Enchanted Bookstore Legends (5-book complete epic fantasy romance box set)
Page 119
Panicked, she attempted to move. Only her arms and head moved. Fear gripped her. Was she paralyzed?
From above, yells and screams echoed, many calling her name. She opened her mouth to answer but couldn’t force any air across her vocal cords. She attempted to raise an arm to the callers, but pain shot through her shoulder and rib cage. Only her forearm lifted. She hoped that gave enough of a signal.
She clawed the sandy soil, searching for her staff and the violin’s sack. Her fingers located the strap coiled around the staff, and she dragged them next to the instrument at her side.
Yells reached her, and red light spilled onto her face. Lyra clenched her jaw, wondering if that light belonged to the Qumeli elder. If so, she hoped he’d kill her rather than leave her in this torturous pain or worse.
Instead, the light quieted the confusion in her mind. Stillness spread from the base of her brain through each vertebra. The new sensation replaced pain with a peculiar heightened awareness. Although her vision remained blurred from the Qumeli dust, her other senses suddenly became hyperactive. Sounds magnified so much they jumbled together like a symphony tuning its instruments. Her nose now detected the rusty odor Draora had described, carried on currents from the river. Dozens more new smells revealed to Lyra, like the earthy scent of gypsum clay in the sun-baked soil. Her skin’s sensors fired constantly. Her t-shirt rubbing her shoulders with each inhalation commanded attention. Despite the new sensations, the red energy felt pleasant, almost intoxicating, humming through her body—powerful and reassuring.
She turned her head as much as possible, trying to see the light’s source. It fell on her from the wall behind, seeping through cracks—the Emtori Ruby. Although Kessa warned her against touching the gem, Lyra couldn’t resist. She reached toward it, pleased to find improved motion in one arm. The forearm now bent easily, then she inched the shoulder to pull the arm along the ground behind her.
Exhilarating vibrations met her extended palm.
She worked the arm farther from her head until she met the wall. Her fingers riffled through loose sand and contacted a smooth, hard mass. She closed her hand around the object and pulled it in front of her face.
Red light pulsed from the keystone. At last, she found it. Its energy coursed heat through her limbs, making her feel vigorous and invincible. Her heart beat faster with anticipation and eagerness. She gripped the gem and willed her legs to move. Still, they remained motionless.
A thud sounded nearby, followed by footsteps. Fearing the Qumeli chief, she tucked her hand with the ruby underneath her waist.
“Lyra! Lyra, can you hear me?” a familiar male voice asked as a shadowy figure drew closer.
Not the Qumeli. She tried to sigh but could only exhale in short, ragged bursts that wracked her body with convulsions.
A man’s face leaned over her—Tarom. His long, dark hair spilled onto her cheek, and his purple gemmed pendant swung hypnotically past her eyes.
“You’re seriously hurt. Both magical wounds from that attack and mortal wounds from the fall. I must transport you to healers better than myself or Sire Drake.” Lyra couldn’t remember falling.
From eyes of a skull mounted on a carved staff, a cloud of his violet aura quickly rose around them, blocking out a distant flash of blue light. He lifted one side of his black cloak, enveloping them in darkness. The weightless sensation of dematerializing brought Lyra sweet relief from being trapped in a paralyzed body.
Familiar voices, both male and female, which she couldn’t name called to her.
Lyra clutched the ruby to her chest and let go of all thoughts.
Chapter Twenty: Firestone Fever
Through the thinning violet mist, Lyra strained to see around her. She couldn’t piece together what had happened to her or where she was. The Qumeli dust began to wear off, but her vision still blurred and focused randomly. Where she lay on hard, packed soil, the violin nestled at her side in its sack. Her left hand clutched the Emtori Ruby. She worked her other down to her pocket—the Staurolite remained safe.
Tarom leaned over her. “Can you hear me, Lyra?” His complex scent caught her attention; a pronounced top note of calm rosemary masked undertones of volatile and spicy coriander—a curious dichotomy. With the ruby utilizing so much of her mental processing, she noted the contradiction but gave up on analysis.
“Yes.” The word stuck in her throat with a garbled croak. “Where am I?” she sputtered.
“Where there are many healers.” He looked up and waved. “Bring your best healer of magical wounds.”
Lyra turned her head in the direction of female chatter and caught a glimpse of the weathered faces of three women. Full sweeping skirts covered their wide hips, and kerchiefs wrapped around their horns tying back their hair—Qumeli.
They directed a teenage girl who took off at a run and disappeared between circular canvas tents. Animated with arms slicing the air, the trio glanced back and forth between each other and Lyra, talking in a foreign tongue. Their heated discussion drew more onlookers every minute. The metallic odor of rusted iron hung thick in the air. A chaotic squabble of noises bombarded Lyra’s ears. A distant herd of goats bleated, and dogs barked from every direction. A clutch of pseudodragons flapped their tiny wings in nearby trees. Footsteps rushed toward her, and urgent human voices whispered nearby, while others called and yelled throughout the camp.
Lyra flailed her arms against Tarom’s chest. “Get me out of here. They’ll kill me.” Her hand holding the ruby landed with a thud against his shoulder.
He squelched a moan and grabbed her wrists, pinning her arms to the ground while she flinched. “Listen to me,” he whispered close to her face. “You have serious mortal wounds. Those alone threaten your life since you’re not fully afflated. But your magical wounds from that fight are far worse. Neither Cullen nor I can mend those. You will die without the help of these healers who can use black art.”
The strength of the ruby’s magic willed her to fight him, but her torso and legs refused to obey her commands. Despite her heightened sensory input, her legs felt nothing. They lay limp and heavy. She attempted to direct aura into them, but what little she could gather wouldn’t transfer into the paralyzed tissues. She winced at the realization of his truth about her injuries. But she doubted whether the Qumeli would actually help her. “Why would they save me?”
“Because I’ve requested their service.” Tarom raised his voice, possibly to clarify his intent to those who stood close. “This is the Qumeli camp of the western Dark Realm. As the official alchemist, they will honor me.”
“They have no code of honor,” she spat.
“They will serve me. And they will serve you, the bearer of the great ruby.”
“They’ll just kill me to take it.” She steeled her jaw. “You could have at least let me be with Cullen while I die.”
Tarom lifted her empty hand. He rubbed his thumb along the side of her index finger and repositioned the dragon ring to another finger to expose her bloodswear scar. He let go of her other arm and brought his own finger encircled with the same mark next to hers. “Along with Cullen, we share a bond. I will not let you die, and I will return you to your love. I made that promise to you before. I put myself at risk, helping you escape attackers at my Versula castle. Feel my honor once again.” When their scars touched, she accepted his word. Whether he could control the strong-willed Qumeli seemed less certain.
Bombarded with the ruby’s effects, confusing impulses zipped through her mind and body at hyper-speed. She couldn’t sort out potential risks. Lyra attempted to catch Tarom’s gaze and use the craft of fascination to read his mind for clarity.
He averted his eyes, which worried her. She vaguely remembered seeing Cullen’s blue light in the air. She wondered why Tarom appeared at her side in the ravine without him. And why did Tarom transport her away in such a hurry before Cullen arrived? She frantically searched for reasons, but her overloaded brain wouldn’t sequence the possibilities.
The golden aura in Lyra’s palm shined much weaker than she expected. In her other hand, the ruby’s bright light spilled between her fingers. It seemed healthier than her. She recalled passages from the first Scribe’s book. When Elisabeth encountered the ruby, it fed on her energy, then shared its power with her, creating a unified bond between them.
“That ruby is a burden to you.” Tarom’s hands followed hers across her torso, accessing internal damages. Do you wish me to keep it safe?”
“No. I need it,” she snapped and clamped the gem to her chest, where it pulsed with a more brilliant light.
“Why do you need it?” He quickly repaired her ribs, knitting the bone fragments together with skill.
“It takes my pain away.”
He scanned her face. “Is that all it does?”
“It makes me feel powerful, more alive,” she replied without thinking, then wondered why he pressed her for a more complete answer, as though he tested her.
A young Qumeli woman, dressed like a man in loose trousers, assisted an elderly female who walked with extreme difficulty. With tedious effort, the older woman knelt at Lyra’s side.
Tarom gave a knowing smile to Lyra and motioned to the pair of Qumeli women. His expression indicated he learned something from her answer, but what? “She has a serious magical wound to the lower spine. Aura is leaking around her organs. I can do no more. I trust you can heal her.”
“Gorta heals all.” The young woman wearing pants nodded at her elder and squatted at Lyra’s hips. Dusty, suede boots laced up her shins. She took the old woman’s frail hand toward Lyra but abruptly jerked back and gasped. “The stranger bears the firestone.” The young Qumeli trembled and bowed a forehead of cropped, dark hair that hid numerous horn stubs. Behind two prominent horns above her ears, braids hung down her back. While muttering expletives, she gave off a faint skunk-like body odor.
Gorta remained stoic, her eyes clouded with milky cataracts on either side of a single, scaly horn that arched over her head. More like a demon than a human, her appearance frightened Lyra. The elder woman’s shapeless gray tunic, adorned only with a single claw-footed talisman hanging from her bony neck, added to the chilling effect. When she leaned closer, Lyra grimaced at the old woman’s scent—wet pavement covered with drowning earthworms.
Members of the gathered crowd murmured in a language Lyra didn’t understand.
From his position beside her, Tarom gripped the young woman’s shoulders and pulled her upright. “Heal her now!”
She swallowed hard and spoke to Lyra with a shaky voice. “My name is Teklay. We care for you. Stay still.” Teklay gave a forced smile and touched Lyra’s forehead. “Much heat.” She wiped her hands on a coarse linen vest and took hold of the elder’s knobby fingers again.
Gorta’s icy touch at Lyra’s pelvis made her grimace, although any sensation in her paralyzed lower body gave hope. “Fire spews through her,” the elderly healer said hoarsely and twirled a finger. “Turn.”
Tarom repositioned himself at Lyra’s opposite side and gently rolled her toward him, while she cradled the violin to her chest in the nook of an elbow.
She gasped at the sensation of leaked aura flowing through her left side. To quell the discomfort, she clutched the ruby tighter. It responded, sending energy deep into the organs of her lower torso. Unable to see the Qumeli women behind her, she studied Tarom’s face for any reaction to their procedures.
For several minutes, Gorta’s icy touch traced Lyra’s spine and pelvis.
Tarom’s face remained vigilant but calm, his dark eyes following the women’s movements.
Coldness radiated along Lyra’s sacrum, then jabbed down her upper legs. Her thigh muscles spasmed reflexively. Gorta repeated the application, this time for longer, and the sensation shot to Lyra’s shins. A third time, to her toes. Her legs kicked without her control.
Suddenly Lyra’s mouth watered with nausea. Heat flooded her face and sweat stung her eyes. She clutched Tarom’s knee high boot with her free hand to steady herself.
He rubbed a hand along her shoulder. “You’re hurting her! Be quicker.”
“Only must seal the wound,” the elder croaked. Behind Lyra, a rattle shook while Gorta chanted, her voice hoarse and low.
Teklay danced around Lyra’s body, shaking the gourd instrument. When she completed a full circle, Lyra detected new feeling in her legs. Her aura, along with power from the ruby, coursed into the lower limbs.
She stretched her legs long and wiggled her toes in her boots.
“How do you feel?” Tarom asked.
“Good. Like I want to try to sit up.” Actually, with the ruby’s empowerment, Lyra wanted to leap and dance and race the wind.
He supported her torso.
The eyes of those gathered widened.
“Help me stand,” Lyra directed the alchemist.
With Tarom’s hands under her armpits, Lyra pushed up carefully to test the strength of her muscles. Her legs held her weight, but she took tentative steps to be certain.
“Cured. Now, you pay,” Teklay proclaimed loudly, and the small crowd cheered.
Lyra’s head swiveled to face the woman, and fear shot through her. No longer occupying a helpless body, the ruby commanded her to protect herself. She waved the ruby at arm’s length around the circle. Its red light set skirts and pant legs ablaze on those closest.
The victims screamed and ran, not stopping to extinguish flames licking up the fabric. Camp dogs barked wildly after the victims. Pseudodragons fled to cover higher in the wiry trees. Women from tents rushed out with hides to put out the fires for a few. Most, not as lucky, fell to the ground engulfed and writhing, their shrill cries ascending octaves higher until both their voices and bodies silenced.
Only the two healers and Tarom remained, frozen and staring at Lyra.
The air smelled of charred flesh. Then, Lyra realized what she’d done. She sank to the ground and cupped her head in her hands. She killed innocent people. How? The ruby’s energy validated the wretched act, while what little she could access of her own aura and ethics rebuked her for the murders. Tormented by the war in her mind, she hugged her knees, then spread her legs wide, digging trenched through the dirt with her heels.
Tarom conferred with the pair. He passed a series of small objects to them and waited for their approvals.
Chilling silence descended over the camp. Rather than the previous bustling chaos, only wailing sounds of grief filled the air punctuated by an occasional lone howl. Tent flaps previously open to the fresh air, now fastened tight. Lyra’s heart ached for those she killed, but the grief of their loved ones cut like a blade.
Unable to accept or even comprehend the murders she committed, Lyra raged against the foreign power occupying her. She tried to release the ruby. She opened her palm and wanted to shake the gem loose—its will overpowered her own, flowing through her veins like a rush of adrenaline. She shoved it into the empty front pocket of her jeans, thankful for the meager protection of at least a few thin layers of fabric between it and her. She leapt to her feet and tore away from the camp, away from any person she might harm. Her intention—burn out the ruby’s fire.
As Lyra paused to tuck pendants inside her t-shirt, a clutch of pseudodragons flew alongside. She worked to ignore the tiny dragons, blot them from her mind, in case she might unexpectedly hurt them if she thought about them too long.
She ran with rhythmic, wide strides. Minutes later, when she gasped for breath, she ignored her body’s needs and kep
t the pace. Fever from the spilled aura of her injury had countered the gem. Racing to increase her internal temperature should produce the same effect, maybe even burn the gem out of her completely, if she worked hard enough.
Lyra soon found a cleared trail and increased her speed. Sweat soaked her spine. She ran up and down rolling hills of rocky outcroppings mixed with scraggly forestland. She hurtled boulders rather than risk slowing her pace to step cautiously around the hazards. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she ran on, her head high, her body alert and capable. She felt totally alive. Her mind began to clear, and her own thoughts pushed aside the directions of the ruby. She smiled to the trees and rocks she zipped past, overjoyed with her success.
Two pseudodragons flapped alongside from tree to tree. Her mind now more lucid, the dragons triggered memories of Noba, Cullen, Kenzo, her cousins, and Draora. She worried about their safety. Cullen had been hurt. She’d seen his blue light following her, so he survived the attack. But had the Qumeli harmed her family? And Kessa. Lyra gulped air. Had she saved the girl? Lyra shuddered thinking that the ruby blotted out those important associations.
She remembered her purpose—get the four keystones back to the Alliance and save Kessa. She held the Emtori Ruby and the moonstone. Only the Pearl of Pendola and the fluorite remained, those that Eburscon possessed. She guessed she’d find him here in the Dark Realm. She didn’t relish fighting him alone. His ruthlessness and cruelty showed no bounds. But the massive power of the ruby gave her a definite advantage, and a temptation for a man so determined to rule all.
If only she could find a way to use the Staurolite to control the ruby. Like each of the Scribes, her birthmate star, a fire sign, drew her to its heat. Fire added to fire created an irresistible inferno of greed and self-indulgence. Yet, of all the Scribes, only her aura aligned with the master power of quintessence that could control all four elements: fire, earth, air, and water. Corresponding with quintessence, the Staurolite stone commanded all four keystones. Somehow she must use her aura to manage the firestone. Her thoughts finally clear, she stopped behind a tree and pulled the Staurolite from her pocket to search for a clue.