The Lost Realm

by J. D. Rinehart

  Theeta slowed, thumping her wings hard to maintain a steady hover in the billowing smoke. As Tarlan eased her closer, two more faces appeared behind that of the boy—a man and a woman. His parents, Tarlan supposed.

  “You’ll have to jump!” he shouted. “Hurry!”

  Terror bloomed on the faces of the boy and the woman. The man’s expression stiffened. He clamped his hands around the boy’s shoulders and, without giving his son time to protest, threw him bodily out of the window.

  The boy landed sprawling on Theeta’s back. Tarlan grabbed his collar and planted him into the thickest part of the thorrod’s golden ruff. Looking up, he saw the man and woman standing hand in hand on the window’s wooden sill. Thick smoke gushed around them.

  “Jump!” Tarlan yelled.

  They jumped. At the same instant, Theeta edged a little closer to the building, which was now completely engulfed in flames. The man and woman landed awkwardly. Theeta lurched sideways from the impact and the man nearly slid off, but between them, Tarlan and the woman managed to drag him to safety. They clung on, coughing and choking, while Theeta powered her way into the clearer air over the sea.

  “You saved us,” the man croaked, his voice thick with smoke. He clutched at Tarlan’s arm. “How can we ever thank you?”

  “There’s no need,” said Tarlan gruffly. “But maybe you can help me.”

  “Anything!”

  “Not all the army is here. Did you see where the rest went?”

  The woman nodded. “They left just after the first attack. As soon as the fires took hold, the man in charge led them away. A big man in a red cloak.”

  Tyro.

  “They went that way,” said the man, pointing eastward.

  Tarlan stiffened. In the east lay Isur—where Trident and Elodie were.

  A thorrod can fly a lot faster than an army can march, he told himself. I can reach her before they do.

  “What’s that?” said the boy, pointing out to sea.

  At first Tarlan couldn’t make out what he was seeing. A long, gray shadow lay across the horizon. As he watched it, the shadow grew bigger, deeper. It seemed as if the ocean were trying to climb up into the sky. White foam appeared along the shadow’s top edge, and Tarlan understood he was looking at a wave.

  A gigantic one.

  “Down, Theeta!”

  They deposited the family on the wooden pier, where a crowd of fleeing villagers had gathered. By now the Galadronians had returned to their boats, which were making their way down the coast, presumably to their next target.

  “Don’t leave us here,” wailed the mother as she climbed reluctantly down from Theeta’s back.

  “They’ve sunk our boats,” said the man. “We’ve nowhere to run to.”

  “You won’t need to run,” said Tarlan. “But you may need to hold tight.”

  He left them staring upward with fearful expressions. As the two thorrods struck out for the open sea, Kitheen arrowed in at Theeta’s side.

  “Big water,” said the great black-breasted bird, for once breaking his characteristic silence.

  “You can say that again,” Tarlan replied.

  Nasheen was a speck of gold flying high above the immense wave’s leading edge. She had to fly hard to keep pace with the rushing wall of water. Melchior was on her back—not sitting but standing, with his arms outstretched and the wind gusting through his froth of white hair. His yellow robe billowed out behind him.

  “Melchior!” Tarlan yelled as Theeta and Kitheen fell into formation on either side of Nasheen. “What is this?”

  “The wave of seventh waves!” the wizard shouted back.

  “What?”

  “Have you not heard of the seventh wave?”

  “Melchior, I’d never even seen the sea until a few days ago.”

  “Next time you stand on a beach with your feet in the surf, count the waves. One, two, three . . . The seventh wave is always bigger than the rest. I have gathered all the seventh waves and multiplied them together. What better way to fight fire than with water?”

  Only half understanding, Tarlan dragged his attention from the giant wave’s foaming crest and gazed at the coastline, now very close.

  “It’ll put out the fire, all right. There’ll be nothing left to burn. Melchior—this monster will smash that village to splinters.”

  “Wait,” said Melchior with a mischievous smile. “Watch.”

  Tarlan’s heart was in his mouth as the wave of waves bore down on the blazing village. The fire was truly out of control now, a seething mass of orange light looming over the last few remaining buildings on the waterfront. The villagers crowded the pier, cowering before the onrushing flames. Many had jumped into the water, where they clung to the wreckage of the fishing boats; a few were trying to swim out to sea.

  If the fire doesn’t kill them, this wave will.

  He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the huge wave grew even bigger as it approached the harbor. Now it was twice the height of the fire, now three times. It was a cliff—no, a mountain—shining deadly blue in the fierce light of the morning sun.

  “Melchior!” Tarlan cried.

  The wizard stood immobile on Nasheen’s back, his eyes closed, his lips moving.

  Tarlan could hear the villagers screaming.

  An instant before the wave struck the pier, it broke apart. What had been a solid wall of ocean water fragmented into a billion tiny droplets, each one scintillating in the sunlight like a tiny star. The droplets sprayed over the pier and into the flames, not the hammer blow Tarlan had expected but a gentle, endless rain.

  The terror-stricken expressions on the villagers’ faces turned to openmouthed wonder. They sank to their knees while behind them the fire hissed in fury. The water from the wave continued to rain down: a fine mist that smothered the flames and cooled the charred remains of the buildings. Tarlan moved his hands through the damp air, reveling in the departure of the baking heat.

  The thorrods circled as steam rose from the ruins of the village. The survivors on the pier were helping each other to their feet, tending the injured, making their way slowly back into the ash-strewn streets. Many lifted their hands and waved their gratitude.

  “It’s going to take them a long time to put things back together,” said Tarlan. He spotted the little boy, waving and grinning from ear to ear. He waved back.

  “There is much work to be done,” Melchior agreed. “But I sense you are anxious to be gone.”

  Tarlan nodded. “I have to defend the kingdom.”

  Melchior raised one drenched eyebrow. “Spoken like a king. So you are not just an angry young man?”

  Tarlan flushed. “Oh, I’m angry, all right. All this is just the start. The Galadronians will burn every village between here and Idilliam, if that’s what it takes. They’re heading into Isur right now. I’ve got to get back to Trident. If I can get ahead of the army, I can give Fessan the time he needs to rally defenses. And I can make sure Elodie’s safe.”

  “Very well. I see you are determined. Nevertheless, these people are not yet saved. Many must still be trapped in the ruins, and the injured will number in the hundreds, if not more. And the dead must be buried. I will stay and help. Will the thorrod stay with me?”

  “Of course,” Tarlan replied. “Nasheen—can you carry Melchior a while longer?”

  Nasheen regarded the leader of her pack with one beady eye. Steam swirled around her, turning her into a ghost bird. “Wizard strange,” she cawed.

  Tarlan guided Theeta close enough so he could reach out and touch the other thorrod’s beak. “I know he is. But I need you to stay with him. And he’ll need your help. Besides, I thought you liked him, don’t you?”

  “Wizard light. Wizard dark. Wizard friend.”

  Tarlan grinned. It was so hard to unwrap the many meanings compressed into the thorrods’ words. But one thing was clear to him: Nasheen wasn’t about to leave Melchior behind.

  “That’s settled, then. Theeta! Kitheen!
Let’s round up the others and make flight. There’s no time to waste!” Tarlan turned to Melchior. “I’m glad you’re all right again. Healed, I mean, or whatever it was . . .” His voice trailed off. He still had no real idea what had happened to Melchior inside the Isle of Stars. “I really didn’t wake you too soon, did I? That star—the one that wasn’t—”

  “It is of no consequence, Tarlan. I am very glad you were there to help me. The prophecy holds. Remember that. Good is good, and the prophecy holds. Now, away with you!”

  Grinning, Tarlan tapped his heels against Theeta’s flanks and spurred the giant thorrod away toward the edge of the village. They emerged from the cloud of steam and his heart surged as he saw Greythorn, Filos, and Brock standing in a line, their ears pricked and alert for his return.

  “Are you ready to run?” he cried. “We’ve got a long way to go!”

  “Yes!” they cried in unison. “Lead us!”

  So they set off, heading back toward the gap in the cliffs, the thorrods flapping steadily against a strengthening east wind, their flightless companions bounding eagerly along behind them. Tarlan didn’t look back. He’d seen the sea, and although he thought it marvelous, he had other concerns now.

  I’m coming, Elodie. And afterward . . . well, let’s just see.

  With the sun beating on their backs, Tarlan and his pack raced east.

  CHAPTER 20

  Parry left! And . . . thrust!”

  Elodie stepped nimbly aside as Sylva struck halfheartedly at her with the sword. As Sylva stumbled, Elodie tapped her lightly on the back with the flat of her blade.

  “It’s no good,” gasped Sylva. “I’ll never learn.”

  “You will,” called Cedric from the corner of the stable. He was sitting on a bale of hay, watching the practice duel. “You’re getting better.”

  There was a wistful edge to his voice. No wonder, thought Elodie. It’ll be a long time before he’s ready to raise a sword again.

  “You’re a good teacher, Elodie.” Sylva planted the tip of her sword on the hay-strewn ground and leaned on the hilt. Her face was bright red, and her hair had come loose. But her eyes were shining. “How did you learn all this?”

  “A good friend taught me the basics,” Elodie replied with a pang of sorrow. “Her name was Palenie. As for the rest—well, you learn fast in the heat of battle.”

  Sylva and Cedric were staring at her, both wearing an identical look of comic surprise.

  “What? Did you think I spent all my time with Trident hiding away in a tent? Samial, tell them. . . .”

  Samial—who was perched on another bale near Cedric—shrugged. He’d become such a part of Elodie’s life that even now she sometimes forgot that nobody else could see or hear him.

  “We believe you,” said Sylva with a grin.

  “I hear horses! They’re back!” Cedric leaped awkwardly down from his hay bale and ran to the door. “Quick—hide the swords!”

  Elodie plucked the sword from Sylva’s grasp and handed both weapons to Samial. It was Samial who’d stolen them from the castle armory; now he tucked them out of sight behind a low bench in the corner of the barn.

  Elodie joined Cedric at the door. A column of horsemen rode through the gate into the scorched garden, Lord Vicerin at its head.

  “It’s only been six days. I thought they’d be longer.”

  Elodie had wanted more time to train, to prepare for whatever might lie ahead. Still, it was satisfying to see the look of horror rising on Lord Vicerin’s face as he surveyed what had once been a beautiful ornamental garden, and now looked like a battlefield.

  “What has happened here?” he cried, his voice rising with fury.

  Captain Gandrell steadied Vicerin’s horse and spoke quietly to him. As Lord Vicerin listened, red flowers bloomed on his cheeks.

  “Father does not seem best pleased about what’s been going on in his absence,” Cedric observed. He smiled grimly. “Let’s see, there’s the fire, Fessan’s escape, the children . . . oh, and the assassin.”

  The captain continued to talk. The redness left Lord Vicerin’s face, leaving it deathly pale.

  “Where is she?” Lord Vicerin shouted, his voice thin and reedy. “Nothing is more important than the well-being of my daughter!”

  Elodie snorted. Of course it isn’t. If I’m dead, your entire plan to control the throne collapses, doesn’t it?

  She stepped out into the blackened garden.

  “I’m here, Father,” she called. “I’m all right. Sylva and Cedric are looking after me. They saved me.”

  Vicerin slithered clumsily off his horse. Having picked his way around piles of scorched vegetation, he gave her a perfunctory hug, then stood regarding her with a stern expression. Elodie endured first the physical contact, then the stare, without flinching.

  “Where is the assassin now?” Lord Vicerin said coldly.

  “We have him, my lord,” Gandrell replied. “Would you like to—?”

  “What we would like is to see his guts drawn from his belly and his body quartered to the farthest corners of Ritherlee! When we have seen this done, we shall take dinner! See to it, Gandrell!”

  Ducking his head, the captain backed away and began to assemble an execution squad.

  “You will not want to see this, my dear.” Vicerin’s tone remained icy. “You will take yourself to your chambers. Sylva, Cedric—you will see that she gets there safely. When this business is dealt with, we will review security arrangements so that nothing can touch you again.”

  Shaking from head to foot, Lord Vicerin turned on his heel and followed Captain Gandrell out of the garden.

  “He’ll double your guard,” whispered Cedric as soon as his father was out of earshot. “That will make it hard to find your brother’s jewel.”

  Not to mention getting away from here when I have it.

  “We’ll manage.” Elodie rubbed her neck, which was now almost completely healed. She was glad they wouldn’t have to watch the execution. It didn’t matter that the Galadron assassin had tried to kill her; no man deserved to die in such a barbaric way.

  “I suppose we’d better do as he says,” Sylva sighed.

  “Yes. But we haven’t been to see your mother yet today.”

  Sylva’s face fell. “We should visit her before we do anything else. I’m worried about her, Elodie. She doesn’t seem to be getting any better.”

  Lady Vicerin lay as still as the dead. Only her fingers moved, twitching minutely on top of the silk bedcovers. There was a dreadful greenish tinge in the sagging flesh beneath her eyes. Her breath was a thin, slow rasp in her throat. She seemed neither awake nor asleep, but trapped in some awful limbo between the two.

  Elodie hovered near the window, allowing Sylva and Cedric to sit with their mother. The room was dim and she turned to open the drapes, hoping the sunlight would speed Lady Vicerin’s recovery, or at least raise her spirits.

  She’d no sooner drawn back one of the thick, velvet curtains than one of Lady Vicerin’s maids bustled in and pulled it closed again. The room subsided once more into shadow.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness, but Lady Vicerin don’t like the light anymore,” said the maid, bobbing her head.

  “Oh? I just thought—”

  “It’s gloomy, I know. But the healer said.”

  Elodie looked around. “Where is she? The healer?”

  The maid stared at her feet. “Went away.”

  “Went away? What do you mean? When’s she coming back?”

  Sylva and Cedric looked up from the bed.

  “Begging your pardon, but I don’t think she’s coming back. I think she’s been”—the maid glanced nervously at the door—“dismissed.”

  “Dismissed?” cried Cedric in astonishment. “Who would do that?”

  The maid was wringing her hands and biting her lip. She looked as if she was about to cry.

  “It’s all right,” said Elodie. “We just want what’s best for your mistress. Please, tell us.” />
  “It was him,” the maid blurted. “Lord Vicerin. He said she wasn’t doing her job, so he sent her away. He said there wasn’t a healer in the kingdom could help her ladyship, and I tried to tell him about Frida, but he wouldn’t listen, and now her ladyship’s getting worse and worse, and nobody knows what to do!”

  “I can’t believe he did that,” said Sylva. “There must be something we can—”

  “Who’s Frida?” Elodie interrupted.

  The maid regarded her with wet eyes. “Frida of Hamblebury. They say she heals what can’t be cured. They say she has certain . . . special ways. But Lord Vicerin, he won’t even—”

  “Where’s Hamblebury?”

  “Edge of the Darrand lands. Not a day’s ride, I’d guess.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  “I still don’t understand why Father would send the healer away,” said Sylva as they descended the hill toward the village of Hamblebury.

  Elodie said nothing. She’d lost count of the number of times Sylva had said this during the ride from Castle Vicerin. Cedric understood the depth of his father’s evil; Sylva would work it out for herself, sooner or later.

  As for Elodie, it seemed clear that Lord Vicerin simply didn’t want his wife to get better.

  But why?

  The mist they’d been riding through was gradually thickening to fog. It bit into Elodie’s skin with cold teeth. Their horses plodded patiently down the hill toward the village on a road that was now little more than a muddy track. The village itself was a scattering of ramshackle huts and barns strewn at random across the valley slopes. The buildings had a forgotten air about them, as if a giant had tossed them here and then simply walked away.

  Shivering, Elodie pulled the hood closer around her head. Seated in the saddle behind her, Samial seemed unaffected by the cold.

  I suppose there are some benefits to being a ghost.

  The drab cloaks they’d chosen were a good disguise. Not only did they hide their finely embroidered Vicerin dresses, but they also afforded some protection against the mist, which in turn had given them excellent cover during their exit from the castle. Cedric had wanted to come with them, of course, but Elodie had insisted he stay behind.