The Mark Of Iisilée

by T P Sheehan

  Protected from the heat of the flames by Jael’s spell, Magnus stared through the chaos and saw Lucas was mouthing words as though conjuring spells of his own. He must be protecting the wyvern.

  Dangerously close to the ground, Magnus released his stirrup buckles. He knew he had to jump, or else risk getting crushed should Brue strike the ground. He opened his mind to Brue, letting him know his intentions. Thirty feet, twenty feet, fifteen… Magnus leapt from Brue’s back and struck the ground, tumbling over himself. Brue twisted free of the wyvern just before impact and thrust into the sky, chasing it once again.

  “MAGNUS!”

  “I’m fine, Brue. Go get him!” Magnus stood and spat soot and grass from his mouth and dusted off. The whole experience left Magnus disorientated but as he blinked the dizziness away, he saw Lucas standing in front of him, still staring with his sunken, grey eyes.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Lucas?” Lucas was completely expressionless. Unlike Magnus’s dream, where Lucas sank back into the shadow of his hood, Lucas continued to stare. “How will your mother react when she learns you killed your father? Will she die from shame or sorrow?”

  “She is dead. I killed her in the caves.” Lucas’s voice was raspy and strained. “She was in my head… always in my head, but now she is dead.” He rubbed his temple with the heel of his right hand.

  “You killed her?” shouted Bonstaph, stomping toward Lucas through the tall grass. “You poisonous, wretched monster!”

  “Father, be careful!” Magnus jumped toward his father and grabbed his arm to keep him from approaching Lucas. There was no way he was willing to let him die the way Ganister did. “So what now, Lucas?” Magnus shouted.

  “Everyone you’ve ever loved is dead—and by your hand,” Bonstaph added.

  “Delvion’s sons are dead by your hand.” Lucas pointed a bony finger at Bonstaph. “If I avenge their deaths, he may set me free.”

  Bonstaph clenched an angry fist. “You think that tyrant will ever free you? You’re as much a fool as a monster!”

  Magnus had to make a move to bring Lucas down. If his father did, he would likely be killed. Magnus at least had a chance of recovering from Lucas’s dark sorcery. However, the more he looked at Lucas, the more he pitied him. Part of him felt a fool for feeling this way, but Lucas was yet to advance and his words seemed more provocative than threatening. Magnus considered a sad alternative—Is Lucas’s life so miserable that he wants us to kill him? With that thought, Magnus risked an alterative.

  “Father, I think we should leave him be.”

  “What?”

  “If he attacks, we’ll deal with it.”

  Bonstaph considered Magnus. The harsh scowl on his face softened. He scanned Lucas up and down. “We cannot turn our backs on him, Magnus. Like I always say, assume the worst—”

  “Hope for the best,” Magnus completed his father’s words. They were wise words and their wisdom had saved him before. “I know.”

  “Be careful, Magnus. Please.”

  Magnus would have heeded his father’s warning, but for Marsala’s advice. What the mystic said had haunted him in the days since—‘A friend as a brother has fallen to darkness…’ Magnus knew Lucas was in a dark place, but if Lucas no longer had a heart of compassion somewhere within him, struggling to be found, then for how much longer would Magnus have his own? He had the blood of two dragons coursing through him, each vying for supremacy. He no more chose his fate than Lucas did. ‘But a single chance to reconcile…’ Marsala had said. Magnus did not want to ruin that chance with violence that could result in one of their deaths.

  “Do you think it can be done?” It was Lucas. Weak but true, the words drifted into Magnus’s mind as though from a source so fragile, so weak, he could barely discern them. Magnus glanced at his father.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Bonstaph asked.

  “Give me a moment with him, father.”

  Bonstaph did not look at all convinced. He took a hesitant, single step back but reinforced the grip on his sword. Magnus turned his attention back to Lucas.

  “Can what be done, Lucas?”

  From behind his back, Lucas revealed his sword and examined it. He seemed lost in thought—thought that made him wince. The wince gave character to his lifeless face. For a moment, Magnus felt something. He felt his friend was right there with him and was certain Lucas felt it too.

  Behind Lucas, a dragon made a pass, torching a long length of the Southern Plains with flame that effectively separated the Quagmen from the refugees who were fighting to defend their lives. Lucas remained still—a silhouette against the fiery background.

  “Can what be done, Lucas?” Magnus repeated, trying to prompt a response.

  Lucas looked from the sword to Magnus. The wince faded from his face and it was once again expressionless. Lucas turned and walked away toward the fire.

  “Lucas!”

  Lucas walked into the line of flames. A dark shadow appeared around him, protecting the sorcerer from fire. Soon, Lucas disappeared into the flames altogether. Magnus knew he could follow him. He knew he could walk through the flames unharmed and try to retrieve his friend, but he did not, even though this was the single chance Marsala spoke of. It was not for him to stop Lucas, nor convince him to stay, join him, or even kill him. Marsala’s words were with him again—the haunting part of her words—‘but a single chance to reconcile, else fate be challenged.’

  “Else fate be challenged…” Somehow Magnus knew if he was going to make amends with Lucas it was not here, not now. He had seen the darkness return to his eyes. He was lost again—for now…

  ‘Do you think it can be done?’ That is what Lucas said. Magnus smiled to himself. There was hope, even if it came to him as a whisper.

  “That was his chance, Magnus.” He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.

  Fate, then, will be challenged…

  TWO TRUTHS

  The sandstone of the Uydferlands quarry was a homecoming for Catanya. The straight-cut pits and teakwood-coloured stacks of stone were as familiar as the backs of her hands. More so, perhaps, for she had changed more than the quarry since she left. Was it really only seven months ago? There was, however, an air of sullenness to the quarry. The fine, cream–coloured dust from fresh excavation had given over to grey dust of neglect. Time had dulled the quarry’s sharpness, dampened its spirit and robbed it of resolve. Catanya gathered its workers had exchanged shovels for swords and pickaxes for crossbows.

  Rubea circled the quarry for a second time before landing a mile north of Nuyan. Catanya and Austagia alighted, ending a night and a morning of flight with only one stop in Froughton Forest to afford Rubea riverside replenishment. Catanya led Austagia and Rubea along the eastern quarry road through the sparse woodlands and tall grasses toward the township of Nuyan. The closer they got, the more attention they drew. By the time they reached the centre of Nuyan, everyone in the town was aware of their presence.

  “A fire dragon has returned.”

  “The Ferustirs show themselves.”

  No one seemed to recognise Catanya. Then again, Catanya hardly recognised any of the Nuyan folk. There was no cheer, just the drone of necessary conversation between people worn to the bone from the war with the Quag. And the war was still happening. Catanya could hear all manner of commotion from the south.

  Catanya strode along the side streets leading to her family home. She half expected Hannah to come sprinting down one of the alleyways squealing with excitement and yelling her name. Perhaps her mother would run to her with open arms and tears of joy or, perhaps, her father.

  I have not given thought enough about what I will say to father…

  Catanya removed the iris from inside her breast armour. She held it tentatively as she rounded a corner. Finally, after months of dreaming of it, her eyes fell on the sandstone walls, thatched roofing, white-framed windows and green gardens of home. The house looked as tired as
the quarry, but nevertheless gave her comfort.

  “Hannah! Mother!” The words came as a whimper. Hearing her, one onlooker did a double take—clearly not expecting a show of emotion from a priest. Catanya stepped up to the front door. “Mother?” she called. She turned the door’s brass handle. It was unlocked. Opening the door, she peered into the living room.

  ‘I’ll take a look around,” Austagia said. Catanya nodded without looking at him. She stepped into the common room. Sniffing the air, she expected the smell of her mother’s cooking, or fresh-cut summer flowers sitting in the pitcher on the kitchen table, but there were neither of these things. Inside, the house looked as tired as outside. The floors and surfaces were dusty. The kitchen table a mess of dirty utensils, plates and bowls.

  Catanya nervously felt the iris between her fingers. Then she remembered. She ran through to her bedroom and flung open the door. Four strides into her room, she opened the drawer to her dresser. There sat her diary. Too scared to touch it at first and knowing she was a moment from the truth about Hannah, Catanya stared at it. She felt its leather cover with her fingertips before lifting it from the drawer. She sat on the side of her bed, prising the book open to its centre pages. The iris was gone.

  Catanya took a deep breath and blew through pursed lips. She looked at the iris found on the chamber floor beneath the Temple of Fire. She placed it on the centre pages of her diary and slid it into the indent made by the flower that had been there for so many years. It sunk perfectly into place. Each petal, stem and even an unopened bud fit into its respective pit in the paper.

  It was the same flower…

  The diary slipped from Catanya’s fingers onto the wooden floor at her feet. She slid off her bed and fell to her knees and began to sob silently and uncontrollably. There was neither reason nor logic for Catanya to grasp. How Hannah found herself to be in the Romghold, let alone what she went through to get there, and even more so where she disappeared to afterwards, were questions too overwhelming to process.

  Where is Hannah?

  Catanya shook her head and lay on the floor of her bedroom, thoroughly exhausted. She closed her weary eyes and tried to will herself to sleep. She almost was when the sound of heavy boots reverberated through the floorboards of the house and into Catanya’s head. Familiar voices followed. One was quiet—the voice of reason. Austagia… The other voice was loud, aggressive and obnoxious. Father…

  Catanya got to her feet reluctantly and replaced her diary into the dresser drawer. She rubbed tears from her cheeks with her palms and trudged back through the house to the living room just in time to see her father throw Austagia through the living room window with a violent shattering of glass. Catanya stared wide-eyed as her uncle landed in the overgrown vegetable garden. He got to his feet and calmly dusted off his black robe.

  “Father! What in all the realms are you doing?”

  Xavier turned and stared at Catanya. His face was red with anger.

  “Ask him!” Xavier bellowed. Catanya had never seen her father lose control before. He drew his longsword and walked through the broken window making straight for Austagia.

  “FATHER!”

  Austagia held his arms up. “Xavier, we can talk about this civilly.”

  “Talk about it? After all the years of secrecy, you want to talk about it!” Xavier lifted his sword over his head, all the while cursing at his elder brother. Catanya threw herself through the window frame, drew her lance and igniting it before her feet landed. She shoved her father in the back, making him bring his large sword down off-angle. He swung back. Catanya caught his blade with her lance.

  “WHAT is going on?” Catanya yelled. Rubea took steps toward the commotion, her thoughts as much awash with confusion as Catanya’s. There was a crowd gathering. Half ogled at Rubea, the other half at Catanya’s family dispute. Xavier stared at the interlocked weapons—his sword and Catanya’s lance. His incredulous look found Catanya’s eyes.

  “You need to ask him what’s going on.” Xavier pointed to Austagia with his free hand.

  Catanya looked from her father to her uncle and back again. Neither seemed keen to explain matters. “Well, someone needs to explain! And where is Hannah? Where is mother?”

  An evasive look swept across Xavier’s face. He looked away from Catanya.

  “Catanya,” a voice shouted. Csilla was rounding the back of the house, walking toward them. “Come with me.” She pointed at Xavier—“So this is how you break news, Xavier?” Xavier lowered his sword and opened his mouth. “Spare me your nonsense,” Csilla interjected. “Apparently, it’s beyond a priest and a Knight Commander to speak truth. Then again,” Csilla looked Catanya over, “you’ve probably figured that much by now.”

  Catanya considered her father and uncle one more time and retreated toward her aunt.

  ‘Catanya,” Austagia called after her. Catanya looked over her shoulder. “We will talk about this. When you are ready.” He nodded apprehensively.

  “What exactly do I need to be ready to talk about?” Catanya barked at her uncle. She swung back to Csilla. “What exactly is going on, Csilla?”

  Csilla embraced Catanya. “Walk with me.”

  They walked to the back of the house and Catanya’s eyes surveyed the overgrown gardens, the trees with fallen fruit and the unpruned flowerbeds. She knew her father took no interest in such things and could only deduce one thing—“My mother isn’t here, is she?”

  Csilla looked her in the eyes. “She isn’t. Neither is Hannah.”

  “Where are they, Csilla?”

  “They left a fortnight ago for the OhUidlands. An OhUidman I know and trust escorted them through Froughton Forest to safety, away from the war and—”

  “And?”

  “And the dispute between your mother and Xavier.”

  “You mean, between my parents?”

  “That’s what the dispute is about, Catanya.”

  Catanya was even more confused than when she opened her diary just minutes ago. “You of all people I trust to speak plainly, Csilla.”

  “You shouldn’t be hearing this from me, but you need to hear it. Xavier is not your true father. Austagia is.”

  Catanya’s lance struck the ground at her feet without her knowing she dropped it. Csilla’s hands cupped Catanya’s shoulders as though anticipating the giddiness she was feeling.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Catanya mumbled.

  “Come, sit with me and we’ll talk.”

  Catanya sat right where she was, upon the grass of the garden, her legs straight out in front of her. She considered her boots with their odd laces. They made her laugh. She felt as if she was becoming entirely unhinged. Nothing makes sense. She scratched her head, feeling the priest markings over her left temple and tracing them back behind her ear.

  “You’ve been through a lot. I can see that.”

  Catanya shifted her lazy gaze to Csilla, taking in her aunt’s familiar scars and saw there were plenty of new ones. “How long have you known?”

  “Your mother told your father… Xavier, I mean. It was after you left. I only found out recently.”

  “After all these years… why?” Catanya recalled her secret conversation with Austagia before she fled the Romghold at his insistence. Austagia said he had warned Catanya’s mother about the Quag armies. ‘Why would you confide such a thing in my mother?’ Catanya asked. Austagia had been slow to respond, but spoke then of family and told Catanya there was much to be learned.

  “I think, with you gone, it all became too much for her,” Csilla explained.

  “But Austagia told me it was mother who wanted me gone.”

  “She wanted you protected.” Csilla’s eyes sharpened. “Austagia had gotten word to your mother that war was coming. She returned in kind, begging for him to take you into the priesthood as protection. Catanya, she thought your real father was better equipped to ensure your safety.”

  “She told you this?”

  “Only after she told
Xavier.”

  Catanya wondered at the long held secret. “Did Austagia know… all these years?”

  “That’s for him to answer.”

  Catanya winced. She had only come to respect Austagia as her uncle in recent times. She resented him for so long, wondering how a man could treat his niece so coldly. To treat his daughter that way—she was not at all sure what to make of that. The issue of Hannah made her stomach twist. “Who, then, is Hannah’s father?”

  “She is Xavier’s child. Your mother swore it to be true.”

  “Hannah is my sister. Nothing less.”

  “Aye. And as much my niece as you are!” Csilla smiled affectionately. Catanya did not bother to feign a smile in return.

  “I need to find her, Csilla.”

  Csilla nodded. She glanced eastward, as though toward Froughton Forest. Her smile faded to a frown and she cracked her knuckles—a habit Catanya had always seen her do when she was troubled.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing, I’m sure.” Uncharacteristically, Csilla hesitated—“I was to receive word from the OhUid folk once Alessandra and Hannah reached Mount Earthwood. It is yet to come.”

  “When would you have expected such word?”

  Csilla shook her head. “Who knows the logic of Earth Realmers?” She locked eyes with Catanya who was all of a sudden worried. Csilla knew it and confessed—“I should have had word before now.”