by L. L. MacRae
‘Will you? And what if you discover something about yourself, who you were, that you’d prefer not to know?’ Selys raised an amused eyebrow.
Honestly, Fenn didn’t care. ‘Anything is better than this! If that’s my best bet, that’s what I’m doing. I don’t have a choice. And Jisyel, you can tell Calidra she doesn’t need to babysit me anymore. Neither do you. I’ll go there alone, and won’t be in your way.’
‘Fenn!’ Jisyel grabbed his arm before he could head off. ‘Wait, don’t walk away! You could be picked up by the Inquisitors! And if they find out what you are? Where you’re going? Fenn, you’ll be imprisoned and probably hanged!’
‘What choice do I have, Jisyel?’ It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was the only one he had.
‘At least come with me as far as Fellwood? It’s on the Porsenthian border, anyway. Varlot will be on his way too, I’m sure. He said he had a training contract. And he helped you once before; maybe he can help you again? Maybe…we all could? If this really is a bigger problem, if the Myr really are back, then we need to warn them before it’s too late.’
Cold fear snaked its way through Fenn’s gut at her words.
She was right. It wasn’t just about him—one unlucky man who’d been caught up in some misfortune. It was all connected. And it was about more than him. Dozens more people. If he’d been lucky enough to not immediately be arrested, then he had to do something with his freedom. More than finding out answers for himself—if people were in danger of the Myr attacking, if another massacre loomed on the horizon…if more of those creatures could appear, he had to do what he could to help.
‘People will panic if they realise Queen Surayo can’t protect them anymore. If the Myr walk in our country openly, attacking who they want!’ Jisyel’s nervous gaze flicked to the water, as if something might burst forth and attack.
‘Fenn? I’ll vouch for you,’ Selys said at length.
Fenn straightened up. ‘You will?’
The priestess nodded. ‘Something is happening. Not just in Bragalia, but across the world. Something that could shake everything to its foundations. If the Myrish curse is part of it, and if the answers you seek are connected, I wish to know. The dragon spirits are the Guardians of Tassar. Neros must know. The other spirits must know.’
Fenn was shocked at Selys’s openness.
‘Life is fragile, Fenn. It must be protected. Perhaps Neros put you on the path to come here, so I might learn more.’
He understood that. And the Myr were death. They were against everything Selys and her spirit stood for.
The priestess continued, ‘It means I’ll have to accompany you. Our word is solid, but doesn’t carry the weight of a Laird’s authority. I can’t just write a paper and send you on your way. But I can vouch for you and state that we are on a pilgrimage. In the name of Neros.’
‘You’d lie?’ Jisyel was aghast.
Selys smiled, her eyes twinkling again. ‘I would. It would be in service to Tassar. I can accept that term.’
‘Even if it means…dealing with the Myr? Or whatever their creature is? In Porsenthia?’ Fenn ventured, wanting to make absolutely sure the priestess knew what she was signing herself up for. ‘Won’t that bring us closer to Queen Surayo and her Inquisitors?’
‘Yes. I am not as black and white as Surayo’s law. I can see this might be a way forward for Bragalia, Porsenthia. For Tassar itself. This could be something of value.’
‘Are you even allowed to leave the shrine?’ Jisyel asked.
Selys laughed, her voice high and musical. Genuine. ‘I’m a Priestess of Neros, as wild and free as the sea itself. Our order is not as strict as others, and my deity does not punish me when I serve others instead of her.’
‘How soon can we leave?’ Fenn asked, eager to be off. ‘Calidra could be halfway to Fellwood by now!’
Jisyel said, ‘If that’s true, we might meet up with her in Vaelar. We’ll follow the river east, see if she’s in town. If not, and we’ve missed her, we’ll go straight to Fellwood. Two days, that’s all it’ll take us, if we leave right now.’
Excitement grew. Finally, he had an answer.
Or the path to a potential answer.
He knew why he didn’t have a memory—it had been taken by the Myr. While there was no explanation as to why, nor his constant headache, or why so many others had fallen victim to this curse—it was more of an answer than he’d had since waking up on the island.
If anything, his headache had been slowly worsening, and despite being painful, it was a worry. Selys had said other lost souls had died. The thought he was on a time limit made him more determined; drove him to search harder for a cure. For answers.
If he didn’t solve this soon, he might well die.
And then Tassar would have no idea what was about to happen—whether the Myr were truly back or not.
Instead of aimlessly wandering Bragalia, following Jisyel and Calidra in the hope of discovering a clue, he had something to hold onto. Something tangible. Varlot, and now Selys, had helped him out of a difficult situation, and he owed them both. He was grateful not everyone was as suspicious and harsh as Calidra had been. She’d been wrong about that.
‘I’ll need to get supplies and inform the order that I’m leaving the shrine for a while. Truth be told, I think they’ll be happy to get rid of me for a bit.’ Selys began to walk up the paved path to the vast building.
‘Happy? Why?’ Fenn frowned.
‘I think that’s a tale for later. We’re short on time, aren’t we?’ She laughed again, then headed back, almost running the short distance to the shrine’s open door.
‘Are all priestesses like that?’ Fenn asked.
‘The others in the shrine weren’t, were they? And to be honest, I’ve not really met any. No-one cares for Hassen enough to build a shrine on the Isle of Salt. He’s not worshipped like many of the bigger spirits are.’
‘Should we be suspicious? What’s she done that the other priests don’t like her?’
‘I think we should be grateful we’re getting help. It would have been difficult to make it all the way to Fellwood, otherwise. Although if Calidra’s not there…’ Jisyel trailed off, her voice dropping.
‘She’ll be fine. I’m sure she didn’t fall into the water. And she has Varlot, too. They’re probably already waiting in Fellwood, wondering what’s taking us so long!’
Jisyel brightened at that.
Now that he had a clear idea of what to do next, humour came easily, replacing the constant frustration and building anger. He could forgive Jisyel’s earlier suspicions, and wanted to know more about the Myr—as much as he could learn.
And Jisyel was right, they had help now. More than that, Selys wanted to get him all the way to his end goal, instead of him being a nuisance that was in her way. He knew he might not like what waited for him at the end, Selys had been sure to warn him, but he would be ready to face it by the time he got there.
Far beyond the boundary of the shrine, a vast mountain range rose up from the grassland. Dark, monstrous rocks that served as a landmark and a milestone. Fellwood sat at the base of the mountain, and Porsenthia lay beyond that.
Once in Porsenthia, he would be closer to his answers—whatever they might be. If the Myrish construct could undo what had been done, he’d be free. And then, without the burden of amnesia, he’d know who he was, what had been done to him, and why.
Perhaps he was Porsenthian after all, and Calidra had been wrong about him. Perhaps his family were worried sick, and his friends would laugh about his misadventure once he got back to them.
Fenn was already grinning to himself, earning a curious stare from Jisyel, when Selys exited the shrine. It took him a few seconds to realise it was the priestess—she was nigh unrecognisable.
Her cotton robes and flat shoes had been swapped for boiled leather armour, a long, sleeveless over-cloak trimmed with dark feathers, and a pair of worn leather boots. While the attire was a change, the biggest
shock was the enormous glaive she carried across her shoulder. It protruded three feet above her head, the bladed tip sharp and vicious. Silk ribbons of different colours adorned the shaft, along with a dangling, jade bead that had a dragon’s head carved into its broad, oval face. She’d also slung a large sack over her other shoulder, though it didn’t look full, and was in the process of adjusting the space to add a bottle of wine. Without her soft priestess robes, the scar on her face somehow seemed more livid.
‘Right. Shall we get going while we have the light?’ Her tone had changed completely, as if her sister spoke and not the priestess they’d been talking to only minutes before.
He remembered Jisyel mentioning pirates were common in the place she was from, and it now made sense. ‘Selys…?’ Fenn gaped.
‘Ah!’ Selys reached into her cloak and held out a slim sheet of paper, the ink still wet. ‘Here. This should keep the Inquisitors off our backs. Ready?’
Fenn’s grin matched hers, and Selys stretched her hands above her head, the joints popping loudly. She let out a sigh of relief and shook out her fingers.
He didn’t know much about priests and priestesses, nor the spirits they served. But he decided there and then that Selys was a most unholy priestess.
10
The Past
Torsten
It was dusk when the caravans reached Tonmouth. Streaks of orange and plum coloured the sky as the last of the light faded. Already, the moon had risen, its jagged northern edge like a gaping mouth ready to swallow the stars.
They’d travelled up the western coast of Porsenthia, as far from the deadlands as was possible, and they’d made good time. Now, Torsten could restore his power.
A small band of soldiers met them at the town gates, and helped with their horses and carrying their supplies. Pleased their message had been received in a timely fashion, he left Nadja in charge of unloading and liaising with the officials of Tonmouth, quickly crossing through the places he’d played as a child until he reached the quieter streets.
Oil lamps had already been lit, bathing the familiar streets in a warm, orange glow. Fountains and aqueducts had been built throughout Tonmouth, and he was never far from the sound of running water. Many people lingered in their doorways or at windows to watch the arrival with interest, but Torsten paid them no mind, intent on his own goal.
Once on the outskirts, he followed the freshwater that fed the town upriver, to the hills north-east of Tonmouth. The route was well-practiced, and he cut across the darkening landscape as easily as a cat in pitch-dark. Ahead, highlighted by the last of the sun’s light, a shrine rose from the hillside. Tall and narrow, it was not as glorious as the shrine of Toriaken or Neros, but it served its purpose. Simply looking upon it gave him more energy, and he quickened his pace, until he sprinted through the undergrowth.
His thighs burned by the time he reached the shrine’s bare, stony courtyard. At this altitude, he had a good view of the lake whence Miroth’s power came, and he paused to both catch his breath and take a good look at the water. It had dried up far more than when he’d last seen it.
That was a problem.
The courtyard was empty of plants or decoration, and the flagstones were in dire need of maintenance. Several holes had appeared since his last visit—eroded by rain, snow, and wind—and determined weeds pushed through. It didn’t look like it had been swept in some time. Dried rushes and leaves covered the usually pristine courtyard, with thick clumps of cobwebs gathered along the walls of the shrine itself. The priests here clearly needed more donations to keep the place looking presentable.
Torsten didn’t bother to hide his scowl at the old priest who hobbled out to greet him. The old man struggled with the heavy stone door, hoiking up his robes before he tripped over them. ‘Master Inquisitor! We had not expected your visit for—’
‘Plans change. Clear the shrine at once. I wish to speak with Miroth.’
The priest hesitated for the briefest moment, then bowed low and backed away, out of Torsten’s path. ‘Yes. Of course. There aren’t many here at this late hour. Lord Miroth has been—’
‘Good. I do not wish to be disturbed.’ Torsten didn’t give the man a chance to get his words out, nor did he reasonably expect anyone else to be in the shrine despite his order to clear it. Miroth was a weak spirit of a dying lake, barely alive himself. No-one would choose to worship him, not when he didn’t have the strength to offer any boons.
Not anymore.
Torsten unsheathed the iron dagger at his belt and handed it to the priest. ‘I will retrieve this once I am done. Ensure it is returned in exactly the same condition as I have given it.’ Miroth would know he carried the dagger, but there was no need to bring the offensive item into his shrine and disrespect the spirit further.
With another bow, the priest said, ‘Of course, Inquisitor.’
The building’s interior was vaulted, as most shrines were, and the darkness of the ceiling pressed down on him like a physical weight. He’d always found it oppressive, yet it was also a strangely familiar comfort.
He delved deeper into the shrine’s interior, through a low door at the back of the entrance chamber and down narrow corridors that twisted and turned. Taking one torch from its bracket on the wall, Torsten used its light to find his way to a chamber in the deepest part of the shrine, hardly thinking about the route, he’d taken it so many times. The light was comfort rather than a necessity.
Lingering outside the closed door, Torsten took a deep breath, steadying himself. This was why he’d left Ballowtown in such a rush, why he’d ignored his queen, and forced their pace.
When he decided he was as ready as he would ever be, he pushed open the final interior door—made of wood, a dragon flying out of the lake carved into it—and walked into the chamber. The door protested slightly, catching on the uneven flagstone floor and sending dust rolling into the circular room. No windows adorned the walls, and there were no other doors leading out. Directly ahead, a handful of steps led up to a stone altar in the room’s centre, illuminated by a thin shaft of moonlight where parts of the roof had broken away, bathing the floor in white and silver.
Half a rusty sword had been buried deep in the altar, its hilt broken.
One hand brushed Tinebás at his hip, the movement not of his own control.
He shivered and made his way towards the altar, as if drawn like a moth to flame. Several chunks of stone crumbled away from the steps as he walked up them, and he adjusted his footing. With each step, the metallic taste of the spirit’s magic grew stronger in the air, and the same awe that had overcome him as a boy manifested again.
That sensation never really went away.
‘We are brothers, you and I,’ The voice spoke in his ear.
Abruptly, magic surged.
Torsten’s vision flared brightly, and images filled the empty chamber with a powerful illusion drawn from his memories as a boy. In a heartbeat, he was not standing in a shrine to his spirit—he was a child again, reliving a powerful memory, and the scene played out in vivid detail. Every sight and sound was the same, every sensation and scent, from the wind ruffling his hair to the smell of wildflowers.
His village, Tonmouth, had grown quickly over recent months; dozens more families joined the village built by the side of the lake—an influx of life energy had flooded the area, and unbeknownst to anyone, Miroth, Spirit of Tonmouth Lake, had formed.
Torsten had first encountered Miroth when he was eleven or twelve years old. Already a loner, playing on the edge of the other children of his village, he’d taken to wandering close to the lake and exploring by himself. He’d never been as big or strong as the other children his own age, and even a few who were younger than him were robust enough to physically push him around. With his father working away for months at a time at the palace, and his mother busy with young twin babies, Torsten was left to his own devices, and was usually drawn to the lake, away from the other children who tormented him.
It was a hot day in mid-summer, and the sun beat down on him relentlessly.
‘We are brothers. You and I.’
The hissed voice had startled Torsten so much that he’d stumbled over his own feet and fallen backwards onto the rocky ground, slicing his palm open where he’d braced against the fall. Wincing at the streak of crimson bright against his pale skin, Torsten had clutched the wound while frantically looking around for whoever had spoken to him, sweat already sticking his hair to his forehead.
‘If this is another silly joke, it’s not funny!’ Torsten called out, expecting it to be yet another trick the village boys were playing on him. But when no-one appeared howling with laughter at scaring him, Torsten frowned. He’d definitely heard a voice, like a hiss, whispering right in his ear.
Gingerly getting to his feet, his bloodied hand held tight, Torsten gazed around, unsure. He’d had a recent growth spurt and was uncomfortable in his developing body, with his gangly legs and lack of muscle. Rocks and pebbles rolled around underfoot, and he was careful where he stepped lest he added a sprained ankle to his list of injuries.
‘Is someone there?’ Against the backdrop of the rich, blue lake, his voice both echoed and was swallowed up. Birds squawked in fright and flew away, leaving him utterly alone. Unease slowly crept along his back, turning his already unsteady legs weak. He was filled with a sudden and desperate need to expel his bladder.
Torsten’s nerve broke.
He turned to run away, to get back to the village before something terrible happened, when something sharp caught his jacket.
‘Don’t leave. Your brother here.’
The voice alone almost made him fall over again, and he staggered, trying to pull free of whatever held him. In his desperation to get away, he sank to his knees, rocks digging into his shins. ‘Let go of me!’
Abruptly, whatever had snagged on his jacket released him, and he fell forwards, face in the dirt. Coughing, Torsten pushed himself onto his hands and knees and looked back over his shoulder. He gasped at the sight, it was so unexpected and awe-inspiring. A dragon, no bigger than a housecat, curled up beside a boulder, tail wrapped around its body several times.
