Book One of The Celestine Chronicles
by
Laurisa White Reyes
Tanglewood • Terre Haute, IN
Published by Tanglewood Publishing, Inc., May, 2012.
Text © Laurisa White Reyes 2012
All rights reserved. Neither this book nor any part may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilming, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover art by Tristan Elwell & interior art by Kathleen Everts
Design by Amy Alick Perich
Tanglewood Publishing, Inc.
4400 Hulman Street
Terre Haute, IN 47803
www.tanglewoodbooks.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN-13 978-1-933718-72-9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Reyes, Laurisa White.
The Rock of Ivanore / Laurisa White Reyes.
p. cm.
Summary: The annual Great Quest announced by the wizard Zyll requires Marcus and other boys of the village who are coming of age to find the Rock of Ivanore without knowing what it is or where it can be found, but unless they develop new powers of magic and find strength to survive wild lands and fierce enemies, they will lose their honor and live menial lives of shame.
ISBN 978-1-933718-72-9
[1. Adventure and adventurers--Fiction. 2. Magic--Fiction. 3. Coming of age--Fiction. 4. Wizards--Fiction. 5. Fantasy.] I. Title.
PZ7.R3303Roc 2012
[Fic]--dc23
2011039335
For my son,
Marcum,
for whom this story was born.
Table of Contents
Prologue
THE QUEST BEGINS
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
THE SEARCH FOR TRUTH
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
TRUTH REVEALED
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
Sixty
Sixty-one
Sixty-two
Sixty-three
Sixty-four
Sixty-five
Sixty-six
Sixty-seven
Sixty-eight
Acknowledgements
Author Bio
Prologue
he old enchanter rose from his cot, his joints creaking like rusty hinges. His sleep had been troubled, and thoughts of the days ahead worried him. Taking care not to wake his apprentice, Zyll went to the table in the center of the room, though his legs were so stiff that even traveling the width of his cottage required the use of a walking stick. With his free hand, he took a copper bowl down from a shelf and set it on the table. He grinned at the fresh bucket of water on the hearth, grateful that the boy had remembered to fill it this time.
Zyll ladled water into the bowl and peered at his reflection in it. How changed he looked, how unlike the man he used to be. His hair, once thick and dark, had thinned and grown white, and the skin around his mouth had creased. But his eyes still glowed with the vibrancy of youth. One thing, at least, had remained the same.
He laid his walking stick across the table and leaned closer to better view the image before him. The water darkened, and another face replaced Zyll’s reflection, a younger man not altogether human—a half-breed.
The image widened. Crouching in a dark corridor, the half-breed crept from shadow to shadow. Slipping past two sentries, he entered a small chapel. He hurried to the altar and released a hidden latch that opened a small door near its base. Zyll watched as the half-breed removed a scroll concealed within and hid it beneath his cloak.
Just then, the chapel door flew open with a tremendous shudder. There, framed in torchlight, stood a man with red hair accompanied by seven manlike beasts with hairy faces pocked with repulsive scars. The redheaded man charged angrily into the room, his sword slashing down in a wide, rapid arc. The half-breed hastily drew his sword just in time to deflect the blow and countered with his own. His blade tasted flesh, and the redheaded man collapsed to his knees, his hands grasping the side of his bloody face.
The half-breed spied a small object on the floor and managed to snatch it up before the beasts attacked. Though he fought them with inhuman strength, they soon drove him up against the wall.
Cornered and outnumbered, the half-breed turned to the window and gazed down. The image in the bowl shifted, and Zyll saw what the half-breed saw: angry ocean waves beating against the rocks far below. Suddenly the waves rushed up toward him, and Zyll realized that the half-breed had leapt from the window. Zyll watched him fall, and as he fell, the half-breed twisted his body to look up at the sky. For one fleeting moment before he plunged into the sea, his inhuman cat eyes met Zyll’s.
The enchanter’s breath caught in his throat, and he stumbled back. When he looked in the bowl again, the image had vanished. Zyll dropped into a chair, resting his weary arms on the table. He glanced at the fair-haired boy who slept on, then choked out a whisper. “So it begins.”
THE QUEST BEGINS
One
he morning of Marcus Frye’s fourteenth birthday may have seemed ordinary to some, but for him no day had ever dawned brighter. The birds’ songs sounded sweeter. In the distance, Amethyst Peak looked more brilliant than ever before. Even Master Zyll appeared younger and more spry than usual.
From his cot in the corner of the cottage, Marcus watched the enchanter arrange a pile of wood on the hearth. Zyll inspected his work through a pair of spectacles and nodded with satisfaction. “You are awake,” he said, removing his spectacles and wiping them with the sleeve of his robe. “I was beginning to think someone had put a sleeping spell on you.”
Marcus arose and went to the table, where a steaming bowl of porridge waited. A clean tunic and trousers lay across the back of a chair.
“Why didn’t you wake me to get the wood?” asked Marcus. “The morning air isn’t good for you.”
“Nonsense,” replied Zyll, lowering himself into a chair beside the hearth. An old leather satchel lay in his lap. “Now sit and eat.”
Marcus dressed in the clean clothes and sat down. He picked at his breakfast, his stomach too much in knots for food. He preferred instead to watch Zyll mend the satchel, which looked as though it could not withstand one more day’s we
ar. When he had finished, Zyll held the satchel by the shoulder strap and gave it a good hard shake. Its contents, which included a week’s worth of bread and dried goat’s meat, as well as a few coins and an iron pot, collided with a dull thud. Marcus winced at the thought of finding crumbs for his supper rather than bread.
“There it is now,” said Zyll.
Marcus eyed it disdainfully. “Master, the other boys have new satchels. Couldn’t we buy one as well?”
“What for?” Zyll replied, handing Marcus the battered satchel. “This bag holds as much as a new one.” Then he rose with some effort from his chair to begin filling a kettle with vegetables.
Marcus hesitated making any further requests. He did not want to appear greedy, but this day was special, so he spoke before his courage could leave him. “Master, what about the other supplies?”
“What supplies?” asked Zyll, not looking up from the kettle.
“Well, I’ll need a weapon, for one thing.”
Zyll tossed the last of the onions into the pot and added some water. “You’ve no need of weapons, boy. Haven’t I taught you well enough how to fend for yourself?”
Marcus thought of the many lessons Zyll had taught him. He had learned the ways of the mystic, and also a bit of history, mathematics, and philosophy. Zyll disapproved of sword fighting but had allowed him to practice with the other boys in the village.
“I’m good with a sword,” Marcus reminded him, “but I’m a terrible magician.”
Zyll turned toward him. His face held the same pensive expression it always did. “Why do you doubt your abilities?” he asked. “You know magic is nothing more than the art of rearranging the elements that lay before you. Take the logs for instance,” he continued. “What is fire but heat? Heat is found in rays of sunlight and in all living things.”
Zyll lifted his hand toward the window where a stream of light filtered into the cottage. “We must harvest it from the sunshine, the trees, our own bodies.” He lowered his hand, drawing it across Marcus’s shoulders. “Compress it to a fine point, direct it toward the logs, and . . .”
With a quick snap of his wrist, the logs burst into flames. Zyll set the kettle over the fire. “This soup will be ready for my afternoon meal.”
“I would still prefer a sword,” said Marcus.
Zyll’s voice was calm yet insistent. “Use your knowledge to obtain those things you need and to defend yourself and others from harm.” He doused the fire with a mumbled incantation. Then gesturing toward the hearth, he added, “Give it a try.”
Marcus preferred to do his chores without magic, yet he would not refuse his master’s request. Turning to the hearth, he focused his attention on the wood and formed an image of brilliant, orange flame in his mind.
“Ignite!” he commanded. He held his breath as he waited for the flames to appear, but nothing happened. “I can’t do it!” he said with disgust. “Maybe I shouldn’t go on the quest. I know I’ll fail.”
Zyll studied his apprentice with tender, gray eyes. Marcus knew those eyes well. He had seen them every day of his life. Orphaned at birth, Marcus had been in Zyll’s care for as long as he could remember. He was a good master, kind and generous, yet firm. They made a fine pair, he and Zyll, and Marcus imagined no one could have been a better father to him.
When the town council had agreed to let Marcus, a mere orphan, join this year’s Bleôth Camrũ—or, translated from the ancient tongue, “Great Quest”—he was determined to finally prove he was destined for more than servitude.
Every year on the first day of spring, all the boys in Quendel who had reached the age of manhood during the previous year set out on a journey across Imaness. Their purpose: to accomplish some task or retrieve an object as determined by the village elders. The quests were never easy, often lasting days or even weeks on end. Those who returned triumphant were bestowed with the most honorable jobs in the village. Those who failed were relegated to the more mundane positions in life. At first, Marcus was elated at the news that he would be allowed to participate. But now the thought of disappointing Zyll filled Marcus with shame.
Zyll went to his bookshelf, but he was not interested in the books. Instead he reached for a wooden chest, which he carried to the table and raised the lid. After sifting through its contents, he lifted something in his hand. Though Marcus could not tell what it was, the item was small enough to be hidden by the old man’s fingers.
Zyll turned his gaze on Marcus, though his eyes seemed to look right through him. With a shake of his head he remembered the task at hand and laid the object back inside the chest. After more sifting and searching, Zyll withdrew another small object and slammed the lid shut, sending a billow of dust into the air.
“I have not yet given you a gift for your birthday,” said Zyll, holding out his palm. A small metal object lay across it.
“A key?” asked Marcus, puzzled.
“Not just any key. It is the only one of its kind.”
“It looks like a regular key to me.”
“Ah, but therein lies the magic,” replied Zyll. “With this key, you will find within yourself more power than you can now imagine. It will unlock your very destiny.”
Placing the key in Marcus’s hand, Zyll gestured toward the hearth. “Try it once more.”
The key felt heavy and cold. The tarnished iron was worn smooth in spots. Still Marcus sensed its power as he grasped it firmly in his fist. As he held the key at eye level, a peculiar tingling sensation spread through his fingers and wrist.
“Ignite!” Marcus commanded. At first, only the faintest crackle could be heard. Next, a small speck of orange glowed from the back of the hearth. Marcus leaned forward and blew air through his lips to fan an ember. On his first breath the glow intensified, then began to spread with the second. On the third breath, there was a loud pop as the ember leapt from the hearth, setting the hem of Zyll’s robe on fire.
Marcus gasped in horror at his mistake. Without a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed the kettle of soup and threw its contents at his master. The fire was put out, and from the sour expression on Zyll’s face, so was he.
Marcus’s shoulders drooped in dismay. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Zyll shook off the bits of carrot and onion that clung to his robe. “No harm done, though I could have doused the flame myself and still had soup for my supper.” Reaching for his walking stick, he announced, “It is time to go.”
Zyll opened the cottage door and stepped outside. Marcus followed, the satchel hanging from his shoulder as limp as a large leather blossom wilting in the afternoon sun.
Two
he village of Quendel buzzed with an unusual amount of energy this morning. Zyll led the way with his walking staff while Marcus followed behind, doing his best to avoid stepping on the enchanter’s robe, which slithered along the ground behind him like a snake.
Zyll’s staff—carved from a branch of a Willenberry tree—was half the height of a full-grown man. Its top was carved into the shape of an eagle’s head. From there the staff twisted its way toward the ground, where it tapered to a fine point. Zyll referred to this walking staff as “Xerxes” and often spoke to it as if it were a living being. Of course, the staff never spoke back. It just gazed forward with lifeless eyes.
Quendel was not unlike all the other villages east of the Jeweled Mountains, with its clusters of humble cottages and shops connected by narrow cobbled roads. Marcus closed his eyes a moment, allowing the sounds and smells of the place to calm his nerves. He never tired of the fragrance of warm bread drifting out of the baker’s door, or the nutty scent of freshly ground wheat from the grain mill. Also, the constant clamor of wagons bumping along the roads and the bleating and braying of the animals that pulled them were a welcome contrast to the pervasive silence of Zyll’s isolated dwelling.
As Marcus and Zyll made their way toward the stone water fountain at the center of town, Marcus overheard fragments of conversations between some of the villagers. “What were
they thinking?” said one man, measuring out grain into another man’s sack. A woman with a wailing child in her arms clucked to her neighbor, “He doesn’t stand a chance.” Other villagers stared at Marcus, their voices lowering to whispers as he passed by. The hot feeling in the pit of Marcus’s stomach told him they were talking about him, and knowing that made him all the more anxious.
A wooden platform had been erected in front of the fountain. Master Zyll instructed Marcus to step up on it. As he did so, Marcus scanned the crowd. The streets and area surrounding the fountain were packed with so many people that he could not see the stones beneath their feet. Children sat on their fathers’ shoulders or in wooden handcarts. Women, their skin browned from laboring alongside their husbands in the fields, strained on tiptoe to see past the men. As the center of so much attention, Marcus felt like a horse on the auction block. He glanced at the other five boys who stood with him. He had known them all since childhood, though as an orphan and Zyll’s apprentice, his time spent with his peers had been limited to weapons training and occasional field games.
The boy immediately to Marcus’s left was Jerrid Zwelger, the governor’s pompous nephew, who sported a glossy new satchel and his usual smug expression. Jerrid stood in what Marcus thought to be a comical pose, hands on his hips and chin jutting out proudly. It was as though he thought the entire village had come only for him.
Beside Jerrid stood gangly, freckle-faced Zody Smythe, Jerrid’s closest friend and disciple. Short for his age and on the scrawny side, Zody appeared as ill at ease on the platform as Jerrid was confident. He stood behind the other boys, preferring not to be noticed at all.
Next in the row was Clovis Dungham. Clovis, who was on the plump side, was fidgeting nervously with his pack, trying to loosen the strap across his shoulder. When the strap finally slipped through its buckle, Clovis beamed with satisfaction—until he realized that the strap was now too loose.
Tristan Tether came next. His ancestors had long ago emigrated from the mainland, and his russet complexion set him apart from the lighter-skinned islanders, though no one in Quendel seemed to notice or care. With his hand raised to his brow, he searched the crowd. Someone waved frantically from the mass of onlookers. Marcus thought it was impossible to tell who was waving, but Tristan waved back just the same. A few moments later, one of the local girls pushed her way through the throng toward the platform. As she ran forward, Tristan dropped to his knees. The girl threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, all while tying a bright yellow scarf around his neck. Then just as quickly, the girl blended back into the crowd, crying audibly.
The Rock of Ivanore Page 1