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

by S McPherson

  As one, Lexovia and I march to the front of the chairs and I jump as she presses her fingers between her lips and whistles so loud my teeth ache. Everyone falls silent and she grins.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s time to change the world.’

  The audience sits enthralled as Lexovia and I dive deeper into why we’ve summoned them. Some shift uncomfortably where others gasp, but I note with relief that none shakes their heads or jumps up screaming and races out. We take it in turns, explaining the situation in both our worlds, discussing the threat of R.U.O.E. and the destruction forever left in the Exlathar’s wake, then we touch on the mastermind behind it all, their leader: Diez. The one we intend to—who we will—destroy eventually, but first we will sever his resources and then we’ll cut out his heart.

  By the time we’re finished, there are mere minutes before the portal re-opens, and by the looks of it, those who came across earlier this night will not be the ones re-entering. All twenty-five of our recruits are raring to go, and for their final moments together, the counterparts mingle and discuss things whilst those who didn’t bring bags are teleported home, back to pack a few things to last them the coming weeks.

  ‘Dezaray?’ I turn, surprised to see Imogen standing there. She carries something in a small velvet box. Her eyes are downcast, her lips drawn.

  ‘Imogen, what is it?’ I ask. A face like that is not delivering good news, especially if it couldn’t wait for me to return to Feranvil. She offers me the box.

  ‘Open it,’ she says softly.

  I do, jolting then frowning at the tooth within, blood crusted to its roots.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Touch it and you’ll see.’

  I would argue, but the look on her face is so severe I pinch the tooth between my fingers. Instantly, I’m snatched from the café. Though I still hear the chatter of those around me, I now see a wasteland of reddish-brown and a spire of rock in front of me. I gasp and stumble forward.

  ‘Milo?’ I breathe. It’s him, his wrists bound by some invisible magic, holding him to the rock. ‘Milo?’ He doesn’t respond, unaware I’m right here with him. Instead, he snarls. Blood drips from his mouth and his jaw is swollen. Ripping my gaze from him, I see what he snarls at: a half man. The same figure I saw the night Drake broke into Feranvil, only now I see him clearer. Raw flesh crumbles on his skeletal frame, one ensconced in a black robe. His face, complete with cyan eyes and a sneer, is practically diamond shaped, and pinched between his gangly fingers is a tooth. No doubt the tooth I now hold: Milo’s. His head slowly turns. Thin lips curve into a smile. The eyes narrow as he sees me. Then the scene fades away.

  ‘No,’ and I reach out for Milo, the word falling flat on my tongue. I stare, bleary eyed at Imogen who watches me carefully. How has this happened? How has Milo come to be captured by the deadliest man in their world, in both our worlds? Where is Vladimir? I clutch my stomach. Sounds of chatter and laughter continue around me but I hear them as echoes, as if I’ve been sucked through a tunnel.

  ‘I have to tell Lexovia,’ I decide but stop when I realise the crowd’s disappearing. Teltreporthis flit in and out of the place, transporting everyone to the portal. ‘Where’s Lexovia?’

  Imogen grimaces, her forehead creased. ‘You vanished when you entered the vision. Lexovia left for the portal. She says “Until next time”.’

  No.

  Rays of blues, reds and greens spiral around me as Corporeal Counterparts join hands with Teltreporthis before being whisked away. A scene that moments ago would have filled me with joy now drowns me in dread.

  ‘Imogen, take the Coltis to Feranvil,’ I say, snapping the lid shut on the tooth and stalking over to the final group of counterparts preparing to leave. I realise I already knew what I was going to do the instant I saw Milo bound to that rock.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Imogen gasps, scrambling after me.

  Before I can reply, a Teltreporthi appears. ‘Quick,’ he hisses, snatching one of the counterparts’ hands, ‘the portal has opened.’

  I dive for the girl in front of me, grabbing her hand as a blaze of golden light ensnares us and a clash sounds out. Then the familiar sensation of being swathed in a cold cloth and my body turning to elastic takes over before I register a burst of green and we transcend through the shrinking portal.

  We manifest before a high wall crowned with concrete thorns, and towering before us is a grey pyramid building reaching for the sky: the Court of Coldivor. I can see through the wide open doors that many of the counterparts who came ahead of us are now already milling about inside. Warm light washes from them and into the courtyard, like a golden stream.

  I bound to my feet, dust off my hands and march up the stone steps that lead inside. I feel eyes upon me, knowing that counterparts aren’t meant to be on the same side of the portal, but I don’t have time to explain that I won’t be staying in Coldivor. I scan the sea of known and unknown faces, figures in ordinary clothes and those wrapped in robes of green or gold. Some wear black, and I assume they’re still mourning the loss of loved ones thanks to Brixen’s hasty attack on the Exlathars.

  I look away from them. I can’t afford to dampen my fury with sorrow. Where is she? I hunt for a shock of silver hair, a flash of flame-coloured eyes, but see nothing. Not even Howard or Yvane are here to greet the newcomers, only more and more faces I do not really know.

  I stop a Repairee as she rushes past with a bowl of pink-tinged water and a damp cloth stained red. I try not to think about what the red is.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘but where can I find Lexovia?’

  The Repairee huffs at me, blowing an ash-coloured fringe from her eyes. ‘The Seniors Chamber,’ and she flicks her chin towards a staircase. ‘Knock first.’

  I race off, pushing my way through the throng.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I hear her call after me but I don’t have time to turn back for pleasantries. By the looks of that blood-soaked rag, neither does she.

  Skidding past, I grip the staircase’s mahogany bannister, using it to haul me back and propel my feet up the stairs. I take them two at a time, panting and crashing into a wall when I encounter a corner I don’t expect, then dart up the winding staircase. Visions of Milo, bound and bleeding, his face twisted in agony, my name on his lips, spur me on.

  Finally, I reach the top, arriving in a long and dimly lit corridor. Ahead of me is an ordinary-looking door, but for its filigree of gold and silver vines coiled around the crest of Coldivor that’s emblazoned upon it. “Knock first” the Repairee had said, and so I do, as I grip the brass handle and barge my way in.

  Six pairs of eyes gawk at me: Yvane, Howard, Lexovia, an elderly man and two recruits: Trig and Swift. In ordinary circumstances, I might have stopped to admire the room, to take in the elaborate thrones and orbs of light hanging from the concave ceiling. I might have apologised and excused myself, but instead, I let the door slam behind me and cry out, ‘He’s got Milo.’

  ‘Who’s got Milo?’ Lexovia asks. Her hands grip the arms of her throne. Any confusion and shock she felt at seeing me, quickly fade.

  ‘Diez,’ my voice cracks. Saying the words aloud makes it all the more real. ‘He’s got Milo,’ I repeat, winded by the reality.

  Lexovia’s eyes dart from me to the recruits. She forces a strained smile at them then turns to Yvane.

  ‘Yvane, please go with Dezaray.’ Her tone is clipped and I can tell from the sudden fidgeting of her fingers that she wishes she could be the one to go with me instead. But she is the Senior now, the only one left to defend the Court, and is currently running the induction for the recruits.

  Yvane leaps out of her chair, hurries past the boys and out into the corridor. I follow.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she hisses once the door shuts behind us.

  I draw the velvet box holding the tooth from my pocket and open it to her. ‘It’s Milo’s.’ I can’t even look at it. ‘I don’t have time to explain. I need a gethadrox.’


  Yvane staggers. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going after him.’ My hand trembles as I push the box back into my pocket.

  You…’ but Yvane shakes her head. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’ I throw my arms out to the side. ‘He’d do it for me; you know he would. He did,’ I screech. I think back to my time in the Exlathar’s lair, how I was left to starve, to thirst and fear. Completely alone, I’d thought. But little did I know that Milo was out there, risking his life every second he remained out of the Courts’ protection, and he’d no intention of going back without me. And now I’m not going back to Islon, not until I find him. Yvane seems to read all this on my face, saying nothing as perhaps she also remembers. ‘I’m going to save him,’ I say, firmly. ‘Don’t ask me to do nothing.’

  Yvane tenses. It seems I’ve struck a nerve. ‘Vladimir asked me to do nothing,’ she murmurs.

  I don’t know what she means by this but I wait for her to explain.

  FORGOTTEN FAIRYTALES

  Milo cannot say how long he’s been in this cage. The scorch of the day’s sun buries him in what feels like a coffin of flames and the night’s cold drowns him in icy waves. Sometimes, when the temperature dips too low and those around him shiver from its bite, Milo’s body instinctively warms enough to rival the cold, and though he welcomes the heat, he snarls, begrudging the ability he was given by his father. He hasn’t slept properly since he came to this godforsaken realm of Denurib. Instead, he’s tossed and turned, kicking out at imaginary demons and plagued by images of Diez, Dezaray and an orange moon.

  Tonight’s dream is particularly vivid. He’s running across Vedark, the puffs of its terracotta earth swirling around him, morphing to droplets of blood as they cascade back to the ground. Dezaray stands in the distance, her eyes tainted by the same sinister cyan blaze as Diez’s, and she sneers. Milo runs harder, faster, as Diez takes her hand and kisses its palm. Milo growls. The earth turns to blood and his ankles buckle and his feet slip. But still he runs, faster and faster, yet never getting closer. Dezaray remains a vision too far from his grasp and he cannot reach her. No matter how hard he turns the earth, he will never save her.

  He bolts out of his sleep, his skull cracking against the roof of the cage.

  ‘Bad dream?’ the boy asks. He sits with a book resting on his knees, wrapped in a fur blanket forged from the skin of one of the creatures the beasts have recently devoured. It still has smears of dried blood and a thick layer of fat hangs from it.

  Milo grunts, rubbing at the shooting pain in his head. ‘The worst.’ He sighs and slumps against the bars of his cell. ‘What are you reading?’

  The boy holds the book up to Milo. Its gold lettering glints in the moonlight: ‘Forgotten Fairy Tales’. He turns the book back to himself. ‘A collection of fables from my mother,’ he says.

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘It’s not bad. The story I’m reading now is about these gems called the Provolian Pair.’ Milo jolts but the boy doesn’t notice as he continues, ‘It tells the tale of a young boy named Michel, who found an odd plant in his grandfather’s house. It apparently had stunning blue stems and petals the colour of gold and rose. It took the boy years but he eventually fashioned a pair of necklaces out of the plant, believing they would hold incredible power. It says that the Provolian plant is so powerful, it’s the only thing, when mixed with dark magic, that’s strong enough to destroy it.’

  Milo shuffles nearer the bars of his cage, his mind reeling. ‘Does it say what the boy, Michel, eventually did with the necklaces?’

  The boy skims ahead, flicking through the pages. ‘Apparently, he gifted them to his granddaughter and her counterpart?’ and the boy furrows his brow, seeming confused by the term.

  ‘Go on,’ Milo urges, his mind racing. Tranzuta’s granddaughter is Michaela. Does Michaela have the Provolian Pair?

  ‘The necklaces were as predicted, extremely powerful, and coveting their power, some Coltis banded together to track and kill the girls, so they might take the gems for themselves.’ The boy gasps, clearly intrigued. ‘They killed one, his granddaughter’s counterpart, and that very night his granddaughter fled from the murderers. It says here that she threw the necklace at her grandfather and supposedly dived right into the ocean, wanting nothing to do with him or a world where she was hunted.’ The boy reads: ‘She tossed some unnecessary items into her sack and leapt upon a raft of sodden wood. She rowed and rowed until her arms ached. Her grandfather, though, caught up with her quickly, telling her to turn around, asking her where she would possibly go. But as the waves crashed and the winds howled, she replied, “Anywhere but here” and all around her blazed and then she was gone. Be wary what you wish for.’

  Milo clutches the bars of his cage, trying to piece together his jumble of thoughts but nothing seems to fit, as if he’s trying to build without any tools. If this story is true, then Michaela lied about the last time she saw her grandfather.

  ‘This is what happened to her,’ says the boy, his voice small, and at first Milo doesn’t realise he’s spoken. The lad wraps his arms around himself, letting the book fall into the dirt. ‘This is how I’m here.’

  Milo frowns, ‘What are you talking about?’

  The boy shakes his head, batting away tears. ‘She told me I would figure it out one day.’

  ‘Who did? Figure what out?’ The beasts in their cages stir but Milo doesn’t care if he wakes up the whole damn realm. Then, through the muddle, two pieces seem to slot together. Milo eyes the boy. ‘What’s your name?’

  The boy runs his hands over his face. Streaks now snake down his stained cheeks. ‘Merlin. Merlin Tranzuta. My mother was Milia, daughter of Michelle and George.’

  Michelle Tranzuta; the woman Dezaray had originally been looking for when she discovered Celestial Pets and Michaela. Milo can barely sit still, hating the confines of his cage even more now. At times like this he would ordinarily be pacing, allowing his thoughts to walk with him and align themselves. What he knows for certain is that a Tranzuta sits opposite him. Tranzuta’s great grandson and Michaela’s nephew. The son of her sister, Milia. A sister Michaela had never mentioned.

  ‘What else did your mother tell you?’

  The boy looks beaten and Milo stretches a hand through the bars to him. Tentatively the boy takes it, squeezing Milo’s fingers and tightening the blanket around himself.

  ‘Merlin,’ Milo says, evenly, ‘what else did she tell you? It may help.’

  Milo doesn’t have to look at Merlin to know the boy is crying. His sniffles and snorts are enough.

  ‘She wrote all these,’ and Merlin kicks the books beside him. ‘She said that for years the Denurib kept her to dance for them and cook their meals, and in exchange they gifted her leaves and writing sticks. One day, one of the beasts got too friendly whilst she danced. Or should I say unfriendly?’ Merlin pulls his hand away from Milo, loudly wiping snot from his face. ‘This continued for a while and one day she found she was expecting me. I was born in this pit, and only a few years after that, they took my mother. She ran away from home and never made it back.’ Merlin’s entire body shudders, clearly at the weight of this revelation, the cage creaking and shaking around him.

  ‘Merlin. Merlin,’ Milo snaps sternly when the boy doesn’t respond. Finally, the boy Merlin lazily turns his head to Milo. His face is red and blotchy, his eyes swollen and his cheeks appear even more sunken than they were before. ‘The Denurib took my satchel,’ Milo tells him. ‘Inside it is a gethadrox; a device your great grandfather made that can take you home, to Coldivor. I know your aunt; your mother’s sister. Did you know she had a sister?’

  Merlin nods, slowly. ‘She said they were twins. She was the one person my mother regretted leaving the most but she was too scared to return and then it was too late.’

  ‘No matter what happens to me, find my satchel. Find the device.’ Milo holds Merlin’s gaze, willing his sagging shoulders to stand proud. ‘When they let you out
to stretch your legs, run.’

  Merlin winces at the thought, shrinking back against the bars of his cage. ‘They’ll kill me.’

  Milo lifts a defeated shoulder. ‘You’re no better than dead here anyway.’

  Merlin flinches, then, looking resigned, he nods.

  ‘Promise me,’ Milo orders. ‘No matter what, you’ll find my device and escape.’

  ‘Okay,’ he squeaks.

  Drained by relief and exhaustion, Milo collapses against the bars of his own cage, tossing his head back, his eyes closing. ‘Good.’ At least one of them will make it out alive. ‘Oh, and when you go,’ Milo peers at Merlin through his closing lids, ‘look for Lexovia. Tell her the Provolian Pair may save Dezaray when the time comes.’

  Merlin frowns, opening his mouth to speak.

  ‘She’ll know what it means,’ then Milo rolls over and tumbles into a fitful sleep.

  THE TRAP

  Boonov materialises in the Seniors Chamber in a puff of swirling mist.

  ‘Woah,’ Trig gasps as the petite creature appears in the doorway and both he and Swift eye Boonov, as if he might give them answers to questions they’ve never asked.

  ‘What are you?’ Swift breathes in awe, but Boonov doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes find Lexovia’s and he bows his head before stepping up to the table.

  ‘Apologies for the intrusion, Mi Elentri.’

  Lexovia starts at the title, one the Senior Elentrice members of her empire were once given in due to their astounding power. No one had been addressed as Mi Elentri since her mother saw her end at the hands of the Vildacruz.

  ‘I have a message from the Nynthst,’ Boonov goes on to say.

  Lexovia sits straighter. ‘Vladimir?’ She tries not to imagine his face when he sees what has become of his Court. She tries not to wonder if he will blame her for it.

  Boonov grunts. ‘No word from the Senior, Mi Elentri, but I bring news from Milo.’

  Lexovia’s mouth goes dry. Only moments before, Dezaray had been in the room announcing that Milo had been captured by Diez, and now…a message. Lexovia’s stomach coils and she swallows the rage and fear climbing in her throat. ‘What is it?’ she asks at last.