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

  She blinked and turned to look at him. A bit of pride and no small amount of sorrow pooled in his eyes. This was his home.

  As they made their way down the road leading to the castle, Jahrra did her best to soak in the scenery. What intrigued her the most, however, was what she spied at the far end of the valley, several miles away. The river seemed to disappear abruptly, a fine veil of mist rising above it.

  “There is a lower valley as well,” one of the elves riding beside her said when she asked. “The city of Pahrtien can be found there, and several more miles to the south, the valley drops once more for over a thousand feet into the lower lands of our realm.”

  “And the valley walls,” Jahrra commented, turning her attention to the sparkling granite cliffs beside them, “they’re beautiful. The elves who trained me back in Oescienne were from Dhonoara, and they had a table made from this stone.”

  The elf beamed, pride swelling his chest. His hair was darker than hers with a hint of red woven through the strands, and his eyes shone like copper.

  “Aye, it is found only here, in Dhonoara Valley. The elves call it prism stone, and it is the reason Dhonoara is the most beautiful valley in all of Ethoes.”

  Jahrra’s mood lightened at his obvious joy.

  “I am Haedron, by the way,” the elf said suddenly, holding out a hand.

  “Jahrra, but you already know that.” Jahrra took his hand in hers, shaking it firmly. “Glad to officially meet you.”

  “And you are Dervit, is that correct?”

  Dervit, who had been quite content drinking in the vista unfolding before them and keeping out of Jahrra’s and Haedron’s conversation, blinked up at the red-headed elf in surprise.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  This time, Haedron didn’t extend his hand, but nodded in a friendly manner. The three of them fell into their own thoughts for a few paces before Jahrra cleared her throat and stated, “I also have a friend who is kin to your king, I believe.”

  Haedron gave Jahrra a puzzled look, flicked his eyes forward to Atryan and Ellyesce, now riding side by side and taking part in an almost whispered conversation in that same strange language from before, and lifted his brows.

  “Back in Lidien,” Jahrra clarified, waving her hand casually in emphasis. “His name is Dathian and he resides there as a scholar.”

  “Ah, yes!” Haedron said, laughing a little, his pale cheeks gaining some color, “I know Dathian well. He and my older brother are about the same age.”

  Heartened by his amusement, Jahrra asked, “And just how old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Haedron gave her a mischievous smirk, making his fine looks even more appealing. “How old do I look?”

  Jahrra pretended to ponder the question, but ended up shrugging and stated, “I’d say mid-twenties, but being an elf, you could be thousands of years old.”

  Haedron laughed again. “Not quite that old, I’m afraid. I will be three hundred twenty-seven next month.”

  “I would think,” Jahrra remarked, “you would lose count after the first hundred years.”

  The elf took on a rather stoic manner and in a very serious tone, said, “Oh, I did. So long as I can remember the year I was born, and as long as I’m able to calculate the difference in years quickly in my head, I will always remember my age.”

  They all chortled then, Dervit as well.

  “I am only eighteen,” Jahrra said, smiling rather sheepishly. “Sometimes I feel ten times my age, though.”

  The humor in Haedron’s eyes dimmed a little, and he nodded rather knowingly. “It really all depends on how much living you’ve done in your time here. Some people go their whole lives not knowing true pain or loss, joy or hardship. I’m guessing you’ve experienced all those things, however.”

  Jahrra gave a solemn duck of her head, glancing down at the fingers gripping Phrym’s reins.

  “I lost my foster parents when I was very young, and then my first guardian, the Korli dragon Hroombramantu. And then Jaax told me the truth about my origins, that I wasn’t the Nesnan girl I always thought I was, and that one day, I’d have to face the Tyrant and somehow end a centuries-long curse.”

  She shrugged and gave him a crooked smile. “Perhaps Ethoes meant for me to experience every aspect of life before I die.”

  Whatever mirth still lingered on the elf’s face fled upon hearing those words. “You are not going to your death, Jahrra. Not if we can help it. You won’t be fighting this battle alone. Even now, troops from all around Ethoes are gathering below our valleys.”

  He reached out a hand and pressed it over hers, her fingers now curled together at the front of the saddle. Jahrra glanced up to find kind, bright eyes regarding her.

  “You have friends you don’t even know yet, Jahrra. Believe me.”

  Bolstered by his words, Jahrra smiled, only to jerk to attention when the blast of a horn cut through the air. As they had done earlier that day, the party froze as yet again another small legion of elves, these ones dressed in the finery of palace guards, rode forward carrying spears topped with banners in the colors of Dhonoara: deep violet and silver.

  “Hold, Banthren,” Atryan barked out. “We’ve come with the party the dragon Raejaaxorix has been expecting.”

  Jahrra sat up tall in the saddle, nearly knocking Dervit over.

  “Where’s Jaax?” she blurted, not waiting for the guard’s reply.

  The elf, Banthren, arched a haughty brow in her direction.

  “And who are you to demand such information?”

  Irritation pricked at Jahrra’s skin. Matching his tone, she replied, “Jahrraneh Drisihn, the human sent by Ethoes to purge this world of evil.”

  Silence fell over the new assembly of elves, but Jahrra didn’t falter, lifting her chin and narrowing her eyes.

  Eventually, Banthren gave a slanted bow of his head, dark blue eyes softening.

  “My apologies, Lady Jahrraneh. Raejaaxorix meets with our king and those allies of the Coalition who have already arrived. I am Banthren, captain of the king’s guard. We will take you and your companions to him now.”

  Jahrra sat back in the saddle, breathing a mental sigh of relief, trying desperately to calm her nerves. Their allies were already gathering? Granted, she knew this leaving Nimbronia, had known it when they left Lidien. Missives had gone out to all who might listen, imploring them to band together and gather in the Valley of the Elves to make ready to face the Tyrant. Yet, it hadn’t struck her until now just how real it all was, despite her weeks of agonizing worry. Her mind had somehow convinced her there would be some sort of grace period between their arrival in Dhonoara and the march into the north of Ghorium. Now, she wondered if they would even have a day to rest before striking out once again.

  Banthren turned his semequin around, then sent two of the elves taking up the rear of his party to ride ahead to announce their arrival.

  “Let us ride on, then,” the captain of the guard bellowed above all their heads.

  In no time, they were moving down the curving mountainside path, their pace a little quicker than before. A few miles later, the troop crossed over a wide, arching stone bridge spanning the narrow culvert cut by the Chloress River. On the other side, beautiful stone structures rose up between the trees, and the hard-packed, earthen road gave way to a wide paved lane. Elves of all ages set aside their tasks to watch as the king’s guard and one of the scouting troops entered their city with four new strangers in tow.

  Jahrra cast her eyes around, noting the beautiful buildings and various activities of Dhonoara City’s inhabitants. Trees and large stones stretched up between the structures, as if the houses and businesses had been built to fit in with their environment, giving the bustling settlement a unique and almost natural feel. Semequins and other exotic beasts roamed the streets pulling fancy carriages or carrying people from one place to another. On a few occasions, Jahrra spied one of the elves leading strange furry creatures on leashes or stroking the
brilliant plumage of birds resting on their shoulders. Milihn, who had been following them from a distance, abandoned the treetops in order to nestle himself in front of his master, his head swiveling from side to side as his dark, bright eyes took in the sights.

  All around them, the city breathed with life and music and culture. Unfamiliar spices floated on the cool breeze and around every corner an elvin man or woman painted at an easel, twirled in an intricate dance or strummed an instrument that sent sweet notes weaving through the trees and rooftops.

  “It’s so beautiful,” Jahrra breathed, her heart aching from it all.

  Haedron smiled, his eyes shining with pride. “There is no other place like it in all of Ethoes,” he murmured.

  Eventually, the party made its way to the top of the hill and to the outer wall of the palace. Several guards, on Banthren’s orders, opened a heavy wooden gate, and Jahrra and her friends were led into a wide bailey.

  The captain of the guard leapt from his mount, handing the reins off to a stable hand, then invited everyone else to follow suit.

  “The semequins and your horse will be taken to the stables, your belongings brought up to rooms awaiting you in the castle,” Banthren stated. “Now, if you’ll follow me.”

  Jahrra dismounted Phrym, then helped Dervit down before turning to reassure her semequin she would come visit him soon. Once everyone was on their feet, they headed into the castle. Jahrra didn’t miss the way a few of the elves closed in around Denaeh. Ordered to keep a close eye on her, she presumed. The Mystic, however, took it in stride, barely projecting she had noticed the extra vigilance at all. Milihn squawked in annoyance and returned to the trees.

  The interior of the castle was just as impressive as the exterior, with multi-colored halls lined with a plethora of windows along the walls as well as placed at intervals in the ceiling above. The extra windows brightened what might have otherwise been a dark, gloomy castle, and Jahrra gained an extra appreciation for the architect, whoever he or she may have been. They climbed several sets of stairs, garnering plenty of surprised looks from the finely dressed courtiers lingering in the corridors.

  Finally, Banthren came to a stop before a pair of heavy oak doors. Two guards dressed in silver armor and deep purple cloaks pulled the doors open, and a grand hall large enough to welcome dragons yawned before them. Jahrra sighed in appreciation of the colorful tapestries, high vaulted ceiling, and tall, arched windows where afternoon sunlight poured in like skeins of warm, golden silk. This throne room reminded her of the one in Nimbronia, only smaller and far more colorful. Where walls and floors of carved, white ice made up the domain of the Creecemind, the stone of Dhonoara Castle was veined with every hue imaginable.

  Jahrra didn’t have long to admire the room’s decor, however, for those gathered, elves, Nesnan, and Resai alike, ceased their animated chatter the moment Banthren strode forward, leading her and her friends towards the throne. Not just elves and their kin, Jahrra realized, as she spotted dragons, too. Her heart leapt into her throat when a familiar shape caught the corner of her eye, but it wasn’t Jaax. Another Tanaan dragon, then. This one a darker shade of green than her guardian. The Tanaan watched her with dark, suspicious eyes. Definitely not Jaax, though he or she had an expression stern enough to qualify.

  A rustle of movement at the front of the room peeled Jahrra’s attention away from the dark dragon, and she almost melted in relief and utter delight when another, far more familiar, Tanaan stepped forward. Jaax caught her eye, his own sharp with worry and maybe even some of that joy she had felt mere moments ago. Jahrra shook her head and smiled brightly, holding up her hands.

  I am fine, she tried to convey. We are all fine.

  The beginning of a smile, one that made it to his eyes, tugged at the corner of Jaax’s mouth. When those eyes flicked to a spot just behind her, however, the look of relief stopped dead. Her guardian’s features hardened, a dark menace falling over him. Jahrra didn’t have to glance over her shoulder to discern the reason for his changed demeanor. Denaeh.

  “Your majesties!” Banthren announced in a booming voice, “Jahrraneh Drisihn and her companions have arrived in Dhonoara.”

  The king stood before his throne, draped in the formal robes of the elves, a crown of polished crystal shards resting atop his dark hair. Eyes similar to Dathian’s studied her, curious, but cautious in their regard. Beside him, an elvin woman rose from a throne matching his. Her hair was a deep black, her eyes almost silver. King Vandrian’s queen, Evielle. Haedron had supplied her name before entering the castle. Her scrutiny, however, was not as severe as her husband’s. A small smile graced her lips as her eyes met Jahrra’s, and the minute duck of her chin lightened Jahrra’s heart. At least one person in Ghorium did not feel the need to treat her with suspicion upon their first meeting.

  Jahrra glanced back at the king, preparing to bow or curtsey, but his attention had left her and gone elsewhere. Shock had frozen his features into place, and Jahrra’s heart slammed into her ribcage. Had he also noticed Denaeh? Did he know who she was as well? Would he not tolerate her as the others had? Jahrra risked a glance behind her, but it wasn’t Denaeh he gaped at.

  “Ellyesce?” the king of Dhonoara breathed, his words catching in his throat.

  Ellyesce only stood there, looking somewhat ragged in his traveling clothes, working hard to keep his expression neutral. “Hello, Vandrian.”

  The king stepped down from his throne, almost staggering as he approached the other elf. His arms started to lift from his sides, as if to reach out to Ellyesce, but he caught himself. The crowd of people already present in the hall stepped aside for their king, their own faces displaying variations of puzzlement, some even beginning to murmur in shock. Jahrra cast a quick look at Jaax, hoping his expression might give her some clue as to what was going on. He wasn’t glaring at Denaeh any longer, but watching the king and Ellyesce carefully. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and Jahrra suspected the Tanaan dragon expected something to happen. She tensed, wondering if she should prepare for a fight.

  Finally, the king came to a stop some four feet in front of the Magehn. For several long, uncomfortable seconds, he just stared at Ellyesce, throat bobbing as he swallowed several times. And then he spoke, voice raspy, “Where have you been these past centuries?”

  “That is a long story, one I do not wish to tell in front of your entire court, if you don’t mind,” Ellyesce muttered, pale green eyes surveying the curious onlookers.

  “No, I imagine not,” King Vandrian replied, eyes crinkling with humor. “Gods and goddesses above, below, and all the places in between,” he proclaimed, finally lifting his arms and placing his hands on Ellyesce’s shoulders. To Jahrra’s utter astonishment, tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Praise be to Ethoes! We shall have a banquet tomorrow, for my brother has returned to me!”

  Surprise slammed into Jahrra, her mouth dropping open against her will.

  Ellyesce’s glance in her direction was one of guilty apology. She drew in a sharp breath through her nose, crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a nasty look. So many secrets. So very many secrets.

  Jahrra would have continued glaring at her elvin friend if not for the king’s, his brother’s, abrupt shift in mood. Just as Jaax had done a few minutes ago, King Vandrian looked over Ellyesce’s shoulder only to notice the Mystic Archedenaeh standing behind the elves who had escorted them into the city. She did not stoop this time, nor did she try to hide her presence. Instead, she stepped forward, head held high, curling, brilliant hair tumbling down her back. She moved out from behind the screen of elves and stepped forward, her scarlet cloak unfurling behind her.

  Several people hissed as they recognized what, and maybe who, she was.

  “Mystic!” someone gasped.

  “Betrayer!” another growled.

  Several of the king’s guard drew their weapons, the long, slightly curved blades Jahrra had seen the scouting party carry. She darted her eyes to her new friend, H
aedron, to find him doing the same. His copper eyes turned hard, every muscle in his body drawn taut and ready to leap to his king’s defense. Jahrra couldn’t blame him. Denaeh was considered an enemy, after all.

  Without ceasing her slow progress, Denaeh lifted both her arms, palms facing outward.

  “I know what I am to you, your majesty,” she said, her voice clear and strong.

  Gone was the heart-broken, downtrodden woman who had journeyed with them from the wilds outside of Ghellna. Here was the Mystic Jahrra knew so well. Part of her perked up at the sight of Denaeh acting herself again, while another part of her cringed at all the naked steel pointed in her direction. And an even deeper part of her prickled in alarm, wondering what her friend was up to.

  Denaeh! What are you doing! Stand down, for goodness’ sake! Jahrra wanted to snarl at her.

  Either the Mystic heard Jahrra’s thoughts, or she had moved as close to the king as she dared. Either way, she came to a standstill, palms still raised. The room went absolutely quiet, and Denaeh lifted her pale golden eyes to Vandrian’s blue-green ones.

  “I am not welcome here, I know, but I do have a right to be here,” she pressed.

  A few of the closer bystanders grumbled angrily, but Vandrian lifted a hand, silencing them immediately.

  “Say your piece, woman. If you have traveled with Ellyesce,” he said his brother’s name sharply, casting the other elf a disgruntled look, “then there is a very good reason he has allowed you to do so.”

  Denaeh ducked her head in respectful thanks, then took a deep breath and said, loud enough for all to hear, “I have come back to Dhonoara, back to Ghorium, because you cannot win this war without me.”

  Conversation broke out once again. Some muttered angrily, others scoffed. When Vandrian called for silence, it took those gathered, longer to heed his command.

  “What makes you so sure of this, Mystic?” the king demanded, his tone brooking little patience for the woman who had wronged his brother.

  Denaeh glanced up at him, then let her eyes roam around the grand hall.