Son Of Skye

by Thérèse Pilon

  Nickolous felt the pull from within and without. The armband was now nearly transparent; the intricate carvings once again moving within the center of the silver metal. Nickolous raised a hand to cover it, then, just as quickly pulled it away.

  The armlet recognized its own.

  He stood just in front of the suspended figure, his head bowed respectfully. The woman turned slowly and stopped in front of him; her hair fanning out behind her like a living thing. The red and gold interlaced through her hair reminded Nickolous of spun gold. He pulled back; startled, as blue eyes peered into his own, and in that moment he understood.

  Trembling, he drew in a deep breath; his gaze searching for Gabriel as the big wolf leaned against him, understanding his need to have someone familiar near him.

  “Come closer, wearer of the armband,” the voice whispered. Nick-olous looked up; the woman’s lips had not moved, but her blue eyes studied him intently; their depths unfathomable.

  “You wear that which is of the Old Race.” The figure was still turning slowly within the fire that did not consume, yet gave off welcomed warmth to those huddled about. Nickolous moved closer, a little wary, yet unafraid of the being before him.

  “Only one who is of Skye can wear such a thing. You have a grave responsibility; for you walk between two places, and the choices you make will not be easy.”

  Nickolous reached up to touch the cool metal with the intricate carvings that swirled, ever changing, within the silver metal.

  “Who are you?”

  The question asked was heard by all; Jerome sucked in his breath, waiting for the answer.

  Nickolous looked into eyes that reminded him of the warriors of Skye as the form before him wavered, becoming nearly transparent.

  “No. Wait!” he reached out to the figure and found himself suddenly caught up within the circle of blue-white flame.

  The figure within the cool flames grasped his hand and he heard the words for him alone to hear.

  “I am the keeper of the earth, and it is I who guard the sacred places.” The figure bowed its head.

  “I weep.” A single tear rolled down an alabaster cheek.

  Nickolous felt a great sadness well up within him. Jerome and the others watched from outside the circle, hardly daring to breathe as the pair within the flames spun slowly round and round, their words not heard by those outside the circle of fire. Nickolous drew in his breath; waiting, for what he wasn’t sure. The flames licked upward, concealing him, and his world as he knew it, for a time was no more.

  § § § § § §

  The cavern was warm, the fire within the center of the stone circle burned bright red, the embers so hot they were nearly transparent. The sweetish smell of burning grass was everywhere. Nickolous inhaled deeply, finding the odor not entirely unpleasant. The woman from the flame stood beside him, her face nearly hidden by her long fiery hair. She did not touch him but pointed a long tapered finger toward a corridor that stretched as far as the eye could see. Looking down along its length, Nickolous saw it was well lit with torches. Knowing without being told that this path was for him alone to walk, he moved cautiously into the semidarkness.

  The dampness was nearly overwhelming; Nickolous blew on his hands to warm them, wishing he had worn something heavier. He had followed the corridor, the long underground passage going deep within the earth. Stone steps, cut painstakingly where necessary, blended in with the natural stone and the shadows, encouraged by the flickering flame of the torches, played eerily on the steps before him.

  Voices.

  Whispered words of legends and songs…

  The steps ended, and Nickolous found himself standing in an enormous cavern lit by torches placed strategically within the crevices along the jagged rock wall. It was here where lichen and mushrooms grew, nurtured from the dampness that seeped from the fissures within the rock, cascading downward to touch the floor. A large fire burned in a central pit, and around this sat what appeared to be, at first glance, ancient warriors. There were seven; their frames hunched with the burdens they carried for the world within worlds.

  Nickolous remained where he was, his head bowed in respect; waiting. The chanting grew louder; then an unseen voice was urging him forward, down the steps toward the circle where the elders waited. As he approached, one of the warriors rose from his seated position while the others remained where they were; watching, gauging, and waiting.

  “Welcome, Son of Skye. We have waited many turnings for someone to go where we cannot.” The warrior seemed to change as he spoke and Nickolous realized with a start that the person before him was ageless. Although the face was unlined, the eyes belonged to someone who had seen the world at its beginning and sorrowed for what it could not change.

  Unbidden, but knowing that he must, Nickolous entered the circle of elders; the faint drumming beneath his feet growing louder as the circle closed; once more complete.

  § § § § § §

  Wind. Rain. Sun. Water pouring over a precipice into a basin polished as smooth as marble and white quartz that glistened in the morning’s dawning.

  All of these things assailed Nickolous on a level that was hard to absorb, but somehow the images that flashed before him slowed down and became something that was separate, each from the other. The smell of burning incense became stronger as the chanting became louder and the flames from the fire flicked at the ceiling of the cavern in places long forgotten in ritual.

  The warrior who had greeted Nickolous at the bottom of the stone steps threw off the tattered leather robe that had been his from the beginning and, picking up the shell that was in the center of the circle, lit the contents within. Carefully placing the bowl on the ground in front of Nickolous, he watched with satisfaction as the smoke curled about those in the room, the smell soothing to the senses; the sense of well-being a welcoming thing.

  17

  Earth

  Wind

  Fire

  Water

  The elements of life.

  So say the Old Ones; the Ancients of the forgotten time.

  Within the memories of a dying race, a thread of thought was passed to another, and another; the memories not lost, but sleeping. And now comes the awakening.

  18

  Nickolous opened his eyes to find himself alone in the cavern, and where the warriors had once sat within the circle, there was nothing. Leaning over, he ran his hands through the cold ashes of a fire that seemed long extinguished; the ashes sliding between his fingers like fine powder. Half rising, he leaned back, balancing himself on his heels as memories flowed through him of the things he had heard and seen; the memories now his to sort through at his choosing. He turned toward the steps that had brought him to this place, his intent to ascend them and return to the Woman of the Flame.

  He was halfway up the steps when something made him pause, the hair on the back of his neck rising as he turned slowly around, his gaze sliding back down the stairs. There was nothing—Nickolous cautiously moved back down one step at a time. His senses alert, he stood once again inside the warriors’ circle, his gaze sweeping the large cavern as he sought out whatever it was that watched.

  § § § § § §

  Jerome stood by the fire that burned to the ceiling, concealing the circle within. Knowing that the circle was but a gateway to the “Beneath,” the big warrior kept close, his war club ready, for he knew that the door must not be disturbed.

  Gabriel stood across from the warrior of the forest, his blue eyes alert as he scented the air about them, his ears straining to catch any that sought to intrude. Aware that the shuffling to his left was the Old

  One approaching, he did not acknowledge her but waited for her to speak.

  “Beware. It is too quiet, and there are those who watch and wait.”

  “Where?” The big wolf growled
softly; his gaze searching, trying to penetrate the shadows.

  “You can’t see it. It just is.”

  Gabriel snorted impatiently as the Old One threw back her cloak, revealing her staff. The intricate designs cut deep into the wood seemed to glow as they were passed in front of the cool flame.

  “Old One, be careful.” Jerome leaned forward, his senses tingling as the barest whisper of sound reached him. Chera circled around the fire, her senses alert as Gabriel stiffened, the hair along his back rising.

  The Old One stood poised beside the wolf, her black eyes gleaming; one gnarled paw running the length of the staff. She relaxed a bit as the shadows within the cavern lengthened, deepened, and then changed, according to the intensity of the fire which threw welcoming warmth against her robes. Her senses alert for the unseen, she peered into the hidden depths of the flame; one paw grasping the staff to her, as with the other she shielded her wizened face against the brightness of the flame.

  § § § § § §

  Owen flew low, skimming the treetops, the sound of his passing disguised by the wind as it caressed the leaves of the popular trees softly. As the leaves danced in the moonlight, guarding the passing of the winged watcher, the great owl followed the heavily cloaked figure into the depths of the dark forest; watchful, as the sounds concealed within the darkness enveloped his senses; his night vision coming to the fore as he used the low-seeking wind currents to aid him.

  § § § § § §

  Seeking the hidden opening, the “Other” felt carefully for the lever that would gain him entrance to the passages below. Aware he was being followed by one of the flying forest dwellers, and not wishing a confrontation this night, he slid beneath the rock overhang that afforded a small measure of protection. Amused, he watched as Owen glided soundlessly by his hiding place; then, when the night grew still once again, and only then, did he turn the lever set deep within the stone. High above him, Owen circled helplessly as the grating sound of stone upon stone told him he had lost his quarry.

  A-Sharoon stood in the darkness; waiting. She too, had heard the grating sound as the mechanism that controlled the door had slowly opened, then closed to allow someone passage to the secret places below. Whoever it was made no attempt to disguise their footsteps; the sound echoing hollowly through the long corridor as the uninvited visitor approached the main cavern.

  A-Sharoon held her staff to her, the incantation already pouring forth from her blood red lips as the visitor moved into the room. Striding purposefully toward her, a hand unerringly covered her mouth, choking off the spoken words. Shaking her head violently from side to side, A-Sharoon tried to twist out of the tight embrace, her fingers raking the length of the strangers face as she lashed out in a futile effort to be released. The deep laughter of her captor echoed hollowly as he laughingly pushed her aside.

  “You!” The words were spat out in undisguised rage as she fought to control herself, mentally making a note to severely discipline whoever had allowed such easy passage to an intruder.

  “Don’t worry; the sleeping spell will wear off, the guards won’t remember anything.”

  Lighting a small torch, A-Sharoon turned on the figure, eyes blazing. “How dare you!” The words were spat with such venom the visitor was momentarily startled.

  “I would have thought you would have welcomed assistance.” The tall form paused before softly adding, “Sister. “

  § § § § § §

  “Why have you come?” A-Sharoon spoke so softly the words were barely audible. The man who called himself brother stood gazing down at her, for as tall as she was, he was taller. He turned aside, his profile was that of a handsome man, but more than that, it was a darkness that was compelling, almost unnaturally so, for as white and cold as A-Sharoon was, he was darkness and comfort and, between the two of them combined, a deadly combination.

  “There must be a balance of power, you know that.” Tossing his cloak carelessly aside even as he moved swiftly across the room, he leaned down into the darkest corner. Reaching as far back as he could, he found and withdrew a small ornately carved box. A-Sharoon said nothing, but watched thoughtfully as he removed something from inside.

  “Lord Nhon searches the forest for you.”

  A-Sharoon remained silent as she studied him; her gaze intent. A slight rustling sound outside the cavern’s entrance barely gave her pause. It was obvious that the potion had worn off. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the creature that stumbled into the room. Her anger dissipated, now she was merely curious.

  “The Living Flame should never have been taken. If it perishes, so then do we. You should never have helped him, A-Sharoon.”

  “Where is it written that the Flame can die?” A-Sharoon leaned forward, her gaze now inches from her brother’s.

  “It isn’t. It just is.”

  “And what would you know about it? Where were you these many turnings, brother?” A-Sharoon faced her brother, arms crossed, waiting.

  “Where I was matters not. What you have been doing is what matters.”

  “Well, I am not with him now. You have read the ancient script as well as I. Show me where it is written that the Flame will perish.” A-Sharoon arched a midnight brow, her stance defiant.

  “Sister, let me share something with you, something that is an unwritten law. It is an ancient knowledge given only to a few.” A-Sharoon found herself now inches from her brother’s angry glare.

  “If, and that’s a big If, the Flame’s breath is somehow extinguished, not only will the darkness prevail, but time will work backward.” A-Sharoon flinched beneath her brother’s angry glare. His breath was hot upon her cheek as he hissed, “There will be nothing! Only the earth we now walk upon will be; that and nothing more. A barren piece of molten rock! And yes, the realms within realms will be affected.”

  “The Flame must be returned.”

  “Yes, it must. Just as the winged warriors watch, so must we. If the forest dwellers fail in their quest, before the last breath of the Flame flickers out, before the last sigh is heard, this must be used.”

  A-Sharoon stared at the object her brother held out to her, a forgotten piece of her past. Put aside in her days as a young girl, the darkness now swirled about her as forgotten memories pressed upon her; she shrugged them off. There had been more to think of back then than the contents within the item that was now being held out to her.

  “It is time.”

  A-Sharoon looked at her brother, then at the object that nestled snugly within the palm of his hand. Even in the semidarkened gloom that surrounded them, the tarnished silver glinted with an eerie reflection.

  “Remember, you must be discreet, for the power that lies sleeping within this amulet can destroy even the wearer. Use what needs to be used, that, and nothing more. When everything is back where it should be, the amulet must be returned to the stone case where it can rest.”

  A-Sharoon felt herself trembling as the necklace was dropped into her white hands; remembering surged through her as she slid the heavy chain over her head where it nestled softly around her neck—the feel of the metal a cooling sensation against her skin.

  “Where will you be?” Her voice trembled as she clasped her brother’s arm.

  The man looked down at his sister, his gaze thoughtful; his voice was low, resonating with unleashed power as he replied. “I must return to my realm, and soon.” One dark hand reached out to grasp A-Sharoon’s shoulder, while the other cupped her face, turning it upward so that she had no choice but to look into his eyes. “You will hear me, but not see me, for that part which is physical must remain in that other place. Dissent is all around me, for even those who are loyal fear the powers of the Fallen and I must maintain control. The warriors of the forest guard most of the gates. Their power is great, for they are part of the earth, and the Flame calls them to it, for it suffe
rs greatly.”

  A-Sharoon drew in her breath sharply, remembering her own encounter with the heart of the Flame; unaware of the strange look her brother gave her, she instinctively clutched the amulet nestled in the hollow of her throat.

  “Remember.” The man suddenly dug his fingers into her shoulder, causing her to flinch. “Only a woman can wield the power of the amulet. Never—ever—forget who you are—” The words were grated out from between clenched teeth as his grip tightened.

  “Do not use the power unless you must, for it can be used only once before it returns to the one who owns it to rest. Remember, and do not forget!” He released her so suddenly that she nearly fell.

  § § § § § §

  The figure, wraithlike, moved quickly out of the range of Nickolous’s vision. Standing alone in the middle of the circle, the sweet scent of the burned grass still lingering in the air, Nickolous stood, arms crossed, waiting.

  “I am not here to hurt you.” The words had a hollow ring to them in the stifling stillness.

  “Your friends wait in the sacred place; you must return to the Woman of the Flame so she can see you safely back to the others.” The disembodied voice was all around him; his gaze swept the hidden places cloaked in shadow.

  “Who are you?”

  “I and others guard this place and those who sleep in the outer chambers. You sensed my presence; a remarkable thing.” The voice was neither feminine nor masculine. Nickolous concentrated on the direction the voice was coming from, trying to find the owner.

  “Don’t waste your energy.” The voice was tinged with laughter as a slight form materialized in the far corner. Nickolous’s eyes widened as the lithe form appeared before him. A tiny hand reached out to touch him. It felt like the brush of butterflies against his skin.