The Legend of Oescienne--The Reckoning (Book Five) Read online

  Ellyesce glanced at the log where Dervit was now standing, staring after Jahrra with the look of a worried puppy.

  The elf crossed his arms. “Go with her, Dervit, will you? I promised Jaax never to leave her alone, and right now she might actually stab me or shoot me if I don’t follow her request.”

  Dervit only gave a wide-eyed nod before dashing off into the darkness, chasing after the sound of cursing and crashing underbrush. When Ellyesce turned back around, he found Denaeh standing on the other side of the fire, her attention fixed on him. His jaw tightened, and his gaze grew steely, but he said nothing.

  Denaeh smoothed out her skirts, then squared her shoulders as she stood straight once more. The corner of her mouth turned up just enough to suggest a smile, a peace offering, nothing more. Ellyesce had to look away. It had been hundreds of years since he’d last seen her, but she still had a hold on him, despite his anger and determination to treat her like a threat. Granted, that old connection was a miniscule one at the moment, but he feared if he spent too much time in her presence, she would once again find a way to manipulate him into viewing her as a friend.

  She betrayed you, Ellyesce. No matter how hard she tries to convince you otherwise, always remember she chose him over you. Valued power and prestige over love. Don’t ever forget that.

  “Are you going to kill me now that Jahrra is absent?”

  Ellyesce flicked his eyes back up to Denaeh’s. Sorrow and regret, and beneath that, pure, unrefined joy making her eyes glow like two golden stars. He was as good as any at reading people’s intent in their eyes, and he was almost certain her words had been genuine in her revelation. In the look she gave him now. But he could not trust her. She had wounded him so badly, worse than that poisoned arrow which had nearly killed him those handful of centuries ago. She had taken his trust, his love, and honed it into a blade that cleaved his heart. It would take a miracle from Ethoes herself to mend what had been done.

  “No,” he finally said, his tone hard as granite. “I wouldn’t do that to her. She still calls you her friend, so out of respect to the one who will save us all, I will spare your life. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll check the perimeter one last time before true night sets in.”

  He gave her a formal bow, one that a vassal might offer his queen, then turned on his heel and headed away from the narrow canyon, in the opposite direction Jahrra had gone.

  Only when Denaeh was sure the elf was out of earshot did she allow the tears burning the backs of her eyes to spill, unchecked, down her cheeks. She clasped her arms tightly around her torso and tilted her head upward, staring up into the night sky. There was a break in the trees where they had made camp, and in that patch of inky blackness, familiar stars winked down at her.

  “Forgive me, my young, foolish heart,” she muttered quietly. “Forgive my sins and mistakes of the past. And please, give me the strength to face what is to come; give me the courage to do what I must to help her. To help us all.”

  With that final prayer whisked away on the wings of hope, Denaeh settled down onto the ground beside the fire and covered herself in her cloak. She would be accompanying Jahrra and her friends to Dhonoara, either as a silent shadow trailing after them in the dark, or as a fellow travel companion. Either way, her time of peace and quiet had come to an end. A new day was dawning, one that would hopefully bring with it renewed trust, clarity, and understanding. And, most importantly, the willingness to forgive.

  * * *

  The camp was silent the next morning, save for the soft crackle and snap of the fire. Jahrra stirred beneath her cloak, shivering a little at the cold that still lingered despite the onslaught of spring. She sighed, wishing she could sleep longer, wanting to return to that glorious place where thoughts of war and betrayal and fear did not linger. But the sun was already up, and they needed to get moving.

  She sat up, only to find Ellyesce resting atop a fallen tree, his cloak pulled tight, the hood falling low over his face. His expression was unreadable, only the hint of a bleak frown peeking out from beneath the edge of his hood. She wondered if he’d slept at all the night before. Gods and goddesses of Ethoes, after all that had happened; all that had been revealed? She was surprised she had slept at all. Even after pacing around in the dark with Dervit trailing behind her, she had barely burned off any of her anger and dismay. She had returned to camp to find Denaeh curled up beneath her scarlet cloak beside a bed of hot coals, Ellyesce nowhere in sight.

  Jahrra blinked across the now crackling fire, the red cloak and the Mystic gone. Where was Denaeh? A quick scan of her surroundings yielded only a small bundle of blankets that proved to be a snoozing Dervit. Had the Mystic taken the elf’s advice and left? If so, Jahrra wasn’t sure how she felt about that. When Denaeh had told her story by the fire last night, her voice, for the first time in all the time Jahrra had ever known her, shook with emotion, as if the Mystic needed friendship now more than ever. The woman had fisted her hands in her lap so tight, the knuckles showed white.

  Jahrra shook her head, her mind reeling as every word, every detail, came crashing back to her. Surely, what Denaeh had said could not be true. She couldn’t be the mother of the Tyrant King. She couldn’t have left Ghorium, only to wander throughout Ethoes until settling in Oescienne.

  Settling in the western province to wait for you, Jahrra realized. She had always been so quick to snap at Jaax whenever his cool dislike of the Mystic showed in his eyes, in his voice. He was just being his usual overbearing, disagreeable self, Jahrra had thought. Oh, how wrong she’d been. Clearly, he’d had good reason to mistrust the Mystic. And now she wondered, wondered at how deep Jaax’s own existence was tied in with the story, this tale that had been nothing more than legend to her, when Hroombra had told her bits and pieces on Solsticetide. How much did all of them know? How involved were they really? Not an old question in her mind, of course, but now that Denaeh had stepped out onto that web, Jahrra was beginning to see things differently.

  The sharp snap of a twig jerked Jahrra from her musings, and she flicked her eyes upward to a spot just beyond the edge of their canyon. A figure in a red, hooded cloak stood not thirty yards away, silent, somber, and oozing waves of unease. Denaeh. Jahrra didn’t know whether to be relieved, pleased, or irritated. Despite all she’d learned, despite her flaring anger, the Mystic was still her friend, still someone who had mattered to her. Continued to matter to her. Jahrra drew a deep breath, then twisted her head around, seeking Ellyesce. The elf had not moved from where he sat. Surely, he noticed the Mystic’s approach? Jahrra was certain Denaeh had snapped that twig on purpose.

  The rustle of fabric disturbed the quiet morning as the Mystic approached. Like a ghost, she moved ever closer until reaching the boundary of their campsite.

  “Please,” Denaeh rasped, her voice once more a ruined mockery of what it had always been. “Please.”

  Ellyesce did not glance her way, only picked up a branch leaning against the felled tree and stirred the coals. His actions cast sparks into the air, quick and red and angry as if desperate to escape the sweltering confines of the fire. Like the emotion now rolling off the last Magehn of Oescienne. Jahrra swallowed and didn’t dare move. Clearly, there had been some conversation between them. Either last night after she’d left the campsite in her state of agitation, or this morning, before she woke. What Jahrra did know, however, was that this was between them. It had always been between them. They had a history five centuries long, and she was merely the latest player in the game. Her opinion would not sway them either way. So, she slowly lowered herself back onto her bedroll and feigned sleep, keeping her eyes open just enough to watch the Mystic and the Magehn.

  “You need me, Ellyesce. You and Jahrra, and your friend, Dervit. You are being hunted, and with Jaax gone–”

  Ellyesce jerked his head up, cutting off her words.

  “Need you? You are the last person, the last being, on this earth any of us needs.” He stood swiftly, throwing back his
hood, his entire focus narrowing in on Denaeh. “You will not poison us with your presence. Be gone, witch. Crawl back to Oescienne to hide for another five hundred years for all I care. Or better yet, go coddle your son now that his father is dead. But maybe that is why you’ve stayed away for so long. For the grief you feel over your lost lover.”

  The words were harsh, making Jahrra cringe beneath her blanket.

  When Denaeh spoke again, her voice held only cold detachment. “I never loved him, Ellyesce. Not really. I was a fool, unaware of what true love really was. But I’ve had more time than most to think on my past transgressions, and to realize what I had lost. I swear upon the rose of Ethoes that I have come to terms with my guilt, and I do not lie when I tell you I only wish to make things right. To fix this mess I started.”

  “Then you can fix it on your own,” Ellyesce spat. “You will not use us to do so, especially not Jahrra. She has had to bear too much of a burden as it is. Now go. We will be leaving as soon as she and Dervit wake up. And I swear, if I sense you following us, I will put an arrow through your heart without a second thought. You may wield powerful magic, Archedenaeh, but so do I.”

  Jahrra angled her head just enough to catch Denaeh’s short nod. The acceptance of defeat by one who knows they are in the wrong. Silence fell after that, the fire, once again, the only evidence that life still stirred in this part of the wilderness. Ten minutes later, Ellyesce placed a gentle had on Jahrra’s shoulder.

  “You can stop pretending to be asleep now. She is gone, and with the blessing of Ethoes, we will never see her again.”

  Jahrra blinked at the streamers of morning light slicing through the leaves above, her vision blurred a bit from what she realized were unshed tears. Quickly, she forced them back. Throwing back her blankets, Jahrra sat up and cast hard eyes upon Ellyesce. He had turned to tighten the saddlebags on Gliriant’s back, so he didn’t notice Jahrra’s sudden alert stubbornness. She had done a lot of thinking the night before, and even more while she waited for the elf and the Mystic to stop fighting.

  “She has to come with us, Ellyesce,” Jahrra said, her voice brooking no argument.

  The elf’s shoulders went tense, then he turned slowly to face her. The look in his eyes was enough to turn even the warmest of hearts to stone.

  “Have you gone mad, Jahrra?”

  Jahrra brushed off the insult and rose to her feet, her hands placed on her hips as she arched a brow at him.

  “I understand she hurt you,” Jahrra began, barreling on when Ellyesce drew a breath to protest, “but she is clearly very much entangled in this whole mess. If we cut her out now, who knows how it will all unravel. She is right. She still has a part to play.”

  Ellyesce’s eyes were sharp enough to cut through steel. “You do not know the trouble she has caused, the taint she has left on the past,” he ground out, his fists clenching.

  Jahrra took a step forward, refusing to be intimidated by the Magehn. In a similar tone, she practically hissed, “And you and Jaax have left me in the dark for so long, I’ll take whatever source of light I can grasp, and Denaeh appears to me to be a flickering candle in a world cast in shadow. If you don’t call her back right now, I’m returning to Nimbronia.”

  By this time, Dervit had risen as well, his eyes flitting back and forth between his two travel companions. When silence ensued after Jahrra’s last statement, he, too, leapt to his feet to stand beside her.

  Ellyesce flashed the limbit an angry glare. “What opinion could you possibly have on the matter?”

  Hurt flickered in Dervit’s brown eyes, but he refused to stand down. “I may be new to the group, and I may only be a limbit, but I have done everything in my power to help you and Jahrra, and Jaax for that matter, in your travels so far.”

  Jahrra offered Ellyesce a hot, accusing look.

  “What has gotten in to you to speak to Dervit in such a manner?” she insisted.

  For several long seconds, that desperate anger held tight to Ellyesce, and then, with a heavy groan, he let his shoulders sag.

  “Forgive me,” he said gruffly, running his fingers through his hair. “I let old emotions get the better of me.” With haunted eyes, he ducked his head once. “Very well. You may have your way, Jahrra. The Mystic can join us, but do not expect me to sympathize with her and if she so much as sneezes in a suspicious manner, I will put an arrow through her heart.”

  Jahrra arched a brow, but nodded. “Good. Now, which way did she go?” She turned in place, her brow furrowed.

  “Don’t bother,” Ellyesce muttered, turning back to Gliriant. Before slipping the bit into his mouth, however, he tilted his head toward the edge of the canyon where Jahrra caught a flash of dark blue and cream feathers disappearing from sight. A low, grumbling caw brought a bright smile to her face.

  “Milihn!” she breathed, beaming down at a perplexed Dervit. “Denaeh’s korehv,” she explained. “He’s very smart. He’ll find Denaeh and let her know of our change in plans.”

  Dervit nodded, then helped Jahrra pack up their bedrolls and get the horses ready. They left their campsite twenty minutes later and weren’t a mile down the road before a figure garbed in a hooded scarlet cloak stepped up to the side of the road. A resigned-looking korehv clung to her shoulder, giving the elf leading the party a solemn look. Ellyesce didn’t so much as offer the Mystic a nod of his head, but Jahrra didn’t miss the tensing of his spine as he passed, nor the way Denaeh shrank back ever so slightly. When Jahrra approached with Phrym, she gave her friend a warm smile.

  Denaeh tilted her head to regard the young woman atop the marble gray semequin.

  “I hear I have you to thank for the sudden turn of events,” she said lightly, though her voice quavered ever so slightly.

  Jahrra shrugged. “It felt wrong, sending you away. Not just the way it was done, but something, some instinct, told me you needed to be with us.” She flicked her eyes up to study Ellyesce, who was disappearing over a rise in the trail, then gazed back down at Denaeh. “Ellyesce will warm up to you eventually.”

  Denaeh laughed out loud. “Jahrra, I adore you my dear friend, but your optimism can be too much to take sometimes.”

  Jahrra’s mouth quirked in a semblance of a smile. “Me? Optimistic? Ha! Spend some time with me when I think too much on the future, Denaeh, then we’ll see who’s the optimist.”

  The two of them quickly shifted a few of the bags around and once Denaeh was settled atop Rumble, with Dervit joining Jahrra on Phrym again, they quickened their pace, moving to catch up to the brooding elf leading them ever closer to that inevitable destiny waiting in the east.

  -Chapter Ten-

  To Forge an Alliance

  Several leagues to the south, on the western rim of the Great Rhiimian Gorge, the Tanaan dragon Kehllor rose with the dawning sun. The air was cool, but the heat of the desert just to the east wafted across the Gold Dust Dunes and curled up the steep wall of the canyon. Blinking, Kehllor stretched his neck over the edge of his resting place and inhaled. The drop was staggering, some three thousand feet or more before the steep wall gently curved out into a wide, valley basin. For several minutes, he simply reclined upon the worn stone floor of the ancient temple at Telln Bahra, the cool mist of the waterfall pouring over the lip of the terrace making the quickly warming air more tolerable.

  Kehllor allowed his eyes to drift shut, and with an effort, pushed aside the dark images of the nightmares he’d been having for weeks now. The chilling dreams that cast him into the body of an elf, an elf determined to face the Crimson King head on. To help chase those unsettling tendrils from his mind, he turned his thoughts to his last meeting with the Coalition before leaving Lidien in order to complete his current mission. He had been called a fool. He had been called a coward. But he knew his instincts were right. The day after he’d had the dream of the elf and the cold battlefield, he’d marched into the Coalition assembly to inform them he was tired of sitting in meetings, talking about organizing. He was tired of
speculating whether or not the Tyrant was inching closer to declaring war, weary of sending out missive after missive in a pathetic attempt to garner allies. Even if they convinced the free people of Ethoes to band together against the king, their number was still too few. They needed more help. And Kehllor knew where to look.

  Long ago, before Shiroxx had taken him in, he had wandered the eastern deserts. During that lost time in his life, he had met the people living on the fringes of the continent. He wouldn’t call them friends, but there were times when they had helped him, and when he had helped them. And there was one people, one massive tribe, he knew would prove a formidable ally against the Tyrant’s might. If he could just convince them to fight for Ethoes. The Nephaari people of Ehrann. Taller and more powerful than the elves and their brethren, the Nephaari walked upright like the elves, but their countenance resembled the jackals that ran in packs throughout Terre Moeserre. Not only exceptionally strong, they were martial experts in both armed and unarmed combat. But the most impressive aspect of the Nephaari were the lennux they rode into battle. Twice the size of a standard horse, a nine spotted lennux was armed with fangs and claws and the nimble grace shared by all species of cat. Kehllor shivered at the thought of a legion of armored, fully-armed Nephaari charging towards a line of the Tyrant’s soldiers. The desert warriors would eradicate them like bugs underfoot.

  The majority of the Coalition thought seeking the help of the Nephaari was a terrible idea. They were bloodthirsty savages who would tear across a battlefield without a care for who they struck down, friend or foe. They were uncivilized, their intelligence not up to par with the rest of the world. They cared only for themselves and their people. Superstitious, prejudiced claims, all of them. Kehllor’s lip curled at the memory of their vitriol. Well, perhaps the fact that the Nephaari tended to stick to their own territory was true. But if they could be convinced the Tyrant threatened their way of life, even from afar, he might have a chance of currying their favor.