Maylin's Gate (Book 3)

by Matthew Ballard

  She bit her lower lip and gazed toward the keyholes. The world couldn't wait any longer.

  "I can shield us," Jeremy said.

  Ormond chuckled. "You've no idea the power the emperor wields."

  "We should walk away," Brees said. "Walk away and find another way to beat the plague. A better way."

  "I disagree.” Jeremy glanced between her and Brees. “Trace is a liar, and I don’t believe he’d risk destroying his most prized possessions."

  She gazed into Jeremy's eyes. "Why can't I feel your certainty?"

  "We're here," Jeremy said. "You can't let Trace guide your actions from a thousand miles away."

  She stared at the symbol taunting her from across the room. The elemental orb’s steady hum buzzed in her ears. She’d come so far.

  "What's it going to be?" Brees said.

  She tightened her grip on the keys. She had to make a choice. The right choice.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  A New Path

  Cold rain sprinkled the dead littering Harlech's streets.

  Tara ambled ahead, numb to the dead humans and troopers piled at her feet.

  The low groans of the living came amid the corpses. In the street ahead, flickering torchlight cut through the gloom.

  She stumbled past two guards who searched for the wounded among the bodies. She didn't care if the guards recognized her. Whether she lived or died made no difference. She made no attempt to block the rain spattering her face. Her rain-soaked clothes clung to her body, and her blond curls lay in a limp heap atop her head.

  "Excuse me miss. Are you okay?" A guard said.

  She ignored the man and sloshed forward through ankle-deep mud puddles.

  Brow furrowed, a second guard stared at her. "Do you need help miss?"

  The help she needed, these men couldn’t provide. She needed the curse lifted from her body. She needed a new life.

  Dark silent buildings lined the street as if paying homage to the dead. The dead who had given their lives to protect hers.

  She staggered forward without a destination. She paused outside a smattering of homes marking the town's outskirts.

  Raindrops pattered against a tin roof. Candlelight flickered through the building's open doorway.

  She remembered this kind of building from Porthleven. A chapel for those who worshiped Elan. She faced the circular building with its stained dome. If only she could talk to Elan for a moment and explain herself. She could explain the poor choices she’d made and ask for guidance. But, Elan had died to protect those he loved from her childish wrath. Why couldn't she do the same? Why did she feel the need to kill?

  She entered the chapel and paused. Water dribbled from her dress and splattered against the wooden floor. Warmth from the chapel’s lit candles chased away the numbness in her cheeks and fingers.

  She wiped away rain streaking her face and tucked her tangled blond hair behind her ear.

  A half-dozen pews lined each side of the chapel. On the altar, candles glowed before a chipped clay statue. The statue depicted Elan wearing a flowing robe. Elan held an orb cradled atop open, outstretched palms.

  The ache in her chest deepened. How many more demons would she face tonight?

  In the last pew, a figure shrouded in a woolen blanket lay sleeping.

  She ignored the figure and walked to the front of the chapel. With a glance to Elan, she settled in the pew before the altar.

  Elan stared down wearing a face different from the man she remembered.

  "I bet you're surprised to see me here," she said averting her gaze. "I've made a mess of things again I'm afraid. I'm sure you're not surprised to hear that."

  Candlelight flickered on the altar while silence hung in the air.

  "I don't know what to do." Her voice trembled. "I don't know where to go."

  She turned her gaze upward and stared into Elan's eyes. "I never told you that I'm sorry, did I?" Tears rolled down her cheeks and her chin quivered. "But, I am." She closed her eyes and sobbed. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the heartache I brought on the world. I'm sorry for what I did to you. To Jo.” She wiped the wetness from her cheeks. “I’m sorry for blaming you for my actions. I’m sorry for acting like a spoiled child. If I could go back and change time,” her voice shook on the edge of breakdown, “I would. I should’ve listened to you. I should’ve heeded your advice. You were right about me." She leaned forward onto the altar and her body wracked with sobs. "I don't know what I've become, but I'm not the monster the world knows. I can love.” She choked on sobs for a full minute feeling Elan’s stare bear down on her. “The one friend I made in the world. The one friend who saw me for me, I turned away."

  Outside, gentle rain pattered against already bulging puddles.

  "I'll make it better." She stared into Elan's eyes. "I promise you that I’ll never take another life even if it costs my own. I will find a way to right the wrongs I've unleashed on this world. I'll find a way to stop the killing.”

  She paused not daring to ask for anything in return, until she could no longer hold back. “Can you…?” Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “Would you find it in your heart to help me lift this curse? Can you reach Ronan and ask him? Ask him to help me?"

  A warm hand touched her shoulder. She jumped and spun to face her visitor.

  Before her, Jo stood wrapped in a woolen blanket. Tears streaked the girl’s red cheeks. "I'll help you," Jo said. "If you mean what you said, I'll help you find the king."

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The Sansan

  Ronan’s eyes fluttered open. He drew in a sharp breath and jerked his head upright. He sat in an ornate drawing room lined with rich woven carpet.

  Bright tapestries hung from polished marble walls. Fine furniture huddled around him like ladies attending a formal tea party. Through a thin windowpane a sky colored shades of purple and green cast an eerie glow against the marble walls.

  “Be at ease Elduin,” a female voice said.

  A familiar voice both elegant and supple. He turned his head toward the woman's voice.

  A stunning woman with golden locks cascading over bare shoulders stood near a bronze door. The woman tucked a loose lock of hair behind a curved ear ending with a soft pointed tip. The woman turned her gaze on him and their eyes met.

  His heart beat faster. He held the woman's gaze for a long moment. “I know you.”

  “You remember?” The woman’s eyes filled with expectation. “In all the times we’ve met, you’ve never remembered me.” The woman flashed a nervous smile setting his stomach fluttering.

  “You came to me once before,” he said. “You told me about a barrier. About needing my help. You mentioned something about Maylin’s gate.”

  The woman's blue eyes sparkled beneath the room’s strange light. Eyes registering a raw mixture of desperation and fear. "There's no more time to waste," the woman said. "Both our worlds need you now."

  "What's your name?" He said.

  The woman half glanced toward this closed-door before meeting his gaze. "Aurelia.” A slight frown crossed Aurelia’s face.

  "Who are the creature’s coming through the gate?" He said. "I can't help you if you won't give me more information."

  Aurelia shivered. "The ickaret. They’re horrible beasts. They take us from our homes. They take our children. They took your children and those of the sansan."

  Sansan. Zeke’s word. "What do you expect me to do against the ickaret? I've lost my magic. I can't help you."

  "I told you once before, the Seeker can help you reclaim your magic, but you have to open Maylin's Gate. The Tower of Souls cannot stand without you."

  "I can't open the gate without magic. I don't know how."

  Aurelia stared at him with mouth agape. "What do you mean you don't know how? Did you find Zeke? He can help you."

  "Zeke said that magic is tainting my soul thread. Until it's removed, I can't open the gate."

  Aurelia's jaw slackened. "You're not joking."


  "Can you bring the Seeker here? Bring him to me. I need to speak with him."

  Aurelia glanced toward the door. "I told you, the Seeker cannot open the gate. That is your calling."

  "Why do you keep looking towards the door?" He said.

  Aurelia's voice lowered to a whisper. "The punishment for scrying is severe. If I'm caught...."

  Scrying? "I need to speak with the Seeker. Is this the Tower of Souls?"

  Aurelia glanced behind with eyes registering surprise. "Our time has run out. You have to open Maylin's gate. Open it now."

  "I've told you, I don't know how."

  Aurelia stepped forward and stopped an inch from his face. Tears welled in the woman's eyes turning them an impossible shade of blue.

  Aurelia’s fragrance set his head spinning. How could anyone stay focused around this woman?

  Aurelia leaned in and brushed his cheek with her lips. "If I knew how, I would tell you. You have to find a way. Please hurry."

  The image of Aurelia and the drawing room dissolved.

  He lurched upright and gasped. His heart beat a thousand miles a minute and his head swam. Like before, sweat soaked his tunic and streaked his hair. Pain pounded at the base of his skull and he reached for a dull ache throbbing in his neck.

  He remembered his dream in vivid detail. But, unlike his last visit, he remembered Aurelia. Did that mean he neared the edge of madness? This couldn’t be good for his long term health.

  The scent of rawhide hung in the stagnant air.

  He opened his eyes and squinted through the shadows trying to shake loose a blurry haze.

  A golden animal hide covered the floor beneath him. General Demos lay beside him with eyes closed.

  Stacked animal hides sat in a corner. Tracers of bright light seeped through cracks in sloped walls made from animal hide.

  He leaned over and placed his fingertips against General Demos's neck.

  The general’s pulse beat slow and steady while the man's chest rose and fell in an even rhythm.

  He turned his head upward and pain rifled down his neck and through his shoulder. He recalled something stinging him before the world turned black.

  Whoever had captured them left them free and unharmed. A thought that encouraged him. He leaned over and shook General Demos’s shoulder. "Wake up."

  General Demos groaned but didn’t move.

  Before him, the tent flap rustled.

  His stomach fluttered and he inched away from the opening.

  Light flooded the angular room. A leather-skinned boot appeared through the open flap.

  He shook the general’s shoulder again, harder than before. "You have to wake up."

  A hand came through the opening. A hand with skin like his but scales beneath. A baerinese hand. The creature's face appeared next and stared at him.

  He froze, afraid to move a muscle. His heart raced and he edged backward pressing tight against the tent wall. He fumbled for his belt knife but found it missing.

  The creature before him blinked and held his gaze. A warrior's face, but not filled with malice. Animal hides covered the man's body from head to toe. The warrior's facial features appeared baerinese but different. The warrior stood several feet shorter than General Demos. A jagged ridge of scales decorated the warrior’s skull. Loose feathers hung from the man's ears. Multicolored paint lit the man’s face in yellow, red, and white.

  He reached for Elan's magic, but it eluded him. Sansan. The word Zeke had used. Aurelia too. Zeke believed General Demos came from these people.

  The warrior stepped into the tent and glanced between him and General Demos.

  "Who are you?" He said.

  The creature's forked tongue slithered outward as if tasting the air. The sansan warrior spoke in a language he couldn't understand. The warrior pointed at him and General Demos then at the tent's opening.

  "I'm sorry, I can't understand you," he said.

  "I can understand him," General Demos said.

  He whipped his head sideways and General Demos sat upright staring at the sansan warrior.

  "How?" He said.

  "As a youth I studied this language," General Demos said. "I've never heard it spoken. I don't think anyone has. The language died centuries ago. I never thought to hear it in this land."

  "I don’t think he knows the language is dead," he said.

  A thin smile touched General Demos's lips. "He wants us to follow him."

  "Where?"

  "He didn't say, but it would be impolite to refuse."

  "I suppose there's no harm in that. It’s not like we have much of an alternative." He stood and his muscles groaned.

  The warrior stepped back through the tent’s opening and held it aside waiting.

  He stepped through the open flap and shielded his eyes against the sunlight.

  General Demos came after and paused beside him and the warrior.

  The warrior stood a head shorter than him. An odd experience after so long with the baerinese general.

  Around them, two dozen cone-shaped tents stood in a circle around a roaring campfire. Beyond the tents, the savanna stretched outward like an endless sea of spun gold. Three warriors worked near the fire fletching arrows like those he’d seen a few nights earlier. A tent larger than the others sat central to the camp two-dozen paces past the campfire. Two of the sansan warriors guarded the tent’s opening. Each warrior held a black-shafted spear with a barb-tipped made from bone.

  Their guide walked ahead and motioned for them to follow.

  With General Demos beside him, they followed the warrior across camp.

  Near the fire, a tent stood with its flap open. Inside the tent, sansan men and women stretched out on animal hides. A woman lying near the opening groaned. Red blisters covered the woman's face.

  He paused and stared through the opening.

  Through half-closed eyes, the woman met his gaze and groaned.

  He tugged on General Demos's sleeve. "She's sick."

  The general peered through the tent flap and back to him. "It's not polite to stare. Come, before they grow angry with us," General Demos said in a whisper.

  The sansan warriors working near the fire stared at him wearing hard expressions.

  He turned away from the tent and the sick woman.

  Their guide continued around the fire and stopped before a tent wider than those around them. The warrior spoke a few words to the guards and they exchanged nods.

  "What are they saying?" He said in a hushed voice.

  "He wants to take us inside," General Demos frowned. “They speak fast and I'm having difficulty with the translation.”

  A guard pulled back the tent flap and stepped aside. Their guide motioned them forward and into the shadows.

  He stepped forward.

  The guards gawked at General Demos as he passed through the flap.

  Inside the tent, a half-dozen warriors sat around a rug woven with red, yellow, and green beads. A platter piled high with cooked meat, ripe red berries, and diced vegetables sat at the rug's center. Worn clay jugs and wooden goblets sat before each warrior.

  The aroma of roasted meat set his stomach growling and his mouth watering.

  The guide motioned toward the open spots around the platter and spoke a few words to General Demos.

  “He wants us to sit,” General Demos said.

  He had mentally devoured two slices of the roast and nodded. “Good. I’m starving.”

  Their guide moved aside and settled onto a plush animal hide covering the remaining spot.

  He sat beside the guide while General Demos eased into the seat next to him.

  The warriors didn't speak while he and General Demos sat. Like their guide, each sansan wore feathered earrings.

  The warrior guide glanced between him and General Demos. “Seth.” The guide motioned to the platter.

  He caught General Demos out of the corner of his eye and raised a questioning brow.

  “Eat,” General Demos said.<
br />
  “Shouldn’t we wait on the chief?” He shot a nervous glance across the tent, but the gathered warriors stared at him stone-faced.

  “No. It’s impolite.” General Demos leaned forward and retrieved a piece of steaming meat from the platter.

  He followed suit picking out a juicy chunk of tender brown meat. He bit into the morsel and flavor exploded across his mouth. “Can you tell them thank you? It’s delicious.”

  General Demos spoke in a string of broken phrases and gestured toward him.

  The warriors gazed toward the guide sitting beside him.

  He swallowed the meat and nodded to the guide.

  General Demos glanced between the guide and the warriors seated around the tent.

  “Simrok sithramil. Cinthaceen fageel croc.” The guide gestured around the table and a wide grin exposed a set of sharp yellow teeth.

  General Demos stared at the guide with jaw agape.

  He felt like the last man in on a private joke. “What did he say?”

  General Demos nodded to the guide. “This warrior is the chief.”

  “He’s the chief?”

  “Yes,” General Demos said.

  “Why is he grinning?”

  “Because you’re eating the beast from the river that almost ate us.”

  His stomach churned and he gazed at the meat with a fresh set of eyes.

  “They call the animal a croc,” General Demos said.

  He picked up a jug decorated with blue paint and poured purple liquid into a clay mug. Without asking the liquid’s origin he washed back the croc meat.

  Laughter rolled from the chief and spread among the warriors.

  General Demos smiled.

  “Sethra plac,” the chief said and nodded. “Victus meris.”

  He nodded at the chief and grinned. “What did he say?”

  “Eating the beast will bring you good luck,” General Demos said.

  “Tell him I said thank you for saving us.”

  General Demos translated his words and the chief answered.

  “He said you’re welcome. They’ve followed us from the forest’s edge.”

  “The rattling that night in the fog, it was them? Did they kill the faceless man?”