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

  One of the soldiers complied, stepping forward with the proffered source of light. Jahrra blinked against the sudden brightness as the mercenary lowered it to study her face.

  A low, cruel chuckle echoed through the chamber.

  “Not so high and mighty now, are we? Ifan! Go fetch the traitor’s vest. Our young ward here is due for a fitting.”

  Jahrra squeezed her eyes shut as the handful of soldiers gathered around to witness her humiliation chuckled. The one called Ifan hurried away to do Boriahs’ bidding, and as she waited, curled up on the damp, filthy floor of the outer room of her prison, Jahrra clenched her jaw and hoped whatever punishment she was about to receive would be swift. She could not waste prayers to Ethoes on herself, for she needed the goddess to bestow that kindness on Denaeh, Ellyesce, Jaax, and now, most of all, Kehllor.

  -Chapter Twenty-Three-

  The Mystic and the Magehn

  The harsh clang of metal striking against metal jerked Denaeh awake from a fitful sleep. Groaning, she peeled open her eyes, the headache beating against her skull threatening to split it open. Her eyelids drooped once more, and for several seconds, she remained utterly still as waves of dizzying nausea passed. When she thought she could stomach the sight of objects again, she opened her eyes only to be greeted with darkness.

  She glanced down at herself, realizing she hadn’t been lying on the forest floor, wrapped up in her cloak, but sitting, propped up against a rough, grimy stone wall. Dampness seeped through the back of her dress and she was becoming more and more aware that what she sat in might very well be a puddle of filth. Then she remembered, the memories flowing back into her mind like an onslaught of floodwater. The mission to rescue Jaax, being captured outside of Vruuthun’s walls, soldiers of the Crimson King dragging them into the dungeons beneath the castle, her separation from Jahrra, and finally, being thrown into a cramped prison cell with Ellyesce. How long had she been here? A day? A week? Too long, either way. Far too long.

  Groaning, she pressed her hands against the ground and made an effort to get out of the pool of icy dampness. Weakness threatened to steal her consciousness again, but she fought against it and was rewarded when she finally moved onto dry ground. To her relief, the puddle turned out to be only water. A bit muddy and not too far away from freezing, but free of anything more foul.

  Now settled more comfortably, Denaeh peered into the darkness to discern what she could. A trickle of light seeped in through a narrow slot in a wooden door several feet away. But, between the door and her current location tall, thick iron bars with little space between them rose from floor to ceiling. She was in a prison of some sort. A cage.

  A soft scrape of boots, or claws, against stone had Denaeh going absolutely still, her heart slamming against her ribcage, her previous concerns pressed once again to the back of her mind. In the near-blackness, something moved. Something locked in the cell with her. She swallowed back bile, and drew upon her magic. What little of it remained after the confrontation with the Red Flange. She patted the floor beside her, her hand seeking out anything she might use as a weapon. A pinch of triumph erupted when her fingers found a large stone. She gripped it, ready to launch it at whatever threat this shadow might be.

  The darkness shifted again, another scrape against the rocky floor, and Denaeh lifted her arm, ready to launch her projectile. A pained moan made her freeze. She dropped the stone, and it clattered and splashed across the floor.

  “Ellyesce?” she whispered, her voice harsh.

  The shadow stopped moving. Silence for several heartbeats, then, “Denaeh?”

  The Mystic sobbed in relief, rolling over so she could crawl to the elf.

  Reaching out blindly with her hands, her icy fingers met soft fabric, tracing over hard muscle beneath. Her fingers traveled up what was his torso, then his neck, until they found his face. All the while, Ellyesce remained still, not daring to move. He had kept his distance from her, but in the final days before setting out across the wastelands with Jahrra, the edge to his sharp coldness had warmed a little. When he had come to her aid in the Battle of Kahrparyum, she had dared to hope. Now, with so much left to lose, she did more than simply dare.

  Denaeh’s fingers were cold, but a longing deep within her burned bright. She reached out with her flagging magic, and for once, those impenetrable barriers of his were paper thin. Without thinking better of it, and acting on instinct alone, she let her consciousness seep into his. An answering desire, a fire burning as brightly as her own, filled Ellyesce’s soul, a yearning he had tried so hard to quell over the past five centuries. His heart had been like a piece of black coal, its heat all but extinguished, only to glow anew as her touch, her presence, her emotions poured over him. Gods and goddesses of Ethoes, he had promised himself, should he ever meet this woman again, he would either slay her or walk away. But, he had done neither. From the moment he caught her snooping in their campsite those many days ago, his resolve, his self-discipline, had become a flimsy shield held out against a barrage of dragon fire.

  Now, as the two of them sat in the dungeons below Vruuthun Castle, awaiting what was most definitely their impending execution, all he could think about was how much he had loved the Mystic Archedenaeh. How much he still loved her. All the bitter pain, jealousy, and cutting betrayal turning to ash in his mind. She was here before him, his beloved, the one woman who had held, and who would always hold, his heart, his soul, his very essence.

  Denaeh, shocked and overwhelmed by the onslaught of Ellyesce’s feelings, choked on another sob. Her hands kept up their gentle probing, her fingertips now tracing the swollen marks on his face, the small abrasions and nicks from the soldiers’ rough handling. Tears streamed down her face as her thumbs traced the ridges of his cheek bones, seeking any more minor hurts. As if her touch could sooth his physical pain.

  Without warning, Ellyesce emitted a small cry of desperation and lunged forward, his own hands reaching out, finding Denaeh’s face in the dark. His fingers brushed past her cheeks, sinking into her hair. The Mystic gasped in surprise, but did not pull away as he tugged her forward, his mouth pressing against hers.

  Ellyesce pulled away long enough to whisper harshly, that centuries old rage still lingering despite the truth now singing between them, “My anger still lingers, Denaeh, but if we are to die tonight, tomorrow, a week from now, I will not waste that time on regret and bitter resentment when you are here before me. I do not have the energy to fight my instincts anymore, and I will not go to my death with one more regret plaguing my heart.”

  Denaeh shuddered, tears streaming down her cheeks, slipping over his fingers. “And, I will not deny you, Ellyesce,” she rasped. “I will not leave you ever again, no matter what faces us in the days to come. I have spent too long mourning your death. I will not waste another minute. I love you, Ellyesce. I always have, and I always will.”

  Ellyesce wordlessly brushed Denaeh’s tears away, and with a small sigh of longing, his lips found hers once again. And, Denaeh did nothing to stop him. She fell into his embrace, giving him back everything he poured into her. The biting cold, the overwhelming dark, the distant sounds of pain and suffering, the damp, seeping walls. It all disappeared as the last Magehn of the Tanaan king proved, not with words, but the very essence of his being, that he had never stopped loving her, either.

  * * *

  Much later, Denaeh was pulled from a deep sleep, the incessant drip of water broken only by the sound of angry voices.

  “I don’t want to feed them. Let ‘em go without! His highness is plannin’ on butcherin’ ‘em soon anyway. Why waste the slop?”

  “Orders from General Boriahs,” another voice growled.

  More grumbling, what sounded like fingers fumbling over a ring of keys, and the slide of rusted metal against iron.

  Denaeh tensed, but the arms banded tightly around her waist kept her in place. Ellyesce. For a small moment, she allowed her heart the peace it so deserved, but that tranquility did not last lon
g. The door across the room flew open, heavy oak planks crashing against the uneven stone wall. Torchlight flickered in the new space, while soft light seeped in from the corridor. Denaeh lifted an arm to shield her eyes, even this small amount of firelight proving too harsh due to her time spent in the black depths of the dungeon.

  “Can you see ‘em, Gathen?” one of the voices growled.

  “Not really. Just dark lumps behind iron bars.”

  He chuckled, then stepped forward, close enough to slide a tray through a small gap in the bars below.

  “There you are. Enjoy the master’s finest.”

  The odor of whatever foulness the soldier had sent into their cell hit Denaeh’s nose, and she gagged on instinct.

  Laughter skittered throughout the room, more of the soldiers joining in.

  “I’ll give your compliments to the chef!”

  Just before the door slammed shut again, Denaeh risked a peek at the offending substance and almost gagged anew. Before the door closed entirely, a final bar of light fell upon the tray, only to reveal what looked like the charred carcass of a rat or some other large rodent, it’s rotting flesh wriggling with maggots. The moment the key clicked in the lock, sealing hers and Ellyesce’s fate, the elf sat up and left their makeshift bed. With a curse, he called upon his magic and set the putrescent mass on fire, burning it to ash before the new stench could cause any more discomfort.

  By the time Ellyesce rejoined Denaeh, the Mystic was sitting up, her knees tucked to her chest, her chin resting atop them.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” she murmured. “You need to preserve your magic.”

  Denaeh could not see the frown marring his smooth features, but she could feel the irritation permeating the aura surrounding him. With a soft sigh, Ellyesce managed to shake off his discontent. The room had grown dark again, but that small patch of light still shone in through the slit in the door. It was just enough to lessen the darkness, and when she angled her head to the side, Denaeh could just catch the shine in Ellyesce’s eyes. A small smile curved the corner of her mouth. Doomed they may be, but she could not, would not, regret the hours she and Ellyesce had spent remembering their lives before the taint of Ciarrohn ever blemished them. They had lain upon the cold floor, wrapped up in the rank blankets left to them to keep warm, and had whispered about their happier memories over the years. Making up for all the time they had lost.

  With a groan, Ellyesce returned to the Mystic’s side, his back pressed against the wall, but his shoulder, his thigh, touching hers. It wasn’t a full embrace, but it might as well have been, for the joy it brought warmed Denaeh down to her toes.

  Ellyesce laced their fingers together in a loose clasp, the pool of his deep, powerful magic, seeping into her skin, her blood, her bones. That pool had diminished significantly, but he still had far more magic left than her. She wanted to chide him again about wasting it, but decided against it. What was the point? There was little hope for escape now. Her magic was drained, the stone she might use to replenish it was in the hands of their enemy and she had no idea where Jahrra was, or if she was even still alive. Bitterness tightened around her heart for having such thoughts, but she could not help it. Without her magic, she could not see anything new, even if she tried to conjure up her gift of foresight. If they were to die, then she would savor what time they had left.

  Denaeh leaned her head back against the damp wall, unconcerned about what might now be dripping into her hair, and smiled. Ellyesce was spirit sharing with her again, of his own free will. Something they had done so long ago, when she first realized she saw him as more than a mentor ushering her into her Mysticism.

  “What have you seen, Denaeh?” Ellyesce asked softly, breaking into her thoughts. “What have your gifts shown you about our fate?”

  Before answering him, she let the weight of the prison settle upon her shoulders. Not the tons of rock perched above them, not the ice and snow and wind. Not the bodies of all the soldiers and servants and prisoners, but the weight of all the tormented souls who had been haunting this place for centuries. Denaeh was no necromancer. She could not commune with the dead, nor could she bring them any peace. But she could sense them, their emotions, their pain, their regrets. Like the metallic tang that sometimes tainted water. An aftertaste coating her tongue. And, for a few more heartbeats, she let the overwhelming weight of their presence press her down.

  “I have seen sacrifice,” she finally rasped, still unable to face all that she knew must come to pass in order for Jahrra to succeed, “but I have also seen great happiness as well. I do not know if our path has changed, for the vision hasn’t come to me since we entered Vruuthun. My magic is too weak.”

  “Then use some of mine,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her temple.

  Bright warmth flowed into her, and her eyelids drifted shut of their own accord. Images flashed through her mind, bright and searing. She saw the vision from before, the survivors at the end of this war standing atop a wind-swept mountain, many displaying tear-stained faces. She was there, Ellyesce was there and Jahrra was there. Nothing had changed. The vision swirled, and she snapped back to the present, gasping a little for breath.

  She turned her eyes to Ellyesce, though she knew he could not read the expression on her face. Her fingers tightened around his, a grip that purveyed both her hope and her determination not to give in to despair.

  “My vision is unchanged. We will not die in this dungeon, Ellyesce. We will live long enough to witness the final death throes of Ciarrohn. After that, I cannot tell. I have not seen that far ahead.”

  The elf reached out a hand in the dark, his long fingers pressing against her cheek. She let her eyes drift shut as she leaned into his touch, despite the shivers his icy skin sent skittering across her skin.

  “I am sorry,” he rasped, “for my anger, for my stubbornness. For refusing to see the gift that your reappearance in my life has been. I never stopped loving you either, Archedenaeh, High Mystic of Ethoes.”

  She smiled against his palm, her soul warming at his words.

  “It’s been centuries since anyone has called me that,” she murmured with a small laugh.

  He leaned in and kissed her brow, his hand releasing hers so that he might pull her closer to him. “Let us find a way to defeat the evil god, so that we might have the life we dreamed of before he drove us apart.”

  Denaeh shuddered against him, her face pressed into his filthy tunic. But beneath the sweat, blood, and grime, she could smell him. Wood smoke, pine, and magic, rich, deep magic. If only the two of them could combine their power and use it against the Tyrant king. If only Cierryon didn’t have the immortal strength of a god behind him.

  Ellyesce and Denaeh might have sat there forever, quietly comforting one another, happy just to be together once more, despite the uncertain future which awaited them. Perhaps, that is why Denaeh didn’t hear it at first, the soft scraping noise rising up out of the darkness. Only when Ellyesce tensed beneath her, did she stop breathing, the rapid thudding of his heart against her ear making it more difficult to detect any sound at all. Well, that and the bawdy laughter of the drunken soldiers farther down the corridor.

  “What is that?” Denaeh whispered, her words barely a breath of air.

  In answer, Ellyesce pressed his finger to her lips, a request for silence. And there it was again, a tentative scratching, coming from the far corner of the room where the floor drain was located. The scraping grew closer, and then, what resembled the sharp intake of a sudden breath.

  This time, she pulled away from Ellyesce and pressed closer to the wall. Gods and goddesses of Ethoes only knew what sort of vile creatures lived in the sewers below the Tyrant’s accursed fortress.

  Ellyesce whispered beside her, and a ball of white-blue light flared above his palm. She squinted against it, but then peered with Ellyesce into the corner as he held the light out. The grate above the drain shifted, then lifted an inch, then another, the creak of rusty metal unnat
urally loud in the quiet room. Two pointed objects rose slowly from the black pit, followed by a tuft of hair. Ellyesce’s mage light wasn’t bright enough to illuminate the color, but Denaeh tried to make it out anyway, her eyes narrowed. Only when a face resembling an elvin child’s with two large, dark eyes peered back at her, did the Mystic release the breath she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding.

  “Dervit?!” she breathed, surprise rippling through her body.

  The limbit quickly glanced from side to side, and when he realized the room was empty of guards, he climbed the rest of the way out of the drain and set the grate back down carefully.

  Dervit picked his way across the uneven floor, watchful of the fetid puddles and rotting piles of hay and other unmentionable detritus. Within a few moments, he managed to reach his two friends. Both Ellyesce and Denaeh covered his small fingers with their own as he wrapped them around the bars, pressing his face close so he could see them in the pale glow of Ellyesce’s mage light.

  “Ethoes above, where did you come from, Dervit? How did you get in here?”

  The limbit gave a nervous laugh, then struggled to catch his breath. A look of concern crossed Denaeh’s face. “Are you hurt?”

  Dervit shook his head, his pointed fox ears falling flat against his hair. “N-no. Just tired, cold, hungry, and jumpy.”

  Beyond the solid door separating them from the half dozen or so guards standing watch, a sudden burst of raucous laughter echoed through the dark caverns. Dervit twitched, the fur on his tail puffing out, then spun away from Ellyesce and Denaeh. With wide eyes, he backed slowly toward the far wall, ears swiveling and throat bobbing. The laughter continued, dying down a little as the men got back to their gambling and storytelling.

  When several heartbeats passed and no one came to the door, Ellyesce hissed, “Dervit, how did you get in here?”

  Fortunately, the Magehn of the Tanaan king had the patience immortality had afforded him because it took Dervit several more minutes to slowly crawl back to the iron cage. Every scrape of his toenails against the stone, every odd shift to the torchlight pouring in through the spy grate in the door, every drip of water from above had him jerking in fear and freezing in his progress.