Legend of the Nameless One Boxset

by Angela J. Ford

  “Tor Lir, look.”

  Opening his eyes, he saw Citrine stood by his side, traces of tears still on her face. She pointed up at the castle. The winds rocked it out of the ground and somehow it lifted as if it had wings of a great beast. The castle floated upward as gently as a feather on the updraft of the wind. Suddenly, the glass windows of the house flew open, and the faces of the people of the land appeared, waving at them. Citrine lifted her hands and waved, a sudden smile coming to her face, curving her cheeks up and back. The wind blew her vibrant hair, and she looked like an enchantress, ready to call upon the world to do her biding.

  The castle doors opened and Novor Tur-Woodberry and his Singing Men appeared with a song on their lips. The words weaved a harmonious tune as if a thousand creatures were singing them. They sang of the greatness of Novor Tur-Woodberry and his enchanted land, and how those weary of traveling and life might again find the passage to the hidden realm of Novor Tur-Woodberry.

  Prisms of emerald and gold shot through the air, like falling stars, gracing the castle with a hidden glimpse of enchanted purity and joy. Then, like stars winking out, one by one, a shimmering hung in the air, much like the one Tor Lir had seen when he first visited the home of Novor Tur-Woodberry. The top most parts of the castle faded into the clouds, and little by little the entire castle faded from view as if it had never been. The only things that remained were the song in the air and the sweet fragrance from the white flowers.

  “Whenever you see white flowers and hear the song in the air, you’ll know you’re close to entering the hidden land of Novor Tur-Woodberry,” Triften whispered.

  Tor Lir eyed him, for he could not recall meeting the male before. Triften’s blue eyes had a lost look to them, as if he wished for something he could not obtain. He noticed Tor Lir looking at him and turned, a light in his eyes as the winds faded away with the castle. “I’m Triften the Storyteller.”

  Tor Lir gave him a nod to acknowledge he’d heard him but said nothing else.

  “Now this is an exciting tale, one I have not had for many years,” Triften mused. “I must tell others what I have seen and heard here. Citrine, where are you going now?”

  “I don’t know.” Citrine was quiet, her eyes roving back and forth as she watched her beasts. Tor Lir wondered if she were speaking to them.

  “Citrine?” Tor Lir called her attention away from the beasts. “Will you come with me?”

  “Me?” Citrine dropped a hand over her heart and gave him a wry look as if she did not believe his request.

  Tor Lir smirked, watching the way her eyes widened and nostrils flared. “Aye. I thought we did well in the forest; besides, it will be much easier to keep an eye on your mischief if you come with me.”

  “I promised my beasts a home—”

  “And you haven’t found it yet.” Tor Lir slid his eyes over to examine Triften, wondering what the storyteller knew of Citrine’s true power. “You cause many things, and I need you to come with me. At some point, I promise I will find a home fit for you and your beasts, where you will not riot on the freedom of others.”

  “Promises.” Citrine’s lips curved upward. “I do not believe in promises. Where will you go?”

  “Wherever I am needed. I go where there is mischief.”

  Citrine smiled, although traces of sorrow stayed in her eyes. “I don’t know where else to go. I will go with you until a better offer is given.”

  “Aye then, that is enough for me.” Tor Lir felt a sensation of relief.

  Citrine turned to Triften, who was staring at the beasts in the sky above, his finger pointing up. “Will you come with us?”

  Triften’s hand came down, his mouth open as he glanced at Citrine. “Your beasts?” He stared.

  “Will you come with us?” Citrine repeated.

  “For a night or two,” he agreed. “Tell me the story again, so I may remember it. Tell me what happened in the forest and of these beasts you speak of.”

  “It’s a wild story,” Citrine said. “Others may not believe it.”

  “The world is fresh and young,” Triften disagreed. “People believe in everything.”

  “Come on then,” Tor Lir called as he strode through the white flowers.

  When he glanced back, he saw Citrine staring at the place where Novor Tur-Woodberry’s castle had faded, and the song of the land whispered through the wind.

  43

  A New Quest

  Triften rolled up his bedroll and gave Citrine his best smile, one that imparted hope and health. He’d walked with Citrine and Tor Lir through the white flowers for two days as new life rolled into the meadow. Yellow butterflies flittered through the air and the songs of the birds gave life to the meadow. New trees sprouted up, growing at an uncanny speed.

  Triften nodded at Tor Lir, the nameless one, trying to keep from staring at the odd male. His emerald-green eyes reminded Triften of someone he’d lost.

  Alarm bells rang in his mind as he told Citrine and Tor Lir goodbye. It was time for him to go to the annual gathering of the Disciples of Ithar, and this time he had a tale for them. Excitement made his fingers shake as he adjusted the bedroll on his back.

  It would surprise the disciples to find the new breed had risen and was already at large. Triften could not believe his fortune. He would be the one to bring life-changing news to the disciples. It had been a long time since he’d had an adventure in his nomadic life. Once the decree concerning the new breed went forth, he would have a reason and purpose for living once again.

  As he set off toward the fortress on the eastern end of the land, he glanced back once more to confirm his knowledge. Tor Lir and Citrine stood on a hill, the sun in their faces as they walked west. He saw Citrine’s shadow as she held her hands out, running her fingers through the white blossoms. He shuddered, recalling the parchment he’d taken from her cottage. Hidden mysteries surrounded her, but it was Tor Lir who frightened him. He did not have a shadow.

  Realm of Mortals

  Legend of the Nameless One Book Two

  1

  Imbalance

  Autumn. Year 966.

  Sanga Sang. The South World

  White lightning lit up the interior of the cave, followed by a booming crack of thunder. The rocky cliff shook and a scattering of rocks crashed into the restless waves of the Jaded Sea. Citrine opened her lemon-yellow eyes and watched the storm rage. Silver rain poured out of the blue-black sky like a betrayed giant blubbering, turning into a foggy mist as it scattered across the seaside cliff. Citrine nestled deeper into the comfort of Grift’s furry back where she’d fallen asleep, and lazily reached out a hand to stroke the leather-bound book which had tumbled onto the rug beneath her.

  Hard to sleep during a storm, aye, Grift’s words drifted into her thoughts.

  Citrine smiled, lifting the hefty tome onto her lap and snuggling against the warm, golden fur. Aye. I should work, not sleep.

  Rest. The book is almost done, Grift said.

  Citrine shook her head. Nay, it will never be truly finished. There are many spells to gather from across the world. A lifetime would not give me the knowledge I need.

  Grift purred at the word knowledge. He was a great golden griffin, with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle. His yearning for wisdom was so intense he often tasted other creatures just to glean the flavor of wisdom from their flesh.

  If you tell me what you seek, I will search during my next hunt.

  I enjoy your company. Stay with me tonight.

  As you wish. Mistress.

  Citrine smiled as she flipped through the book, the black ink of her neat handwriting shining even as the last embers of her fire faded. The cave served as a temporary home for her beasts and a hiding place near the seaport city of Sanga Sang.

  A year had passed since her battle with the Master of the Forest and her brief sojourn in the land of Novor Tur-Woodberry, the land that appeared as if it never was. At times it seemed like a dream, except for the constant whisper
s. When she opened her mind, Citrine could connect to the voices of living creatures, and now that she knew how to open and close access to her mind, she’d sit and listen, searching for knowledge. It was more efficient than Grift’s method of eating bizarre creatures.

  The year had given Citrine the opportunity to work on her book of spells while Tor Lir, restless and curious about the realm of mortals, pushed for them to cross the sea into the west. While Citrine was content with the mysteries of the Eastern Hill Countries of the South World, she had a strong curiosity about Tor Lir and wanted to keep up with his actions. She could not say she liked him very much—he was annoying and naïve concerning the ways of mortals—but there was something about him that made her stay. Perhaps because it was what Novor Tur-Woodberry wanted. He’d appointed her as Tor Lir’s guardian, and something about knowing Novor Tur-Woodberry would approve made her protective of Tor Lir and his mysterious abilities.

  The strength of the wind drove rain into the front of the cave, and Citrine curled her legs under her, yawning as she reached for her blanket to protect from the dampness of the Jaded Sea. A moment later, there was a soft thump, and Zaul crawled into the cave. His curved fangs stuck out of his mouth, and rain poured off of his moss-green scales. Zaul resembled a cross between a crocodile and a lizard. Over the past year he’d grown significantly. His tail was now four feet long, though his short body was only three feet. One glance at his claws and teeth was terrifying, but Citrine smirked at him. Don’t come near me with your wet hide.

  Water is essential to all life cycles, Zaul returned, unabashed. He loved the water. He shook his hide, flinging rain drops in all directions.

  Zaul! Citrine playfully scolded him, pretending to duck from the droplets of moisture that came nowhere near her.

  With a humph, Zaul settled near the cave entrance, serving as a guard while enjoying the evening storm.

  Citrine reached for a stick to poke the fire back into life, but halted when a shiver went down her spine. She froze, rigid as an unknown terror gripped her and caused her vision to alter.

  She was in the storm, screaming into the unknown. Her great wings beat against the rain and the lightning that came dangerously close to singeing her slick, furry pelt. The wind howled in circles, but she was conscious only of the voice beyond the storm. A deep moan rose from the pit of her being with an intensity so strong she felt the depth of the emotions of devastation, fear, and depression. Fear congealed in her heart, and scenes of the past came back. Ice. Mountains. Stone walls. Commands. Beasts. One by one, scenes rapidly flashed, and it was all she could do to hold on to the version of herself she thought was true—for there was another version muddling her thoughts and forcing everything else to fade. It was wild to the core with a lust for ripping, tearing, and blood. It had destroyed her, and for that, every soul, every life, needed to pay. The stern voice commanded her again, and she wheeled in the storm. An unfinished stone building appeared, and she dropped toward it.

  Just as suddenly, the grip left her. Citrine came to, gasping and coughing. She leapt up from her position and spun around, relieved to feel solid ground beneath her feet. A prick in her hand made her realize she still held the branch, and was squeezing it so tightly the rough wood had punctured her skin in places and forced a small stream of blood to drip out. She dropped it, dusting the blood off her palm with her other hand and taking deep breaths to control herself.

  What’s wrong? Grift swung his curved beak toward her.

  Citrine shook her head from side to side as the sense of desperation continued to fade. I heard something in the storm. Someone or something is in trouble.

  Grift rose and padded to the cave opening to stand beside Zaul. His golden wings lifted off his back. Should I hunt?

  I don’t know where or what it was. Citrine grew quiet as echoes of the sensation clutched her again, but this time the voice was far away. Closing her eyes, she listened for the confused cry of sorrow to echo through her mind once again. I don’t know. She hesitated. Then called out. Ava? Where are you?

  A beat of silence came and then. . . Hunting. But I can’t hunt if you keep interrupting. There’s a delicious lamb out here, caught in a snare, and oh the rain is keeping it from home. I must save it by eating it.

  Grisly details I don’t want to know, Ava. Carry on.

  You asked, Ava’s sarcastic remark faded into the storm.

  Citrine took a deep breath and searched for the newest beast in her collection, the one she felt she’d let down the most. Morag. Oh, wise one. Tell me. Are you safe? I heard a voice in the wind, disoriented and confused.

  Enchantress. Even though it was only a thought, Citrine could imagine Morag’s eel-like body gliding through the waves while sea-water cascaded off his white horns. He was a fearsome water-beast, immense and terrifying. She was frightened of him coming too close to the port of Sanga Sang. Ships went in and out at all hours, and if someone spotted him, there could be a real disaster. Sanga Sang had enough fighting males to muster a small army to take down any sea creature that might cause potential harm to their harbor and flourishing trade. I face no obstacles, but I must save my breath. My mission was successful and I will return to your side to share what I learned.

  Morag. That is good news. I look forward to your safe return.

  Milady.

  The connection to him faded, and yet Citrine couldn’t shake the sense something was wrong. She poked at the coals again, and a tiny flame flared up. She moved over it, blowing to coax it back to life, feeding grass and leaves into the fire, one at a time.

  Something is wrong, Grift. Does the next market take place tomorrow?

  Aye.

  Then I shall find out what information I can glean from the gossipers in the marketplace. I think it is time I seek Tor Lir and ask him what he’s discovered from his work. Perhaps he knows more than I do. Perhaps there is an imbalance.

  The storm raged on as Citrine peered out into the night, and the sensation came again. Something horrific was going on. It was time to come out of hiding and get to work.

  2

  Market Day

  Silver coins clattered across the wood, and rocked the uneven table with their weight. The legs made soft thumps on the dirt floor. Zilpha snatched the coins into a pouch, fingers shaking. Two coins short. But today was market day. She’d sell baskets and make enough to pay off her debt and live without fear of being cast out of the hut she shared with her brother. “Bram?” she called out. Where was he? The hut had two rooms and one window, giving little light. When she peered into the other room, despite the darkness, Zilpha knew Bram wasn’t there. Frowning, Zilpha pulled her long skirt up to her hips and tied the leather pouch of money around her waist. Tomorrow she’d go to Lord Arden’s manor house to pay off her debt. She sagged against the door at the thought.

  The neigh of a horse broke the stillness of the air and Zilpha smiled. A warm sensation swept through her body as she walked outside into sunshine, and waved at her friend.

  Mathilda’s wagon pulled up. The mare pranced impatiently at the sudden halt. “Zilpha,” Mathilda waved and jumped down from the wagon, her long braid of blond hair swinging beside her. Mathilda was tall and willowy with hair the color of butter and freckles across her nose. Her hazel eyes were large in her round face and long lashes gave her an air of innocence. Zilpha always felt inadequate beside Mathilda. She felt too short, too thin, and too dark. But Mathilda’s kindness bridged all sensations of jealousy. She had a motherly persona, the result of being one of the oldest out of twelve brothers and sisters. “Last market day before the harvest!”

  “And the harvest festival,” Zilpha said, wrapping her arms around her supply of woven baskets. “Seven days until the merriment begins.”

  Mathilda giggled, her joy ringing out like the peals of a bell. “It’s our first festival now that we are of age.” She wiggled her eyebrows, dropping her voice. “It will be marrying time soon.”

  “Now you are of age,” Zilpha blurted o
ut, immediately wishing she could take it back. She and Mathilda appeared to be the same age, but Zilpha, at twenty-three, was five years older.

  Mathilda reached over and rubbed Zilpha’s shoulder. “Aye, you speak truth, at least I won’t be holding you back any longer.”

  “Mathilda, you never hold me back,” Zilpha disagreed as they loaded the baskets into the bed of the wagon.

  Mathilda shrugged as she swung up on the seat. “Ochmead would have joined us, but with the harvest my father needs all the help he can get, so it’s just us two today. Father said we should be back well before sundown though.”

  Zilpha nodded as she settled on top of the wagon seat and Mathilda picked up the reins, clicking her tongue to the old gray mare.

  Mathilda’s family owned one of the largest farms in Sanga Sang and lived on the outskirts of the city where the wide open fields were lush with pastures for growing fruits, vegetables, and wheat. Sanga Sang was a hub of activity. It butted up against the Jaded Sea and served as a port for ships which brought all kinds of trade into the flourishing city.

  Sanga Sang was one of the more advanced cities in the South World. Because of the seaport it brought a flurry of travelers from exotic locations with slight cultural differences. Most newcomers looked to book passage on a ship or cross into the west where kingdoms enticed warriors, traders and families looking to start anew. But once they reached the city, they took some time to enjoy the food, conversation and unique treasures it offered. Zilpha looked on the travelers with admiration when they came in from port, bragging about their grand adventures on the other side of the sea. Since the war between the mortals and immortals ended over twenty years ago, Sanga Sang had done nothing but flourish and grow, bringing together a mixture of the four people groups to revolutionize the city.