent hall he has now fortuitously wound up in, more fantastical than his wildest dreams. His mouth falls open as his eyes drink in the sight of the rough stone floor, a mix of grey and gold flecks. Thick, polished columns stretch from it to a high ceiling, broken by a skylight boasting the crest of Coldivor, a blank eighth for the Elentri. Flame torches set in brackets cast a dance of shadows around its bevelled walls, and against one lean sacks he imagines filled with sand or some similar substance, and gathered around a prominent stone table in the centre of the room are people in emerald robes. Every eye is upon him.

  ‘Jude?’ Astonishment fills the voice that asks the question.

  Staggering from his mind, Jude whips his gaze back to the table at which he’d only glanced. His face stretches to a grin when he finds her, amidst the cloaks of emerald. She stands out; her all black attire, naked arms and shockingly silver tresses are stark against those around her: Lexovia.

  ‘Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,’ he murmurs.

  Beaming, Lexovia rushes to him. He wishes he could meet her half way but the Rijjleton Guards keep a firm hold on his wrists, clamping them behind his back.

  ‘Let him go,’ she instructs as she nears.

  The Rijjleton Guards glance at a bearded man who’d been standing by Lexovia at the table, seeming to seek his approval. The man barely nods, the subtle gesture enough. The creatures release Jude and his arms instantly find purchase around Lexovia. He holds her close. Her hair strokes his cheek, dusting him with specks of silver. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever see her again.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she gasps, seeming as reluctant as him to pull away.

  He keeps one arm lazily draped around her shoulders. ‘Urgent business,’ and he clicks his tongue, guiding her to the table as though she were his guest. ‘Where’s Vladimir?’

  ‘That would be me,’ a low voice growls, and the bearded man puffs out his chest, hands clasped. He is eyeing Jude darkly; a stare Jude openly scrutinises.

  ‘Is unfriendliness a characteristic of all Coltis?’ he murmurs, jerking when Lexovia elbows him in the side. Vladimir’s gaze shifts briefly and questioningly to her, before they rest on Jude’s arm, still around her.

  ‘Why have you come here…Jude?’ Vladimir growls.

  ‘I should be flattered you remember my name,’ Jude grins. People disliking him is nothing new for Peculiar Lad and he takes it in stride, ‘Milo has built the gethadrox.’

  ‘We know,’ Lexovia says, drawing herself from his arm, as though remembering who she is: a warrior with the strength to save the world. She eyes him, sternly. ‘He left his mother a note saying he’d done it and not to worry. We have no idea how, nor where he is.’ ‘You risked crossing the portal at a time like this to tell us something we already know, boy?’ Vladimir scoffs. Jude notes the sting the term ‘Boy’ was supposed to deliver, but he is a boy and happy to be such, far better than a bitter man who’s aged before his years.

>   He smirks, ‘I came to tell you how to do the same. Make a gethadrox and follow the path Milo has so graciously carved out for you.’

  There is a beat of silence then Vladimir says, ‘How could you possibly know?’ and he folds his arms across his chest. Those around him must sense his hostility, dutifully shrinking into the shadows. Only three remain standing beside him: a broad man with dark skin, a clean scalp and intense metallic eyes; another wrought with muscle and wearing dark eye-shaped glasses; and a slight woman with a lock of lilac hair amidst the brown. ‘We have searched Milo’s home, the school, his precious treehouse, everywhere!’

  Jude waggles his finger from side to side, an act he’s sure will infuriate Vladimir even more. ‘Not everywhere, Vlad.’

  Vladimir stiffens.

  ‘If you’d be so kind, love,’ Jude says, extending a hand to Lexovia, one she takes in seeming confusion, ‘but could you take us to the head-dimensionals building? And be quick about it, I’m on a schedule.’ Twenty-nine minutes to go.

  ‘Partner up,’ Lexovia shouts, clearly not deeming it necessary to ask for Vladimir’s permission. She waits as Teltreporthis pair with non-Teltreporthis, and when all are, they whip away in various colours and clashes.

  The air is surprisingly still on the roof of the dimensionals building, the sky clear and the golden stars bright. Jude uses their astounding glow to find what Dezaray told him to look for; a panel in the roof. He scans around, quickly finding and striding over to it, then crouches down beside it. He jiggles the latch, but it doesn’t budge. Locked.

  Vladimir snickers. ‘Need some help?’

  Jude’s sneer is almost venomous, his teeth rivalling fangs. ‘Never have.’ He rests his hand on the panel. ‘Unichovu,’ he murmurs, surprised at the tingle he feels in his palm. He often performs magic but has never once felt so connected to it. His grin widens as the panel unlocks and the latch flicks open easily.

  Vladimir scowls, ramming his hands into pockets concealed in his cloak. Jude almost feels bad for the man: what a burden it must be to live with a stick up his backside.

  But Jude doesn’t lament this as he pulls open the panel to reveal a wooden box. ‘Well, well,’ he purrs and hands it to Lexovia.

  Without pause, she pops it open. ‘This is it.’ She draws out hastily scribbled notes in Milo’s handwriting, diagrams and odd bits of bronze and glass. ‘This is it.’

  With fourteen minutes until the portal reopens, Jude struggles to concentrate on the rallying crowd around him. A sea of Court members slap him on the back, shake his hand and thank him for his bravery and dedication to the cause. But Jude watches the gethamot, its misty arrow twisting from it, urging him through the great doors.

  He watches Lexovia standing by the vast stone table and locked in an intense discussion with Vladimir. He cannot make out what they are saying but imagines his presence is a hot topic. He notes the way Vladimir waves his hands and furrows his brow, how Lexovia remains cool, a firm glare on her face. A mountain to his gale. Jude considers making his way to the portal without her, but it will be undeniably quicker and safer for her to teleport them.

  ‘Jude, do you have any interest in your counterpart?’ are the only words that manage to yank Jude back from the ocean of his thoughts, and he finds the one who has spoken. It turns out to be an extremely tall man with narrow green eyes and wispy grey hair falling over his ears, who earlier introduced himself as Dunt.

  ‘I do indeed.’

  ‘I feel I might know him.’ Dunt steps past the others. ‘I can’t be certain, for his form is quite different to yours,’ and he peers closer at Jude. ‘He’s an Ochi: dwarf, muscular, goes by the name of Ningul.’

  ‘Ningul?’

  Now the others nod in agreement. They peer and prod; reach out to fiddle with Jude’s hair or pull on his cheeks.

  Jude regards Dunt as goose-bumps prickle his skin. ‘Ochi’s can alter temperature, can’t they?’

  Dunt nods, ‘Yes. It’s quite fascinating.’ He glances over his shoulder at Lexovia and Vladimir. ‘Looks like you have a bit of time. Want to give it a shot?’

  ‘Where do I begin?’ Jude breathes as excitement screams through him. All he has ever wanted since discovering this world is to know his place; his empire.

  Dunt rubs his hands together then ushers everyone aside. He rummages in his cloak pocket and pulls out a dagger, its golden hilt emblazoned with an hourglass: the symbol of the Travisor.

  ‘Freeze this,’ Dunt states, handing the weapon to Jude.

  Taking it, Jude stares blankly from the blade and back at Dunt.

  ‘Efrezeo.’ Dunt nods, encouragingly.

  Jude remembers the word ‘Efrezeo’ means ‘Freeze’ in Coldivian, though he’d never thought of it as an incantation. He gazes at the dagger, seeking some connection, summoning his amateur magic, and is once again staggered to feel its tingle. This time it comes from the tips of his toes and up through his skin, a slow rise, like melted gold. His eyes widen and he tightens his hold.

  ‘You feel it, don’t you?’ Dunt observes.

  Jude licks his now dry lips and nods, his eyes never leaving the weapon.

  Dunt clasps his hands together. ‘I haven’t taught a Corporeal in I don’t know how many collectives,’ he beams.

  Collectives, but Jude recognises the Coldivian word meaning ‘Years’ and grins. He really is in Coldivor.

  Embracing the slow climb of power through his limbs, Jude closes his eyes and utters, ‘Efrezeo.’ His whole body shivers as a blast of cold air seems to surge through him, into his trembling hand and out through the tips of his fingers, encasing the dagger in a shield of frost that shimmers a brilliant blue, until the whole thing explodes in shards of metal and ice. He gasps, gaping at his undamaged palm as the remains of the weapon splinter around him.

  ‘I… I did it,’ he stammers in disbelief. ‘Bloody Hell, I did it!’

  ‘I knew it,’ Dunt cheers, victorious, as those watching clap.

  ‘I’ve never felt my power like that.’ Jude shakes his head, still gawking at his fingertips, half expecting to see remnants of power lingering there.

  ‘It’s easier for Corporeals to access their magic in a world where such things are possible.’

  ‘I broke your dagger,’ Jude notices belatedly but Dunt slaps him heartily on the back.

  ‘Plenty more where that came from,’ he grins, digging into his cloak pocket to reveal yet another. Jude pauses. How many weapons do they conceal in those things? ‘Now for the fire.’

  All thoughts of time and Islon forgotten, Jude grins like the Cheshire cat. ‘Now for the fire, eh?’ and he takes the knife from Dunt who instinctively steps back. ‘Iginassa, right?’

  Dunt shakes his head. ‘Iginassa is what we all use to ignite something, usually something flammable. You should be able to alter the temperature of anything, including air, something only Ochi can do. You must say: etakhat. It means “Heat”.’

  Once again Jude focusses all his attention on the dagger now in his hand, allowing the new yet strangely familiar sensation of magic to rise through his body.

  ‘Etakhat,’ he murmurs and the weapon seems to wriggle, rays of heat shimmering around it. Jude waits, expecting the heat to burn him but he feels nothing aside from the glorious rush of power. He knows his face is red, no doubt reflecting the auburn glow that radiates from the dagger and he grins, his eyes never straying from it.

  ‘That’s it,’ Dunt encourages.

  ‘This is brilliant,’ Jude marvels, but the moment he lets his focus slip, the steady flow of magic becomes erratic, stuttering through him like hot explosions. He winces and the dagger is set ablaze.

  ‘Easy now!’ Dunt exclaims, but the flames continue to rise, a now billowing sword of flame in Jude’s grasp.

  ‘Do something!’ and Jude ducks away from the flames, feeling as if his hand is welded to the hilt, but the warmth of the fire is like a gentle whisper rather than the smothering heat he expected.

  ‘Quick,’ Du
nt says and turns to one of the members, one with an enormous build, marking him out as Fuerté, ‘go to the kitchen quarters and bring buckets of water.’

  The man hurtles off.

  ‘Aquamenté,’ a voice intones, one they all recognise and the only one able to summon water from thin air: Lexovia. Jude is promptly drenched in icy water, the fire quenched, the hilt of the dagger falling to ash at his feet.

  Lexovia regards him with raised brows. ‘I leave you alone for five minutes and you almost burn the place down?’

  ‘I am an Ochi,’ Jude pants, spluttering water. The fire may have been extinguished but the embers of magic are only just beginning to glow inside him.

  Lexovia shakes her head, a smile in her eyes. ‘Let’s just get you out of here before Vladimir sets you on fire.’

  HELLO & GOODBYE

  Milo squints against the grains swirling in the howling wind that surrounds him. He has little idea where he is, barely able to see beyond the end of his nose. He coughs the almost chewable air clogging his windpipe and wraps his arms tighter around himself. His teeth chatter as the temperature drops to a new low. There is no sign of life anywhere. Nothing, not even the Vildacruz could survive in this. This is a vapid, blustery realm that could quite easily be the birthplace of wind itself.

  Breathless, he stops and presses a palm over his stinging eyes. He must have gone wrong somewhere but cannot decipher where. The gethadrox could tell him but he keeps it caged in his hand, afraid to loosen his grip and have it whisked away upon the wind that yanks and tugs at him, relentless as bitter hands. Burying his nose and mouth in the neckline of his shirt, Milo trudges on.

  His body is sluggish, drained. He hasn’t eaten in what he assumes has been days, judging by how the space around him seems to darken and lighten every so often, though he can make out no sun or sky. The last time he tried to eat, his slim rations of snickleberry root and Barnivy biscuits were pulled from his open mouth by the invisible fingers of the air, and he decided to make do with water until he found a calmer place to eat. Relieving himself had been even worse, his waste flying away only to return and slap him in the face a moment later. A now constant stink of ammonia trails behind him and he flinches at every passing substance.