42
Harvest Festival
Zilpha twisted her chestnut-brown hair above her head and turned. “How do I look?” she asked Mathilda.
“Lovely,” Mathilda beamed, twirling in her green gown. The bodice fit close to her chest and then billowed out around her hips, leaving her plenty of room to dance. Zilpha wore a dress made of yellow silk, given to her by Lady Hava, who sought to make amends. It was the day of the Harvest Festival, and although much of the city was being rebuilt, the city warden—who did not live in the tower after all—had declared they must celebrate the harvest to bring hope and encouragement to the city. The beasts were dead, and miraculously the harvest had survived the attack. There would be plenty of food for the coming winter, trade would thrive, and laborers would flock to the city to help them rebuild.
Lord Arden had been imprisoned for breaking a contract and burning down the homes of the people who were in debt to him. Their debt was forgiven and much of the silver was going to be used to help rebuild. Zilpha, although homeless, was spending some time with Mathilda and Bram, who were soon to be married. All misunderstandings and confusion were gone, yet a choice still lay before her.
“There will be food and dancing, and Zilpha, I’m so happy you’re back and fine. Life can return to normal now.”
Zilpha tried to smile and then moved to grasp her friend’s hands. “I have something to tell you and Bram.”
Mathilda smiled and tucked a white flower into Zilpha’s hair. “There, that’s a finishing touch. Whatever your news is, it better be good news this time. Are you getting married?”
Zilpha laughed, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. Married. What a life. “I’ve been thinking, with everything that’s happened during the last week, it is time for a change. Lord Nodin is traveling back to his homeland, and he’s taking a small group with him. I think I’ll go with them.”
“What?” Mathilda pulled back, shock and dismay written on her face. “Bram, get in here, you need to hear this.”
Bram walked in, a grin on his face. “Ladies. You both look beautiful,” he smiled, offering each a bouquet of flowers. “Now, Mathilda, you don’t look happy. What is Zilpha telling you?”
“I’m sorry, I could not hold back.” Zilpha sought Bram’s eyes. “I had to tell her. I’m going away for a time.”
Bram scowled. “Ah. I know. But not before our wedding.”
This time it was Zilpha who turned in surprise. Mathilda giggled and then sniffed. “Now I know why Bram rushed it. We thought with the harvest it would be the perfect time to celebrate a marriage. And now with you going away, it makes sense. Will you come back?”
Zilpha thought of the people she would travel with. Lord Nodin and his mysterious past. Lady Hava, banished from her home and disgraced by having her father thrown in prison. There was Tor Lir, the tall, handsome Tider, with pointed ears—she’d seen them—and Citrine with the odd eyes and her knowledge of nature. Perhaps the people she traveled with were against the Creator and his ways, but she would learn. She thought wistfully of Irik down by the harbor. She’d miss him and his hope for something more. He would be sorry to see her go, and she hated disappointing him. But then again, she was a Cron, and Crons were desperate for adventure. She felt as if a voice in the wind called out to her, and she wanted to go more than anything and see what took place in the wild lands beyond the city. She knew it was dark and dangerous, but she’d also found friendship and trust, and perhaps love. She wanted to see it through. If anything, she could return, and Mathilda and Bram would be waiting for her.
“One day, yes. But let’s not think about that now. Let’s just celebrate. Here and now. As we are.”
43
Distance Yourself
Citrine stood on the edge of the green field, watching the harvest celebration take place. The sun shone down in golden splendor and the yellow grasses waved in the warmth. She wrapped her arms around her chest and smiled. There was a wedding taking place, Zilpha’s brother, and the delightful smells of sweet and spicy foods filled the air. There was sweet wine and hot bread and tankards of ale. A group of drunken sailors sat singing at the top of their lungs, clinking their mugs together. Children with long light hair ran wild, shrieking and giggling in the sunlight. All was as it should be.
Someone came up beside her and she turned, surprised to find Triften the Storyteller. He was dressed smartly in royal gear as if he were going to stand before a king. He wore a brilliant forest green cloak that fluttered out behind him as the breeze stirred it. His blue eyes sparkled, and his cheeks were flushed pink. Despite how much shorter he was than her, something about his aggressive movements intimidated her. Accusations aside, he did not seem like a Disciple of Ithar. After the beast was killed, Lord Nodin, Lady Hava, Tor Lir, and herself were allowed to leave, with only some suspicious mutterings from the friars. That had been days ago and since then, Citrine hadn’t heard any word from the Disciples of Ithar. There was nothing for her to fear so she smiled at him. “Triften, taking a break from storytelling?”
“Aye.” Triften gave a short laugh, and then his blue eyes turned serious. “Citrine, I wanted to have a moment of your time. I have something to tell you.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out a scroll. The seal was broken, but it was tied with string. Pulling the string off, he handed it to Citrine.
With an arched eyebrow, Citrine took the scroll and unrolled it. It was a drawing, scratched out of charcoal but done quite well. It was the likeness of a male with a long face, high cheek bones, longish hair and pointed ears. Citrine stared, her heart climbing into her throat. Her voice came out small and far away. “This is Tor Lir. Why do you have this?”
“You should be aware,” Triften spoke gravely. “The Nameless One, Tor Lir, is not who he says he is. He is not like us, and by that, I mean he is not mortal, and I have reason to believe he is dangerous.”
“What? Why?” Citrine sputtered, trying not to give herself away.
“I saw the events that took place in the land of Novor Tur-Woodberry over a year ago, and I find it odd that I come here, and it is under attack by a beast. It seems wherever he goes, chaos follows him. We live in a time of peace and yet it seems dark creatures are called to him and follow in his wake. He is officially under investigation by the Disciples of Ithar. I am letting you know so you can distance yourself from him.”
Citrine stared, unsure what to say.
Triften’s hand rested on her arm. “Oh, and Citrine. One more thing. He doesn’t have a shadow. That in and of itself is reason to arrest him, but the leaders want proof, and proof is what I will give them.”
Letting go of her, Triften took the scroll from her shaking hands, rolled it up and strode away. Citrine stared after him, unsure what to think or say. She looked to the skies and took deep breaths to calm the panic within. Only one thought hung clearly in her mind. It was time to run.
Realm of Ice
Legend of the Nameless One Book Three
1
Orenda
Low grunts and muffled snores purred through the smoke-filled air of the camp. Ten-year-old Averl crossed her skinny brown legs as she perched cross-legged on a flat stone near the fire circle. Blue flames sparked and sizzled as her grandmother poked at the charcoals, stirring the ashes to life. Grandmother’s wrinkled skin sagged on her bony arms, but her brown eyes were as clear as a cloudless day. Grandmother focused on the stick clutched in the claw of one hand and the bowl of ink, dark as the midnight sky, in her other.
Averl pinched her fingers together, determined to be patient. For once. Her copper eyes took in the jagged cliffs surrounding the encampment of her people—the last of the Ezincks, also known as the Tribe of Minas—as they prepared for sundown. The hunters had returned earlier with a meager supply of meat, and the fragrance of it washed over the camp, for the hour of the last meal was almost upon them. Averl squared her shoulders, ignored the twitch of hunger in her belly, and peered up at her grandmother. “Is it time?”
The stick paused mid-jab. Grandmother pulled it out of the ashes and tapped the end with her brittle fingers. “Aye, Averl.” Her voice sounded like the low hum of wind brushing dead leaves over stone. “It is time.”
Her necklace of multicolored stones rattled as she turned her hunched body to face her granddaughter. Not that she was particularly old—only fifty years—but life in the mountains was unforgiving and demanding. Grandmother swirled the stick in the pot of ink and pulled out the tip, glistening with liquid.
Averl swallowed hard and straightened her back, determined not to move during the ritual.
“Ten moons you have lived. Ten moons you have been blessed to dwell among the living.” Grandmother chanted as she touched the ink to Averl’s forehead, carving a pattern of runes over her brown skin. “My love. My young one. You have the strength of the ground within you, the light of the moon in your eyes, and the path of the wise under your feet. May you flourish under the Green Light in a world ripe with opportunity. May you find the path that brings you prosperity, and may the wind ever blow grace and goodness on you. May you find the desires of your heart and bring life and love back to our people. We fade. We die. But you are our hope.”
The stick tickled her skin as the symbols appeared, bold against her dark tones. Averl wrinkled her nose and held back the laugh that bubbled within, a proud pleasure growing as her grandmother spoke. Grandmother’s steady fingers traced a flower in bloom, a symbol for growth. A stone to represent the core of the Cascade Mountains, her home. Yet as Grandmother traced the shape of an arrowhead, something tingled inside Averl, sending a euphoric buzzing through every inch of her body.
A thudding pounded in her heart like the roaring of an avalanche turning the lightness of snow into a formidable power, strong enough to shatter rock and bury trees. When the painting was finished, her eyes flew open. A gasp escaped from her lips, as though she’d been running up the mountainside. Quickly, to avoid showing disrespect, she bowed her head and opened her palms to accept her grandmother’s blessing. The correct response came to her lips. “May the words you say fall to the ground like seeds, blossoming tenfold to a hundredfold.”
“So, it shall be,” Grandmother echoed.
Brittle fingers came under Averl’s chin and lifted her face.
Grandmother smiled, showing off a row of straight teeth. A lightness came over Averl. She grinned boldly, proud to be a member of the Tribe of Minas.
Grandmother placed her palm on Averl’s heart. “You felt it, didn’t you?”
Averl’s copper eyes glowed as she nodded. Her body still hummed with a mix of savory pleasure and terrifying discomfort. “What do you call it?”
“Orenda is the power that dwells with us. It empowers us to achieve our desires. You must learn how to tap into it. I have no doubt—” Grandmother paused mid-sentence, and her eyes rolled back in her head until only the whites showed. Her hand came down hard on Averl’s thigh, gripping as though she feared a blizzard’s winds would sweep her off the mountainside.
“Grandmother!” Averl screamed. A bubble of fear rose within her. Unable to stand, she snatched at her grandmother’s arms with both hands and shook her. “Grandmother! What is it? What’s wrong?”
The hubbub of the tribe ceased, and female warriors dashed over to Averl, eyes wide at the sight of Grandmother.
Her breathing ceased, and her mouth hung open.
“Grandmother!” Averl shouted over and over again, a sob breaking through her voice. Not now. Not like this. “Please. Please. Please.” She closed her eyes to find the ball of energy and forced it to surge through her once more.
Suddenly, Grandmother gave a cough.
Her eyes rolled back, and she sat up, wheezing but firmly waving away anyone who would help her. As the tribe gathered—skinny legs, spears in hand, and stone jewels adorning wrist and neck—Grandmother stared at each of them in turn. Her eyes glittered with madness in the dimming winter light. “Be warned,” she croaked out. “A storm is coming, and with it comes the devastation of the mountains.”
“A winter storm?” Averl asked, fingers shaking as she sat back down, wanting to touch her grandmother’s leg to ensure she was solid, still alive, but not daring to with the tribe gathered near.
Grandmother shook her head, rattling her stone necklace. “Nay, I do not know whether it is metaphorical or physical, but a storm is coming. I sensed it when you gained access to your Orenda, dear Averl. Nay. We must all prepare. For it is because of the Therian. They bring strangers to our mountains, and with the strangers comes the storm, and after the storm comes the end.”
Gasps and cries echoed across the encampment. Averl’s shoulders slumped, and her excitement at feeling the energy of nature conflicted with fear. There were many clans in the mountains, but the Tribe of Minas had an alliance with the Therian. How could the Therian betray the Tribe of Minas by bringing evil to the mountains? Averl’s fingers curled into fists. Someone had to do something. Someone had to stop the Therian.
2
Memory
Midnight. Tor Lir stood alone in the circle of white stones. The tops of the great rocks rose ten to fifteen feet in the air and were rounded, creating perfect nesting sites for eagles and other birds of prey. Winter winds howled in fury, for they could not penetrate the sacred circle. Tor Lir faced the middle of the circle, his back to the wind, purposefully shutting out the realm of mortals. He held the Clyear of Revelation in both hands like a sacrifice, decisions warring within him. Should he take the risk? Did he want to know the truth? Would the Clyear of Revelation answer the question he held in his heart? He was afraid to ask the question, but also afraid of not knowing the answer.
Time would not make the choice easier, and so he stepped to the center of the circle and placed the Clyear in a patch of thatched grass, weaved together like a nest. It lay like an egg. As he backed away, colors shot out across the ground and rolled into a gray fog. The Clyear disappeared into a white mist, and the thing that remained made Tor Lir cringe.
His heart thumped loud in his chest and blood pressed against his eyes. His gloved hands tightened into fists, and he looked at the diabolical thing that stood there, black as a moonless night with curved horns coming out of its head. Emerald eyes gazed upon him and sent a shiver of dismay down his spine. He steeled himself, forcing away the fear that threatened to send him into waves of panic. Questions spilled from his lips. “Who are you and why have you appeared to me?”
Features flickered across the black surface of the thing's body, and a wolfish grin appeared and faded, leaving nothing but impenetrable darkness, just as velvet and haunted as the moonless midnight hour. “You know who I am. What I am. I have only separated myself from you. You see me with your naked eyes. I am you. And you are me. Together, we are one spirit. The mortals have something similar to what we have. They walk and talk without noticing what only light will reveal. Darkness. Darkness alongside everyone. They gave it a name. A friendly name to obligate their fear and shame, the shame of being followed by darkness and continually having to choose between good and evil. Choices hound the mortals day after day, and they have forgotten what it is like to be without morality, without the choice between darkness and light.”
Tor Lir’s green eyes narrowed, and a coolness seeped into his words. “Speak plainly. What do the mortals have that is similar to what we have?”
“Don't you see?” The sinister being lifted its arms.
The clouds parted. The wind died down, and a sliver of moonlight, thin and wan, cast its light into the circle, illuminating the horned being.
Tor Lir crossed his arms.
The being copied him, moving in the same heartbeat, long arms folding around its body.
Tor Lir swallowed hard and dropped one hand. His head itched as a shadow of knowledge passed over his mind, like the clouds revealing the moonlight.
The being also dropped one hand.
Tor Lir took a step, and paused as the being copied his actio
ns like a looking glass, a mirror that did what he did.
The puzzle clarified itself, and words of astonishment dripped from Tor Lir's mouth. “Mortals have shadows but it is nothing more than the light, revealing what is hidden. Shadows are not separate entities from a person—”
“Go on.” The being waved an arm, encouraging him to speak his mind.
Tor Lir's mouth went dry, and the blood drained from his face. “I am an Iaen—one of the immortal creatures of the forests of Shimla. I know I have a shadow but you cannot be mine.”
“Why not?” the being growled. It grew in height until it towered above Tor Lir, a threatening, featureless face glaring down at him. “Have you seen your shadow during the daylight? The time when mortals go outdoors and work? Don't you know there is a reason they hide during nightfall and lock themselves indoors? They are afraid of the night, afraid of their shadows, afraid of what the darkness will bid them to do. Deeds done without being seen are dark deeds, evil deeds, this they know, but perhaps you do not understand this. You are the one who is lacking in knowledge, knowledge that is your birthright and yet you run away from it. You forced my hand by using the Clyear of Revelation. It is only as strong as those who wield it, and you held a question in mind. You wanted to open your eyes to the things that are unseen, that follow you. You asked, and I appeared. I am your shadow.”
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