The young woman stepped through the brush, her hand clutching a cloth weighed down with what must have been the harvested berries. Dervit trailed behind her, dragging a branch heavy with the dark blue fruit. But Jahrra’s sentence was cut short when she noticed the elf standing utterly still, an arrow nocked in his bow, aimed at the Mystic standing beside the smoking fire.
A gasp, followed by the thud of hundreds of berries hitting the ground broke the strained silence.
“Denaeh!?” Jahrra cried out.
Ellyesce shot blazing green eyes in Jahrra’s direction only to discover a look of delighted surprise painting her face. In the next breath, the young woman snapped out of her stupor, her attention darting to Ellyesce.
“Ellyesce, lower your bow! This is the Mystic Archedenaeh. She’s a friend.”
The Mystic in question winced slightly, and her would-be assassin tensed.
“Friend?” he breathed, his hard gaze fixed on the woman across the glen. He had not lowered his bow, nor had he eased his hold on the string. Denaeh’s words from a few minutes ago, her pathetic attempt to beg forgiveness, had not convinced him to trust her. Not at all.
“Yes,” Jahrra said carefully, moving to stand between Ellyesce’s arrow and the Mystic. “She is my friend. I have known her since I was a girl. She lived in the Black Swamp in Oescienne, and I often visited her there. Please,” she raised her arms, palms out, in a placating manner, “lower your arrow.”
For several heartbeats longer, Ellyesce held his aim. But when Jahrra refused to move, and when Dervit went to join her, he had no choice.
Ellyesce clenched his teeth. “Do you know what this woman is?”
Jahrra’s brow furrowed. “Yes, Ellyesce. Didn’t you hear me?”
“Has she told you everything, Jahrra?” His voice was soft, dangerous.
Jahrra’s eyes darted between the elf and Denaeh. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll take that as a no, then,” the elf intoned. “Now, move, Jahrra. You too, Dervit. The Mystic Archedenaeh is leaving.”
“Ellyesce, no!” Jahrra cried, stepping forward.
Denaeh reached out an arm, clasping her hand gently on Jahrra’s shoulder. Jahrra turned blinking eyes onto her friend.
“Perhaps it is time,” the Mystic breathed, “you know my part in all this, Jahrra.”
Ellyesce snarled softly, but Denaeh shook her head. “I will share my tale, Ellyesce, with or without your blessing! This is not about me anymore, it isn’t about us and the history we share. It’s about what is happening right now and what must be done, and in order for the events to fall into place where they belong, Jahrra must know.”
Jahrra pulled away from her friend, stunned into silence. What on Ethoes was Denaeh talking about?
Denaeh sighed and sank onto a rotting tree trunk beside the cooling coals of the fire pit. With a few mumbled words under her breath, her fingers outstretched over the charred wood, she coaxed the flames back to life.
“Dervit, is it?” she said, addressing the limbit. “Would you mind finding some more firewood, please?”
Dervit twitched in surprise, but obeyed the Mystic without a word.
Her eyes still fixed on the dancing fire, Denaeh drew in a deep breath and said, “Leave if you must, Ellyesce. I do not blame you. But I will tell this story, with or without your consent.”
Ellyesce turned around, quick as an adder but with the grace he never failed to show. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his bow, for now, set aside. His sharp green gaze flicked to Denaeh, wrath and loathing and something far more profound, far deeper than both those emotions, broiled in that gaze. Jahrra frowned, wondering how the Mystic and the Magehn knew one another, and for how long. But first, she wanted to hear Denaeh’s tale.
Denaeh added the logs Dervit delivered to the fire, fresh flames leaping and dancing as they drove away the dark shadows haunting her face. They sat in a circle, Jahrra, Dervit, and Denaeh, with only Ellyesce standing as far away from the Mystic as possible. Not just physical distance separating them, Jahrra noted. There was a seemingly bottomless chasm between them, one whose depth was so immense she could almost feel it pulling on her. She had no idea what had been shared between these two, but Denaeh was so resolute, so quiet, she knew it had to be something profound. And the way the Mystic sat so utterly still, as if attempting to hold back a raging sea of emotion, Jahrra believed whatever her friend was about to share, it might just upend her entire world.
It’s not as if you haven’t been shocked before, Jahrra, she reminded herself, recalling the many times in her past she had been blindsided with secrets that stretched far beyond her birth. Secrets that somehow worked their way into her life.
Denaeh drew in a deep breath and let it out gradually, her fingers reaching up to worry at a ring hanging from a cord around her neck. She caught herself, curling her hand into a fist but not before catching Jahrra’s attention. The young woman cast Ellyesce a sidelong look, but the dark-haired elf was brooding. Yes. That was the proper description. He had always been prone to that particular activity, but now, he had turned so far inward, Jahrra could barely see him any longer; all obvious expression wiped clean from his face.
“I’m about to tell you a story,” Denaeh finally said, her voice soft, as if worn down by time alone.
She lifted her head, her face lit by the fire. Her topaz eyes landed on Ellyesce, and Jahrra felt their pull.
Look at me, they seemed to say. Look at me, please.
But Ellyesce remained still. Silent. His gaze fixed on some spot in the distance, not on Denaeh.
With a defeated sigh, she began, “Five hundred years ago there lived a king, one who was young, ambitious, and willing to do anything to win power. He was seduced by it, and he let his desire to rule the world make him weak. Then he met another, just as weak as himself. A young woman recently reborn as a Mystic, hungry for power, for status. Hungry to make a difference in a world riddled with uncertainty and eager to prove her merit. The king met her, and she fell in love. Or, so she thought. She left her mentor, her best friend, the one who had stayed by her side her entire mortal life. The one who watched her age and helped her with her transition.”
“Transition?” Dervit interrupted, his voice small but clear.
Denaeh regarded him, her eyes still far away as her mind remained in the past. “Mystics are not born with their talents. They are created. Yes, the subject must show some proclivity for the magical arts, but we undergo a lifetime of training and dedication to those powers which cannot be seen. To become a Mystic, we must also expire of old age and be reborn.” Her eyes flicked to Ellyesce, still working hard to ignore her, before their golden gaze fell upon Dervit once more. “Someone must breathe life back into us, someone who also possesses an incredible amount of magic.”
Jahrra stared at Denaeh. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever asked her friend how she had come to be a Mystic.
“How is that possible?” she managed, her voice a mere whisper.
Denaeh gave another small smile. “Those who train Mystics and those who are naturally strong in magic as well perform a ceremony that breathes life back into us. When we come back to this world, we are stronger, have the capacity to shift into three forms, and become immortal. I was mostly human, Jahrra, when I died. The peoples of Ethoes today might have called me Nesnan, then. I lived to be just over a century and a half before I passed on into the Ether. But since I had trained a vast majority of that life to become a Mystic, I was reborn.”
“And then you met the king with a desire for power,” Dervit added softly.
Denaeh nodded, rubbing her fingers together to stave off the chill.
“That I did. And he was one of the most attractive men I had ever seen. I was new to my Mystic abilities, and I think he saw me as an opportunity to gain even more power. At least, that is what drew him to me, I believe. On the surface, he truly felt he cared for me. And fool that I was, I fell for his charms and married him when he aske
d. I had grown up on faerie tales of handsome princes and beautiful maidens, and I thought I had been dropped into one of these fantasies, one that promised happiness for the rest of my immortal existence. And for a few glorious years, I was happy and thought he was, too. Yet, many people frowned upon our match. I was an immortal sorceress. Mystics didn’t often marry, and when they did, it wasn’t to mortal kings who needed offspring to carry on their bloodline. You see, Mystics are incapable of producing children.”
“And kings and queens need heirs,” Jahrra put in. She was still trying to wrap this all around her head. Denaeh, her friend who many had once thought to be an old witch living in a swamp, had once been a queen.
“My husband, the king, did not listen to the critics. He claimed a distant relative could take his place when his rule came to an end. What people didn’t know was that he was working in secret to devise a way to become immortal as well. Even I didn’t realize what he planned, at first.”
Her voice trailed away, and her eyes grew dark as they stared into the dancing flames. Eventually, Denaeh drew in a shuddering breath and continued.
“Months and years passed, then, one day I discovered I was pregnant. I didn’t believe it at first. It should not have been possible. But nine months later I bore a son, an heir to rule on after his father’s death.”
Silence descended on the quartet of travelers, broken only by the call of a crow somewhere in the distance. It was Ellyesce who spoke then.
“What she isn’t telling you,” he said, his voice hard and unwavering. Jahrra jumped, as well as Dervit beside her. Ellyesce had been so steadfastly quiet, that hearing him speak was like jerking awake from a dream. The elf continued, unaware of his companions’ moment of surprise, “is that the king she married once ruled Ghorium, and that their child is Cierryon, the abomination we all know as the Crimson King.”
This time the silence that stretched between them was something physical, something raw and full of malice. Jahrra’s eyes went wide, and she trained them on Denaeh.
“No,” she managed, her words catching in her throat.
Even Dervit found his voice. “The Tyrant? You are the Tyrant’s mother?”
Denaeh only dropped her chin to her chest, her hands resting limply in her lap, her palms turned upward and her fingers curled. As if she had been holding something dear within those fingers, something that had transformed to smoke and dust and had escaped her grasp. She nodded her head solemnly, and Jahrra was struck by how different this Denaeh was from the strong, unflappable woman who had encouraged her to build a lake monster to terrorize her enemies. The same Mystic who had talked her into entering a race by nefarious means and to trick her friends to go on a quest for knowledge in Ehnnit Canyon.
Jahrra swallowed back a lump of emotion as her friend lifted solemn eyes full of pain and regret. What it must have done to her to keep this locked away for so long …
Drawing a deep, calming breath, Jahrra asked, “Who was the one to train you, Denaeh? Who guided you through the process of becoming a Mystic?”
Jahrra already knew, of course, and the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach only grew as Denaeh lifted her eyes to Ellyesce. With her lips pressed tightly together, Jahrra nodded once. So, that explained the friction between them. Ellyesce had spent over a century training Denaeh, helping her through the hard days, encouraging her when she felt she couldn’t continue. Rejoicing with her on her triumphs. What exactly did he feel for her? Jahrra could only imagine, and she had a good idea, considering the way the elf refused to acknowledge the Mystic’s presence.
The campfire popped, sending a burst of hot sparks into the air, and Jahrra found herself recalling the most shocking bit of information the Mystic had shared. Dear gods. Denaeh was the Crimson King’s mother.
“D-does Jaax know?” Jahrra breathed, not daring to look at her friend this time. “About Cierryon being your son?”
Denaeh tilted her head to the side, her bright hair curling about her shoulders. “Yes,” she rasped, “he knows.”
Jahrra’s heart clenched tightly, as if a great fist squeezed it between its fingers. Yet another secret he had kept from her. And this time, the bitterness leaked through a little, despite her struggle to keep it locked away.
Jahrra squeezed her eyes shut, as if begging the gods and goddesses above for patience, then asked, “Why are you here, Denaeh? Why have you followed me, us, all the way from Oescienne? What is your part in all of this?”
The fire crackled and popped, sending sparks scattering into the evergreen boughs above. The dancing flames flickered, reflected in Denaeh’s eyes, the firelight casting her face in a reddish glow. The expression there was unreadable. After several moments, the Mystic drew in a deep breath and released it on a long, shuddering sigh.
“My role in this fight against the Tyrant, Jahrra,” she murmured, her tone wrought with aggrieved resignation, “is that of executioner.”
Beside her, Dervit jerked, his tail twitching nervously. Jahrra ignored him, her gaze narrowing on the Mystic.
“What do you mean?” she pressed carefully.
“What I mean is that at the end of all this, when you finally face down Cierryon and the demon god who possesses him, I must be the one to put an end to it, once and for all.”
Jahrra said nothing, only furrowed her brow at the woman she had once admired as a beloved aunt. Someone she still looked up to, or so she thought.
Denaeh lifted her topaz eyes, fathomless as a sun-gilded sea.
“At the end of all this, Jahrra, I must kill my son.”
-Chapter Nine-
Bitter Hearts, Hapless Fates
The world stopped turning, the mournful cries of night owls coming to an abrupt halt. Jahrra could hear her own heartbeat echoing in her ears, and when she slid her eyes to Dervit, he appeared as confounded as she felt. Even Ellyesce, still doing his best to become part of the canyon wall not too far away, seemed stricken. His expression remained a disciplined mask of boredom, but it was his eyes that gave him away. A snapping green that exuded horror at the Mystic’s words.
Somehow, Jahrra found her voice, strained as it may be. “If you are the one meant to kill Cierryon, then why did the prophecy speak of me? What is the point of me being here?”
Denaeh’s shoulders drooped. “That, I do not know. And believe me, I’ve tried to find the answer, Jahrra. I swear it. All these years, I wasn’t just hiding away in the Black Swamp for nothing. I’ve spent many hours and much of my magic scrying and speaking to the Sacred Trees. Nothing can tell me what you must do. All I know is what the prophecy says: that a human girl, found in the west, will be the one to save us all. Somehow, Jahrra, you are the key to everything. You will need us all to help you; we all have our part to play, but it will be up to you, in the end, to break the curse.”
“And how do you know you must be the one to slay the Tyrant?”
Jahrra couldn’t bring herself to speak Cierryon’s name. Not after all Denaeh had told them. It seemed cruel, and despite Jahrra’s anger toward the Mystic for keeping this from her for so long, the woman was clearly agonizing over the prospect of what she felt she must do.
Denaeh tilted her chin up, her eyes meeting Jahrra’s once again. She gave the younger woman a slightly exasperated look as she said blandly, “I’ve seen it many times, in many visions. As far as I’m concerned, it is set in stone. All I know is that you must do something before I can make the killing blow. I just don’t know what.”
Jahrra stood abruptly, her shadow unfurling against the culvert wall behind her.
“And when will you know?” she demanded.
Denaeh shook her head, scarlet hair sliding over her shoulders. “I don’t know, Jahrra.”
“What other visions have you had, Denaeh? Can you guarantee we will be victorious over the Crimson King? Are you certain I’m not simply venturing off to my death?”
Denaeh grew still, and Jahrra cursed. “Tell me!”
The Mystic bared her teeth and
snarled, standing as well so that only the small campfire separated them. “I have told you too much already, Jahrra! To reveal anything more might unweave what is already set to take place. I will not risk that!”
“So, I am to continue pressing forth, depending entirely on blind faith, when you know what will be my fate?!”
“No, not your fate!”
Denaeh realized she had misspoken the moment Jahrra did. Both of them grew very still. Dervit didn’t dare blink, his fingers clutching his cap. Ellyesce drew himself up taller, his body angling so that he faced them head on, the first time he’d moved since the Mystic began her tale. All the while, the dark forest loomed around them, oblivious, or simply uncaring, of the woes of the four lives now so inextricably intertwined.
“Whose fate, Denaeh?” Jahrra’s question was spoken softly. “Whose future have you seen?”
The Mystic drew a deep breath in through her nose and leveled her gaze with Jahrra’s. The stern, unyielding woman of the swamp once more. The witch once feared by school children, the powerful Mystic, clever, cunning, always calculating. Always thinking several steps ahead. Overcome by all the memories she’d been forced to share in the past hour, but not to the point that she had forgotten how to keep control. The gray in Jahrra’s eyes sharpened, her mouth drawn in a tight line, her expression grim.
“Nothing is set in stone, Jahrra,” Denaeh finally said, her own tone cautious. “But as I said before, I will not risk redirecting the path I can see. At least in this, I know we have a chance.”
Jahrra threw her arms up in the air and snarled in frustration before stomping from the glen.
“Where are you going?” Ellyesce called after her, pushing away from the steep canyon wall to trail after her.
“I need to get away from you right now, so don’t you dare follow me!” she retorted over her shoulder.
The Legend of Oescienne--The Reckoning (Book Five) Page 11