Denaeh drew in a sharp breath to speak, but the stranger cut her off with a terse word and a slash of his hand. A command, perhaps, or a warning? Either way, the Mystic stilled, then nodded her head before descending into a graceful, courtly bow. In a clear voice with just a hint of trepidation, she said, “Welcome home, your majesty.”
Jahrra’s eyes went as wide as Ellyesce’s, and she stopped breathing as Denaeh’s words pummeled her mind: Your majesty. Welcome home … your majesty …
Before Jahrra could so much as draw another breath, the man gave a slight bow of his head, pulled out a dagger from his belt, and slashed the blade across his palm. Jahrra gasped, and Dervit cried out next to her. All surprise at Denaeh’s statement fled as concern took over. What was he doing?
Ellyesce and Denaeh, however, didn’t so much as flinch. Nor did they move to stop the stranger when he stepped forward and placed his bloody palm to the wall before him. The blood staining the faded and eroded mural Hroombra, and then Jaax, had once utilized as a backdrop to teach Jahrra about the Legend of Oescienne. A legend she had been very much a part of. Now, it seemed like the fanciful stories of some childhood, some other person’s childhood, long past.
But, Jahrra didn’t have much time to dwell on those memories, for the moment the man’s wounded hand touched the crumbling wall, a pulse of some strange sensation, magic perhaps, radiated away from the place where his palm touched. Like a series of rings flowing outward from a pond’s surface broken by a pebble, the power rippled through the stone, through the earth, through the very fabric of life all around them. And, Jahrra could feel it. Deep within her very bones and soul, as if some lingering shadow was melting away.
Jahrra took in a shocked breath and would have turned and fled, but the desecrated castle had begun to put itself back together. Half-buried, eroded stones lifted from the earth and stacked upon one another to form walls. Trees that had grown up in the center of what had once been spotless floors shrunk down to saplings, then disappeared altogether as the centuries’ worth of grime and detritus melted away. Broken stairways, caved-in ceilings, ruined arches ... bits and pieces of the old structure flew together like an explosion working backwards. Magic, for that was the only thing Jahrra could think to call it, swirled around her, stealing her breath and dazzling her senses. The stranger’s ragged cloak swirled around him in the ethereal wind, but he kept his bloody hand pressed to the wall. Ellyesce and Denaeh, still rooted to the place they’d been standing before, dropped to the floor, hands clasped over their heads, as the world around them became a hurricane of broken stone, glass, iron, leaves, and grit. Jahrra mimicked them as a particularly large stone tumbled past her.
“Dervit!” she cried, worried about her small friend.
A gentle tug at the edge of her tunic told her he was nearby. Safe, at least, for now.
Jahrra couldn’t say how long it took the castle of Oescienne to rebuild itself, for the ancient curse to unwind, but when all went still and the swift roaring of stone grinding against stone ceased, she uncovered her head and blinked up. What she saw almost knocked her to the ground. She was standing in a grand hall, a dining room to put the one in Dhonoara to shame. Beautifully crafted windows lined the west wall and the mural, the one featuring the legend she knew so well, had come back to life in full color.
Jahrra stood, brushing away dirt and debris, and stepped forward to run her fingers over the tall figure on the horse, now clear and intricately detailed. She studied the face of the man depicted in the painting, then glanced over at the stranger who had just restored an entire castle with a touch.
Before Jahrra could form a comment, Denaeh stepped forward and brushed her fingers gently against Jahrra’s shoulder. But, Jahrra already knew what her friend was going to say.
“Jahrra,” Denaeh murmured, her voice unnervingly soft, “I would like to introduce you to Prince Aeron Sohliendis, the eighth son of the last king and queen of Oescienne.”
Jahrra lifted her chin, her mouth tight, and glared at the prince of the Tanaan. He was far enough away that she couldn’t quite read the expression on his face. A handsome face, but that meant nothing to her. A handsome face had betrayed her once before, and she had absolutely no reason to trust this one. Like her, Prince Aeron stood utterly still, his presence a heavy weight pressing against her with suffocating force. He couldn’t be the last prince of the Tanaan. Kehllor was the last prince of the Tanaan, and Kehllor was dead. And, so was Jaax.
White hot, scorching anger rose so swiftly it nearly boiled Jahrra’s blood away. Her friends were dead, had fought in a horrible war so that this, this coward, could return and live peacefully in Oescienne?
Jahrra took a breath and let it out, that rage too fresh to form words. Her eyes met the prince’s once, not long enough to wonder at what emotions lay buried in his own soul. A good thing, too, because she didn’t care. Without even wishing him or her friends a farewell, Jahrra turned on her heel and strode through the newly formed archway.
“Jahrra!” Denaeh called out, her voice echoing throughout the cavernous hallway.
Jahrra ignored her, and by some mixture of luck and the memory of where the crumbled walls had stood before, she made her way through the rebuilt castle, too intent on escaping to take the time to admire the beautiful architecture or the paintings, mosaics, and tapestries that had been brought back to life. Too overcome by too many emotions to take in the miracle that had occurred before her very eyes. The castle ruin of her childhood, a crumbled palace that had been nothing but half fallen walls of eroded stone and centuries of accumulated grime, had rebuilt itself to pristine perfection, but she didn’t care. She only wanted to get as far away from the prince as she could before her anger and despair rose up to swallow her.
When she finally made it to the grand entrance hall, she found the doors thrown open. She had no idea how long it had taken the curse to reverse what it had done those several centuries ago, but it had been long enough to give the curious farmers and villagers below the Great Sloping Hill time to start marching up the hill.
Outside, a small number of them approached the castle cautiously, their eyes wide as they murmured amongst themselves. Jahrra ignored them, brushing past the more enthusiastic gawkers.
“Jahrra, wait!” Dervit squeaked from somewhere behind her. “Where are you going?”
“Back to Denaeh’s cave,” she snapped as she found Phrym eyeing the new castle cautiously.
“What? Why?” he pressed, stopping in surprise.
Jahrra cast him a harsh glance, her mouth downturned in a scowl. “Because, I want to get as far away from that imposter as I can.”
Dervit’s eyes went wide, and he shook his head. “Jahrra, he isn’t an imposter! Did you see how his blood brought the castle back to life? I don’t think anyone but the true heir of Oescienne could do such a thing.”
Jahrra bared her teeth at her friend, practically snarling. “If that’s true, then why did Ciarrohn kill Kehllor?”
Dervit had no answer for her, he only swallowed, flicked his eyes towards the growing crowd of onlookers, then said in a low voice for only Jahrra to hear, “I don’t know, Jahrra, but Denaeh and Ellyesce are saying–”
“What?” she growled, cutting him off. “That this Aeron Sohliendis is who he says he is? If the true prince is standing in the center of that castle,” Jahrra jabbed her finger back towards the palace in question, “then why didn’t they say anything when I told them about Kehllor and what Ciarrohn revealed?”
Dervit’s ears drooped, and he pressed his lips together. He had no answer for her.
Brushing away a collection of fresh tears with an aggressive swipe of her hand, Jahrra pulled herself up onto Phrym. When settled in the saddle, she turned back to her friend.
“Go back into the castle, Dervit. You deserve to enjoy the festivities that are surely to result from the return of Oescienne’s long lost prince. I just want to be alone.”
Without waiting for a reply, she dug her heels
into Phrym’s sides, and the semequin took off into the forest, heading for the Black Swamp.
* * *
Jahrra must have fallen asleep upon returning to her room in Denaeh’s cavern, because the next thing she remembered was being shaken gently awake. She inhaled sharply through her nose and jerked upright.
“Jahrra,” Denaeh said, her hands held up as she backed away. “I’m sorry to wake you, but Dervit was worried.”
As consciousness flooded back in, Jahrra hissed and rubbed at her eyes. They were swollen with grit gathered in the corners. She must have cried herself to sleep after leaving the castle. Ugh, had that really happened? It could have been a dream, she supposed, but her instincts told her otherwise. That unnatural anger threatened to rise again, but she tamped it down. Why had Denaeh woken her? She had been blissfully unaware of her worldly worries while sleeping.
“He didn’t have to worry about me,” Jahrra finally grumbled, pulling her knees up to her chest. “I just wanted to be alone.”
Sighing sympathetically, Denaeh sank into a nearby chair. “I understand, Jahrra. I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but I also know what you are going through. For centuries, I thought Ellyesce was lost to me, and just recently, I lost my only son.”
Denaeh cast haunted eyes on her younger friend, and Jahrra grew still, her mouth pressed into a tight line. These exact thoughts had gone through Jahrra’s head not too long ago, but she had not spoken them aloud.
Undaunted by Jahrra’s silence, the Mystic continued, “The one comfort I get from knowing I executed my own child is that it is what he wanted. I know he’s in a better place now, free from Ciarrohn’s evil hold. But, it still hurts. It will for a long time. Forever, perhaps. Yet, I hold on to the fact that his sacrifice was not made in vain. Can you not find that same solace for your own loss?”
Jahrra gritted her teeth. She didn’t want to hear this. Not now, perhaps not ever. But maybe, someday in the distant future, she’d be able to accept that argument.
“It’s too soon, Denaeh,” she finally managed. “I know I’ve been hard to be around lately. I’m quick to anger, wish to be left alone most days, and nothing has been able to cheer me up. I don’t want to be cheered up right now. I want to mourn. I want to work this anguish out without everyone pitying me or telling me how I should deal with this. And, after the events of this morning …” She waved her hand around, unable to come up with the right explanation. In the end, Jahrra huffed out a wearied breath. “Kehllor was the lost prince,” she breathed, “and Ciarrohn killed him for it.”
Denaeh shook her head gently. “Maybe Ciarrohn was wrong. It had been several centuries since he set the curse upon the Tanaan.”
Jahrra didn’t want to accept that answer, but she said nothing more. Either way, her anger still smoldered. Anger at a man who was allowed to live when her friends had been condemned to die.
Denaeh sighed, then ran her hands over her face before dropping them back into her lap. She leveled her gaze on Jahrra.
“The prince has invited us all to stay in the castle,” she ventured carefully. “Ellyesce was his father’s Magehn, after all, and has been asked to resume that position. And you … Well, you made all of this possible.”
She waved her arm around the cave, but Jahrra knew what she meant. She had been the one to face down the Tyrant, and with the blood and lives of her friends, he had been vanquished. She did not need the reminder. It was all she had been thinking about since watching the prince bring his castle back to life.
For a mere moment, guilt welled up to overshadow the anger and sorrow. You should have died alongside them, a small voice within Jahrra’s mind whispered. She shivered, but didn’t fight against that claim. That part of her subconscious was right.
As if reading her mind, Denaeh looked Jahrra in the eye, the Mystic’s gaze hard and unwavering. “Don’t you dare tell yourself it should have been you, Jahrra, instead of Jaax.”
Jahrra snapped to attention, her eyes widening a bit.
Denaeh shook her head. “I can’t read your mind, but I know you well enough, and that look of yours well enough, to know what you are thinking. Kehllor sacrificed himself to give you more time, and Jaax died knowing you would be spared the same fate. He would not want you to follow him. He would want you to live your life. He would want you to be happy. You must believe, that in the end, he had that one comfort to ease him into the afterlife.”
A single tear welled in Jahrra’s eye and spilled over to track down her cheek.
“Now, I know you don’t want to hear any of this, but you need to. Do not waste away in sorrow. Do not squander the gift your friends have given you.”
With that, Denaeh rose from her chair and headed for the cave entrance.
“I’ll give you three days to be by yourself. Three days to mourn and get used to the idea of your new life in Oescienne. Then, you are coming to live in the castle with me and Ellyesce, and Dervit, of course. You can have a room far away from the center of court if you wish. I believe that is a fair request to be made of our prince after all you have done. But I will not let you sit in this swamp and waste away.”
Without a second glance over her shoulder, the Mystic Archedenaeh stood and strode from her cavern home like a queen exiting a ballroom. And, Jahrra was left in solitude to decide what that next step in her life would be.
-Chapter Thirty-Two-
Starting Over
The castle was beautiful, Jahrra had to admit that much, far grander than what she had pictured in her mind those many years ago when Hroombra first brought her here as a child. Tall, arching ceilings lined with windows stretching up from the floor only to taper to a point far above her head. Tapestries, depicting what she realized was the history of Ethoes, draped walls so pale a green they were almost white. Gold and bronze dusted the intricate carved cornices, while plush furniture and polished cherry wood tables dotted the open space in a simple yet elegant pattern. Fireplaces, large and small, yawned in every room she passed, and many of the doorways were large enough to accommodate dragons.
As Denaeh led her through the entrance hall and down one corridor after another, Jahrra paused momentarily to study the intricate artistry of one of the wall-hangings. Dragons, elves, humans, dwarves, and the many other races of Ethoes, great and small, played out their lives, moments of great joy or heart-wrenching sorrow apparent on their faces or in their actions.
The lively scenes upon the tapestries, especially those depicting battle, nearly stirred up the shadows she’d been trying very hard to escape. Jahrra paused and reached out a hand as if to brush her fingertips over the fine needlework, but instead let that hand drop as her mind wandered back to earlier that morning. Just as she had promised, Denaeh had come to fetch her after three days of solitude in the Black Swamp, time Jahrra had used to turn inward and evaluate her emotions. The pain was there, yes, fresh and real and as new as the day she’d watched first Kehllor, then Jaax, meet their end. But, in that silence of being alone, she had found a way to remind herself that she had many friends still living, and not just Denaeh, Ellyesce, and Dervit.
About a month she’d been in Oescienne, and she hadn’t once tried to seek out Gieaun and Scede, or Viornen and Yaraa, her old training masters. And, she realized during her three days, she could still mourn those she had lost while finding joy in the future. When Denaeh arrived at the mouth of the cave earlier that morning, Jahrra was ready to join her. Yes, there would still be hard days filled with reminders to stir her sorrow anew, but there would be bright days, too.
“Jahrra, the prince is waiting. You can tour the castle later.”
Jahrra blinked up at her friend and nodded once, leaving her thoughts for later. They had already stopped by what would be Jahrra’s room for as long as she stayed in the castle. It was a beautiful and spacious suite, with a four-poster bed and glass-lined doors that opened out onto a private terrace. Some of the castle servants had been sent back to the Black Swamp to bring over her trunk
s and other belongings, so while they waited, Denaeh insisted on taking Jahrra to the throne room.
A few more hallways and sweeping sets of stairs later and they appeared in the front of a pair of grand carved doors. Two guards, men, perhaps even human men, stepped aside, pulling one of the doors open as the Mystic and the savior of Ethoes approached. To her surprise, the hall was packed with people. Three days. The castle had been standing for three days, and already, it was filled to the brim with those wishing to gain the newly returned prince’s favor. Jahrra could feel their gazes burning into her back as she stepped into the throne room, but she made an effort to ignore them. She had been the center of attention before, and she had learned how to let it roll off her shoulders.
Still, something in her demeanor must have radiated irritation because Denaeh whispered beside her, “Peace, Jahrra. They only wish to cast eyes upon the one who set them free. They would each thank you profusely given the chance.”
That was a gracious way of looking at it, Jahrra thought. At least, she conceded, Denaeh had not left her to glide down the long, carpeted hall alone. Not just courtiers, but citizens of Oescienne, young and old, man and woman, poor and affluent, gathered in clusters throughout the great room, their whispers, for the most part, kept tight within their own circles. Some, their boldness far outshining that of their comrades, made no effort to hide their words, most of which Jahrra brushed off as failed attempts at flattery. Plenty of others, however, only highlighted the conceit which was to be expected of the noble class. Jahrra didn’t have to hear their words to know what they thought. She still wore her casual leather pants, worn tunic, and stained vest, even though she knew Denaeh would present her to the prince. Jahrra didn’t care. She would not apologize for who she was.
The Legend of Oescienne--The Reckoning (Book Five) Page 45