The Mirror of the Moon (Revenant Wyrd Book 2)

by Travis Simmons

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  What Now?

  Snea Peak of The Well of Wyrding

  About Travis

  Copyright © October, 2012 by Travis Simmons

  The Revenant Wyrd Saga Book Two:

  The Mirror of the Moon

  ISBN 978-1490981550

  Published by: Wyrding Ways Press

  Cover Design by: Najla Qamber Designs

  Formatting by: Wyrding Ways Press

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means – by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without prior written permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual places, events, and people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  There were many marvels that travelers to Whitewood Haven commented on. That is, travelers the Mountain Elves allowed to come this far. One of the least spectacular, though most commented on, was the way Whitewood Haven was able to stay so warm throughout the entire year, and especially at such high altitudes.

  Many people would be heard later saying how a strange wyrd settled through the woods propagating the warm climate. No trace of snow ever graced the upper regions of the Mountains of Nependier. Truth be told, when snow came it wouldn’t settle on the mountaintops, but instead start in the foothills and work its way down to the plains from there.

  The reason for this was rooted in the history of the region. When the elves and dwarves began their communications eons before, heating shafts were tunneled from the White Mines up through to the top of the mountains so the elves—nomadic creatures as they were—would have heat wherever they roamed. Heating vents ran, not just to Whitewood Haven, but all through the Mountains of Nependier including to the ponds and even Lake Nependier so bathing and swimming were also pleasurable no matter the month. This served two vital purposes: now the elves never had to seek safe harbor in the plains below when winter came, and the dwarves also had a way to keep the mines at more amiable temperatures.

  The most profound of the features in Whitewood Haven, and the one most commented on, was created by the Wyrd of the elves aboveground and the dwarves below.

  In ages past, before the elves sought safe harbor in the mountains from the encroaching humans, the Mountains of Nependier had been home to a plethora of trees. The trees spanned from simple pine to great redwoods. Over a number of years after the elves came to dwell, the wood began to bleach from the wyrd of both races living within the range. Now it was one of the most amazing sights to behold in all the Great Realms. Tall trees looking to be carved of ivory dotted much of the land.

  During the day, when the leaves and needles of the trees could be seen in light, visitors would notice how they were not green, as most leaves and needles were, but instead a strange blue-silver which shimmered like some alien ore. At night this anomaly created a glittering canopy like the stars had fallen from the sky to settle over the treetops.

  This illusion was only fitting, of course, seeing how the Mountain Elves worshiped the Mikak’e, or as humans would understand it in the common tongue, Those Who Come from Beyond the Stars; or more simply Star People.

  Whitewood Haven, one of the only permanent establishments of the mountain elves, was the center of the elven council. This council was made up of a collection of elders from each tribe living along the mountains, and as such it became a permanent haven for the most trusted of elves. If the elves were said to have any kind of government—though the way they governed would be most foreign to humans—it would be centered in Whitewood Haven.

  As it was, human politics had no hand or bearing on the way the council of elves ran things, nor the way the dwarven forgers worked.

  Things had ran this way since the time Aaridnay had forced all the realms to sign the Proclamation of Racial Individuality. She had met with the elves and the dwarves in particular and tried to strike a deal. The elves, who had already given up their lands to the humans ages ago, told her simply to keep her humans out of the Mountains of Nependier and all would be well. And though they hadn’t lost anything to the encroaching humans yet, much the same was heard from the dwarves. So it had been for hundreds of years the only people permitted access to the higher regions of the Mountains of Nependier, instead of the trade routes normally tread, were those the elves and dwarves thought of as exceptional among the human race.

  Lockelayter had met one such person years ago. At that time she called herself Graysyn Ellengar; now she was known simply as Grace, but to the elves she was called Star Sister, a title showing special rank among the tribes, a status that not many humans were allotted. Now she was considered sister to the elves and dwarves alike, for whomever the elves trusted also earned the trust of the dwarves.

  Three nights ago Lockelayter had felt a similar need, though this time from a different deserving person. As chance would have it, Star Sister Graysyn had been among the party.

  So it came, and still it stayed, that only a select few chosen by either dwarves or elves were allowed access to any part of the Mountains of Nependier existing outside the trade routes. Even those the elves or dwarves chose to sojourn in their homes were not allowed back into the mountains unless made a member of the tribe; hence the Star Sisters and Brothers.

  These four Lockelayter brought with him were rare; never before had such a large group of humans been granted entrance, for four were more dangerous than one even though humans stood no chance of overpowering either race. It was uncommon for two people to venture this way, unheard of for three, and almost sacrilegious for four people to see Whitewood Haven at once.

  There were many reasons why Lockelayter didn’t think the council would mind all of these people being here together. Three of them, including the stricken one, were of a powerful bloodline all elves would feel once coming in contact with them. Even now, walking not too far ahead of them pulling the litter, Lockelayter could feel the power of their blood caressing his skin like silken smoke rising to the Mikak’e in praise.

  The three of them not only possessed powerful blood, honored blood, but they also were descended from one of the most revered of Star Sisters in elven history. Given the fact they traveled with Grace would have gained them at least a modicum of trust.

  The main reasons Lockelayter thought they would be welcome, however, did not have to do with their blood, but the ring in which the short blonde wore. It was said the circlet would only be given to a person who would have great
need of it in the future. The ring, as it was, would call out, encouraging its current holder to pass it on so it would end up on the finger of one who would need it most.

  Lockelayter had felt the call from the ring a few nights past.

  The blonde bore this ring—the one ring in the world that would grant unquestioned entrance to the elven lands. Legend said the ring was a gift from the Mikak’e themselves, and it may have been for it sparkled on the blonde’s finger as if it had been plucked out of the brightest star in the night sky.

  None of that mattered, however, because Lockelayter was fairly certain, given their states of melancholy over their fallen comrade, that most of them did not even see the beauty of Whitewood Haven (say nothing of the way there) even now as he led them down one of the winding paths through the white forest. The path was lined with waist-high pillars of ivory with large opalescent orbs perched atop each pillar. When touched, the orb would grow brighter and brighter until the elven hand that ignited it was removed; this was their unique form of lighting carved by dwarven hands, wyrded by elven will.

  “We will place him to rest just there,” Lockelayter pointed a few yards ahead to a clearing. In the clearing sat a large white slab. It was the gathering table where celebrations were held, council kept, and the dead laid to rest. The large ivory table sat in the middle of the clearing so it would grant a clear view of the sky and the stars the elves revered. “He will be safe; the Mikak’e will guide him to your Mother Goddess. Death does not touch these lands, and therefore you have no worries of your Neferis boy having tangled with the Three Wisdoms. Even now I am sure the Radiant Ones are bearing him safe passage to your Mother.”

  This did little to console Angelica. She didn’t care about any of that; she only cared that her brother, her best friend, was dead and gone; mutilated beyond recognition. Things unseen did not bother her, for who was to say anyone ever faced the Three Wisdoms? No one ever came back from death. What she knew now was what she could see physically. She forced herself to look back at his beaten, burned body with the mess for fingers. Was this her brother? Was this Jovian Neferis?

  For a time it was hard for her to understand. She finally decided she couldn’t accept it. This was not Jovian lying there, this was not her brother. Something else must have happened to him, because this brutalized body lying before her was most certainly not Jovian Neferis.

  Then another emotion came to her, an emotion that stirred a strange feeling inside. She felt energy well up inside of her, like something expanding at the base of her spine. As the energy stretched out through her flesh, the dots on the palms of her hands began to burn.

  The feeling that smothered her entire being was vengeance.

  Angelica hated the sorceress named Porillon, and she would see her dead. It wasn’t a vow she took, for she didn’t decide anything in her mind; it was an understanding. Angelica Neferis would be the one to slice that bitch’s head from her body, and she would bathe in her blood by the light of the Mother’s Moon.

  With her hatred the power previously contained at her spine blasted through her body, taking her to her knees in a startling cry of pain. Her hands crippled in terrific cramps making her think the bones would break.

  A shadow formed at the edge of her vision and she felt a larger, greater wyrd bearing down on her, enclosing her in an orb. Angelica’s thoughts were trapped, her anger inside the globe, as if this force was trying to smother it out. Through the orb she could hear nothing but a warning from Lockelayter:

  “You would do well not to entertain your darkness’s here, young Neferis. This place is protected by old wyrd; all banes are eliminated. Calm yourself, and I will remove the shielding.” Lockelayter leaned down close to the orb of wyrd in which Angelica found herself writhing in pain. For a moment she was caught in the beauty of his strange, violet eyes that—almond shaped as they were—consisted of nothing but iris. “After all, that is what got you in this mess to begin with.”

  At that moment Angelica sensed—uncomprehendingly—the elf had knowledge she was not privy to. She also knew he would not tell her what that was.

  After a time, not yet able to shake her anger and hatred, Angelica settled for looking down at her brother’s ruined body. Instantly her anger was replaced with sadness and she felt, rather than heard, the moan that left her quivering lips. In an effort to stop the tears, she looked skyward into the canopy of silver-blue foliage through a veil of tears.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked, her voice thick with sorrow. “I don’t know how to live without him.” She looked back to the elf with pleading eyes.

  “I know, human, but you will learn.” Most people would not have thought this reply helpful or soothing, but from such a magnificent creature as Lockelayter it was both, and much more.

  As Maeven watched from the back of the group, he saw many more elves of the same multi-hued brown hair and shimmering golden skin step out from between the white trees. All of them were dressed with the white wraps of cloth that Lockelayter adorned. The men wore wraps covering from their waist down, the women from the chest down. As far as Maeven could tell, all their feet were bare, and so was the rest of their bodies save a circlet of vines around their heads and silver bands around their forearms and wrists. A woven silver sash held up their clothing.

  At the edge of the woods they stopped. In silence they watched Lockelayter carry Jovian the rest of the way to the gathering table and laid him on it. Jovian’s blackened, charred flesh looked putrid against the pristine white of the table.

  Lockelayter stepped back and looked down at the lank body of Jovian Neferis. Going to his knees, Lockelayter lowered his forehead to the ground, arms splayed out before him in respect. All through the trees, like a wind rustling leaves in a forest, each of the surrounding elves followed his example.

  “Here lies the child of one who was greatly honored among us elves,” he said, rising back up to his knees. If anyone was waiting for more, it didn’t come.

  The elves knelt with a statuesque grace no human could have mastered. Each golden figure with almond eyes of bazaar colors, pointed ears that nearly reached the top of their heads mingling with the wreath of ivy they all wore, posed as if they were carved from some metallic alloy. They neither moved nor spoke, but sent up prayers for the Mikak’e to bear this man to the arms of his Mother Goddess.

  There was a swell of energy through the clearing, an energy so profound that it actually affected physical space. The energy came through the clearing, pulsing against their skin.

  It was unmistakably a pulse of powerful wyrd. There was a distinct scent on this wyrd; not something sweet or acrid, not subtle or sharp, not floral or repugnant, but a bit of each. It was the smell of nature and power.

  Joya heard leaves rustling and looked up to see that beautiful canopy quivering, not swaying in a breeze, but quivering as if from the quaking earth.

  Then off in the distance across the clearing Joya saw a silver light bloom out of the darkness, like a torch, or a wyrders’ conjured light. The orb glowed with pulsing light that was both of this world and not.

  As she watched transfixed, the light came closer and closer until one of the most magnificent creatures Joya had ever seen stepped from the bleached trees on the opposite side of the clearing.

  The horse was the most pure white she had ever seen. So white, in fact, that it nearly hurt Joya’s eyes to gaze upon it. She tried once to look into its quicksilver eyes and found that she could not force her gaze to meet those pools of wyrd, for that truly was what it must have been. Joya knew if she had looked into its eyes, she would have been shown the very making and unmaking of the universe; it was a truth Joya Neferis did not want to know.

  In an attempt to avoid the eyes she so desired to see, Joya found the source of the source of light. Between those unknowable eyes sat a long slender horn that spiraled out of the creature’s head a good two feet. At the very tip of the horn the light rested.

  Off in the distance, where the l
ight had originated from, more lights bloomed out of the darkness. It was hard enough to imagine one of these creatures being part of this world, but to think of many (hundreds by the telling of all those orbs) of these creatures existing outside the realm of fantasy and dream was almost too much for her mind to comprehend.

  The lights pressed closer, but only close enough to illuminate the surrounding trees and elves so that wood and flesh both glowed in the presence of their light. The other horse-creatures stayed out of sight.

  The first creature picked its way across the lush grass of the clearing to the stone slab in the center where Jovian lay dead.

  “Can you help him?” Angelica asked. A collective gasp rose from the lips of the elves gathered. They all rose and looked at Angelica as if she were a blasphemer, but she paid no attention; only Lockelayter kept his head bowed in silence. “I know what you are,” Angelica stepped forward, her hair rippled from the force of this horse-creatures wyrd. “You are one of the fabled nependier these mountains are named for. You can help him; I know you can.”

  She stopped on the other side of the table staring straight at the creature over her brother. Her body was tense, but not from fear. Angelica rested her hands on the table and watched the creature watching her. “The question is not if you can help … the real question is will you help?”

  The nependier stood staring at Angelica as if weighing something in its mind, calculating a decision about her worth—if Jovian was worthy enough to help, if it would make a difference in the lives of the nependier if this man stayed dead or not.

  Fear not, came a strange voice into Angelica’s mind. The voice was so strong and so powerful that it made her knees shake. She would not show frailty, she would not collapse from the power the voice exuded over her. The time for this Neferis’ death is not now. There are many things he must do before his time is up. The creature bowed its head in acknowledgment of her question.

  Then with a startling pop that resounded through the clearing, huge, feathery wings snapped open from the nependiers’ body.