The Beginning

by Jenna Elizabeth Johnson

  Finally, after pausing for several minutes, both dragon and girl disappeared into the depths of the withering fortress. The creature put on a sly grin. Oh yes, you have many questions child, Bane of the Tyrant, but I do not know if there will be answers for you in here. The creature slinked back into the dense wood, disappearing far into its depths.

  ***

  Jaax had sensed someone watching them, but he didn’t know who, or what, it could possibly be. That forest holds too many secrets and too many secret spies, he pondered, searching the woods with his keen eyes. I only hope it isn’t an enemy that I feel watching us now.

  After taking Jahrra inside, Jaax had turned around to peer out of the great dragon’s entrance in the north end of the Ruin. His eyes were drawn to the Wreing Florenn and once they had rested upon those dark trees, he immediately felt a presence, an ancient presence. His rough skin prickled with the familiar feeling of his scales changing color as they worked to match the lichen-plastered stone surrounding him. He could smell something familiar in those woods, but it was a very old scent, something from perhaps his childhood. He shook his head and stepped back into the great hallway that led into the last enclosed room in the Ruin. Maybe it’s just my nerves, he hoped, thinking about what Jahrra was carrying in her jacket pocket. I’m only imagining things.

  Once inside the Ruin, Jaax noted that Jahrra had placed the book in front of Hroombra. Both girl and Korli dragon were silent, the only detectable sound coming from Hroombra’s deep breathing. Jaax stepped further into the room, filling up some of the large space that remained. Hroombra’s eyes stayed fixed on the old, tattered journal, but Jahrra looked up to meet the Tanaan dragon’s gaze.

  Jaax returned her look and said, rather harshly, “You are no longer needed. You had best find something to do with the rest of your day.”

  Jahrra stood speechless. How could he be so callous after what she’d just done for him?

  “What am I supposed to do?” she asked shakily when she finally found her voice.

  “Take a ride to the beach,” Jaax suggested. “Just don’t go near the forest, I sense something strange coming from there.”

  Jahrra stood glaring at the emerald dragon, wanting very badly to repeat her act from several years ago and chip off another scale. The forest huh? she thought angrily. Well, that’s exactly where I’m going.

  Jahrra pushed past her two guardians forcefully and headed for Phrym’s stable.

  Hroombra looked up and frowned. “Now, was that entirely necessary?”

  Jaax turned towards the older dragon, sitting peacefully next to the empty fireplace. Sitting too peacefully, Jaax thought impetuously. How is it he isn’t up pacing? Finding this book may very well mean . . . But Jaax forgot about what it meant; they would soon be discussing it, and the last thing he needed to do was waste his mental energy pondering why Hroombra didn’t seem at all concerned.

  “Do you think she would have left if I asked nicely?” he questioned accusingly. “I knew if I angered her she would leave for sure. We can’t have her around when we discuss this, even if we discuss it in old Draggish. She may still be able to understand, and we can’t risk her hearing anything we say.”

  Hroombra sighed, and spoke very quietly, “It’s almost time we told her.” He paused for a moment, as if he was afraid to go on. “I think we should have told her long ago.”

  “We will tell her in due time,” Jaax snapped back immediately, his eyes flashing. “Let’s just look over this book and see what it can tell us. Then we’ll decide what to do about Jahrra.”

  Hroombra nodded and breathed a steady stream of ruby flame over the wood piled in the fireplace. As the fire caught and spread, the two dragons began reading the text aloud with fragile tones, in a dialect of Kruelt that hadn’t been uttered in centuries.

  ***

  Phrym knew exactly where they were going as soon as Jahrra turned him eastward; they were headed into the Wreing Florenn and eventually into the Belloughs. Jahrra was aware that the dragons would be too busy pouring over their precious journal to notice in which direction they had gone, so she didn’t even bother to glance over her shoulder.

  “Like they really care anyways,” she said to Phrym bitterly. “At least Denaeh enjoys having us around.”

  Jahrra and Phrym tore across the shivering fields, freshly sprinkled with the rain that had fallen a few days before. Although the sky remained dark, the rain had stopped for now and the sun’s rays were bursting through the broken storm clouds like water streaming through a sieve. Looks like another storm is coming. Great, that’s all I need, to be locked up in the Ruin with Master Hroombra and Jaax, Jahrra thought as the cold water droplets clinging to the grass blades soaked through her boots.

  In her mind, the trees of the Wreing Florenn looked like frightened peasants fighting against the black clouds. Jahrra smirked, recalling the memory of the day when she first stepped foot into the swamp. Eydeth had said that dragons feared this wood. Well, maybe he was right after all. Jaax had warned her away from the trees, hadn’t he? He hasn’t detected any danger, she convinced herself haughtily. He’s just afraid of the Black Swamp. She snorted smugly and brought Phrym to a stop at the edge of the forest.

  Jahrra peered deep into the dripping wood and then glanced back at the distant Castle Guard Ruin. If Jaax thinks I’ll obey him so easily he has another thing coming, Jahrra thought defiantly. She kicked Phrym more aggressively than usual, and as he let out a whinny of annoyance, he careened through the shivering trees and down the path that would take them to the Belloughs.

  Phrym’s hooves sank softly into the dark, leaf-plastered earth of the forest floor and as the minutes ticked by, Jahrra wondered once again about the diary she had recovered. She’d looked over the words and symbols copied down in her own journal many times, but had never been able to discern anything from them. The only two symbols she recognized at all were the Baherhb, the Draggish symbol that Hroombra had pointed out to her long ago, and a symbol of what looked like some sort of flower, identical to the one on the compass.

  Jahrra recalled the skeleton sitting alone in that cave and she shivered. Could that man really have been a pirate, or worse, one of the Tyrant’s mercenaries? Could the writing really be code for some secret treasure somewhere, or the instructions on how to torture and dispose of those opposed to the Crimson King? Jahrra tossed these thoughts around in her head as a gust of strong wind caught a branch and whipped it like a wet cloak somewhere high above. The best explanation that she could think of was that the book had been a resource guide for coastal raiders, but if that was the case, why on Ethoes would Jaax and Hroombra be so interested in it? Jaax spent his time surveying the land and making maps with elves, or so that is what Hroombra had told her, and Hroombra himself did nothing but look through manuscripts all day. Why would either of them care so much about ancient pirates? Maybe that man is somehow a descendent of the last Tanaan king, she thought with relish. Or maybe he knows what happened to the lost prince. Oh why didn’t I just sneak back into my room after I left the Ruin? I could be getting the answers to all of my questions right now!

  Jahrra glanced up, looking at her surroundings for the first time since entering the forest. She and Phrym were slinking down into the tiny hollow that came to an end at the Belloughs. She saw evidence of the recent wind and rain; it had flattened much of Denaeh’s garden, but the mushrooms looked as healthy and un-harassed as ever. A thin tendril of smoke curled from a tiny vent in the hillside, the chill wind sending it dancing through the trees.

  Jahrra had already climbed down from Phrym and was leading him to the lean-to stable when Denaeh stepped out from behind her moss curtain, quite surprised to see her visitors.

  “Why Jahrra, whatever brings you out in this weather? What if it were to start raining again?”

  The Mystic looked slightly concerned, her topaz eyes evaluating the scene before her. She melted into her younger form and stepped down from the stone stairway below her cave, her hea
vy, patched dress dragging sluggishly across the damp ground.

  “I had to get away from the Ruin,” she answered grimly. “And I have to talk to you.”

  Denaeh watched her closely, as if trying to figure out what she would say to the girl next.

  “You have much to tell me, don’t you Jahrra? But for goodness sake, let us go inside and hear this tale by the fire.”

  The Mystic held back the curtain of thick, hanging moss for Jahrra to pass, then held her fingers to her teeth and let loose a trilling whistle. Milihn, who had been sitting quietly in the bare branches of a tall eucalyptus tree like a grave sentry, croaked and flew down past Denaeh and into the cave. He landed delicately on an old coat stand fashioned with a perching stick that sat in the corner of the room near the fireplace.

  Jahrra and Denaeh followed the bird into the dark cave and sat down by the crackling, blazing fire. Milihn gave Jahrra a curious glance from a glittery black eye then ruffled up his feathers and tucked his beak beneath one glossy wing.

  “I have to tell you about something I found, something my friends and I found almost a year ago,” Jahrra said grimly as Denaeh handed her a cup of hot tea.

  Jahrra took a deep breath and delved into the story of how she and her friends had come to find the new cove and all that they’d discovered there. Denaeh listened patiently, nodding her head every now and again, with her arms crossed, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed in that all familiar way of hers.

  When Jahrra finally finished telling her tale, she risked a look at the Mystic. Denaeh sat patiently in front of her, a million different sentiments playing across the youthful face she always managed to keep placid. Jahrra stared at her for a long time, attempting to read the Mystic’s thoughts as easily as she always read her own. After finding this impossible, she settled into the thick quilt Denaeh had given her and turned her eyes back to the dancing fire. She took a deep breath and waited for the Mystic’s response.

  Denaeh’s mind raced furiously. She was sure that if Jahrra had kept looking at her face even a moment longer, she would’ve seen those thoughts written there as plain as words were written on a page from a book. Jahrra has found the Lost Magehn! It can’t be! But the journal and the compass . . .

  The young woman let out a short sigh and addressed Jahrra.

  “Do you have the book with you?” she asked, trying hard not to let the emotion in her voice break free of the weak hold she had on it.

  “No,” Jahrra said shortly, staring into the cup of black tea in her hands. “Jaax snagged that right up. He and Hroombra are looking through it right now.”

  Jahrra kept her eyes lowered, so she didn’t notice the change that flared up in Denaeh’s eyes.

  “Did you get a good look at it?”

  Again, the Mystic tried not to sound too impatient, but Jahrra heard it in her voice this time.

  She looked up, head slightly cocked, and inspected Denaeh through narrowed eyes.

  “You know what’s in that book, don’t you Denaeh?” she asked slowly.

  Denaeh glanced back at Jahrra, determined not to falter, but it was no use, she would have to tell the girl the truth. The woman rose out of her old rocking chair and walked past her young friend to gaze out of the entrance of her cave.

  She crossed her arms and pulled her faded mustard shawl tightly around her shoulders and began, “I don’t know the truth Jahrra, but I have an idea of what might be in that book. If the man you found is who I think he is, then there is much that needs to be said.” Denaeh paused and shot Jahrra a meaningful look. “He could be the last Magehn of the Tanaan King from so long ago.”

  Milihn released a grumbling croak without lifting his head from his wing, perhaps in response to an avian dream, and fluffed his feathers as the fire popped and crackled.

  Jahrra just stared blankly at her friend. What on Ethoes was a Magehn?

  Denaeh took a short breath and continued on stoically, “The king’s Magehns were magicians, warriors and spies all wrapped into one, and they were valued above all of the king’s soldiers and servants. This particular Magehn of whom I speak was not human but an elf, and he was the most loyal of all the king’s men. He carried with him a secret book which gave the true names of the king, his queen and his eight sons.”

  Denaeh swallowed and continued, her eyes still focused on the bleak world outside. “The king and his family went by code names in public and kept their true names secret. But The Book of Kings, as it is sometimes called, holds other secrets, great secrets that only the Oracles know. It is said to contain history that is no longer known by any living soul, and it is said that the chosen child, the future savior of this world, is listed by name somewhere on its pages. The Magehn,” Denaeh turned and gazed down at Jahrra with a gaze as solid as stone, “the Magehn guarded this book with his life.”

  Jahrra gave Denaeh a strange look. She had never heard this woman sound so detached from the living world before. Before she could ponder it any further, Denaeh started speaking as if reading from a book, “It is said that the youngest son of the king, the last Prince of Oescienne, owned a magic compass, passed on to him after his father and brothers perished in the east. The compass had one of the symbols of Ethoes etched into its dark red base, the blood rose, and its face was that of mother of pearl. The compass you described sounds very much like it.

  “Legend says, for no one knows for sure, that when the young prince and his army marched upon the Crimson King, and after they were transformed into the Tanaan dragons, that somehow, the Magehn got hold of the compass, vowing to keep it until the prince was found. But no one ever found the young prince after that dreadful day, and many believe that this last Magehn of the king wandered the world looking for him. While he searched, he allegedly kept a meticulous journal, a journal written in the ancient script of the royal family. What led him to Oescienne and what caused his death is a mystery, that is, if the skeleton you found is really the remains of the one most loyal to the king.”

  This final statement by Denaeh was almost a whisper, breathed out as if speaking it any louder would cause her pain. After a few moments’ time, she took a deep breath and murmured, in a tone that seemed strange coming from this woman who was usually so vibrant, “Yet again, he may not have heard of the transformation of the Tanaan, but how could that be?”

  She was no longer talking to Jahrra, but to someone, or something, beyond the boundaries of time. She had her arms clasped across her stomach now and was once again gazing past the dripping ropes of moss tangling up her doorway. Something left her then, part of her spirit or some hope she clung to. Jahrra wasn’t sure what had happened, but she could feel a deep loss saturating the air.

  Jahrra blinked away her confusion and reflected on the story she had just heard. The hair on the back of her neck had stood on end as she listened, and she’d grown more and more uneasy. The Mystic hadn’t noticed, but when she spoke the words “blood rose”, Jahrra had turned stone cold. Denaeh had named it as a symbol of Ethoes, but Eydeth had told her it was the symbol of the Crimson King.

  Jahrra suddenly felt she could no longer stay quiet. For months she’d been telling herself that the man who had attacked her in Lensterans wasn’t dangerous. She had been ignoring her conscience when it warned her of the danger, and she had ignored Eydeth when he told her the dark stranger was associated with the Tyrant King. She had to ask someone, someone she could trust, someone unlike Hroombra or Jaax who would lock her up for the rest of her life or burn her to a crisp if they knew what had really happened. Denaeh’s description of the blood rose was a perfect opportunity, so, erring on the side of caution, Jahrra thought of a way to ask her friend without actually telling her what had happened.

  “Denaeh, I’m a bit confused,” she queried cautiously. “I was told in class that the blood rose was a symbol used by the Crimson King. Why would the Tanaan prince have a compass with the Tyrant’s symbol carved into it?”

  Denaeh stayed silent for a long time, her head bowed low
. Finally, after Jahrra was beginning to think she hadn’t heard her, the Mystic exhaled softly and said remorsefully, “It wasn’t that way before, but it is so now. He adopted it as his own emblem after the mass slaughter of the Tanaan and the good people of Ethoes, after he spilled their blood upon the Desolate Plain.

  “You see, the blood rose only grows when blood has touched the soil. A long time ago, it was seen as one of the symbols of Ethoes because blood is equated with life, and Ethoes gives life. There is an ancient story about the first creature that shed blood. Ethoes’ children were fighting over their belongings on the earth, and an innocent was killed over it, spilling his blood upon the ground. Ethoes was horrified at what had happened, so she willed the first blood rose to arise from the bloodshed and claimed that life should never again be taken in the name of anger, hatred or greed.” Denaeh paused. “Only a few know this story now,” she continued softly.

  “What does it look like, this blood rose?” Jahrra asked, trying not to sound too anxious.

  As Denaeh meticulously described the very flower etched into the back of the compass, Jahrra became white with fear.

  It had to be the compass of the Magehn that she had found. The compass of the prince of Oescienne! But that also meant that her would-be-captor in the east wood of Lensterans really was loyal to . . . Jahrra gulped and pushed that thought away from her mind. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe it was the way the moon’s light fell on his face that made Eydeth think he saw the Crimson King’s adopted mark.

  Denaeh finished her description, all the while staring sadly past her moss curtain, not once seeing Jahrra’s surprised and frightened expression.

  After a few more moments of quiet reflection, Denaeh turned her golden eyes onto Jahrra and said with a voice that sounded more like her old woman’s rasp than her youthful melody, “What exactly did you see in that book?”