“The forgotten.”
“Gabriel.” The words were barely a whisper, but the big wolf heard. They all had heard.
§ § § § § §
A memory of childhood, of running through deep underground caverns. Running. Always running. Memories of something. Someone. A-Sharoon shook her head. The man before her—she knew him. “You,” she whispered into the darkness.
“It is I.” There was amusement in the voice as the hand that imprisoned hers slowly released its grip. “Remember.” The man’s breath was hot upon her face as he lightly caressed her cheek. A-Sharoon pulled back, away from his touch, as a thousand memories flooded her being.
“How did you get past Lord Nhon’s watchers? He’ll be furious if he knows there is another.” A-Sharoon glanced uneasily about as she became aware of the silence. There were no scurrying sounds. Nothing. She smiled a cold approving smile. The teachings—
Words, inaudible to the cloaked figure before her, but nonetheless familiar, formed from bloodless lips as a hand, cold as winter’s frost, reached beneath her robes and withdrew a yellowed piece of parchment.
The man smiled in approval.
§ § § § § §
“How long before the potion’s effects wear off?” A-Sharoon leaned across the table, anxious that the visitor be gone before Lord Nhon returned and the watchers awakened.
“Patience was never one of your virtues. Don’t worry; it’ll last long enough.” The robed figure laughed, then went back to studying the paper before him.
“Well, can you translate the writing?”
An exasperated sigh was the only reply.
§ § § § § §
Jerome paused, a silent sentinel within the heart of the forest. Sweat beaded his brow. He didn’t bother to wipe it, for he was concentrating on the echoes within the forest’s depths. The Unseen One. The Other, once more legend than fact, had threaded his way through sacred paths to the darkened places. Jerome turned away, unable to sense anything else. The small ones, the tiny inhabitants of the forest, shrew and vole, the earth diggers, had turned from their task of watching and gone to earth.
The big forest warrior did not wish to intrude on their thoughts, for he knew they wept. He knew he must find the others. He was concerned for Nickolous, for he knew what he wore on his arm. Once, when he was a young one, he had gotten lost in the forest. Frightened and alone, he had been found by one of the beings from above. For him, there had passed a short but happy time, for he had been an apt pupil, and Lord Moshat an excellent teacher. The bracelet, a sacred object of power and knowledge, had been there from the beginning. Only one who walked between the two worlds could wear it—or so the legends told.
The elders, those who had been gifted with the blood memories of the ancestors, had told of a night when there had been a great battle between the beings who lived above and one of their own. As the great one had fallen and darkness overshadowed the land, the Daughter of the Night had drawn her first breath, and it had been the breath of evil that nurtured her. As the turnings passed, it became evident that only A-Sharoon walked the depths of the deep places with the night, and there was no other—or so they had believed, and the little watchers had breathed more easily and relaxed their vigil.
Jerome knew he must get to Nickolous and the others. The whispered words of the Ancients, the unwritten thoughts of the elders; Jerome berated himself for not having paid more attention to the obvious facts. They had prepared for what they could see, not for what they could not.
Three.
Jerome shook his head trying to think. What was the significance of The Three? He must ask the Old One. She would know. As he hurried toward where the others waited, sentinels, ever alert, closed the path behind him, for where he had been was a sacred place.
§ § § § § §
Nickolous felt as if he were on fire. Images of a forgotten time crowded upon him as the swirling mist surrounded him. Dimly, he could hear the others calling him. He tried to turn, to see, but could not. So he gave it over and allowed himself to be consumed by the white tendrils that reached out to caress him.
§ § § § § §
A-Sharoon watched as the man carefully re-rolled the parchment that he had been studying. “Well?” When there was no answer, she sighed in exasperation. “Come now, you didn’t study the writings all that time and not learn anything.” Her voice was full of reproach.
The man replaced the hood so that his features were concealed before answering her. “Your rash actions have nearly destroyed those that live in the beneath.” He held a gloved hand up to silence the words he knew she was about to speak before continuing. “However, all is not lost. Lord Nhon, though powerful, is not undefeatable.” The voice lowered, but A-Sharoon felt the suppressed anger within the next words that were spoken. “To partner with the Fallen One was a very stupid thing to do. In all things, there must be a balance. Remember, we are not like those who dwell in the high places. Not even the Fallen. We were not made through greed and deceit, nor did we have to manipulate to be. We have always been.” The man leaned forward so that his face was mere inches from A-Sharoon’s, the words spoken in an ancient dialect of a forgotten race. “We are.”
“Then why did you not reveal yourself? All these turnings, you were but a faint memory. Together, we could have been one!” A-Sharoon was almost shouting as, turning, she paced the cavern’s length. When there was no reply, she turned angrily about to find herself alone.
Lord Nhon was just entering the cavern when the shrieks of rage reached him. Not wanting to deal with whatever had set the woman off this time, he turned aside and went straight to his chambers, closing the heavy wooden door behind him. Because he did not go further into the cavern’s depths, he did not see the myriad of sentries slowly awakening from their drugged sleep. Nor did he see how quickly they drew themselves to attention, their feral faces peering into the darkness for things unwanted, not wanting their lord to know they had fallen asleep at their posts.
§ § § § § §
“Nickolous!” Sarah struggled against the arms that held her.
“No. Leave him. Don’t try to touch him; it might do more harm than good.” Gabriel stood; his feet set wide apart, his strength wavering against the wind’s onslaught. Orith and the Old One, their ragged cloaks little protection against the fury of the storm that surrounded them, remained where they were, waiting.
“Jerome!” Chera’s shouted call against the wind was all but lost to the howling elements.
But the warrior of the forest had heard the call; as did the others. As they moved forward against the wind’s wrath, heads lowered, war shields up, they managed to encircle the companions that surrounded Nickolous.
As one, the warriors entwined themselves together and stood straight, shields placed to the front to block the wind’s tearing force. Orith relaxed his grip on the Old One as he drew what was left of his robes about him, as the wind raged up and over the little group, while the warriors formed a solid, impenetrable wall to protect those inside.
Gabriel remained where he was, alert for any danger. Although the warriors guarded without, he was taking no chances. It was obvious that Nickolous was in a place they could not reach, and right now, he was vulnerable; so, until he could be reached, or until he returned to them, Gabriel would stand guard.
“Old One.” Jerome pushed his way through the nearly solid wall of forest warriors. Chera, sensing that something was terribly wrong, immediately joined Gabriel.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Her growled question was nearly lost to the wind’s howling. Sarah clutched Timothy’s arm so hard that her brother winced as the Old One withdrew her staff from beneath her robe and drew a circle in front of her. Orith, too, withdrew his staff and placing it in front of him, also began to draw in the sand. The others watched in silence as a picture began to form, al
ong with ancient writings that were of a script that none recognized except those who made the marks.
§ § § § § §
Nickolous looked around himself; he was in a high place of rolling hills covered with scented flowers. There was a familiarity about this place. He realized that this was the place from his dreaming time when he had been caught in between the two worlds. Neither awake nor asleep, neither here nor there but on the bridge in between. But this—this was different. This time he was here; completely here, and beyond him, the distant mist shrouded hills beckoned. He did not need to look behind him, nor below, for he knew he was protected. The sudden pull of the bracelet against his arm drew him toward the hidden places where Lord Moshat waited.
§ § § § § §
“He comes.” The winged warrior stood just inside the doorway.
“We don’t have much time; we must prepare. The forces that allow him to be here will soon weaken, and he will be pulled back. Hurry!”
The messenger stepped back in surprise at the sudden agility of his master as Lord Moshat crossed the room and threw open the doors. “Come,” he said. Then, seeing the shocked look upon the sentinel’s face, he spoke more softly. “Come, my friend. Nickolous cannot stay long. He walks a forbidden path for a mortal.”
“But he is part of one, part of another.” The messenger turned toward Lord Moshat; one sleek brow rose questioningly.
“Ahh,” Lord Moshat replied. “But therein lies the key; the problem being that he, himself, doesn’t know that, so therefore he is not aware that his powers, not ours, got him here. He has much to learn. The three paths await his choice.” Lord Moshat had turned back into the room and stirred the small fire in the hearth as he spoke.
“And if he chooses the wrong path?” the messenger asked as he moved forward into the room, his senses telling him that their visitor was almost at his destination.
Lord Moshat turned to face him, his presence seeming to fill the room. His cobalt-blue eyes bored into those of the other. “He won’t,” was all he said, his gaze now on the open doorway and the one who stood there.
Saying nothing, Nickolous moved into the room, his gaze meeting that of Lord Moshat’s, a flicker of recognition deep within him fanning the need for answers. He knew that he didn’t have much time. As the messenger closed the door behind him, his duty now to protect those within, Lord Moshat’s voice began speaking, low and melodious, in the language of the elders of Skye.
12
“There is a never-ending circle of life.”
“It can be broken.”
The Old One looked up at the speaker and scowled. “Yes, it can, but it always returns, back to its center, then out again.” The Old One shook her cane at the speaker.
Sarah turned away, embarrassed. She ought, she thought, to have known better.
Orith smiled beneath his hood. “Sarah, it’s okay; not many of us have the years of knowing as does the Old One.”
“Hmph. You’re as many turnings as I, if not more,” the Old One retorted as she bent back to her drawing.
“Old One?” Jerome asked, his wide, craggy face creased with lines of exhaustion. “What can you tell us of the Unseen One?”
“A legend of the Ancient Ones from the before times,” the Old One replied as she straightened up, her expression wary. “What makes you ask such a question?”
“Why, the little ones. The clans of the earth dwellers who live beneath; those who live their lives burrowing, who seek the unseen.” The forest warrior was puzzled as to why the Old One was acting as if she did not already know this.
The Old One gripped her staff tightly as she stood, unflinching beneath everyone’s gaze. Then, as if the knowing was too much, her shoulders rounded and a high-pitched keening, like that of something mortally wounded, sounded throughout the wood.
The sound was everywhere. Beneath. Above. Beside. And the forest replied in kind, the answering echo deafening.
§ § § § § §
Far below the companions, deep within the earth where caverns opened then closed nearly upon themselves into small narrowed passages, tiny creatures moved about, their long noses, their eyes, snuffling. Finding the bright light of day nearly unbearable, they had taken the task to themselves of guarding the places beneath. So it was that, as the cries from the world above reached down to touch their senses, they found the one they sought.
§ § § § § §
“We had hoped that this day would never come.” The Old One sat, surrounded by her concerned friends, as Sarah placed a gourd of hot tea in front of her. They rested a little apart from the place where Nickolous stood, unmoving, Gabriel at his side. Jerome, his heavy war club beside him, stood near enough to hear what the Old One was saying, yet close enough to aid Gabriel if need be.
“The Unseen One, tell us about him,” Jerome urged gently. “How is it he has remained hidden these many turnings? Our watchers are everywhere.”
“The watchers’ eyes cannot see everything that melds with the night.” The Old One’s tone was regretful. “For more seasons than I care to remember, the little ones have kept vigil, waiting for that one to show himself, if, indeed, he even existed. You see, the Ancients foretold of the two: one born to the darkness; the other, the light. The Unseen One was a supposition of old warriors who dreamed of a different time. A powerful time.it was the dreaming time.” The Old One fell silent.
Jerome felt the Old One’s anguish. As she had talked, he had seen the images of that long-ago time, and as with all of his kind, the telling triggered a remembering within himself: images of a long cavern filled with soot and smoke from a fire that was never allowed to burn out, its center burning white hot, then red. It felt as if the forest warrior had been punched as the realization of what he saw hit him.
Slowly, he reached out to grasp the Old One’s shoulder in understanding. He should have known. Those Ancients who dreamed, who guarded the secrets of life, who had been more then what they had appeared to be; they had spent their entire existence dreaming. It was they who had never let the fire diminish, they who had kept the circle whole; complete. Jerome turned the Old One so that she was facing him. Black eyes looked into green.
Shadow warriors. Warriors of Skye. Both descendants of a mystic race. The Living Flame.
Jerome understood. All the friends did. They had seen the images exactly as Jerome had. Somehow, something had caused the dreamers to separate themselves from the circle and the Flame. Both continued to exist, gaining in power, helping each other. Once the two had acted as one.
“They couldn’t have known that evil would come to one of their own, pure since his first drawing of breath.” The voice, unexpected, startled them all.
“Nickolous, are you all right?” Gabriel stood close, alert for anything untoward, his concern for his young charge evident.
“Where were you? Can you talk about it?” Sarah touched his arm gently, her eyes wide and questioning.
Everyone fell silent, watching, as Nickolous moved forward staggering slightly, obviously exhausted from his journey. Jerome put out a limb-like arm to steady him as Sarah rushed to get him a hot drink, while the Old One, concerned because she noticed how cold Nicko-lous looked, rummaged in her belongings until she found a tattered wool blanket.
Nickolous pulled the heavy woolen blanket about his shoulders, glad for the sudden warmth. He had been cold before, but this—this was different.
“You have traveled far, the way long and dangerous. You had to find your way there and back as well as protect yourself along the way. The chill will pass, but be careful,” the Old One warned. Her eyes watched him carefully; afraid he had come to some inward harm from his journeying. She reached out to grasp his cold hand as the other reached up to secure the blanket about his shoulders. Her whisper of, “You must not go there again, alone, for the path is now watched. They
will be waiting,” was lost to the other companions as the wind swirled about them.
Nickolous squeezed her gently to let her know he had heard. He felt a little warmer; the tea was hot, and he drank it quickly, feeling its warmth as it coursed through him. He had barely finished when Sarah was there with more. “I cannot tell you where I have been, or what I have done.” Nickolous looked around the little group, feeling as if he was betraying them, but he knew that to share anything could bring harm to them if they were ever captured. A shudder passed through him as he thought the unthinkable.
“The shadows of the day bring the night, and with the night, the eyes of the unseen,” Nickolous spoke softly, as he rose wearily to his feet. He turned to Jerome. Words formed in his mind but went unspoken. Nonetheless, the forest warrior heard.
Gabriel moved closer; his body was taut with expectation as Chera, fur bristling, remained close. From outside the protective circle, a shout of warning rose as the sky darkened with untold numbers of winged things. A chill, unnatural on such a warm day, remained in the air long after their passage.
“What were those things?” Sarah asked as she looked fearfully at her feet, as if expecting to find one there.
“I don’t know, but it looks as if they were heading somewhere,” Timothy replied. “One thing’s for sure; they weren’t interested in us—this time.”
“They’ll return, make no mistake about that,” Owen muttered, his expression taut and drawn. “They’re spies for Lord Nhon.”
“Oh, great, just when we get used to A-Sharoon’s chattering, chit-tering, smelly things lurking underfoot, something new pops up!” Sarah exclaimed.
Owen hid a grin as he watched Sarah toss their belongings into a pile; checking as she did so for anything unwanted.
§ § § § § §
“Here, take this.” Nickolous turned to see Orith holding out a leather-bound book.
“Orith, I can’t take that; it’s yours.” Nickolous, overwhelmed that Orith would offer him his most treasured belonging, tried to give the book back, but Orith refused, his tone insistent.
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