by Jason Denzel
Within throwing distance of the summit, they came to the end of the path, which opened onto a wide, flat area upon which stood the ruins of an old structure. Snow covered the ground, refusing to yield to spring. The roof had fallen away, or perhaps had never existed to begin with. Its front entrance jutted out of the mountain and faced west, back toward Kelt Apar. Gray stone pillars, made of a type of rock unlike anything else on the mountain, stood in a circle, ringing outward in a now-broken pattern. Moss, ivy, and snow covered most of the pillars, clawing deep into the surface to crack them apart.
A heavy silence drifted in the air, giving Pomella a chill. On the far side of the ruins, the path continued a short way up to the actual summit. She traced her hand over the nearest pillar. The wet moss tickled her fingers.
“What do you think this shrine was built for?” Pomella said.
“I don’t know,” Quentin said. “But it’s getting late. There’s a cave over there. Let’s take a look.”
“We should go to the summit,” Pomella said, still riding the surge of urgency from before.
Quentin’s hand found hers. “It’s fine. We’ll be back in plenty of time. There’s no need to be the first ones back. If anything, Yarina will admire that you took your time and didn’t just rush through the Trial. Besides, the Trials will be over tomorrow. This may be our last chance to be alone.”
Pomella considered his words. It was getting dark, quickly. They could visit the actual summit point and try to descend at night, but that didn’t seem like a wise idea, despite what Saijar and Vivianna were doing. It had already been a long day of hiking, and Quentin was right that this might be the last chance for him and Pomella to be alone together.
Quentin grinned at her, seemingly reading her mind. He reached out his hand; his eyes dared her to come with him.
Pomella accepted his hand, and followed his lead. The setting sun touching the distant western horizon caught her attention. From their vantage, she could see the ocean sparkling. She stared in wonder, mesmerized by the endless horizon. The descriptions she’d heard didn’t do it justice.
As they approached the cave and its unseen depths, the memory of her recent dream jumped unbidden to her mind. She remembered the temple, which may or may not have looked similar to the one at which they stood. She crossed the ruins and ducked her head under the threshold, entering the large natural cavern. Quentin followed.
The cave reminded Pomella of the room she and Sim had found in the Mystwood. Faded paintings with broken frames, barely visible in the dim light, ringed the cave walls at uneven intervals. Their style matched what she’d seen before, but once again, the meaning eluded her.
“It’s beautiful,” Quentin said behind her.
Pomella’s cloak caught on something as they moved farther into the cave. She twitched the cloak free. It had snagged on a metal bar, about the length of her hand, sticking out of the ground. Glancing across the floor, she saw handfuls of them, spread out to form a wide circle.
“What are those things?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Quentin said, looking from them to her. “But they aren’t what I’m focused on right now.”
Pomella was suddenly conscious of her travel-weary appearance. Despite that, her excitement surged. “We’re staying here tonight, right?” she asked, stepping closer to him.
He nodded. “In the morning we’ll go to the summit and find our staves.”
“Do you think it matters that the others will return before us?”
“Doubtful,” he replied, shrugging.
Pomella slipped her arms around his waist. He trembled under her touch. “Then we’re alone at the top of the world,” she said, and kissed him. She took it slow, savoring the feel of his mouth on hers. She’d been wanting to do this right. Her hands began to slowly move across his body. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight. Pomella’s hands sped up, and quick as a skittering luck’n, rational thought fled her.
She lifted off his shirt, revealing his strong, tattooed body. He tugged at her cloak, still kissing her, and soon their hands fumbled to remove every bit of clothing they could find.
Quentin reached around her back to untie her Springrise dress. She wished he would go faster.
The dress’s simple string ties fell loose, and he pulled a single sleeve down, revealing her brown shoulder. Somehow maintaining her calm, Pomella ran her hands down his muscular chest and found his belt. The buckle unlatched and she prayed that her hand didn’t tremble. It didn’t.
“You are so beautiful,” Quentin whispered in her ear. He leaned into her, kissing her again, deeply. His hands ran along the front of her neck, across her shoulders, and down her arms toward her wrists.
“Take my dress off,” Pomella commanded, trying to keep the plea from her voice.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and she heard the echoing sound of metal clamping together.
Panic and confusion flashed through her. Quentin stepped away from her, half-naked, his face a mask of fear and sadness.
“I’m truly sorry, Pomella-my,” he whispered.
“What’s going on?” she asked, looking down at her hands. Two heavy manacles bound her wrists together. She pulled at them, but they held tight.
A figure emerged from the deep shadows of the cave. He wore rust-colored robes and carried a tall Mystic’s staff made of iron. Bits of metal jutted from his exposed flesh. His face was lost in the shadows of his hood.
Quentin stood still as the man approached her. “Welcome, Pomella,” said the Mystic. “I hope you like this cave. You will be here awhile.”
* * *
Strange dreams haunted Sim. The moment he’d arrived in the cave, he’d finally succumbed to his aching weariness and collapsed against the wall, in a distant alcove away from the spiked circle. As he drifted in unconsciousness, he saw Dane, standing outside the cave surrounded by a magnificent shrine. Behind him, a little girl with long black hair in a white dress watched with a cold expression on her face.
Dane looked up at him. Blood drained from Dane’s eyes like tears.
“Wake up, Sim.”
Sim jolted awake. He heard voices.
“Who are you?” said a familiar, quavering voice. Sim stood up and tried to shake the fog from his mind.
Pomella stood, her dress disheveled, in the circle of spikes in front of Ohzem. Between them stood the tall man Sim had seen with her the other night. Several tattoos wove around his bare torso and arms. Sim could see Pomella gaping at Ohzem’s scarred and bloody face.
“I am the next master of Kelt Apar,” said the Mystic. “I am Ohzem.”
Pomella turned back to the bare-chested man. “What’s happening, Quentin?” She reached toward him, and Sim saw manacles wrapped around her wrists.
“It was my family’s wish,” the man named Quentin said, not looking at her. “For thirty-seven generations our family has produced Mystics. The High Mystic went too far in inviting a commoner to be her apprentice.”
Pomella’s face filled with disbelief.
“Pomella!” Sim shouted, and lunged forward.
“Grab him!” Zicon yelled.
Jank and Hormin leaped at Sim, knocking him down. He scrambled and struggled in the dirt, but they managed to twist his arms behind his back and clamp the manacles back on. He kept his attention on Pomella even though Jank pressed his face against the dirt.
“Oh, Saints! Sim!” Pomella cried. She twisted to face Quentin. “Liar! I trusted you.”
Quentin stepped closer to her. Sim barely heard his words. “I had no choice, Pomella-my. My family arranged everything. Nothing is more important than family. Nothing. Not even my personal feelings.”
He reached out to stroke her cheek, but she pulled it away.
“Do not be so harsh on him,” Ohzem said with a strange, half-mocking tone. “Lord Bartone only played the role he was given. Why, I even think he might legitimately care for you.”
“He can wallow in shite!” Pomella snapped.
>
Hormin approached Pomella and clamped a heavy chain to the manacles around her wrists. A long chain ran from them to one of the spikes in the ground.
Quentin’s face hardened. He pulled his shirt back on. “She’s not to be hurt.”
All mockery drained from Ohzem’s voice. “I will decide who is to be hurt,” he corrected. “Remember your place.”
Jank hauled Sim to his feet.
Ohzem turned to him. “You’re predictable. Do not fear for her, though.”
He drew a long, dull-gray knife, its iron blade chipped along the edge, and stepped toward Pomella.
“No!” Sim blurted, panic welling up. He leaped again for Ohzem, but Jank punched his chest, driving the air from his lungs. He crumpled, trying hard not to lose sight of Pomella despite the blow.
“Get the chest ready,” Ohzem told Zicon.
Zicon strode to the chest and snapped a leather cord from his neck. On its end, Sim saw a heavy key, which Zicon inserted into the chest. The key turned smoothly, sounding a solid thunk as the lock released.
Zicon opened the heavy chest.
It seemed as if an icy wind rushed through the cave. Sim couldn’t see what the chest contained, but Zicon stepped away from it, as if to give it room. He placed himself behind Pomella, and grabbed her arms.
“Sim!” she cried.
“Pomella, I—!”
Jank ground his face into the rock.
Ohzem held the knife above his head. “Ceon’hur! By this action, I summon thee!” He struck with the knife. Pomella screamed. Sim’s eyes widened in horror.
From his compromised angle, Sim couldn’t see what happened. But he saw Pomella lift her arm and look down at her side. Blinking, Sim focused.
The strike had cut her dress and sliced her ribs.
Silence filled the cave. A thin red line of blood leaked out of the cut.
Ohzem lifted the knife and held the bloody blade in front of his face. With a grim expression he flicked it downward, speckling Pomella’s blood across the stone floor.
“What did you do?” Pomella said, voicing Sim’s thought. Why hadn’t Ohzem killed her? Wasn’t that what they’d come here to do?
Suddenly the floor cracked and erupted as stone shot upward. The cave shuddered and pebbles trembled down from the ceiling. Large boulders rolled upon one another, forming the huge shape of a man.
The Green Man towered over them all, except instead of being made of plants and soil, he was formed entirely of rock pulled from the mountain. Sim’s heart thundered. The Green Man was here! Like a massive armored warrior, he rose over his opponents. Bits of dirt crumbled from his stone arms as he stretched them wide.
“Ox!” Pomella called.
“Who shed the innocent blood of a candidate under my protection?” the Green Man roared.
“Ceon’hur,” Ohzem said, bowing slightly. “I am privileged to once again be in your presence.”
Sim gasped. The Green Man was the ceon’hur?
“Why have you bound this girl in iron?” the hulking creature asked.
“It is not her who shall remain in iron,” Ohzem snarled.
He lifted both his arms, staff and bloody knife stretched toward the ceiling, and made a throaty sound, somewhere between a cry and a gurgling chant. Light flared, and a large ring of iron lifted out of the nearby chest into the air. Shaped like a single massive wrist cuff, it was wider than Sim could wrap his arms around. Four thick iron chains hung off of it.
With a piercing yell Ohzem punched his arms outward, and the ring of metal flew toward the Green Man, striking him around the neck and clasping shut. White-hot light blazed from the metal, burning stone. The Green Man clawed at it with his rocky hands and stumbled backward. The chains connected to the neck band lashed out and secured themselves to the spikes trapped in the ground.
Zicon dragged Pomella outside the ring of spikes. As the Green Man flailed, Ohzem also backed away until his boots were just beyond the circle’s edge.
“I have waited decades for this day,” Ohzem said, maniacal glee on his face. “They said the guardian, the ceon’hur, could not be defeated. But I have learned of a greater power. The Myst exists in all things, but in iron, it is weakest. And atop this mountain, of all places, you are vulnerable.”
Quentin stepped up beside Ohzem. “Is it trapped?”
The Green Man charged toward Ohzem, hurling huge shards of stone at him. Quentin leaped back, but the Mystic did not flinch. The chains around the Green Man pulled tight. The flying rock crashed harmlessly against an invisible barrier at the circle’s edge.
“Yes, he is bound here,” Ohzem replied. “You are free to destroy the High Mystic. We leave for Kelt Apar immediately.”
The Green Man thrashed, but his chains held him fast. “Defilers!”
Sim’s mind wheeled. The Black Claws had never planned to kill Pomella. It was Yarina they were after. All this was just a ploy to disable her guardian.
“What about this one?” Jank asked, shaking Sim.
“Do whatever you like with him,” Ohzem said.
A vicious smile spread across Jank’s face. He stepped away from Sim and drew his sword.
“Sim … Sim!” Pomella yelled.
Zicon crossed his arms and waited. “Make it quick, Jank.”
Sim panicked. With his hands still bound, he ran for the mouth of the cave, but Jank was ready. The mercenary swung, sword biting deep into Sim’s side and slicing across his abdomen. Searing pain cut into him as he went down. Blood poured across the ground and Sim marveled at how much there was. Somewhere behind him, Pomella screamed.
The Green Man roared and charged toward Jank, but the iron collar and chains burned white hot as he came to the edge of the circle. The ground rumbled as the creature merged back into the floor, but rose again and again, seeking a way out of the trap.
Sim convulsed in pain. Tears streamed from his eyes. By the Saints, this was it. He was going to die. What a blathering fool he’d been after all.
Jank wiped the blade clean with his bare hand. “Now the real question is, should I finish you here, or let you die of slow rot?”
He stepped around Sim, angling for a different line to attack. Sim forced himself to sit up and face his killer. He thought of his parents, his sister, and Dane. Maybe soon he would be with his brother and they could wander the Creekwaters as ghosts together.
“Stop!” Pomella shouted.
Jank leered at her and chuckled. “You’re a pretty thing. I’ll enjoy taking my time with you, too.”
Quentin drew his knife. “Touch her and I’ll ruin you, commoner!”
Sim coughed blood. The world spun around him. He shook his head to clear the fog. He had to focus!
“The Mystic said I could do as I wanted!” Jank yelled. He glared at Zicon. “I don’t care what you’re paying us. I’m sick of being held on a jagged leash this whole time! This island is a stinking pile of mud and I’m tired of trudging through—”
Pulling from his deepest reserves, Sim roared and slammed his shoulder low into Jank’s body. By the Saints, it hurt! They fell together and the hard ground knocked the remaining air from Sim’s chest. He rolled off of Jank, trying to pull in a breath. Jank scrambled to his feet beside him.
With a snarl, Jank lifted Sim’s sword. “You’re finished, scr—”
With a roar, the Green Man’s stone fist erupted from Jank’s chest. The guardian lifted him into the air, twitching and gurgling, as if he weighed nothing.
Sim looked down. He and Jank had landed within the ring of spikes. Zicon took another step away from the edge. Even Pomella, her eyes wide with horror, stepped back.
The Green Man, the benevolent creature Sim had daydreamed of meeting as a child, stood in the center of the circle, his rocky form covered in fresh blood. The iron collar seared with white-hot heat, smoking against his neck. He dropped his raised arm and dumped Jank’s lifeless body onto the ground.
Sim sensed a rushing of feet as Pomella hobbled into the
ring and knelt beside him.
“We leave now,” Ohzem said, not a hint of emotion within his quiet voice. He waited for Quentin to whisper something to Pomella that Sim couldn’t hear. Pomella snarled in response. Ohzem gave Sim one last look, like a cat leaving its kill, and slipped out of the cave. Hormin and Zicon followed, leaving Sim to die.
He couldn’t move his body anymore. The gash across his chest burned, making it hard to breathe. His breaths came in quick gasps now. Somewhere, he thought he heard his mhathir call his name. Or perhaps it was Pomella. Bethy, maybe?
His eyelids became too heavy, and he lacked the strength to keep them open. Behind Pomella, the Green Man looked down on him, splattered blood running down his face like tears.
The last thing Sim saw before darkness took him was Pomella stroking his face. He wished she didn’t look so sad.
SIXTEEN
BLOOD AND STONE
Pomella trembled as Sim’s eyes closed. His head rested in her lap. The cave seemed to press down on her, making her feel small and cold and lonely.
“Is he dead?” she managed, her breath and hands shaking.
Oxillian’s stony form leaned forward to peer more closely at Sim. One of his giant fingers reached down to touch Sim’s face. “He is alive, but he will not last long.”
“You’re the Green Man! Please, do something!”
“I can do very little,” Ox said, touching the collar around his neck. Black scars burned across his stone neck where the collar lay, but he gave no indication that he felt any pain.
Managing as best she could with her manacles, Pomella tore a long strip from her dress, beginning where Ohzem had cut it open. Needing more, she tore another from the bottom of her skirt.
She placed the strips across Sim’s wound as best she could. His face was pale. Fevered sweat covered his face.
Pomella’s composure threatened to break. A single jagged tear betrayed her and leaked down her cheek. Just an hour ago everything seemed to be going so well. But in a single moment of betrayal, everything had fallen apart. Gone were her hopes of becoming Yarina’s apprentice. Saijar and Vivianna would return to Kelt Apar in the morning, and Quentin soon after. None of them would claim to know where she was. Pomella imagined Yarina selecting Saijar as her apprentice. Or, worse, selecting that culk Quentin! A ridiculous, bitter part of Pomella hoped he was selected just because she knew he didn’t want it. Or did he? How much of anything he’d told her had been true?