“Well, do not count on staying there,” Reiv added gruffly. “If there is even a half hour left of daylight, we keep moving.”
“Of course,” Jensa said, and she kissed him on the cheek.
Reiv felt a flutter in his belly, but he clenched his muscles to tame it back. He refused to be sidetracked by emotions. There were more important destinations to reach.
The plateau proved to be a vast wasteland of black sand and rocky debris. Fist-sized rocks, dark as midnight and pocked with tiny craters, slowed the caravan’s pace to nearly nothing. And the sand, unlike anything they had ever seen, crunched and shifted beneath their feet. There was little doubt as to how The Black had come by its name. Carts jerked precariously as the caravan slowly crossed the jagged terrain. The rocks that littered the ground further radiated the afternoon heat, sending many weary travelers to their knees.
Reiv left his position at the front of the line and worked his way back. “This will be the worst of it,” he told the people encouragingly as he passed, though he had no idea if it really would be. He knew less about how to get to the valley than he dared let on; he’d only seen snippets of it during his Transcension, and rarely allowed any of the visions to enter his waking mind. He had done well to bury the now, the then, and the maybe. To allow even a hint of them to seep into his consciousness risked a flood of images he did not care to see. For now, he was determined to focus only on that which he knew, that which he had told Dayn and Alicine before they left Meirla: “…follow the river toward the first peak beyond the tallest one…there is a pass between them that will take you into a valley.”
As Reiv thought about Dayn and Alicine now, he realized how very much he missed them. Before they had entered his life, he’d had few friends, except for his brother who was now his enemy, and Cinnia who had betrayed his heart. Brina had been his one true constant, though she was more like a mother to him than a friend, but his relationship with Dayn and Alicine had been special, and altogether different. In Dayn, Reiv had found a kindred spirit. He trusted him and could confide his more personal fears and desires. But there were some things he could not tell even Dayn. Some were memories long hidden, memories of things that had happened to him well before he Transcended. One in particular had been buried for so long, he could not be certain it had happened at all. Perhaps it was just a remnant of a childhood dream, or of a childhood nightmare. Recently, it had threatened to seep to the surface, but he had quickly shoved a stopper in it. Over the years, he had become skilled at that. The memory, if that was what it was, had something to do with Crymm, and Crymm was not someone Reiv wished to think of ever again.
He turned his thoughts to Alicine and realized his feelings in her regard were somewhat mixed. He could not deny that he found her attractive; the fact that he had practically taken her on Nannaven’s floor was proof enough of that. But he could not shake the realization that she had rebuked him and then had simply left him. Though he understood her concerns for her family, he somehow felt that if she truly loved him, she would have stayed. The moment she had told him she was leaving, he knew: there would not likely be anything more than friendship between them. For a while, the realization had deeply bothered him, but he had finally been able to put things in perspective: Alicine would never share his bed; there was no sense dwelling on it. Best to set his sights elsewhere, like the challenges of the path before him.
He turned his thoughts from his empty heart and toward the shell hills now towering before him. To his surprise, the caravan was nearly there. He glanced up at the sun. It was at least two hours from setting.
He returned to the head of the line, resuming his place at Jensa’s side. “You see,” he said, feeling victorious. “Much too early to stop.”
Jensa didn’t say a word, just continued to gaze at the huge formations that looked as much like shells up close as they had from a distance.
Reiv led the caravan around the base of the scalloped hills. The Shell-Seekers stared up at them in awe. Kerrik and the other children laughed and climbed up and down the rocky slopes, sending little avalanches of dirt and gravel bouncing downward. As they rounded the last of the formations, Reiv realized they would soon be at the base of the mountain range itself. He knew where the pass to the valley should be, and gauging from where they were in relation to it, he estimated one more day of travel and they would reach it. If they could just make it through the pass, they would be safe from Whyn. He could not imagine his brother or the Guard going into the mountains. That was where the gods dwelt, or so they believed, and it was not likely they would dare tread into such a sacred place.
As for the refugees, Reiv felt certain many of them would become apprehensive once they reached the mountains. Hopefully with Yustes there to encourage and inspire them, there would be no demands to turn back. Everyone knew that in order to reach the valley they would have to enter places previously forbidden. But now, looking up at the monstrous rise of white-capped granite looming in the distance, Reiv could not help but wonder if even he would be tempted to turn back. Though he had recently learned many truths that disputed the beliefs he had been raised on, including the fact that the gods did not dwell in the mountains after all, he had come to realize that some fears were hard to erase. Doubt is a temptation of evil, he had been warned as a child. To doubt the gods is to invite eternal suffering. As he thought on it now, it seemed to him that those who taught that message had caused more suffering than all the gods put together. But still, if doubt was a temptation of evil…
“Hey, Reiv!” Kerrik shouted from the nearby hillside. “You’ll not find a bigger shell than this one today!”
Reiv grinned. “It is a fine one, Kerrik,” came his customary reply.
Reiv watched as Kerrik and the other children skittered from rock to rock, and he began to wonder if the caravan already was treading on sacred ground. To his knowledge no one had ever traveled so close to the mountains, except for Brina who had only done so to save the life of her son Dayn. Were these formations hallowed ground also, he wondered? And if those who trespassed upon them were sinners, and thus destined to suffer for all eternity, would children like Kerrik and Nely and Gem be doomed to suffer also? Surely no god would willingly cause the suffering of a child, Reiv reasoned. But he called the children down from the hillside nonetheless.
Reiv directed the caravan along the westernmost corner of The Black and toward the edge of the mountain range. From there they continued along its border, until at last it became dusk and Reiv ordered the line to set up camp.
The area surrounding the campsite was dotted with pines, and the cool night air was a welcome relief from the hot, rugged terrain they had recently crossed. Reiv surveyed the encampment, trying to estimate how many souls had survived the journey thus far. As was his custom each night, he walked throughout the encampment, paying his respects, checking to see if there were questions or needs, or to simply determine the state of the line. During each inspection, he also made a point of speaking with Yustes, who generally took up the rear. As he worked his way in that direction, he heard a concerned voice calling his name. He turned, realizing it belonged to Peyada, a woman whom he knew to be close to Yustes.
The woman hustled in his direction. “It is Yustes,” she said breathlessly upon reaching him. “He is ill.”
An unpleasant feeling gathered in Reiv’s belly. “Take me to him,” he said, and soon found himself kneeling next to the bedroll of the wise old Elder.
Reiv took the man’s hand in his. “Yustes,” he said.
Yustes opened his eyes and forced a smile. “Reiv,” he said weakly. “Not far now, eh?”
“No. Not far.” Reiv felt the Elder’s forehead. It was clammy, but it did not feel hot, not like those suffering from the fever. “Tell me what ails you.”
“Old age,” Yustes said, a hint of humor in his voice. A cough spasmed from his lungs.
“Enough of such talk. You are not so old.”
The Elder sighed, his breath rattli
ng. “Old enough to know when my time has come.”
“Well, your time will have to wait,” Reiv said. “We must get you to Oonayei first.”
“Dear boy, even if my body does not make it, my spirit will.” He turned his fading eyes to Reiv. “You will see that it gets there, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course. But how?” Reiv asked, wondering how he, of all people, could have control over someone else’s soul.
“I am…a part of everyone you see around you,” Yustes said haltingly. “We are all kindred spirits. If you get my people there…then you get me there.”
“I will do what I can.”
“I know you will.” Yustes swallowed thickly. “Peyada, water…please,” he said.
The woman, standing nearby, quickly brought him a water skin. Reiv took it from her and tilted it to Yustes’s lips. With Reiv’s assistance, the old man was able to lift his head and take a sip. “Tastes sweet,” Yustes said. “But the waters of Oonayei will taste even sweeter.”
“Yustes,” Reiv said hesitantly. “What if the valley is not the place you think it is? What if Oonayei does not exist?”
“It will exist if enough people believe it does.”
“One cannot simply wish a place into being,” Reiv said.
“Perhaps one cannot, but together many can.”
“And if I cannot unite them in that belief?”
Yustes smiled. “You already have, my boy. You already have.”
Yustes died that night. His loss was immediately felt. He had been a touchstone of hope for many, and Reiv could not help but pray that hope had not died with him. Burial rites were held under the stars. All who could, attended. The Elder was laid to rest beneath a canopy of trees, protected by the shade that their branches offered, blanketed by leaves against the cold of the night. No stone was set to mark his simple grave, but all who knew him would never forget his courage. He had given his people the strength to turn their backs on oppression; he had lifted their souls and had turned their hearts toward freedom. But would that strength last?
The night was quiet and still when Reiv returned to his own bedroll. He lay there, his eyes turned toward a star-studded sky, but all he could see were worst case scenarios blackening his mind. Would the Shell Seekers want to continue their journey now that their spiritual leader was gone? Or would they leave the caravan and stumble their way home by way of the route they had already traveled? The Jecta, he was certain, would not retreat; they would face certain annihilation if they did. But the Shell Seekers had at least been given a chance to survive through servitude to the King. Would they come to regret the choice they had made?
“What am I doing?” he muttered. “I am such a fool.”
He felt someone’s presence and looked up to see Jensa standing next to him.
“You’re worried,” she said. She settled down beside him. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” Reiv lied. “What are you thinking?”
She lay on her side, facing him, her head propped up by a hand.
The proximity of her body sent an unexpected flutter to Reiv’s chest.
Jensa doodled her finger on the blanket for a moment. “Well,” she said, “I’m thinking that you’ve spent so much time seeing to everyone else’s needs that no one has seen to yours.”
The rhythm in Reiv’s chest quickened. By the gods, what did she mean by that?
“Tell me, Reiv,” she continued. “What do you need?”
Reiv’s mind raced toward an obvious conclusion, but rather than consider the ridiculous possibility of it, he responded with a burst of laughter instead.
Jensa sat up angrily. “I’m sorry you find me so amusing,” she said, and moved to rise from the bedroll.
Reiv grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. “Please; I am not laughing at you,” he said. “I am laughing at me.”
“As well you should be,” she said.
“Well, I am a fool of a prince, am I not?”
“At your convenience.”
“Very well,” he said. “What I need is to get these people to the valley. That is what I need.”
“Well, at least in that you’re no fool; you’re their savior.”
It was then Reiv’s turn to sit up. “I am no savior. I am—” He stammered, not sure what he was exactly.
Jensa rose to her feet. “You’re that and more. But I don’t think I wish to argue with you about it tonight.”
Reiv lay back down and rested his hands behind his head. “Well you were the one that came over here. If you do not wish to argue, I suppose you had best stay away from me.”
“Fine,” she said, and turned and marched away.
Reiv pulled the blanket over him. The air had become surprisingly cold since Jensa’s departure, and for the first time he realized how very much he longed for the warmth of her body next to his.
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Chapter 29: Inch by Inch
Darkness engulfed him; it filled Lyal’s every pore. Like a great parasite it wound its way through him, eating his flesh from the outside in, expelling it in pieces from the inside out. It filled his lungs with liquid ice. It coiled into his ears and mouth and nostrils. No part of him was spared the agony that it dealt. It blinded his memories and poisoned his mind; it stole his identity and replaced it with fear. Pain was all that was left to him now; the rest had been devoured, sucked from the marrow of his bones and spewed into the blackness.
He was locked in an abyss, an endless nightmare of darkness and despair. When he had first been cast there, there had been no pain, only silence and fear and endless night. In the beginning, he had prayed for light, thinking it would bring him warmth. When none came, he sought solace in the millions of lights that flickered behind his eyelids. They looked like tiny stars, he thought, like those one might see in a foggy night sky. Gazing at the miniature lights, he tried to imagine that he was lying on the sand, staring up at the heavens, listening to the sea as it stroked the shore, feeling the breeze as it caressed his skin. He had clung to that fantasy for what seemed like a very long time, playing it over and over until the rhythm of it lulled him to sleep. Only then could he call darkness his friend, for when he slept he dreamed, and sometimes the dreams held color and reminders of what it was to be alive. But after a while the stars began to fade, and the dreams grew vague and colorless, and all he was left with was darkness again.
He had never been afraid of the dark, had never really been afraid of anything. But it did not take long for Lyal to wonder if he had simply been left to wither away in it. His body screamed for nourishment and warmth, and the constant sound of his own breathing, the only sound he could hear, was slowly driving him mad. He crawled and crawled along the perimeter of his prison, trying to claw his way out, but there was no escaping it. He prayed and he begged, but the only response he received was the echo of his own voice in his ears. It was then that he became truly afraid. Was this to be his death—to slowly rot away in madness? He implored the gods to release him from his nightmare, for surely that was what this was—a terrible dream from which he would eventually awake. If only the gods would send the sunrise! If only they would rescue him from this damnable night and deposit him into the arms of morning!
An eternity passed, but at last his prayers were answered: light had finally come! A creak like that of an opening door filled his ears, and a sudden flash of brilliance blinded his eyes. He scrambled to his knees, awash with joy and gratitude, but he quickly learned he had been betrayed, for the light that came was indeed as bright as the sun, but unlike a sunrise, it brought no warmth or the promise of a new day. It brought cruelty and hate, and with that, unfathomable pain.
The light said not a word as it grabbed him and slammed him onto a hard, cold slab. It asked him no questions as it bound him in chains and tortured him in ways he could not have imagined. It abused him over and over again, without regard to his cries for mercy. Lyal screamed and he raged, but it did no good. It seemed the more he begged, the
more his tormentor took delight in it. The light came to him frequently after that, each visit laced with more cruelty than the last, and before long Lyal was praying again. But now he was praying for darkness.
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Chapter 30: Dark Savior
The morning sun streamed through the etched-glass windows of Whyn’s sprawling room, splashing light onto its colorless walls, and rainbows into Whyn’s colorless world. He sat up and shoved back the coverlet that was draped across his legs. Like just about everything else in the room, the coverlet was white, as white as the walls, as white as the satin nightshift he wore, as white as the kingdom that she, through him, was determined to rebuild. He planted his feet on the floor and crossed the marble tiles toward the dressing table, yanking his nightshift over his head. Attendants rushed from out of nowhere to assist him, but he waved them out of the room with a flick of his hand.
Before him stood a gilded mirror that reached from floor to ceiling. Whyn stopped to gaze at his full-length reflection, turning this way and that as he examined his naked body from every angle. For all the physical abuse she had inflicted on him over the past several months, he was pleased to note that his flesh bore no scars, at least none that could be seen in a mirror.
He stepped to the nearby dressing table, then pulled out a stool and sat. A second mirror, equally elaborate but smaller than the first, hung on the wall before him. Leaning toward it, he studied his face. Still handsome, he thought: smooth skin, straight nose, and his eyes—so blue. He eased back, keeping his gaze upon his reflection. How long had it been since his eyes had been so blue?
Glancing at the dressing table, he noted the usual assortment of potions and face paints that littered the surface, as well as the numerous hair ornaments and grooming tools. He picked up a comb and raked it through his sleep-tangled hair, but he did not attempt to braid or adorn it like he usually did. Setting aside the comb, he moved his fingers to a paint brush, then pushed it aside. Today he would apply no paint to his lips or glitter to his eyes. Today he would dress as a king, not the puppet of the entity that so frequently possessed him.
Souls of Aredyrah 3 - The Taking of the Dawn Page 28