“Drop me,” Iren’s voice booms again. If I do it, if I let go, my link to her will be gone forever. If I drop it, I’m putting all of my faith in someone else. All of my trust in a stranger. Elliot waves his arms as Valenor dips lower.
“Drop it, Tib,” Mya says in her soft, commanding way as she reaches for my hand. “Trust in them.”
Behind him in the lake, dark forms drift in wait. They’re man-like. Ominous. One of them lashes out at Elliot with a splash of silvery fins. A spiked weapon thrashes toward him. Valenor banks and circles. Mya and I slide to the other side.
“Elliot!” she shouts, and then begins to scream. Her scream is eerie. Not a sound of distress. More like a hunter’s call for some strange bird. The dark forms pause.
Overhead, thunder crashes, sending streaks of lightning stabbing toward us. Valenor dodges it deftly and it strikes the surface of the water below with a loud sizzle.
“Give it to me!” Mya holds her hand out for the necklace.
“Mya you are not considering—” Gaethon starts, but a swerve from Valenor sends him off balance. He slips across the dragon’s back and nearly falls into the water, but Bryse catches him with his giant fist and clutches him tightly as Valenor evens out.
“He needs me. We’ll find you,” she shouts to Gaethon. “Tib, the necklace!” She holds her blue-gloved hand out desperately, sparing a glance over her shoulder at the lake. Thunder and lightning crack over us again and Valenor swoops to dodge it.
“Jacek. We cannot remain here,” the dragon rumbles as he circles. “Do what you must do, but quickly!”
“Tib!” Mya cries. Below, the forms are closing in on Elliot again. Above, the lightning crackles. I tug the necklace from my neck and just as I’m about to put it in her hand, Valenor banks. The trinket glows brightly all the way to the murky surface of the water before it disappears into the depths with a tiny splash. Mya’s larger splash comes just after it.
“They’ll need help,” Gaethon looks over his shoulder. Donal nods and drops away. The others cling to Valenor as he moves to dodge another strike, but not quickly enough. His left wing is hit, pierced through with a searing bolt. He screeches and flaps and struggles, but eventually manages to right himself and push up.
We go higher and higher, leaving the lake and the castle and the mysterious dark forms far below. Soon we’re soaring high above the clouds, where the blue sky stretches out above us and the world below is blanketed in downy white as far as we can see.
Chapter Thirty-Three: Letting Go
Tib
The others tuck into Valenor’s spikes and settle themselves for the long journey, but I can’t. I think of Ki. Just when I‘m through convincing myself that I should have jumped in after Mya, I think of Saesa. She’ll need me. I think of Mevyn. I promised him I’d see Sunteri restored. I hate myself for turning my back on my sister, though. I hate myself for letting go of that necklace. I want to be the one who sees her safe, not them. She saved my life. I should be there to save hers.
Gaethon keeps a hand on my shoulder even though the lake is far behind us now. I don’t know what he expects me to do, jump off through the clouds? Still, it’s obvious he’s keeping an eye on me. Keeping me with the rest of them. I hate him for holding me here. For stopping me from helping Ki.
Mevyn showed him a lot of things. My thoughts wander to their meeting in the inn room. I wonder how much of it had to do with me. I hate him, but I understand. Aside from Valenor, he might be the only other one who knows what I’m supposed to do.
The clouds streak below us, endlessly white. The blue sky that stretches overhead slowly changes to red and purple and orange as the sun sinks low. The others have closed their eyes. They lean against the spines of Valenor’s back and doze. Not me. I could never get tired of this view, this feeling.
I used to watch the birds, back in Sunteri. I used to envy their freedom. They could go anywhere, see anything, and do whatever they wanted. I dreamed that one day I could fly away, too. And now I’m here, soaring on the back of a dragon. Flying, just like them.
“We are nearing,” Valenor says all too soon. “Tib, be ready to send word to Shoel.”
He starts his descent, bringing us closer to the clouds. Droplets of mist collect on my arms and in my hair. I close my eyes and close my fingers around the sigil as we sink lower, waiting for Valenor’s word. Waiting for the mist to clear. It only thickens, though. Drowns out all sound. Chokes me.
A blast that sounds like a canon rumbles nearby and a streak of red light shoots up through the clouds, striking Valenor from below. Gaethon’s hand slips from my shoulder. Valenor screeches. We’re falling. Plummeting. I cling to a spine but when he rolls, my grip slips. We’re rushing toward the ground, fast. There is no movement from the dragon. No flap of a wing or effort to right himself. He’s out cold. Around us, the clouds are strangely yellow and green.
I fight to keep hold of the slick spine, but Gaethon has more trouble than me. His robes flap chaotically around him, entangling his arms and face. He’s the first to let go. The first to fall away, to disappear into the dark smudge of ground beneath us.
“No!” I shout.
“Benen!” Lisabella screams from somewhere across the dragon’s vast back. I feel a charge of peace rush over me. “Valenor!” she shrieks, and his scales shimmer blue and gold. “No, Benen!” she cries again, and I cast a glance over my shoulder to see a streak of yellow plummet past me into darkness. She lets go not long after. The glow of her longsword is all I can see through the thick cloud mist.
With all of my strength, I wrap my arms and legs around the spike. It’s red, deep red. Deeper than the blossoms. Almost black. I hold on and wait. For what, I don’t know. Mevyn’s voice, maybe. Telling me what to do. Telling me the right thing. Climb.
Yes, climb. I pull myself up. Across the dragon’s back I can see Bryse doing the same. He’s got a foothold on Valenor’s scales. Cort and Dacva are slung across his back like merchant sacks. I do the same. Shimmy up the spike like the tall ship’s mast. Grip a scale like the bricks of the tower. Hoist myself up. I’m a fair climber. I reach the dragon’s belly before he does. The ground is getting closer, faster. At least now I won’t be crushed beneath the dragon’s weight. At least now I won’t plunge to the ground like the others did. Bryse isn’t far behind. He flattens himself against Valenor’s stomach. The others slide from his back and do the same.
“Valenor!” I scream and pound at the dragon’s thick chest scales with my fists. “Wake up!”
He does, and I realize my mistake all too soon. There’s nothing here to hold onto. Nothing but smooth, stone-like scales. Valenor is oblivious. With a start and a scrambling, dangerous thrash of his wings he rights himself too quickly for me to find a grip. The four of us tumble off and plummet toward the ground.
As I flip and roll and fall, I’m vaguely aware of Valenor diving beside me. He swoops past and I reach out. His scales graze my fingertips, but he isn’t close enough for me to grab hold.
“Here!” I shout, but my voice is drowned out by a strange, dark sound. Laughter, deep and cruel. It comes from everywhere. The clouds, the sky, the ground. It closes around us like the mist. I’m still falling. The ground is coming even faster.
Valenor circles away. I trust he’ll come back. I trust he’ll catch me. My cloak flaps violently around me. A scrap of white catches my eye as it flutters from my belt. The White Line’s sigil. I reach out, but like Valenor’s scales it’s just out of my reach.
“Shoel!” I scream as my fingertips graze its frayed edge.
The ground is closer now. I’m just the distance from the top of Cerion’s cliffs to the ocean. I see Valenor racing toward me. Far away, too far away. His strong, powerful wings push him fast, but not fast enough. He won’t reach me before I hit the ground. I close my eyes. Curl myself into a ball. Wait for the impact.
It comes sooner than I think. Knocks the breath out of me. Stars burst across my vision. Someone grabs me around the midd
le. My direction shifts and my stomach drops as I feel the rush again. The rush of going up.
“I have you,” Shoel says as he tightens his arm around me. “Catch your breath.”
His cygnet’s call drowns out the lingering doom in the clouds. I open my eyes to see the forest wall stretched out before us. Its great white tree trunks seem to spread their arms to welcome us. Something vast hovers over and I look up into Valenor’s chest with relief. Bryse and the others peer down from his back. Following him are Julini and Zevlain on their cygnets, each bogged down with several more bodies. From this distance I can barely make out cloaks of blue and yellow. Flashes of chain mail. The blue glow of Lisabella’s sword.
Shoel raises his free hand and gives a series of gestures. Below us on the wall, the White Line lower their bows and allow us to pass. At first I’m surprised when we don’t stop at the wall, but as we glide along it I see a battle taking place on the ground. A small group is trying to fight past the border. Shocks of magic crash into the white trunks and travel up into the leaves, making them rustle and tremble. Their attacks are answered by the elves’ own Mages, who send bolts of purple and red to singe and stun the men below.
“Who are they?” I call up to him as we soar past, narrowly missing one of the bolts. “What’s happening?”
“Cly Zhrel the Third,” he answers. “Eighteenth Foray.” I have no idea what it means, but there’s no time to ask. He gives another signal and a quick wave and beneath me I see a series of colored flags raised by elves that line the top of the wall. The signal must mean something to him. He banks quickly and instead of landing on a perch like the last time we were brought here, he goes up over the wall and glides past it into the fields beyond.
Our cygnet is the first to land, then Julini and Zhevlain’s follow. Valenor settles softly in the grass beside us, and right away he flattens himself to the ground. Before there’s time to react, we’re surrounded by at least twenty elves. They’re tall and white and regal, just like Shoel and the others, but these are different. Haughty. Powerful. Mages, dressed in flowing robes of white that are open in the front all the way to their belts to show their bare chests. Even the women. They raise their hands all at once and beams of silver wind from their fingers and slide over Valenor, binding him to the ground. He doesn’t fight or struggle. He just lies there and lets them do it.
“Stop it!” I shout. It reminds me too much of the roots. “Let him go!” I try to run to him, but Julini steps in front of me and crouches to my level.
“Tib,” she gives an apologetic smile. Her voice reminds me of Mya’s. It’s kind and soothing. It makes me calm. She rests a hand on my shoulder and I feel my worry draining away. “They are not hurting him. They are merely ensuring the safety of our realm. He has consented to this.”
“They’re binding him! Why? For how long?”
“Until they can be assured of his good intentions and true identity. If he is who he claims to be, then there is no need for concern. Come. The others need healing.” She tries to guide me away, but I don’t let her.
“I’m not leaving him,” I scowl. “I don’t care if he agreed or not.”
“Then we shall bring the others to heal, and you may remain.” She pats my cheek and stands again. I can tell that she expects me to change my mind and go with the rest of them, but I don’t. I creep closer to Valenor instead, into the silvery bonds that have no effect on me. Trace my finger along the scales’ golden edges. Mevyn’s gold.
They take the others away: Lisabella, Benen, Bryse, Cort, Dacva, and Gaethon. Take them to heal. Most of them can walk, but Gaethon and Benen have to be carried. Shoel stays with me while I wait for the spell to be done. I want to ask him about the battle and the cloud that knocked Valenor out, but he sits outside of the Mage circle and waits, and I feel like it would be wrong to shout across to him. Instead I follow the long line of Valenor’s neck with my eyes. Gaze at his closed eye. It opens slowly, just enough for me to see a narrow slit of the red orb within.
I’m shown something new. Another battle. A different one, between a man and a boy. The man wears a cloak of stars that billows behind him like a torn piece of night sky. The boy is in tatters, skinny and dirty. His eyes are cruel and filled with hate. His fingers are twisted and claw-like as he thrusts them out to unleash his magic. He bares his teeth like a wild animal.
Behind the man, creatures emerge from the darkness. They scrabble over him and tear at his back and he screams in fury and pain as he tries to fight them off. There are too many, though, and it isn’t long before he’s overcome. The shadows chew and claw at his shoulders, pulling the cloak away. When he looks at the boy again, the betrayal he feels is plain and raw on his face. It quickly turns to rage as the cloak is ripped away, leaving just a thread behind.
The thread whips around the man and he thrashes and claws and roars as his body begins to change. His arms and legs stretch and twist and darken. His neck grows long. His back and head sprout horns and spines. He grows taller, broader. He roars into the boy’s face.
“Return that which is mine, Jacek,” he bellows. His words have little effect. Jacek holds his hands out to the shadows, who rush to deliver the cloak of stars to him. “I trusted you. You were to be my apprentice, my heir. How could you betray me?”
“Why should I be made to wait? You see?” he drapes it over his shoulders with a haughty sneer. “You’ve lost your hold, old man. They’re loyal to me, now.” The air around him shifts. The mantle changes, growing up over his shoulders, attaching itself to him. Flowing out like a stream of darkness behind him. Smoke and shadow. Ink and water. When it settles, he’s taller somehow. His eyes are dark and grim. His body stronger. His stance bolder. The shadows collect around him, bolstering him. He raises his chin to the dragon, who blasts him with a breath of fire. When the smoke clears, Jacek is unmoved. His laughter is just like the laughter in the clouds.
“Your throne is crumbled. Your crown destroyed. You are nothing,” the boy says. “You are no one.” He strokes the cloak lovingly, taunting Valenor with it. The dragon backs away, shaking his head as if to clear the darkness. “I’m the Dreamwalker, and I banish you. Your kingdom is mine, now. My will is done.”
His words strike me hard, like a punch to my throat. I feel myself falling again, this time together with Valenor through the sky, through a crevice in the mountains where he crashes hard and the shadows lash out around him and hold him. Fill him with despair and regret. Empty him of hope. Drain him of memory.
“The mantle.” The voice that echoes in my mind as I open my eyes is a blend of Valenor’s and Mevyn’s. I understand. The mantle is my quest. I’m the Dreamstalker. The only one who can recover it.
“I understand,” I whisper as I walk along the length of him and stop when I reach his enormous head. His eye closes again and the silver streams start to rise and arc into the space above him.
From the ground at the elf Mages’ feet, sprouts push up through the soil. They grow and thicken into beautiful white tree trunks exactly like those that make up the Forest Wall. For some reason, I’m not afraid of these as they grow and twine together to create a great circular room with a high domed ceiling. They are trees, yes, but their energy is different. Light and airy. Perfumed with flowers that droop from vines all around us, and lit by the glow of thousands of sparkling bulbs.
With a soft word from one of the Mages, the grass is covered over with a thick gray carpet. Another Mage creates ornately carved chairs with comfortable overstuffed cushions. Another commands a table. Food. Water. Fire for warmth. When the magic is done, they bow to the center. The silver beams fade away. Valenor slowly sits back on his haunches and twists his neck around to stretch.
There’s plenty of room for him in here. There’s even a door large enough for him to leave through if he wants to, draped with green vines that sway in the breeze. His scales glisten handsomely in the soft light. His tail flicks back and forth as he bows to each of the Mages in turn.
“
Even in my darkest times, I never forgot the hospitality of Elves,” he says. “Thank you, friends. Thank you.”
“Would that we could do more,” one of the Mages says. A woman.
“Yes, we would see you restored, friend. Your usurper vanquished,” says another.
“That is the goal, and your protection will be most helpful.” Valenor smiles.
“It is your protection,” a third elf says, “that has allowed us to thrive.”
Without another word, they all bow again and file out. Each one of them stops to look me over as they leave. Their silvery eyes bore into me. They nod. When they’re gone, I turn to Shoel.
“Are all elf Mages so scary?” I ask him.
He shakes his head and laughs, and the sound mixes with Valenor’s chuckle. The echo of the two together reminds me of the more sinister sounds coming from the yellow-green clouds.
“You have nothing to fear from our Mages,” Shoel says after a moment. “They are pure of heart, and filled with Light. They dedicate their lives to purity, kindness, knowledge, and the protection of Good. You saw it yourself. There is not a Mark upon them.”
I think of the Sorcerers of Zhaghen, with the blue-black curls that creep over their skin and slash across their faces. A sign of selfishness, of wicked overuse of magic. Those are the ones I hate. The ones who would waste their power without concern for anyone in their path. When she was younger, Viala told me that it starts at the heart.
“That’s why their robes were so low in the front,” I whisper thoughtfully, remembering the bare white skin of their chests. “I wondered.”
“Practice of the Arcane is a strict and hallowed art among our people. Any hint of the Mark is not tolerated here. A Mage will be stripped at the first sign of it,” Shoel says. He looks off into the distance and gives a half-hearted smile. Valenor looks away from him.
I can feel the tension between them enough to know that I shouldn’t ask what it’s about. There isn’t much to do now but wait for the others. I sink into a chair and look out the open door, toward the wall that blocks us from the battle raging on the other side. There’s no sign of it from here except for the rustle of leaves high above. Otherwise, it’s just as silent and peaceful as it was the first time I came with Raefe and Saesa.
Call of Sunteri (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 2) Page 38