The Rock of Ivanore

by Laurisa White Reyes

  Marcus had to lean far forward to see who was at the end of the row of boys. Standing with his shoulders squared and his back erect, golden hair combed neatly behind his ears, was Kelvin Archer.

  Kelvin was the oldest and tallest of the group, his birthday falling just one week shy of last year’s ceremony. He was therefore the most respected and admired boy in his age group. However, if he derived any pleasure from his status, he never showed it. He was a quiet boy and sought no one’s company but his own.

  Marcus felt rather plain compared to Kelvin. His own hair was straw-colored, his eyes a dull hazel. He was several inches shorter than Kelvin and considered himself much too thin.

  A horn sounded. Squire Slermin, Governor of Quendel, stood before the crowd and raised his hands for silence. “Today marks an epic moment in Quendelian history!” he began. “These boys who stand before you shall embark on a grand quest. If all goes well, they shall return to us no longer boys, but men!”

  The crowd burst into roaring applause. Another horn sounded, and the crowd grew silent. A knot formed in Marcus’s throat. His mouth was dry as flint, and the perspiration ran down his face in tiny rivulets.

  The squire spoke now in a hushed tone. The anticipation in the air was so heavy that Marcus felt it pressing against him. “My good people, it is time for that momentous occasion when the wisest and oldest of our kind pronounces the commencement of this year’s Bleôth Camrũ. I give you now: Master Zyll.”

  As the squire stepped down from the platform, the water in the fountain began to swirl in wide circles, which soon reached up toward the sky until a column of water churned in the air before them. All of a sudden the column burst like a giant bubble, sending a fine spray across the platform. The boys and those nearest to the fountain covered their faces to avoid the shower, while the rest of the crowd let out a collective gasp of admiration. When they returned their gaze to the platform, they found Zyll standing in the settling mist.

  “On this day of the equinox, this moment of balance and equality, I summon the gods to grant divine protection upon you boys as you begin your journey into manhood. May you be wise, courageous, and cautious in your travels, and may you return to us both unharmed and victorious. Though the journey ahead will be difficult, you must remain undaunted, focused on the task. Those who succeed in this quest will bring the greatest of honors upon Quendel and upon themselves.”

  Those who succeed. The words repeated themselves in Marcus’s mind, and he felt the weight of this responsibility descend heavily upon his young shoulders. It was a burden he felt driven to carry.

  “And now, my sons,” continued Zyll, sweeping his staff over the heads of the six boys, “it is time to reveal the nature of your journey. Your quest is . . .”

  Here Zyll’s voice paused, allowing his words to settle on the waiting crowd. Marcus counted the seconds that passed in unbearable silence. The other boys shifted anxiously beside him.

  “Your quest is to find the Rock of Ivanore and bring it back to Quendel.”

  The boys glanced at each other, puzzled. Jerrid Zwelger cleared his throat and stepped forward.

  “Master Zyll,” he said, “we heard rumors that we’d be hunting warboars in the Black Forest.”

  Zyll struck Xerxes roughly against the platform. “You may hunt warboars if you wish, but it is the Rock of Ivanore you are required to pursue! Now, be off with you!”

  Zyll pointed Xerxes in the direction of the forest, but not a boy moved from his spot. They remained as bewildered as before. Finally, it was Marcus who spoke up. “But Master,” he said in almost a whisper, “what is the Rock of Ivanore? And where will we find it?”

  The old man’s lips trembled as he ground his teeth. Once again he pointed the end of his staff to the forest, jabbing it in the air like the point of a sword. “You will never find the Rock of Ivanore by standing here wiping your noses on your mothers’ aprons! Go on, all of you! Go on before I pronounce you all failures and assign you to a lifetime of weeding the marshes!”

  The boys all hurried off the platform and disappeared one by one through the nearby trees with the clanking of weapons and tin plates echoing behind them. Before Marcus could follow, he felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder.

  “I do not wish for you to travel alone on this journey,” said Zyll, his usual subdued mood returned. He grasped his staff around its middle with his right hand and held it so that his face met the eagle’s, nose to beak. The eagle’s eyes stared blankly forward. “So, Xerxes, it seems the day has come that we must part. I expect you will be as worthy a companion to this boy as you have been to me. What’s that now?” Then Zyll added with a hearty laugh, “Oh, I can manage with an old hickory branch to lean upon.”

  Zyll held out the staff to Marcus. “Take him,” he said, “before I change my mind and give you the hickory branch instead.”

  Marcus hesitated. He did not wish to take his master’s staff, not only because Zyll was in such great need of it, but also because it had long been the butt of many jokes among his peers. And now, if he were to be seen with it, surely their jokes would be directed at him.

  Marcus was about to decline the gift when he made the mistake of looking at his master’s eyes. Never before had Marcus seen the expression they now wore. All at once it conveyed to Marcus Zyll’s deep love for Xerxes—and for him. So he said nothing, taking the staff and nodding his thanks. Zyll stepped down from the platform and walked briskly away. He stopped abruptly and turned.

  “What is it, boy?” Zyll shouted, waving his hand as if shooing away a lazy rooster. “Must I light a fire underfoot to get you to move?”

  Marcus smiled at his master’s performance, for he knew that Zyll was not really angry with him.

  “Mind you care for Xerxes as your own,” Zyll advised as though he were delegating to Marcus the care of a young child. “Treat him well, and you’ll find he’s just full of surprises!” he added with a chuckle. “And bring him back to me in one piece, if you please!”

  Marcus waved Xerxes above his head in a final goodbye. He swung his satchel over his shoulder and checked his pocket to see that the key Zyll had given him was still in its place. Then he hurried forward, eager for whatever adventures awaited.

  Three

  ar away from the village of Quendel, on the shore of Illian Bay, the half-breed pulled his small but sturdy vessel from the sea. He removed the scroll from beneath his cloak and unrolled it onto the dry sand, weighing down its corners with stones. He was certain he had landed in the correct cove and that a path through the forest waited nearby. He must only find it—a task he expected would not prove difficult, for he had Agoran blood flowing through his veins. His eyes, gray as ash, were more catlike than human in both appearance and ability. Though only half Agoran, still he could discern greater detail than his human cousins, a talent that gave him confidence that he could succeed where few humans had before him.

  The Isle of Imaness was a formidable fortress, encircled by high, menacing cliffs and merciless tides. Many ships had met an unfortunate fate by them. Only two safe harbors existed along its shores. The first was a treacherous inlet on the northwestern border of the province of Dokur. The other lay at the southernmost tip of the island—the gently sloping sands of Illian Bay.

  Guarded by jagged rocks that stood like armed sentinels along the shore, the northwestern coast was doubly secure due to the vigilant Eye of Dokur, a lofty tower overlooking the bay. No ship approached Dokur unseen, and the half-breed Agoran had his reasons for concealing his arrival.

  The only other choice was to approach Imaness through Illian Bay, safeguarded only by an ancient forest whose vegetation wound so tightly together that traveling through it was all but impossible. The only hope in navigating through the tangled Black Forest lay in the legendary map drawn by the island’s ancient inhabitants.

  The Agoran paced the beach, peering at every vine and leaf. He prodded branches and briars with the tip of his sword, but the centuries-old undergrow
th was so dense that it seemed as though nothing could penetrate it. He studied the scroll again, tracing its lines with his finger and measuring each twist and turn of ink. Again and again, he walked the distance from one end of the beach to the other, each time comparing more closely the image on the page to the forest’s perimeter.

  He had just finished his fourth tour of the beach when something small, nearly indistinguishable, caught his attention. A small green thread as thin as spider’s silk dangled from a single leaf. A sense of relief washed over him, for someone with eyesight less keen than his would never have spotted it at all. The patch of vegetation blended so perfectly with its surroundings that it was nearly impossible to detect its true material: delicate green cloth painted by the finest of artisans.

  The Agoran pulled away the false cover, revealing a narrow but definite trail. He rolled up the parchment and tucked it beneath his cloak. As he did so, his hand brushed against the leather pouch hanging at his waist. The first object in the fist-sized pouch had been with him for many years and had brought him, he believed, good fortune. It was a rare treasure, and he had killed and nearly been killed for it. The second item in the pouch was obtained more recently but was equally valuable to its new owner.

  The Agoran wrapped his palm around the pouch to reassure himself. It felt warm and soft in his hand. He rubbed his thumb along its seam and hoped it would bring him good fortune one last time. Then, stepping onto the trail and setting the shrubbery back in place behind him, he ventured forward into the shadows of the forest.

  Four

  arcus spent the good part of the day walking in what he hoped was a straight course west along the northern edge of the forest. If he continued on that same course, he expected to reach Vrystal Canyon, the only passage through the mountains, by nightfall.

  Marcus stopped near a small brook and sat down. Just a few moments’ rest is all I need, he thought to himself. His eyes grew heavy and had barely closed when the loud snap of a twig jerked them open.

  “Who’s there?” he called out.

  A familiar voice called back. “It’s just me!”

  Clovis Dungham, the heavyset boy from the ceremony, ran clumsily forward. His pack, with its loose strap slung around his elbow, banged wildly against his thigh. His breathing was heavy.

  “I’ve been trying . . . to catch up to you . . . thought maybe . . . we could . . .” He paused, bent over, and gasped for breath.

  “Are you all right?” asked Marcus, concerned that Clovis might faint.

  Clovis nodded. “Couldn’t catch my breath at first,” he said. His round face was red and damp with perspiration. “Sometimes I have trouble breathing . . . when I exercise too much.” He took a swig from his water skin. “I thought, maybe . . . if you’re not opposed to it . . . I might keep you company . . . for a while at least.”

  Marcus considered telling him that he preferred to travel alone, but then he noticed the crossbow slung across the other boy’s back. “Can you really use that thing?” he asked. “How good is your aim?”

  Clovis sniffed. It seemed he was sniffling every few seconds. “Not half as well as my father. He can shoot a sparrow in flight. He lent me this,” he added, reaching over his shoulder and patting the bow fondly, “but made me promise to return it in good condition.”

  The two of them continued walking together, and Marcus found he was glad for the company. “Have you seen any of the others?” he asked after a while.

  “Not since we left home,” replied Clovis. “But before we divided up, I heard Jerrid say he’s going to try to cut through the forest.”

  Marcus had heard stories of the Black Forest and the terrifying creatures that lived among the entangled trunks and limbs. Anyone who was presumptuous enough to think he could get through it and live was either naïve or arrogant—and Jerrid Zwelger was both.

  “Of course he’d try a shortcut,” said Marcus. “He wants the Rock of Ivanore for himself.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “He’s been boasting for weeks about how he’s going to finish the quest before the rest of us—not content to share the glory, I suppose.”

  “Well, I for one hope we find the Rock of Ivanore quickly,” said Clovis. “I’ve never been away from home before.”

  “But how can any of us find it if we don’t even know what it is?” Marcus felt annoyed that Zyll had not at least given him a clue as to the rock’s location.

  “I think it’s something magical,” Clovis suggested.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I overheard my parents talking with the Archers about it once, though I only heard snippets. Supposed to be powerful enough to build and destroy entire kingdoms.”

  Marcus laughed. “Sounds like a fable to me.”

  “Maybe, but . . . oh no!” Clovis stopped abruptly and pinched his nose.

  “What’s wrong?” Marcus dropped his satchel to the ground and hurried to Clovis’s side. A thin, red line trickled down Clovis’s upper lip.

  “It’s nothing,” he whined in a muffled, nasal voice. “Just a bloody nose. I get them sometimes. Quite often, actually. I’m fine. Really.”

  “Are you sure?” Marcus glanced up through the trees. Daylight would be fading soon, and they had not traveled half the distance he had hoped to.

  “I’ll be fine in a few minutes,” said Clovis, “half an hour at most.”

  Marcus sat down on a boulder jutting out from the soft earth and wished he had brought one of Zyll’s books along for the journey. “It’ll be dusk by then,” he said. “We might as well camp here.”

  “I don’t mind going on,” said Clovis. “We could reach Vrystal Canyon in two or three hours.”

  “The sun’s going down,” replied Marcus. He was beginning to regret letting Clovis come along. Clovis released his nose, but the blood still flowed freely. He pinched it again.

  “Nearly clotted,” he said apologetically. “In five minutes, I’ll be ready to go—”

  “I told you, we’re making camp!” snapped Marcus. The moment he did so, he regretted the outburst. He looked away from the stunned expression on Clovis’s face, afraid his own shame was apparent.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper. It’s just that—” He felt his cheeks grow warm. “I don’t like the dark.”

  He was certain that Clovis would burst into laughter. Marcus, nearly a man and afraid of the dark. But there was no laughter.

  “Oh,” said Clovis, as though the news were as trivial as a fruit fly. “We’ll need wood for the fire then. Shall I go?”

  Marcus smiled at his companion, whose nostrils were still clamped in the vise-like grip of his fingers. “I’ll go,” he said and set off to gather wood in the forest.

  When he returned, he found Clovis devouring a plump slice of roasted quail, his nosebleed all but forgotten. “Mother packed it for me,” Clovis said through greasy lips. Marcus eyed the meat hungrily and reached into his satchel. Just as he had feared, his bread had turned to crumbs. He licked up a handful of the bland fragments of his dinner.

  “I’ll start the fire,” he said, clearing a spot of earth and arranging the kindling he had gathered. He reached in his pocket for his key. It was a simple key, just a finger-length rod of iron with a plain oval loop on one end and a notched extrusion at the other. Still, it would not be wise to judge any charm solely on its appearance.

  He gripped the key in his left hand and waved his other over the kindling. “Ignite!” he commanded. Not a flicker appeared. He waved his hand again and repeated the order, but the wood remained stubborn.

  “I’ve got flint and wool,” offered Clovis, but Marcus ignored him.

  “Ignite, you stupid shrub, ignite!” When the fourth attempt was equally unsuccessful, Marcus sheepishly put away the key for Clovis’s flint and wool. The fire soon engulfed the tinder and Marcus added to it three larger logs. He warmed his hands against the flames. He then removed his cape and spread it out on the ground,
resting on it with his back to the fire. Beside him, Clovis did the same and was soon fast asleep.

  Marcus searched the darkening night with wide eyes, but except for the small circle of light cast by the fire, the forest was as black as coal. He could see nothing but the faint silhouette of the nearest trees; the thought of what might lie beyond them made him apprehensive. To calm himself, he turned his thoughts to the quest and to tomorrow’s journey. He knew of a library in Noam, a town on the other side of the mountains, and thought that might be a good place to inquire about the Rock of Ivanore.

  The sound of Clovis snoring convinced him he had better rest as well. He laid down his head on his satchel and closed his eyes. Meanwhile, from the safety of a low-hanging tree branch, a pair of eyes watched him as he slept, their pupils narrowed into fine slits as they studied him.

  Five

  n the opposite side of the Isle of Imaness, the sleepy city of Dokur lay atop a sprawling plateau, as content in its security as a napping lion. The claw-like rock formations encircling the harbor were as menacing as the most lethal of weapons. The great tower looked out over the rocky shores of Imaness like an ever-present sentry, and no enemy ever dared approach the island under its ominous gaze. To do so would be to play into the hands of fate toward a certain defeat by means of the royal navy.

  No one escaped the Eye of Dokur.

  Perched on the hill just behind the tower, the Fortress appeared from a distance to be no more than a child’s toy planted on some lonely dune. But those who lived in the settlement beneath knew the truth about its menacing power and shuddered to think of it. They preferred to go about their business as discreetly as possible, doing nothing to single themselves out from the mass or to attract the attention of His Lordship of Dokur.