Enchanted Bookstore Legends (5-book complete epic fantasy romance box set)

by Marsha A. Moore

  Lyra squeezed her larger body through the opening.

  Cullen groaned behind her, working to fit his shoulders past.

  They wedged into crevices around edges of the small room, no more than eight feet in diameter. Lyra took a deep breath, filling her lungs with air free of smoke.

  Circutamina motioned them to takes seats against burlap pillows decorated with woolen crewelwork.

  Ysmena’s lantern flickered in the center beside where she lay. Blood stained one side of her white chiffon gown. She turned her head toward Lyra and Cullen and gave a weak smile. “I felt your auras coming near. Thank you for finding me when I couldn’t go to you.” Her voice quavered. Blood pooled in her left eye. Her golden hair on that side lay in clotted russet strands.

  The couple moved to her side and assessed her injuries. Cullen pressed his shoulder tight against Lyra’s.

  Every organ is severely damaged. Lyra’s fingers shook as they passed over Ysmena’s torso. What has happened to her?

  Black fire entered her body.

  Lyra healed one lobe of the Lady’s liver, only to find the ulcers on another lobe double in size. She healed the worsened lesions, and the first became covered with burns. She attempted to mend damage in the lungs, and met the same difficulty. Why can’t I heal her injuries without new burns popping up?

  Lips pursed, Cullen leaned far across Ysmena’s torso, his hands moving fast. I’m finding the same thing. The more I work, the worse her situation. It’s the effect of ingesting black fire from the drakes’ magma. Not all magically induced wounds can be healed. You’ve seen the scar that our Warlord Oasth bears. Tarom and Eburscon have similar wounds from their duel years ago. Strikes of strong magic, dark or light, that aren’t treated promptly, can leave permanent damage. His hands came to rest over Lyra’s. In this case, the injuries are so widespread we cannot—.

  No! Lyra interrupted and pressed her palms over the heart of the Lady of the Forest. She mended sores on the wall of an upper chamber to find a tear leaking blood from the lower chamber.

  As she removed her hands, Ysmena grasped them. Her pale face still held the remarkable beauty Lyra remembered from their first meeting. The Lady had been so gracious to help her search the forest floor for the missing lovers’ jadestone brooch she’d lost to Revelin. A woman she often looked to for help now lay helpless, and Lyra was unable to return the favors.

  Tears welled into Lyra’s eyes.

  “I’ve shared your pain in past. Now you share mine,” Ysmena said with a voice that still held traces of her lyrical magic.

  “I want to help you, but I can’t,” Lyra replied.

  Ysmena’s grip remained firm and her eyes fixed on Lyra. “You can help me…help my people, the trees and their keepers. We thought that the Dark Realm only wanted easy passage through our land to the Alliance.” She closed her eyes to swallow, then resumed. “Now we know they want to own Silva Caliga for themselves.” Her nails dug into Lyra’s skin. “You must not let them. The Imperial Dragon advised me about your mission to recollect the four keystones that will save the Alliance. What have you accomplished?”

  Lyra held the violin with the moonstone so Ysmena could see, and motioned for Draora and Raylene to present the section of wood from the World Tree. “With this moonstone violin of Scribe Nareene, I can give the people of both lands courage. It will help me fight to win the Emtori Ruby.”

  A tear slipped from Ysmena’s good eye, and the corners of her mouth lifted into a slight grin. She ran her fingers along a length of the wood to meet Raylene’s hand. “You are a friend I haven’t met. I sense that you will be a great help to my people.” She returned her gaze to Lyra. “You’re already on the path for my people. Take that wood from the World Tree to our best bow maker, Partho. Ivri will lead you there. Partho will make the bow needed to share your magic with our land. Then, be quick to collect the remaining keystones.” She swallowed hard. “I wish I could take you there myself to hear the first strains of Nareene’s song.”

  Lyra caressed the Lady’s cheek, trying to be calm and strong despite the emotions and worries whipping through her mind. So much depended upon her, and she had no experience playing stringed instruments.

  “Lyra, Partho will teach you the little you have yet to learn—how to play,” Ysmena said softly. “Trust your power.”

  “Then I promise to play loud enough that you will be able to hear me.”

  Tears met Lyra’s hand as Ysmena murmured, “The Alliance and Silva Caliga have always stood together as allies. Save the Alliance; save Silva Caliga.”

  Chapter Fifteen: The Woodsman’s Gift

  When Lyra stepped outside of the aron tree, the first breath of death fire smoke sent her into a coughing fit.

  Ivri tugged at Lyra’s hand. “Come fast. The fires are spreading deeper.”

  “One moment,” Lyra said and placed a hand on the mighty trunk. Ysmena’s signal prickled her skin, and Lyra closed her eyes, concentrating on the sensation. She wanted to imprint the exact sensation of the Lady of the Forest’s magic into her memory.

  Again, Ivri urged the group to depart, and Lyra left the tree while zipping the violin against her chest inside her jacket. Along with a group of five other circutamina guides, the head keeper led the visitors, snaking along another circuitous path underneath brush and saplings.

  Forced to stoop or crawl, Lyra panted from exertion. At least close to the ground, the cooler air held less smoke. But she fared worse. Thorns snagged her braid and gouged her hands and cheeks.

  Cries of magma drakes rumbled like thunder.

  She shivered and forced her aching legs and arms to continue. Crawling under cover like an ant, she felt small. The enormity of her tasks weighted her limbs as though she dragged cement blocks. Fear of failure clenched her stomach, more each time she drew a leg forward.

  A comforting warmth hovered overhead—Draora carrying the World Tree’s limb. “Lyra, let me shoulder some of your load. I can do it for a short bit. We each have our weak moments.” The hem of her dark skirt draped over Lyra’s back, its ghostly fabric passing through twigs and branches. At first, overly warm and smothering, sweat beaded between her shoulder blades. Then, a little at a time, it soaked up some of the downtrodden heaviness, enough that she moved more freely.

  Lyra pushed the skirt from her back and, with a smile, nodded to the witch.

  “I can take more,” the witch offered.

  “Please help Cullen instead. He can’t recharge until we’re in the Alliance,” Lyra replied, making a mental note to attempt to restore the witch as soon as possible.

  Draora dropped behind Lyra and performed the same procedure on him.

  Second in line after Ivri, Lyra struggled to follow the keeper’s turns while repeatedly glancing back at Cullen.

  When the witch finished, he met Lyra’s gaze, his blue eyes glinting with renewed strength. “I’m indebted to you, Draora.”

  His familiar coughed and whimpered, “Master, wait for Noba.”

  During the next hour of tedious travel, the witch aided the ailing pseudodragon and her granddaughters as well.

  Kenzo declined help and sailed in front of Ivri. Lyra had always trusted the directional sense of the circutamina in their homeland, but worried now whether the smoke might have thrown them off. Their path looped back and forth, and the owl might provide useful leadership.

  Finally, Ivri popped her head out from the brush on a blazed trail and scanned the sky. “It’s safe to travel here now.”

  Commotion from the attack sounded farther away. Lyra stood upright and arched the kinks from her back.

  She wondered how Raylene remained bent over, checking Noba and each of the circutamina for injuries.

  Lyra joined Cullen and Vickie who stretched their legs. “I didn’t know Draora had that ability, to take away the suffering of others. Did you?” She tilted her head toward Vickie.

  “Yep, both she and I are empaths. Ray too, in a different way.” Her cousin faced Cullen. �
��I didn’t know if Great Aunt Draora’s talent would work on you, you being fully magical.”

  Cullen ran a hand through his hair. “It worked well. I needed to recharge, and she helped a lot.”

  “An empath.” Lyra smiled. “Is that why I always love your hugs?”

  Vickie shot a grin. “I don’t have the studied ways like Raylene, since I’m busy with the kids. But I can do a thing or two.” She glanced at Draora who rested on a low-hanging limb. “I need to go take some of her load. She’s draggin’ a bit.” Vickie gently took hold of the witch’s stockinged ankles and, with eyes closed, pressed a cheek against her grandmother’s knee. Vickie’s eyes clamped tight as the negative energy passed from one to the other.

  At his perch above the ghost-witch, Kenzo ruffled his feathers.

  “Interesting,” Cullen remarked. “I’m not familiar with that power. It could be performed through fascination, but that’s typically used to interrogate or harm.”

  “Maybe it’s a good thing I brought some new magic to show folks here.” Lyra extended her aching calf muscles and arched her back.

  Cullen rubbed her spine. “Compassion is always good.”

  Lyra’s lower lip quivered. “Ysmena does have that magical empathy. She has eased my troubles many times.” Lyra studied his eyes. “She isn’t going to make it, is she?” Her voice lowered to a whisper that caught in her throat with a croak. “I’m going to miss her.”

  Cullen pulled her to his chest. “War isn’t fair.” He stroked her hair and tucked loose ends into her braid, his fingers catching on brambles.

  Lyra pulled away and ran a hand down the length of the braid. “What a mess. What a long day. I hope at the bow maker’s I can clean up a bit.” Thinking through the hardships of their day, which began back in a state park in Michigan, tiredness hit again.

  “You’ll be able to rest at Partho’s,” Ivri said as she cut between them. “It’s an easy hour hike on a good trail.” She clapped her tiny hands. “Let’s get moving again. This way!” The lead keeper set off with a brisk pace in an easterly course.

  The walking did prove easier, and the farther they traveled, the more normal the forest became. Birds darted and sang. Wildflowers bent their heads and followed the visitors. Chipmunks chattered above their heads and jumped from limb to limb after them.

  Distant roars and crashes of falling trees faded behind a chatty hum from nearby trees. A grove of hickories leaned over the path and whistled a conversation among themselves.

  Having bonded before with that species, Lyra picked out a word or two—death fires, Scribe, Dark Realm—but with so many speaking at once, she could only guess the full meaning. She caught up to Ivri who walked with Raylene. “There’s a nervous energy among these trees. Are they worried the death fires will come here?”

  “The elders have frightened everyone. They remember centuries back when the Dark Realm fought to take us over,” the head keeper replied.

  “The World Tree told us. We can’t let that happen again.” Raylene twisted to face her cousin. “Lyra, you know these trees’ languages? Can you teach me?”

  “If there’s time while the bow is being made, I’ll teach you how—”

  “We keepers would be delighted to teach you.” Ivri beamed. “Ahead! There,” she called to her guides and pointed to a small side path. “Partho’s home is the aron tree on the left.”

  The humming abruptly ceased, and surrounding trees bent in the direction of the mighty aron which stood wide and tall like the one used as a safe house for Ysmena.

  Warbling birds zipped to low branches and twittered quietly.

  Ivri strode to the open archway at the base of the flared trunk. Rather than a boulder which formed a cover to the aron they had left, wooden double doors with wrought iron hinges secured this entrance. She cupped her hand to her mouth and bent low. “Partho, are you home?”

  “Sakes alive, you don’t be needing to yell. I’m not deaf yet.” A round face wearing a long white beard poked through the opening. The keeper, remarkably spry for his appearance, bounded up steps to the forest floor. Almost square in stature, his girth matched his height of thirty inches. Dressed all in green, he looked so much like Lyra’s vision of a leprechaun, she could not help but grin. A wide leather belt held his coarsely woven trousers and tunic in place around his protruding belly. Dingy white hair curled beneath his tweedy knit hat, and also grew between his leathery toes. “I heard the scuttle in the air, talk about the great Scribe needing my skills. Straight away, I set to work sharpening my tools.” He eyeballed Lyra and bowed.

  Cullen and Lyra returned the gesture, with her cousins following suit.

  Ivri motioned to the guests. “Woodsman Partho, I present to you: Scribe Lyra, Sire Drake, Sire Kenzo, and assistant Noba—all from the Alliance territory. Also, please meet these grand visitors from the human world who are relations of the Scribe: Raylene, Vickie, and their grandmother, the ghost-witch, Draora.”

  “Quite a remarkable lot. I’m honored.” Partho scratched underneath a thin metal file tucked behind one pointy brown ear. “I’m covered in metal dust. That means I’m ready to do your bidding, Scribe Lyra. What task are you needing a lowly craftsman like me to do?”

  Ivri smirked. “Don’t be fooled. Partho is known throughout our land as the most skilled wood artisan. For good reason the Lady of the Forest granted him this fine dwelling of a rare aron tree for his workshop.”

  Keepers from the local area gathered in a circle around the guests, their eyes wide and shining.

  Raylene mingled among the circutamina, holding hands with those who visibly trembled.

  Lyra unzipped her jacket and presented the moonstone violin. “This violin—”

  “Ooh my!” The woodsman leaned closer, and his brown eyes widened. He held out his hands. “May I?”

  Lyra passed the violin to him, surprised to see him spend more time examining sycamore wood than the powerful keystone embedded in the front of its scrolled neck.

  “Exceptional wood!”

  “It’s sycamore,” Vickie replied.

  “Indeed it is.” Partho’s eyes glittered like amber, then darted back to the instrument. “But not just any sycamore. This is wood from a portal tree.”

  Pleased to have their guesses confirmed, Lyra exchanged knowing grins with the others in her group.

  “There’s enchantment in the lay of the grain, so smooth to the touch, tight enough to last many lifetimes.” The artisan glanced at Lyra. “Do you know how old this is?”

  “It was made around the year fourteen hundred by Scribe Nareene.”

  Partho danced a few steps of a jig, and Lyra lurched forward, ready to catch the violin in case it fell. “No worries. My hands are careful to a fault,” he said, and his face lit with a smile that exposed a row of square yellowed teeth. He leaned toward Draora and raised a bushy eyebrow. “I see you’ve brought along a length of wood from our own portal, the mighty World Tree, as old as this fiddle.”

  Lyra touched the moonstone. “Playing enacts this keystone’s power in the form of enchanted music—the nightingales’ song. I need to be able to make this magic to bolster the people who must fight against the Dark Realm. If I use a wood from Silva Caliga, folks from here will be included in its song of courage and hope.”

  “So my task is to create a bow from the wood of our World Tree?”

  Lyra nodded.

  “Have you made bows before?” Cullen asked, stroking his goatee.

  The corners of Partho’s mouth curled, and all the keepers behind the group chuckled. “Indeedy. Many. Circutamina are great fiddlers. Sire, beg pardon but you should recall that from when I first laid eyes on you at the equinox festival earlier this spring.”

  “Yes. I do remember.” Cullen nodded with a smile. “Then, proceed. Time is running out for people under attack.”

  Partho waved the guests to follow into his workshop home.

  Lyra and the others ducked to pass through the three-foot entrance to acce
ss descending steps. However, once inside, the ceiling extended far into the trunk, allowing them to stand. Shelves lined the upper walls, with a spiral staircase providing access. They descended a dozen steps to the main room of the underground dwelling. Although sized similar to the aron they visited before, wide, hollow roots radiated in all directions. The smaller roots provided space for work tops, while larger ones, joining the trunk with four feet of width, housed bigger projects and tools. A single root held the keeper’s simple cot, clothing rack, and reading nook, the only personal area.

  “Make yourselves at home.” The woodsman motioned to Ivri. “There’s a stack of pillows in that root for guests, if you’ll please help while I set to work.”

  Ivri and her helpers distributed pillows around the main room. “The local keepers will soon bring a meal. We’ll rest here for the night while Partho works.”

  “I’m pooped,” Raylene announced and set off a round of giggles among the keepers. She laughed and playfully pulled two of them onto a stack of pillows with her, tickling them until the cheeks of their brown faces glowed like spiced apples.

  A line of circutamina filed down the steps. Each carried some food, drink, or item of comfort for their guests. Two held steaming tureens that wafted savory aromas of rosemary and thyme. Unsteady with the large load, another brought a metal pitcher almost as tall as herself, dribbling milk over the side. Others carried: loaves of fresh bread as big as their torsos; bowls of nut salads; flagons of cider and ale; wooden bowls, plates, and serving ware; wool blankets; stacks of hand-woven towels and thick bars of brown soap.

  Overwhelmed by their hospitality, Lyra rose from her cushion and bowed. Her friends did the same.

  After a satisfying meal, guests and guides took turns in small groups bathing in the stream which ran fifty feet behind the aron tree. Ivri accompanied the female visitors and led them to the bank of a deep pool. “Partho is lucky to have a good source of water for his work. And we’re lucky to enjoy it this evening. I’ll keep watch while you bathe.” She cut through brush and stood on a high ridge, her back to them as she faced the direction of the main trail.