by Jason Denzel
“Shevia,” Pomella said.
“Yes,” said Brigid. “Between the Mystic Star and the gifts I’ve given her, she has the power to free me and bring about the Reunion.”
“How do you need to be freed?”
Brigid lifted her palm and above it more carved words moved to form the sketch of a glass sphere. “After Lagnaraste destroyed the Zurntas, their velten in the heart of the Great Forest lay in ruins. The fay dragon lingered on the island, but as Crow Tallin ended, his power in the human realm faded. He receded in size and power until at last he was little more than a tiny moth fluttering through the forest. Some human settlers followed it to the place you now call Kelt Apar and found the dead lagharts. The human Mystics among them—my first apprentices before I was taken—divined what had occurred. They feared what would occur should Lagnaraste return, so they encased him in a glass sphere, and brought forth a tower and a guardian from the soil to protect it. As long as the moth is encased in that glass, I—who inherited Lagnaraste’s essence—cannot leave the tower or enter the human realm.”
Pomella saw in her mind the glass sphere kept in the upper chamber of Kelt Apar’s tower and the moth within it that continuously threw itself against the inside of the glass, trying to break free.
“That’s why the High Mystics gather in Kelt Apar during Crow Tallin,” Pomella said, suddenly understanding. “They’re preventing the sphere from breaking open.”
“Yes,” said Brigid. “Since the founding of Kelt Apar, they understood that only during Crow Tallin could Lagnaraste break free. So on every occurrence of the Mystic Star’s arrival they pool their powers to strengthen those walls. What reason did they tell you, Pomella? Did they say they gathered to help the poor citizens of the island? Do you see their lies?”
Pomella’s hand tightened on her Mystic staff. She evened her breathing as her mind raced, trying to take in all that she’d just learned. Whatever she’d come to expect from this journey to Fayün, this did not resemble it. She looked upward along the length of the tower again, and saw, far above, the single window opening near the top. Somewhere in the room beyond was the heroic woman from her childhood stories. But everything had changed now. Pomella didn’t know whether to trust the rendering of the woman before her.
Brigid watched her with those strange, shifting eyes. “I know this must be overwhelming. I do not imply that your masters wrongly deceived you. They do not know the full truth I’ve shared with you. They continue a tradition that’s been passed to them for nearly a thousand years. The creature they’ve held at bay—the fay dragon Lagnaraste, who broke the world—was destroyed. I hold his power now, and I carry no vengeance in my heart. I swear to you, on my Mystic name, that I wish only to be reunited with my boy, who still walks your world. Free me, and I will find him at last. Free me, so that I can live in quiet peace.”
“I—”
“Please, Pomella. It is only during Crow Tallin that the glass sphere can be broken. Do this for me, and I will teach you of the Deep. I will take you into the Mystic Skies where you will discover the true nature of the Myst. I will complete what your master began, and we will honor him together. He alone, above all the other masters, understood that the supposed purpose of Crow Tallin was false. It’s why he retired when he did. He did not want to be a part of Crow Tallin, so he passed the Mothic lineage to his successor earlier than anticipated. The culmination of his life’s efforts is now in your hands. You have the ability to fulfill not only my dream, but his.”
“I need to return and speak to the High Mystics,” Pomella said, taking a step back. “They need to know all of this.”
Brigid stared at Pomella with the piercing eyes of a legendary hero. “Go with my blessing,” she said. “As a token of my trust, and to strengthen your belief in all that I’ve said, I offer you a gift. Touch your staff to the tower walls and I will imbue it with my symbol. Listen to it speak, and it will whisper the future, or the Mystic name of anything you choose. By all the Saints that live and ever will, and on the memory of your grandmhathir, fathir, and Grandmaster Faywong, I swear to you that I do not deceive you.”
Pomella closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Everything Brigid had told her resonated with truth. She wished she could speak to Lal, to ask him the multitude of questions now tumbling through her mind.
She sat on the ground and rested her Mystic staff upright against her shoulder. She retreated into herself. Her mind raged with a thousand questions. At times like this, she knew she had to depend on her training. Her mind was like the fay monkey Raball, swinging from thought to thought. It was too elusive, too quick, to try to capture. In order to make sense of anything, to know the truth, she had to move past the mind and go to her heart. Such was the way Lal had shown her.
Pushing aside her normal senses, she concentrated on her breath, counting each one, bringing her attention to the flow of air into her lungs, and then to her exhale. Fayün, the axthos, and everything else around her faded away until at last she dwelt in the Crossroads. She came to it more easily than ever. It was like walking in your home at night, knowing the way without seeing.
For long moments Pomella drifted in a peaceful sky of Myst. It swirled around her like thin clouds, pulsing to the rhythm of her heart. Below her swirled a vortex plunging into an abyss, a place that called to her in a voice that was her own.
Please, she prayed silently to the Saints and to Lal and anybody else who had come before her in her long line of past masters, guide me. Help me to know the path I must take.
The vortex below her swirled, but she stayed aloft in the sky, fearing what lay below. She pulled the Myst tighter around her, sending out her request for help as far as she could shout within this timeless place. Why did the masters not rush to her to help?
Something clunked beside her.
Pomella’s eyes popped open and she saw that her staff had slipped from her shoulder to topple against the tower. She stared at it, then smiled. Maybe it had to do with the Myst or the past masters, or maybe not. But one way or another, she had made her decision. She wrapped both hands around her Mystic staff, keeping it pressed against the side of the tower.
She stood. “Very well, Saint Brigid, I accept your gift. I will return to Kelt Apar and discuss this with the High Mystics before Crow Tallin ends, if it is not already too late.”
As if in response, the oak staff grew warm. The base of it swelled, then split as a new tendril of wood emerged and wrapped itself around the existing staff. Up it rose, circling in a long, slow spiral, changing from a warm polished brown color to white. As the new wood neared the top of the staff, carved scales revealed themselves, and the leading edge reshaped itself to that of a snake’s head. The serpent’s face was diamond shaped and rested directly against the staff.
Slowly, Pomella removed the staff with its carved snake twisted around it from the side of the tower. As she held it vertically beside her, Pomella saw the snake’s head was level with her own.
Pomella gave the tower one final glance then swept down the mountainside. The axthos leaped out her way, scrambling over each other in an effort not to get too close.
“Ena!” she commanded, and reached out as the little hummingbird zoomed to her hand. In a single leap she descended the mountain, moving as swiftly and gently as a sunbeam. She alighted beside the glass bridge and released Ena, then hurried across to the pond where Tuppleton rested. Her hummingbirds followed, as eager as her to return.
Rostrick looked up at her from Tuppleton’s shell where he’d been lying on his back with one leg crossed over the other and hands behind his head.
“I need to return to the waterfall we came from,” Pomella told him. She briefly considered using Ena to skip back there, but she wasn’t sure she could leap that far without seeing her destination. That, and Rostrick had told her that Tuppleton’s shell would protect her in Fayün.
Rostrick studied her with new interest. His eyes flicked to her staff, and Pomella could see the questions burni
ng in his eyes. “Aye, come a-tup ’ere and we’ll get you a-back quick as a luck’n.” He winked at her.
As they rode Tuppleton upriver out of the valley, Pomella looked back at the Tower of Eternal Starlight and the constellation ring encircling it. Near the very top she could make out its one lone window—an empty black square set against the infinite shades of silver—and thought she saw a flash of movement.
Never in all her life, even in her most fanciful dreams, had Pomella ever imagined she would encounter Saint Brigid herself. All of her preconceived notions of Lagnaraste and Crow Tallin had been shattered like fine glass. She thought of Brigid’s request to free her from her prison. If the Saint’s story was entirely true—and despite some nagging doubts, Pomella believed it was—then there was no reason to not help her. Lagnaraste had already been defeated and his power transferred to Brigid. Pomella found herself excited by the possibility of helping the Saint complete her tale. Perhaps, when it was all over, she’d have the opportunity to compose a new stanza for the Toweren.
But more than that, she was excited for the possibility of learning from Brigid. Between the Saint’s adventures across Moth, her apprenticeship to the Zurntas, and her time in Fayün, Brigid likely had an unequaled mastery of the Myst. Lal would forever be her teacher, but in his absence Pomella could learn from Brigid all the secrets he never had the opportunity to tell her.
She yawned. Time might be strange in Fayün, but for her, she hadn’t slept in what felt like the life of the stars.
“Would yeh like a wee bit o’ nosha?” Rostrick asked. He sat at the front of Tuppleton’s shell, facing backward toward her. He held out a silver piece of fruit for her.
Pomella didn’t know what nosha was, but it sure looked like an apple to her. “Thank you, but I think I’ll just rest a bit instead.”
“You’re a-tired, and travel’n ’tween worlds besides. Do yeh expect a feast when yeh come a-back ta the Mystwood? Eat.” He tossed the apple to Pomella, who barely caught it before it clunked into her head. Rostrick grinned at her, but not in an unfriendly way.
“Oh buggerish,” Pomella said. The apple seemed like any other fruit except for its silver gleam. She watched as Rostrick took a bite of one of his own. Hesitantly, Pomella took a bite. It was sweeter than she expected, full of flavor. She took a second and a third and quick as a luck’n she munched it down to its core.
“Not’sa bad, eh?” Rostrick said. “Another?”
“No th—” Pomella yawned again. “Thank you. I’m OK.” Her eyelids grew heavy, but she didn’t like the idea of sleeping. Not until she returned to the human realm anyway. She caught herself nodding off, so she asked Rostrick something that she’d been wondering about. “Who was your master, Rostrick? Are they still on Moth?”
Rostrick studied her for a long moment, then looked off into the passing trees. “Me masta’ and me had ta bit of a fall’n out, yeh could say. ’Twas a hard culk in the end.”
A massive yawn consumed Pomella for a moment. Unbearable fatigue rolled over her. Even as he spoke, she felt herself falling asleep. Only the shock of how harshly Rostrick thought of his master kept her awake in that moment.
“I ’twas less an apprentice and more a slave,” Rostrick continued. “Me masta’ was wise, yeh, but merciless. Came from an ancient line o’ Mystics.”
Something was wrong. Sleep pressed down on her like a pillow across her face. She tried to sit up straighter, but instead her body eased itself down gently on Tuppleton’s shell.
The last thing Pomella saw as she drifted asleep was Rostrick standing over her. He eyed her curiously, then threw his stick of fruit branch off the shell into the woods. “I escaped me ol’ masta’, Mantepis, but not b’fore he broke my Mystic staff. I came ’ere, to Fayün, and ate its food and have been trapped ’ere ever since. Yeh need a staff to a-come’n go, yeh see. It anchors yeh ’tween worlds. So I thank yeh now for a-helping me t’ escape’n all.”
Where fear should’ve gripped Pomella, sleep snared her instead.
She had no idea how long she’d been out for, but it must’ve been only moments or minutes. A sharp poking sensation pierced her forehead. Pomella’s eyes fluttered as she struggled to lift her head. A cloud of smoky silver blurred in her vision. It shifted, and the pain blossomed again on her forehead.
“Hector?” she managed. The hummingbird pecked her again. She looked past him and saw Rostrick still astride Tuppleton’s back, holding her Mystic staff. He was spitting curses at Ena, who spun and dove toward his face.
Pomella tried to stand but wobbled. Fayün spun around her, and she fell back onto the shell. Hector buzzed in front of her, urgently.
“Get ’em off me!” Rostrick yelled. “Luck’n’s, to me!”
The nearby trees burst open as a swarm of melon-sized fay monkeys swung out and landed on Tuppleton’s shell. They scrambled over one another toward Rostrick, climbing his back and charging across his outstretched arm to launch themselves into the air toward Ena. But the little hummingbird wove and spun and easily avoided their grip.
A pair of monkeys—luck’ns, Pomella now realized—scrambled across the shell toward her. Their faces contorted, revealing fierce teeth in their gums.
Pomella reached a trembling hand toward Hector, and grabbed hold of him, just like she’d done before when she skipped with Ena. Strength and shocking energy surged through her. The two luck’ns leaped at her with their grubby hands outstretched. She punched them with her free hand, sending them hurtling off Tuppleton’s side. Pomella marveled at the power surging through her fist. More luck’ns swung in from the trees and charged her, but she pounded them off the shell as easily as the first.
On the far side of the shell, Rostrick swung Pomella’s staff at Ena, snarling as the little bird continued to evade the blows.
Tuppleton came to an abrupt stop, and Pomella had to catch her balance. She whipped around and saw they’d arrived back at the glowing waterfall where she’d first arrived from the human world. Rostrick saw it, too. He narrowed his eyes and ran along the edge of the shell.
“Stop him!” she yelled to her hummingbirds. Ena darted toward Rostrick, who swatted at her. Ena spiraled around his forearm, slicing a long cut along it before flying away in a wide arc, trailing silver dust behind her. She circled back, readying for another assault.
Suffused with enough strength and wakefulness for the moment, Pomella released Hector, who barreled for Rostrick. A luck’n leaped into the hummingbird’s path, acting as a shield, but Hector slammed into it, knocking it aside.
Ena dove at Rostrick again, and tore through the hand that held Pomella’s staff. He cried out in pain as the staff fell onto Tuppleton’s shell, rolled to the edge, and toppled off the side.
Pomella ran for the edge and leaped into the pool of water. She splashed into it, and the icy shock of cold shot through her. Another splash sounded as Rostrick plunged into the water behind her. Pomella flung her soaking hair away from her face and saw her staff floating on the water’s surface, drifting slowly toward the waterfall.
She and Rostrick splashed through the water, converging from different angles toward the staff. Behind them, more luck’ns dove into the water. Pomella was a half a hand length closer to the staff than Rostrick, but his desperate ferocity to escape his prison gave him strength.
“Ena!” Pomella cried. “I need you!”
The hummingbird zoomed low across the surface, kicking up a trail of water behind her. Pomella reached out a hand and caught Ena as she flew by. Her body lightened and she felt herself speeding along the water. She reached out with her free hand and snatched her Mystic staff.
“Ah ha!” The cry burst forth from her as Rostrick snarled and leaped. Just as Pomella reached the plummeting waterfall, Rostrick snatched a fistful of her hair.
“’Tis my time!” he yelled. “I won’t a-stay here any longer!”
Pomella struggled against his grip, grinding her jaw with the effort. She still gripped Ena, who pulled her in the
opposite direction.
Suddenly Hector dove and slammed into Rostrick. He snarled and lost his grip on Pomella. Ena carried her forward and they plunged into the waterfall.
But in the fleeting moments as Pomella shifted between worlds, a luck’n snatched Hector out of the air. Pomella’s chest tightened as its grip squeezed her hummingbird. She watched in horror as Rostrick snatched the bird from the creature and with a sickening twist wrenched his neck.
Pomella screamed in pain as the hummingbird died and the worlds shifted and she fell through the veil.
TWENTY-FIVE
MASTER OF FIRE
Shevia awoke to a clear, star-filled evening. She could feel, rather than see from her angle, the Mystic Star hanging above her. It was like a bonfire burning with power. With it came memories of Sim and the waterfall.
Shevia bolted upright, gasping for air. Anger boiled within her, but she forced herself to regain her composure. The sadness, hopelessness, and feelings of powerlessness had long ago given way to her new reality. She would not let anger control her anymore.
Instead, she was anger; she was fire.
She realized her hands were bound with rope, which almost made her laugh, but a foul taste coated her mouth. She spit it out.
“Your head will be sore until sunrise,” Sim said from nearby. Shevia found him and regarded him with a neutral expression. They were on opposite sides of a campfire over which a small skinned animal cooked, its juices just beginning to hiss across the coals. She caught fleeting glimpses of fay animals dancing in the smoke between them. Just beyond the fire’s edge she saw silver-colored streaks as other fay ran between worlds. Pomella’s brown gelding was tied to a nearby tree, nibbling grass.