The Lost Realm

by J. D. Rinehart

“It’s not a story. It’s the truth.”

  “The truth? You wouldn’t know the truth if it cut your throat.”

  Elodie’s hand went to her neck, touching first the wound left by the assassin, then the gold chain from which her jewel was hanging.

  “Please believe me,” she implored. “I came to rescue you. You have to come with me. If we go now, I can save you.”

  Fessan bunched his fists tighter, then his hands dropped, revealing his face fully. Elodie gasped. His eyes were red and swollen; his cheeks were purple with bruises. Both his lips were bleeding.

  “Why should I believe anything you say?”

  Elodie was starting to despair. She turned to Samial, who was standing in the doorway to the cell, holding the torch aloft.

  “We are running out of time, Elodie,” he said anxiously.

  I know!

  Meanwhile, Fessan had spread his arms wide, exposing his thin chest. “Kill me,” he said. “That’s what you’ve come for, isn’t it? If you haven’t come to gloat, you must be here to stick a knife in me. Well, go on—get on with it. At least it will put an end to the torture.”

  Suddenly inspired, Elodie drew the dagger Vicerin had given her. Its jeweled hilt shone in the flickering torchlight. Then she turned it in her hand and presented it to Fessan, handle first.

  “Elodie!” Samial shouted. “No!”

  With trembling fingers, Fessan took it.

  At once Elodie threw out her arms, mimicking his gesture.

  “Put an end to it, then,” she said. “If you really believe I’m a traitor, put an end to it now!”

  The muscles in Fessan’s arm twitched. For a moment Elodie was convinced he was going to do it. He would thrust the knife between her ribs and into her heart, ending her part in the long and terrible history of the kingdom of Toronia.

  So be it, she thought. I have done my best.

  Shaking now from head to foot, Fessan tightened his fingers on the dagger’s hilt. His eyes were filled with tears. A vein throbbed at his temple.

  Elodie closed her eyes.

  She heard the blade clatter to the floor.

  “You came,” he sobbed. “Elodie . . . you came for me.”

  His arms closed around Elodie and drew her into a rough hug.

  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry for everything. Can you forgive me?”

  “Elodie, there is nothing to forgive.”

  They retraced their steps through the catacombs, Elodie doing her best to support Fessan while Samial led the way with the torch.

  “Either the torch is enchanted,” Fessan observed, “or we are in the company of one of your phantom friends.”

  They reached the guardroom. The guard lay sprawled on the floor beside his chair. Blood leaked from a puncture wound in his side.

  As instructed, Sylva and Cedric were waiting at the garden doorway. When they saw Fessan’s appearance, their faces dropped.

  “You poor man,” said Sylva.

  “Did Captain Leom get away?” Elodie asked.

  Cedric nodded, then ushered them all under the cover of a nearby gazebo. On the far side of the smoke-filled garden, a small group of servants was busy trying to put out a blazing outbuilding.

  “There’s a side gate,” Cedric said. “Do you see it?”

  He pointed through the smoke toward one of the sally ports set in the castle’s thick outer wall. As children they’d used it in their games of hide-and-chase.

  But this is no game.

  “Can you make it that far?” Elodie asked Fessan.

  “That far, and farther,” Fessan replied.

  “We told Captain Leom to wait outside as long as possible,” said Sylva. “He will help you.”

  “What about you, Elodie?” said Fessan. “Will you not come?”

  She closed her eyes. I wish I could. But I can’t, not yet.

  “No,” she said sadly. “I have work to do here first.”

  “Then let me stay. Let me help.”

  “No. If you stay, they’ll kill you.”

  She gave his hand a brief squeeze.

  “Go now, Fessan. Go quickly, before one of us changes our mind. And . . . be safe.”

  “Is this really your wish, Princess Elodie?”

  “Captain Fessan—it is my command.”

  “Then it is my duty to obey.”

  He nodded briskly, then slipped away, hugging the wall. When he reached the sally port, he glanced briefly back in her direction. Then he was gone.

  “I’ve learned a lot today,” said Sylva.

  “What about?” Elodie’s attention was still fixed on the darkness into which Fessan had vanished.

  “My father.” Sylva broke into racking sobs. Cedric wrapped his one good arm around her. Elodie joined the embrace, her heart going out to them both. The truth was hard.

  They huddled together, while in the background the fires continued to burn. Elodie let the moment envelop her, and wished it would never stop. Then, reluctantly, she stepped away.

  “Time to go,” she said.

  “We have to bring him down, don’t we?” said Cedric. “Our father. That’s why you stayed, isn’t it, Elodie?”

  “Yes,” Elodie replied. Oh, I’m glad you’re here. Both of you. “Sylva—do you want to do this? Can you?”

  Sylva wiped her eyes.

  “Just tell me what you want us to do, Elodie.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Theeta reached the Isle of Stars well ahead of the two Galadronian ships. But she was tiring, and the ascent to the volcano’s summit took longer than Tarlan had hoped. By the time the thorrod reached the lip of the crater, the first ship had already landed on the island’s eastern shore.

  “Wings burn,” Theeta cawed.

  “Keep going,” said Tarlan. “We’ve got to get Melchior out!”

  And we’ve got to do it before those Galadronians catch up with us.

  Theeta descended swiftly to the silver lake inside the volcano. Even before she’d touched down, Tarlan was leaping from her back. He hit the stone platform hard, rolled, sprang to his feet, and ran to the water’s edge. There was the wizard, lying just below the water’s surface, with his limbs thrown out wide.

  If ever we needed your magic, Melchior, it’s now!

  He was about to reach for him when a familiar voice sounded in his head.

  Until all the constellations are lit, until all the numbers are counted, nothing must disturb me, or all is lost.

  Tarlan couldn’t tell if Melchior was somehow speaking to him, or if he was simply remembering the wizard’s words.

  He let out a growl of frustration. “I need him now,” he muttered. “Those villagers need him now. But what if I wake him too soon?”

  Torn, he went to retrieve Greythorn from where he lay on Theeta’s back. He could help the wolf while he decided what to do.

  Then he saw that the crater had changed.

  The stars!

  He turned in a circle, his eyes wide, the blood racing through his veins. When he’d left the crater, dozens of the white stones had still not been illuminated. Now not a single one remained unlit. They blazed, an impossibly complex network of light. It was as if the night sky had been carried down here.

  So many!

  His eyes flicked from one stone to the next, trying to follow the patterns they made. There was order here, a kind of language he could almost read. Understanding danced, tantalizingly close but always just out of reach. The more he looked, the more stones there were. If he carried on looking, their number would only increase, until the black rock of the crater wall was consumed and only the light remained. He began walking toward the edge of the platform, his arms outstretched, his feet marching of their own accord, his whole body driven by some greater power. . . .

  “Tarlan, stop!”

  Theeta’s harsh voice broke the spell. Tarlan shook his head, found himself teetering on the edge of the platform, on the verge of falling into the water. He took a hasty step back. Something
was thudding nearby. It was his heart, trying to climb its way out of his chest.

  Greythorn!

  Returning to where Theeta was waiting, Tarlan was alarmed to find the wolf unconscious.

  “Greythorn, I’m sorry!”

  He gingerly lifted the injured wolf from Theeta’s back and carried him to the water’s edge. Unlike his own, the wolf’s heartbeat was so faint he could barely feel it.

  “Don’t die, Greythorn,” he whispered. “Please, don’t die.”

  Tightening his grip, he eased himself off the platform into the shallow water at the lake’s edge. He bent his knees and lowered Greythorn’s whole body into the lake.

  As the water lapped around the wolf’s muzzle, Tarlan hesitated.

  I want to cure him, not drown him.

  But Melchior hadn’t drowned, had he?

  Gritting his teeth, Tarlan plunged the wolf under the water. His gray fur fluttered in the silver liquid. His legs twitched. Bubbles streamed from his blood-spattered nostrils.

  Tarlan held him under to a count of five, then lifted him out, grunting with the extra weight of his waterlogged fur. Then a large talon closed around Greythorn’s body and lifted him clear.

  “Thanks, Theeta.”

  As the thorrod lay Greythorn down, Tarlan clambered out and poured more water onto the wolf’s face, wincing as it splashed into his wounded eye. Greythorn’s chest heaved. The starlight from the glowing stones seemed to grow momentarily brighter. Tarlan placed his hand on the wolf’s flank and was relieved to feel a strong, steady heartbeat. The fur on Greythorn’s face rippled. Tarlan watched in amazement as the gash closed up, the skin sealing itself into a long, straggling scar.

  The eye above the scar remained white and sightless.

  Greythorn’s other eye opened, rolled, then fixed on Tarlan. The wolf lifted his head and licked Tarlan’s cheek.

  “Wolf heal,” Theeta cawed happily.

  “Thank you,” said Greythorn, his voice a soft, contented growl.

  Tarlan threw his arms around the wolf’s neck and hugged him.

  “You’re welcome!” he cried. “But your eye.”

  “I have another.”

  Greythorn struggled out of Tarlan’s grip and shook his body from head to tail. Water sprayed in a silver spiral, dousing Tarlan and Theeta.

  Laughing, Tarlan stroked Greythorn behind his ears, then crossed the platform to where the wizard lay, still submerged in the magical lake.

  Anxiously he scanned the network of shining stones. Were they really all lit? How would he ever know?

  “Ships come,” Theeta warned.

  Tarlan wondered how long it would take the Galadronians to scale the side of the volcano. Once the enemy reached the crater’s edge, they would be trapped down here like mice in a hole.

  No choice, he thought grimly. It’s now or never. I’ve got to wake him up.

  “Your turn, Melchior,” he said, and climbed down into the water.

  The wizard looked just the same as ever, with his arms and legs thrown out and his face contorted into some unnamable expression. Tarlan slipped his hands beneath Melchior’s back and heaved.

  Melchior didn’t move.

  Tarlan tried again. Still nothing. The wizard might have been made of stone.

  “Theeta! Come and help!”

  The thorrod joined him and lowered her claw obediently into the water. But even with her huge talons and enormous strength, Melchior didn’t budge.

  “That’s enough,” said Tarlan, waving her away. “Let me think.”

  He looked again at the twinkling stars. What have I missed?

  Plunging his arms back into the water, he laced them under Melchior’s back and heaved. He felt the strain in his shoulders, in the tendons of his neck. The muscles of his thighs bulged with the effort.

  “Theeta help?” the thorrod said.

  Before Tarlan could respond, something struck him in the chest, knocking all the breath from his lungs and lifting him clear of the water. He flew through the air, arms flailing. The hard stone of the platform rushed up toward him . . . and then Theeta’s wing was there, a welcome blanket of feathers that softened his landing.

  Staggering to his feet, he took a hesitant step toward the lake again. All around him, the white stones burned like miniature suns. He took another step, and something pushed him back: a gigantic, invisible force.

  The air crackled, and Tarlan’s skin pimpled into gooseflesh. He saw that Greythorn’s fur was standing on end, and Theeta’s feathers were ruffling as if she were flying at high speed.

  Tarlan tried to walk forward again. Again, the unseen hand pressed him back, this time with more force. The light from the stones strengthened. Something swelled inside the all-encompassing glow, and then a silver tree was rising up before him, its outline wavering and uncertain. Its shape shifted. Now it was no longer a tree but a tower of silver stone. It changed again, this time to a shimmering silver flame.

  Tongues of white fire licked out from the stars, stabbing inward from every side of the crater toward the platform on which Tarlan, Theeta, and Greythorn were cowering. Tarlan threw his hand over his face, convinced this was death come to take them all.

  Through his closed eyelids, he sensed the world turning red. Then, abruptly, the brightness faded. The crackling sensation subsided. All was still.

  Tarlan lowered his arm.

  Melchior was standing before him.

  The wizard looked younger than Tarlan remembered, even though his face was still cracked with a thousand wrinkles. He seemed taller too—was that possible? His yellow robes flowed around him, moving with a constant, subtle liquidity, even though he himself was motionless. His staff was in one hand, and on his age-worn yet oddly youthful face there was a grin.

  “Melchior,” said Tarlan cautiously. “Is it . . . are you . . . ?”

  The wizard’s grin widened.

  “Yes, my boy! And yes!”

  With this cry, Melchior’s whole body relaxed. His robes ceased their unsettling flowing movement. He took a step forward, flexed his legs in what might have been puzzlement, or perhaps wonder, and stamped his feet on the stone platform, one after the other.

  “The world feels strong,” he announced. “Or perhaps it is me. Who can say?”

  “Are you back? I mean, did it work? Did it really work?”

  Without speaking, Melchior spread his arms to indicate the dazzling constellations of shining stones that surrounded them. But were they quite as dazzling as they had been, Tarlan wondered?

  Their work is done. They’re already beginning to fade.

  Melchior held up his staff. His fingers danced over the runes carved into its ancient surface. His lips moved rapidly. Tarlan heard no words, but something told him the wizard was counting.

  A sparrow emerged from one end of the staff. Immediately it took flight, its wings humming in the silence. Every one of its tiny brown feathers looked as if it had been carved from oak. Theeta extended her neck over Tarlan’s shoulder, watching with interest.

  The little bird flew like an arrow to the opposite end of the staff, and vanished back into the wood that had spawned it. A moment later a second sparrow performed the same trick. Then three more birds appeared, and suddenly there was an entire flock of sparrows moving in an endless fluttering stream along the length of the staff.

  Tarlan watched in delight with Theeta’s huge beak resting lightly on his shoulder. Greythorn stood to attention at his feet, his one good eye fixed on the spectacle.

  “Little wings,” said Theeta.

  Melchior’s fingers fell still, and his lips stopped moving. The stream of birds flowed into the staff for the final time, leaving a lone sparrow, which darted suddenly toward Theeta. The little bird circled the head of its gigantic cousin three times, then returned to the staff and, with a single chirp, vanished inside.

  Melchior, whose face had grown grave while he’d been performing this trick, relaxed.

  “The magic is back,” he sai
d. With a slight frown, he plucked a single, minute feather from the end of his staff. He studied it for a moment, then rubbed it between his fingers, causing it to vanish.

  “That was . . . amazing,” said Tarlan. He could feel the wizard’s smile reflected on his own face. Despite everything that had happened on the beach, he felt safe again.

  Then he remembered the ships.

  “I don’t think we’ve got much time for tricks, though.”

  “No, indeed.” Melchior’s frown lingered. “There is a kingdom to be won. But before that, I must ask you a question, Tarlan, and you must be truthful with your answer.”

  Tarlan swallowed. He didn’t like the sound of this. “All right.”

  “Did you wake me before my time?”

  Tarlan briefly considered lying, then thought better of it. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I had to . . . I had to leave you for a while. When I came back, the stones were all lit. I tried to lift you out of the water, but I couldn’t. Then you . . . well, you came out of your own accord.”

  Melchior’s frown deepened as he listened intently. When Tarlan had finished, he nodded slowly.

  “All right. I understand. You did well, Tarlan. Very well.”

  Tarlan turned, breathing a sigh of relief. But Melchior’s hand planted itself on his shoulder and turned him back.

  “Now tell me, Tarlan, why did you have to leave me . . . and what made you come back?”

  Tarlan shot a glance up at the crater’s opening, a tiny circle of light hanging high above their heads. “There’s so much to tell, Melchior, but I don’t think there’s time.”

  “Tell it quickly, then.”

  So Tarlan hastily explained about the invading fleet. “They say they’re from Galadron.”

  Melchior’s eyes widened. “Galadron,” he repeated slowly. “Are you certain?”

  Tarlan nodded.

  “I traveled there once, long ago,” Melchior said. He closed his eyes, as if remembering. “Before the Thousand Year War, Galadron was a good friend to Toronia. Then Toronia fell into conflict. Since then Galadron turned away from us. It wanted nothing to do with war.”

  “It does now,” muttered Tarlan.

  “Much must have changed.” Abruptly, Melchior struck the stone with his staff. “You were right, Tarlan.”