Mystic Dragon

by Jason Denzel

  The fireball roared across the twenty steps between her and Sim, but he was ready. He lifted his onkai blades and crossed them in front of himself. The fireball crashed into the blades and exploded in a shower of sparks and ash.

  Shevia’s head spun as reality crashed back to her. Her body relaxed, leaving her trembling. Her heart pounded as she caught her breath.

  For several thundering heartbeats, nothing moved except a scorching ring of fire surrounding Sim. Shevia took a deep breath, and wafted the Myst away from her, extinguishing the flames. The inferno groaned as it snuffed out.

  * * *

  Sim lowered his onkai. The flames Shevia had thrown at him had only singed some hair on his arms but, beyond that, had not affected him. He studied her.

  She had a wild look about her eyes. She still wore the same dress she’d had on at the velten, but now it had holes that revealed bloody scrapes beneath. Smoke and ash swirled in the space between them.

  He sheathed his onkai. “You could’ve burned the forest,” he said in Continental.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why did you follow me?”

  From the moment she’d fled the velten, the silver path had illuminated in his sight, drawing him westward, in the direction she’d gone. Whenever he let his gaze linger for more than a minute in one place, it emerged from the ground and lit a path. He didn’t always know where the path would lead, but this time he’d known from the start that it would lead to her.

  Traveling with Pomella had been more awkward than he’d anticipated. They’d had two days and a night alone on the road, mostly traversed in silence. He’d led the way, feeling her eyes on the back of his head the whole time. So much had changed in their years apart.

  Pushing those thoughts aside, he approached Shevia. The tattoo on her shoulder had grown, and now encompassed most of her exposed skin. The serpent’s scales were more defined, more textured, as if they were truly a part of her flesh rather than inked illustrations. As Shevia moved, the serpent itself seemed to shift separately from her.

  “Your skin,” he said.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I will never be powerless again.”

  He nodded. He didn’t fully understand, but it was clear she was drawing power from a connection to something related to the tattoo. “Yah. You have power. But you crave freedom.”

  Silence stretched between them. Finally, he scratched his head. “My fathir’s a blacksmith back home,” he said, reluctantly bringing up his own past. “Tried to impress him once. I over-forged a scythe commissioned by Ilise AnCutler’s sons. I wanted to make the metal as hard as I could, figuring it’d be better. Stronger. But all it did was shatter.”

  He noted her hands shaking, and whether that was from the Myst coursing through her, or nerves, Sim couldn’t tell.

  “I’ve been reforged,” Shevia said in a low voice.

  “Yah, but by whom?” he said. “And for what purpose?”

  She looked at him, visibly surprised.

  He pressed on. “Do you remember telling me we are alike? Both broken by what we’ve lost. We can be found. When Crow Tallin is over, we can return to Qin.”

  He wanted to go back to the highlands, away from Moth. He could take Shevia home, and from there they would part.

  “You cannot repair me,” Shevia said. “Only Sitting Mother can.”

  The name rang through Sim like an iron bell. Memories flashed in his mind: Swiko, the rag doll, the stones at the summit of the mountain, the little cairns he’d seen around the slaver wagon and later his cabin.

  “What did you say?” he whispered.

  “Sitting Mother,” she repeated, but this time in Qina. It sounded to him exactly how Swiko had spoken the name.

  Sim couldn’t meet her eyes anymore. Even here, on the other side of the world from the highlands, Sitting Mother haunted Sim. He half-expected to turn around and see a cairn of stones piled beside the pond shore.

  “She has guided you, too, hasn’t she?” Shevia said with a slight tone of wonder to her voice. She’d switched to speaking Continental again. She leaned closer to him. “Then it is no wonder she brings us together.”

  Slowly, as if afraid he would burn her, Shevia reached toward his face in exactly the same way that Swiko had done the day she’d convinced him to stay in the highland village for the winter. He recalled those quiet winter evenings spent with her, and how bittersweet they’d been in the end. Gently, he leaned away from Shevia, not letting her touch him.

  She stepped closer to him. “Come with me,” she whispered. “To Fayün, where we can meet Sitting Mother face-to-face together.”

  Sim held her eyes and for a moment saw deep into her, past the pain, past the confusion, to find a shy, vulnerable woman seeking freedom.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  In one swift motion he placed a shiverbane-soaked cloth over her nose and mouth. Shevia’s eyes widened, then rolled back in her head. Sim caught her as the potent herb dragged her to unconsciousness.

  * * *

  Pomella emerged from the Mystwood trees. All around her in the trees and grass, small woodland denizens of Fayün peered at her, perhaps not realizing they’d drifted into the human world, wondering what she was doing near their homes. She walked quietly, her Mystic staff pressing into the forest floor.

  Sim stood near the edge of a wide pond that fed a stream leading south. He’d told her that the creek met others before eventually terminating at Loch Bracken. The waterfall, known to the locals as Toormabridga Fallah, poured into the pond, having been fed year-round by the rain and snow running off MagBreckan.

  Toormabridga Fallah. The Falls of Saint Brigid’s Tears. Pomella had grown up less than twelve miles from this location, as the crow flew. She’d heard of this location but, along with everything else on MagBreckan, had never ventured out to see it. Standing near the swirling mist wafting off the falls, she felt her world and Fayün blending more tightly than ever.

  She lowered her hood and gazed skyward. Treorel would sail behind the moon in two days, marking the peak of Crow Tallin.

  Hundreds of silver lotus flowers sprouted around the shore. They were made entirely of translucent light, but within their cores were tiny motes of blue fire. Yes, Pomella thought, this location was different from other places in the Mystwood. There was a sense of permanence here.

  She turned her attention back to Sim. He was folding a handkerchief and carefully placing it in his pocket. Shevia lay at his feet, eyes closed, leaning against his leg. Her Mystic staff lay beside her.

  “I don’t know how long she’ll be out,” Sim said.

  Pomella bent to look more closely at Shevia’s tattoo. It had grown since Pomella last saw her, confirming what she’d suspected all along, that it wasn’t a simple application of ink beneath the skin. The serpent’s—no, the dragon’s—scales were textured and recessed into her skin. Pomella considered touching them but thought better of it.

  “Take her to Kelt Apar with me,” Pomella said. “There’s somebody I have to speak to.”

  Sim studied her for a moment, giving away no other outward reaction. “Why?” he finally asked.

  “Because there’s something going on with this Lagnaraste that I need to know about,” she said. “If Shevia was ensnared by a powerful wivan, and it wants to break free, then Crow Tallin is likely the time it wants to do so.”

  Sim nodded, which was not the reaction she’d expected him to have. “Is this the entrance?” he said.

  “Yah, to Fayün,” she said. “This is what she was seeking. I never knew a place like this existed, but I feel like this entrance has always been here.”

  “What do you expect to find there?” Sim said.

  Pomella sighed and held out her hand for him to take. “Answers, Sim. With Lal gone, I’m alone on this path. Something bigger than we know is happening with Crow Tallin. It’s going to affect us all, and I need to be prepared.”

  “The High Mystics expect you back,” Sim said.

  “Yes, but w
hat help will I be when Crow Tallin arrives?” She peered into the depths of the waterfall. “Here I can make a difference.”

  He considered her with those blue eyes she knew so well. She longed to know the story of his last seven years. “I wonder,” she said, “will we always circle around one another like this, like the Mystic Star passing by our world, never to linger, but only to be seen at a distance?”

  His unspoken reply hid behind whatever memories he carried.

  The Myst stirred within Pomella, reminding her of the urgency. She backed away into the pond until her ankles were wet.

  Hector and Ena swooped down from the trees, dancing with the other fay birds chirping and leaping from branch to branch.

  Without words, she pushed the Myst toward Shevia, creating a shimmering sphere, which shrank and reshaped itself to fit her exact shape. Pomella marveled at how easily she manipulated the Myst now. By instinct alone she found she had the knowledge and skill to manifest whatever she needed. Under Treorel’s power, using the Myst had become as easy as singing.

  “That will keep her asleep for a while,” Pomella said.

  She turned and waded into the water, using her staff to steady herself. Hector and Ena buzzed excitedly, urging her on. “Show me the way to your realm, little ones,” she said.

  They spun once and darted straight into the waterfall, vanishing behind its misty downpour. Pomella paused at its edge, soaked now completely, and standing in water up to her waist.

  “Pomella!” Sim called.

  She looked back at him over her shoulder.

  He spoke, and she could barely discern what he said.

  “Come back to me.”

  The words haunted Pomella as she turned toward the cascade, and stepped through.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE TOWER OF ETERNAL STARLIGHT

  Pomella plunged through a firmament of worlds and stars. The water surrounding her became rain, then mist, and then sunshine. She began falling down, only to feel her stomach flip as she realized she was now falling up. The colors of the Mystwood—the greens and browns of the trees and ground—slipped into uniform shades of silver.

  She didn’t crash to her feet but rather found herself already standing knee-deep in the center of a waterfall-fed pond resting in the forest of a silver world. The spinning feeling settled, and Pomella looked around.

  Fayün. The realm that existed on the other side of the human world, like the opposite side of a coin. Trees that moments before had not been visible to her now towered above her, stretching impossibly high toward a gray evening sky. The flowers she’d observed on the shores of the pond beside Sim and Shevia were there with their tiny azure flames trembling within their cores. Familiar fresh scents filled her nose, like the clean air after a rainstorm.

  Looking down, she found she was naked, yet she still held her Mystic staff. A rush of self-consciousness washed over her, but she shook it off. She was a Mystic, a traveler between worlds, and she had nothing to be embarrassed about. Still, though, she preferred not to go uncovered. She swept her staff around her head with two hands and pulled flowers and water and grass around herself. They wove themselves together under her instinctive command, forming a graceful yet simple dress dotted with lily petals. Her feet remained bare, just as she liked.

  She smiled, satisfied with herself. Vivianna would be proud, too, she knew, although she wished her friend could share this experience of being in Fayün with her.

  Setting aside thoughts of Vivianna, Pomella strode out of the pond to stand at its shore. No water clung to her. She found she was perfectly dry, as though she’d emerged from a bath and already toweled herself off. Her sturdy dress of flowers and grass slipped across her body as she moved, feeling like silk. She peered closely at the fabric and could see water coursing through it in rivulets.

  A shimmer of gold caught her eye. In this land of a single color, the golden light shone like a bonfire. It came from the branch of a tree, and Pomella saw that it was a squirrel. Golden smoke wafted from it, just like with a fay creature back in the human realm. The squirrel scampered along the branch and leaped to another tree and, mid-jump, faded back to the human realm.

  As she watched the squirrel vanish, more golden creatures and plants appeared along the quiet glade she stood within. “Well, would you look at that,” she muttered to herself.

  Here in Fayün, just as in the human realm, the worlds were merging. She glanced upward, past the massive treetops, and there, shining as expected, was the bloodred Mystic Star. Its power shone down on her, filling her with an abundance of the Myst.

  For a brief moment, she saw a large golden shape appear beside her at the water’s edge. It was Sim, formed entirely of misty golden light. He stared past her at the waterfall.

  She reached out to touch his arm. Her hand tingled as she did so, but he did not stir. Most people, even rangers, could generally not feel or sense occupants of Fayün. “Go to Kelt Apar,” she whispered, dropping her hand. “I’ll return soon.”

  Pomella mentally reached out to Hector and Ena. They flew to her immediately, appearing just as they normally did. She held her hand out for them. “Can you show me where to go?” she asked.

  The little birds looked at each other, as if each was wondering if the other sibling had the answer. Pomella frowned.

  A bubbling noise sounded behind her. Pomella turned as a wide, slightly curved stone lifted out of the water. As it rose, more and more of it became visible until it filled nearly the entire diameter of the pond.

  Pomella’s eyes widened as a massive scaled head emerged from the water as well. This wasn’t a stone, she realized. It was a shell.

  A tortoise, made entirely of shimmering silver light, of course, rose before her and moved his head in her direction. Water and smoky mist dripped off him. He angled his head so one of his eyes focused on her.

  Pomella waited for him to speak, but after a long moment of silence she determined that he either couldn’t or was choosing not to talk. She marveled at the creature, having never seen a fay of his size.

  She curtsied. “I am Pomella AnDone,” she said, “a Mystic from the island of Moth, and student of Grandmaster Faywong. I seek a guide to take me to Lagnaraste.”

  The name echoed in the air like a living thing, shivering the trees, rippling the pond, and warming the air. Fay creatures throughout the nearby trees squeaked and scampered to new locations. The tortoise lifted his head slowly, still considering her. Then he looked away from Pomella, toward the horizon. Pomella didn’t know if normal compass directions were the same here, but if this had been the human realm she would’ve guessed that he peered north. The pond fed a narrow stream leading in that direction.

  “Please,” Pomella said, “if you understand me, I need to find her.”

  “She’s a-tricky t’find,” said a nearby voice. Pomella spun and found a man with a bushy red beard watching her from up in a tree.

  Red, not silver.

  Pomella felt an unexpected surge of fear at seeing that he appeared as she did, with normal colors. He had pale, freckled skin, common for those on Moth, along with short, neatly groomed hair that matched his beard. He was shirtless, and appeared to be in his mid- to late thirties, although it was difficult to tell because of his stooped stature, the bags under his eyes, and his gnarled hands. One of those hands clutched a short, lumpy stick that had bundles of silver fruit tied to it. Pomella counted four bananas, two oranges, and a bundle of grapes. He wore loose pants that shimmered with silver light.

  “Hello, can you help me?” said Pomella, wondering who this man was.

  He shrugged. “Maybe, eh? I see yeh figured how t’ dress yehself,” he said, and Pomella noticed his clear, if archaic, Mothic accent. “Took m’ weeks t’ puzzle that out.”

  “Who are you?” Pomella asked. “And why are you…?”

  “Why’m I not silver a-like everythin’ else?” he offered.

  “Yah.”

  The man plucked a grape from the to
p of his stick. “M’ name’s Rostrick,” he said, and he popped a silver grape into his mouth. “I’m a Mystic, a-like you. And a-like you, I came here from tha’ falla.” He gestured to the waterfall tumbling on top of the giant tortoiseshell.

  “And you’ve been here weeks?” Pomella said.

  “Maybe a mite longer. Time’s a-different here from there, as yeh’ll see. The longer yeh stay, the stranger ’tis.”

  “Why are you in Fayün?”

  “We’re a-Mystics, no?” he said, grinning. “Studyin’ Fayün, ’tis what we do.”

  “I’ve never met you before. Do you live on Moth?”

  “I live here, as yeh can see.”

  Pomella frowned. This man, Rostrick, seemed polite enough, but he seemed out of place, and she didn’t trust him. His dated accent somehow made him sound even more suspicious. She had to start somewhere, however.

  “I’ve come here to learn about Lagnaraste. What do you know about … her?” Pomella asked, rembering the discussion she’d had with Mantepis about Lagnaraste’s undefined gender.

  At mention of Lagnaraste’s name, the same warm wind from earlier raced through the clearing, stirring the plants and fay creatures.

  “She’s a-name yeh don’t use lightly round here,” said Rostrick. “But eventually, all roads lead t’ the tower.”

  “Tower? Look, Master Rostrick,” Pomella said, stepping toward his tree. “I have very little time, so if—”

  “Time?” The voice came from another tree behind Pomella. She whirled around and found Rostrick in that tree as well. Looking back at the place he’d just been, she saw he was gone.

  “Oh, precious shadow flower,” Rostrick said from his new location, “in Fayün, there’s always time.”

  “I need to find Lagnaraste,” Pomella demanded, dropping all pretense. Again, the hot wind shuddered through the clearing. “If she claims to be the queen of this domain, I would speak to her.”

  Rostrick considered her as he ate another grape. “Aye, I can take yeh,” he said. He plucked and peeled a banana from his Mystic staff. “Yeh a-came at t’ right time.”

  “Is she far?”