“Our mission was a success.” Caritha bowed. “Yet, we have failed in one regard.”
“Oh?” The man leaned on his staff, fixing his blue eyes on her dark ones. “To what failure do you refer?”
Dantress stabbed her sword into the sand. The mission hadn’t been a success. If it had, then Kesla would have returned to her father. And she had also given up his infant son. She should have kept that boy safe. She should not have given him to that crazy old woman sitting in a land-bound canoe. Things would have been different; things would have been a lot different.
She sank to the coarse sand and struck it with her fist.
As if in answer to her inner cries, a rustic canoe slid onto the beach, half resting in the water. The old woman held out her arms. Dantress stood slowly. A tear formed in each eye, blurring her vision as she reached out and took the warm, sleeping son of the traitor into her arms. She mouthed a thank you to the old woman.
“Take care of yerself, deary.” The old woman’s canoe slid away into the sea. “Ye have a gift, a gift to love without consideration to yourself. Never let that go.”
No oars were in the old woman’s hands and the boat had no rudder, yet it moved off into the distance, carrying the curious occupant beyond Dantress’s sight.
“Come.” The shepherd strode to the portal’s entrance and waved the sisters toward it.
Rose’el set her shoulders and stepped through without a word. And Evela followed with a bounce in her step. Levena sheathed her sword, lifted her chin proudly, then allowed the fizzling circle of light to swallow her whole. Laura walked in, briskly, no hesitation. Caritha, sword still in hand, glanced at Dantress and, with a nod, stepped through.
Patient stood beside Dantress, his arm around her shoulders. With his free hand he stroked the baby’s head. “You have chosen wisely, child,” he told her. “In saving this one life, you have saved many.
“Now we should go. These lands must await another day, another savior. But for now, they fall into darkness.” Thus saying, the shepherd led her by the hand into the portal.
She was sinking into a jelly-like substance, slippery and cool. All sense of time failed her, light streamed by in glorious abundance. The shepherd beside her streamed into nothingness, the light nudged her with its gentle fingers, sending her into a knee-high stream of bluish-yellow jelly. She was moving at incredible speed, diverted from the portal’s original course.
Six yellow-eyed, black scaled dragons dropped from the sky, enclosing Specter in a circle. Drusa alighted on the ground not ten feet in front of him. Her feathers shivered, reminding him of a buzzing bee anticipating its next nectar harvest. Her eyes fastened on him and her dirty lips curled back to reveal equally filthy teeth.
She could see him? He glanced around at the dragons, their eyes fastened on him as well. They could see him too. But—what had happened? He should be invisible.
Thunder shook the ground, another bolt sizzled from the heavens. This one cracked into the ground only a few feet away from Specter, and a dark figure descended through it. Black and brown feathered wings unfolded from the humanoid’s back, and a gust of wind flipped long gray hair over one of the creature’s wild, black eyes.
Drusa crouched. “Master, this is the ghost man from the forest!”
“Ah.” The creature rubbed its hands together. “But surely this cannot be the same man? For now he is visible, exposed for all of you—my faithful ones—to see.”
“I have no wish to harm you.” Specter stared into the creature’s eyes. “Leave now and we will all live to see tomorrow.”
The winged man laughed and turned to his minions. “Did you hear him? Are you listening?” He returned Specter’s stare coldly. “I fear no one, Ghost Man! I am Turser, the Art’en wizard Lord of these lands and wielder of a power beyond any I gather you possess.”
Turser fished into his black, ragged shirt with his right hand—the skin was black, the hand withered—and when it reappeared it balanced a small shiny sphere, as black as the depths of night, on its palm. “Tell me, Ghost, what is your name?” Without any warning the wizard’s healthy hand sprouted a blast of green energy, striking Specter in the chest and sending him breathless to the ground.
“Pity.” The wizard held out the sphere. “I had hoped we’d get to know one another better before I killed you. But seeing how easy this is proving to be, I doubt you have much longer to live.”
Standing, Specter forced himself to ignore the heat racing through his chest. He drove at the wizard with all his might, but another green energy bolt struck him down. This one sizzled longer, latching onto and lingering on his chest before it died. But he stood again and, when the wizard threw another charge in his direction, Specter jumped to the side, rolled, and stood beside the Art’en. He raised his scythe.
The wizard, energy still sprouting from his left hand, did not have time to protect himself. Specter’s blade sliced open the man’s face from his left eye down to his chin. He swung the handle of his weapon around to hit the creature’s side.
Screeching like a mortally wounded bird of prey, the wizard crouched down and bit Specter’s leg. Specter attempted to back off, but the winged man seemed transformed into a carnivorous creature.
Striking with fists and wings, Turser dropped to the ground. He balanced on his hands and kicked his feet into Specter’s ribs. As he fell, Specter tried to stab the wizard, but Turser’s black sphere fed him green energy and blasted from his hand, hitting Specter repeatedly until Specter felt that he would indeed die—again.
Again? What made him think that he had died before? His mind filled with images of swords and blood and a youth— wielding a white-bladed scimitar. Betrayed! He felt the conviction of the word, knew then what he was, who he was. But, no, I am him no longer. I am Specter.
Despite the pain, despite the multitude of attacks, Specter stood up again; he would not die today.
He twirled the scythe around his body, letting his rage build inside him like a hurricane waiting to be let out. The next time that the Art’en’s wings struck at him, Specter’s scythe harvested their feathers.
The wizard screeched again, his featherless wings pitifully naked.
“I did not want to kill you,” Specter said. He drove his weapon’s handle into his enemy’s ribcage. With every blow the images of his previous life returned to his mind, making him remember, making him strong.
Holding his scythe with both hands he now struck the wizard’s withered hand, knocking away the sphere. As soon as he did … he had the satisfaction of seeing his cloaked body vanish. But his efforts had cost him dearly. His wounds drained the energy from his body. He collapsed, invisible, yet helpless.
The clouds in the eastern sky split apart as if pierced by an enormous white blade and Specter knew what would happen before it ever did. This time salvation had come in time.
Albino dropped from the sky, directly over him. The tremendous bulk of the dragon overshadowed him. In the great white dragon’s presence the other dragons cowered away, whimpering like dogs in retreat.
Drusa alone tested the creature. She flew at his neck as if to tear out his throat. But instead of touching him, the It’ren passed through him as if he were not even there. When she fell to the ground, she looked up and screeched in terror. Her master rose beside her, grabbing for his sphere.
But Albino opened his mouth in an earth-shaking roar. The sphere rose into the air and hovered before the dragon until his claws closed around it and shattered it into a thousand fragments. An explosion of darkness erupted from the ruined device of wickedness, yet the dragon’s white scales glowed and the darkness dissipated against them.
Clasping Specter in his claws, Albino shot into the sky. Specter watched the ancient ruins and the wizard and Drusa shrink out of sight. And even as he rested in the dragon’s clutches, he felt Albino send wave after wave of revitalizing energy into his body to heal his wounds.
PLANTING SEEDS
Shooting from the stream
of jelly and light, Dantress emerged into a dark place. She could see no farther than her hands and her feet did not rest on a floor. Yet the air cushioned around her, making her comfortable and secure.
Ahead of her two doors opened silently, and a vertical line of flickering light appeared. A chamber filled with raging flames emerged from the blackness. A sword, burning fire inside of and on the exterior of its blade, rose amidst the flames. She caught her breath. Its handle twisted upward, its blade pointing down, until it rested level with her eyes.
“Once again you come to me, dragon’s daughter. Once again you loosen the tongue of prophecy:
‘The man child you hold, the traitor’s son, son of a warrior— and of a witch. A powerful warrior he will become. He will seek vengeance for those he does not know, and his eye will be drawn to dragon blood enchained beneath the valley.’“
Dantress could not take her eyes off the weapon which had a splendor beyond compare. Where was she? And what, or who had created this place?
The chamber doors closed gradually, leaving her once more in total darkness. She felt her feet rest on a solid floor of stone.
“It is done then,” a voice rumbled from behind her.
She spun around. Balancing the child in one arm she reached into the fold of her garment and touched the cool pommel of Xavion’s sword. Her fingers slid over its handle, and she drew it from its scabbard. The blade blazed like a torch, and the light radiated off of the pure white scales and soft pink eyes.
“Father!”
In her excitement, Dantress almost dropped the baby, who started to cry.
She ran to the dragon’s outstretched arms, feeling his warm gaze. As his strong, hard fingers pressed her against his chest, Dantress wept. The joy of reunion, the stress of the past days … it all welled up inside her until it forced its own release.
She could not say how long she and the dragon stood there. When she opened her eyes they were standing in the palace library.
Patient stood there too, leaning on his shepherd’s staff with one hand, smiling at her from beneath his hood. And in the shepherd’s arm lay Kesla’s son, sound asleep. The shepherd’s white robes starkly contrasted the dark bookcases towering above him. Somehow he seemed almost magnificent, even in the presence of the great white dragon.
“The boy is Kesla’s son,” Dantress said as the dragon released her from his embrace. She walked toward the shepherd and lowered her sword into its scabbard.
The white dragon took one powerful stride past her and fixed his eyes on the weapon. “The sword.” His tone was hushed. “Patient, my friend, do you see?”
“Yes! Yes, I do.” The shepherd’s blue eyes shone, and he stepped in Dantress’s direction, his eyes fastened on the sword’s handle, which she still held. “Do you think”—the shepherd looked up at the dragon, questioning—“that this weapon might be purified?”
“It appears the process has already begun.” The dragon swung his head around to address the shepherd. “But the sword will never truly be cleansed, never fully restored, until it is wielded by one who has shed no blood, whose heart is pure, and in whose veins runs the blood of humanity. Only then would it be restored to its original state.”
Silence filled the next moments. The dragon and the shepherd appeared deep in thought.
“Forgive me, my daughter,” Albino said at last, glancing down at Dantress, “in all the excitement I’m afraid I got distracted.”
He gestured with one clawed hand and led her to the door. “Elsie, Helen and Gwen have already fixed dinner for you, so go along now. I will speak with you and your sisters later. And, dear child, you did well. You have made me proud.”
Dipping a curtsy, Dantress walked through the doors. They shut behind her.
“Fairest among the dragon’s daughters, you are back! Well, well … no cuts on your pretty face, so I see.” Mivere flitted onto her shoulder and clamped his thin arms across her neck, that is, as far as they would reach.
Dantress laughed and smiled down at the delicate creature. She stroked his red hair. It had grown a couple inches longer since she’d last seen him. Mivere’s transparent oval wings rustled together, and he closed his eyes.
How he had found her to greet her before anyone else in the palace? She didn’t venture a guess. It was nice to be wanted, to be loved. And Mivere was certainly a true and faithful friend.
A bit of stone on her shoulder caught her eye and she picked it off. Rubble from the Temple of Al’un Dai?
“Here,” she said, handing it to the fairy, “a souvenir from my trip.”
The fairy held the stone, turning it over and over in his hands. His wings beat against the air, and he hovered in front of her face and kissed her on the nose. A minute tear rolled down his cheek. With a smile, he flew around the bend in the main hallway.
No doubt he headed for the fairy tree.
To her right, Evela’s head popped into view.
“There you are!” Evela smiled. “Dinner is being served. Are you coming?”
Dropping royal etiquette for the moment, Dantress ran down the hall. She and Evela laughed together and embraced.
“We worried about you,” Evela said, leading her into the dining room where Caritha, Rose’el, Laura, and Levena sat before the table with a fine, generous meal. “Where were you? The shepherd came through the portal without you and then he told us not to worry and he brought us to the palace.
“Rose’el was convinced you’d run off to find another helpless person to save, but I told her you wouldn’t be so foolish. Oh! By the way, Father said he is going to give us another assignment. What do you think of that?”
“Evela.” Elsie bustled into the dining room and forced the shortest sister into a vacant chair. “No more chattering, Evela! It is time you all ate something decent. You all look a mite thinner than when you left.” She neared Dantress and kissed her on the cheek. “Sit down, child. Eat and then rest. You look famished and exhausted!”
Dantress smiled a tired sort of smile. “Thank you, Aunt Elsie.” She was grateful for the woman’s love, but it had been merely a few days since they’d left the castle; not a month!
“Gwen,” Elsie called at the closed kitchen door. “Bring an apron out, will you? Gracious me! Can’t we even serve dinner in a timely fashion today?”
“We’re coming, Mum.” Gwen bustled in from the kitchen with a fruit bowl in her hands and a warm smile on her face. Helen followed close on her heels with more food for the dragon’s daughters.
After setting down the fruit bowls, Gwen held out a neatly folded apron to Elsie.
“Gwen, how often must I say this?” Elsie stamped her foot. “Red only. This is not red—this is white.”
“Sorry, Mum.” The faintest hint of an amused grin passed across Gwen’s face as her long legs sped her toward the kitchen. She returned seconds later, a red apron draped over her arm.
“That’s better.” Elsie slipped the apron over her head and tied it around her back. “Now, dinner is served!”
Albino closed the library doors behind Dantress and lingered there, staring at them, before shifting to face Patient.
The shepherd, still holding the infant, returned his gaze. “I will take the child and raise him.”
“No, my friend.” The dragon shook his head. “If Letrias ever learns of Kesla’s son, he will surely seek him out. Besides which, you are going to be far too busy to raise a child. We must hand this matter over to another, someone who will be able to watch over the boy without being seen. And we must send the boy to a place Letrias knows nothing of.”
The shepherd raised one eyebrow. “Who do you have in mind?”
“Who else? Specter. He has proved to be more than capable; I would trust him with my life.”
“As would I,” the shepherd replied. “But where will you send him? Letrias’s might is growing and his influence may soon reach every corner of Subterran.”
The dragon snarled. “Yet for all his cunning, that wizard knows no
thing of that other world. As long as Yimshi shines down, its rays bathing this world, the other is hidden.”
“Yes.” Patient stepped forward, smiling. “Another tool … I am beginning to see the extent of your plan.”
“Are you? I have not yet begun.” Albino rumbled in his throat. “I am merely planting the seeds. It will be up to others to water them.”
“Very well, then,” Patient said, waving his hand. “Bring him in.”
The dragon spread his wings a little and blew smoke from his nostrils. “Specter!” His voice rose to a roar.
Patient cringed, covered the baby with his own robe. “Have a care, my friend. The child is sleeping.” He frowned. “Shall I go out into the hall and call for Specter? Or are you going to scream again?”
“There is no need. I am here, my masters.” In a dark corner of the library the ghostly figure of the tall man coalesced. He was young, in his mid-twenties. His head bent forward slightly beneath his gray hood. He held a black-handled scythe in his right hand, keeping it barely an inch off the floor. The light of the fireplace reflected off the narrow, long blade that bent from the handle about a foot above Specter’s head as he strode slowly to the dragon and the shepherd. His blue eyes did not avert Patient’s or Albino’s gaze and yet there was not even a hint of a haughty or proud spirit.
Specter took the baby from Patient’s arms, looking down at the child in silence. He turned to go, but the dragon held out a clawed hand.
“There is one more thing I wish to do before you go.” He produced a brass ring between his claws.
Specter’s head jerked up. His mouth opened as if to speak, but he clamped it shut.
“Yes,” the dragon rumbled, “you do know this ring. It was Kesla’s … now it will remain with his son so that when the time comes, we will know him.”
Holding up one of the infant’s tiny hands, Specter waited as the dragon slipped the ring over the pointer finger of the boy’s right hand. As the brass band slid past the second knuckle, it shrank until it became the perfect size for the child’s finger. “There.” The dragon slowly withdrew his claws.
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