The Circle of Six: Emily's Quest (Legends of Eostra)

by Sanders, Dan

  “Now, now. A Prince is what we have,” said a second, bald man.

  “I come to ask for your aid,” Bevan said, pointing to Sabina’s gently glowing form.

  They scurried around her and said, “Who is this one?”

  “Are you the Mithra?” Daimon said, still angling his CBlade’s point to the sky.

  “You young oaf, don’t you know nothin’?” the leader said and poked Daimon’s foot with the black point of his spear.

  “Ouch. What are you–?”

  “Forgive my apprentice,” said Bevan. “He is new to this world.”

  Daimon looked indignant but chose not to answer. He lowered his blade a little.

  The three men barked angrily at each other. Bevan thought this must be the way of their tongue and thought it unrefined and grotesque. The girl must be wrong, he thought. They were too uneducated to be of use.

  “She’s been poisoned. The Supon plant, I think.”

  “Deadly ’tis,” said the second.

  “How is she alive, is what I ask?” said the third.

  “Stop speaking like that,” Bevan said. “Can you help her?”

  “Help you, why?” said the third little man.

  Daimon was more diplomatic. “We come on an urgent errand from Melder Magas Whiteoak and Eostra.”

  More angry growls were exchanged between the little men. They nodded determinedly. “We take her to the Healer, now,” said the first.

  They reached down to lift Sabina but Bevan said, “I will do it.”

  “You stay here,” said the second man, “you are trouble.”

  “Try and stop me.” Bevan towered over the visitors with his hands on his hips.

  Daimon had sheathed his CBlade and stepped forward. He said gently to the three Mithrans, “Forgive my liege. He cares deeply for this woman friend and wants only to lend aid where he can.”

  Bevan looked down at Daimon and said, ”You sound like the girl. And I don’t like her.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Daimon said, smiling.

  The three men growled in disgust, one after the other. They nodded to Daimon. Bevan gently lifted Sabina in his arms and followed the three men deeper into the spiky scrubland. Prickly bushes seemed to deliberately reach out and scratch Bevan’s arms as he tried to protect Sabina’s head. He pulled up her hood. Daimon brought out his CBlade and cut a swathe through the rough scrub until the men growled angrily at them. At first Bevan couldn’t decide if they were angry or trying to communicate with Daimon. When they jabbed at his leg with their spears, he realised they were asking him to stop chopping at the land.

  He was grateful for being tall as he was still able to see light through the top of the weedy grasses. Daimon had to hold onto his cape to stop getting lost as they darted in many directions. Bevan remembered they had left without Ketty. She would be safe at the Largon. He was amazed at the speed with which the men could run through the bush, considering they came only up to his knees. He soon discovered the secret to their ease of travel. They would hold one hand forward and speak angrily to the barbarous plants, which obediently bent out of their path. No wonder these people could stay hidden from prying eyes. Bevan scanned the sky for any threats. Maybe he overdid the glowing sky rocks.

  They arrived at a circular clearing with many small oval doors built into mossy mounds. The clearing filled with tiny men and women with large noses, round ears and thin bodies. They were all dressed in red and green versions of the same shirt and shorts.

  The three men dashed into one of the holes. They reappeared with an older Mithran woman with a wide mossy hat overflowing with exotic plants and flowers. This must be the Healer, Bevan thought.

  The woman in her bright green tunic studied Sabina. Her tiny wrinkled hands glided, poked and prodded the entire length of the shallow-breathing girl. Bevan couldn’t understand how poking the girl’s armpit would solve anything.

  The Healer growled just like the men as she said, “She fights for her breath. We will try. She will probably not survive. The poison has been too long in her system.”

  “Thank you, Healer,” Bevan said, bowing.

  She scowled at him.

  “Where is she from?” she asked.

  Bevan swallowed as he said the name, “Loric.”

  The woman pulled a long thin white flower from her hat and rubbed it under Sabina’s nose. Sabina stirred and tilted her head so her nose pointed to the grey sky. She moaned and let her head flop again to the side.

  “Leave her with me. It will take many cycles to heal, if at all.”

  “What?” Daimon said. “We have to get our…” Daimon glanced at Bevan, who was looking at Sabina. He continued, “…to fulfil our task and meet Melder Whiteoak in five days. We can’t wait.”

  “You always rush, you young,” the Healer said. “Melder Whiteoak, you say. How is the ancient one?”

  “He is anxious about the fate of the world,” Daimon said confidently.

  The Healer spoke with the first man, then the second man and finally the third man before saying, “I will try to stop the poison so she can live, but she needs rest. Rest I say.” She aggressively rubbed plant juice into Sabina’s lips and onto her tongue.

  Bevan placed a hand on Daimon and said to the Healer, “Do your best. It’s all we can ask.”

  The Healer nodded, her hat covering her tiny face as she barked angry orders at the villagers. They scattered into their homes. Some returned with what looked to Bevan like cooking equipment. Her little hands flew over the pots, pulling plants from her hat and crushing strange smelling herbs in bowls.

  Bevan and Daimon withdrew and spent the afternoon waiting. Bevan hated wasting time he thought wouldn’t have been wasted had they stayed at Ibendari. He told Daimon to prepare to have another lesson in the art of connecting with the land. He didn’t want to admit to the boy, but he did worry about the people who were out to get him. Once they realised the girl was alive, they would probably keep trying until they had succeeded. Imagine if they discovered they were only a few leagues away in their unwanted swamp with their archenemy, the Mithrans. He wondered why the Korakians were so persistent. He hadn’t been at odds with anybody for over a year. It was probably to get at his father again. He wished his father had a better temperament.

  After an afternoon of frustrating failures to connect, Bevan gave up. He laid his Reven blade on the ground and sat against a tree.

  “It is no hope,” Bevan said. “You Earthlings are immune to feelings.”

  “It’s not my fault. I am wired that way.”

  “You said you connected once in the fight with the Professor.”

  “I was angry and scared.”

  “Then you are able to do it again.”

  “I can’t.”

  Bevan roughly rubbed his hair in frustration.

  The three men had been watching with some amusement at the afternoon’s events. They giggled and growled and slapped their hands on their thin little legs. The first walked over to Bevan and looked up to his tired face. He said, “We help the boy. We can, really.”

  Bevan looked through his sleep deprived eyes and nodded blankly. The second man dashed into the trunk of a local tree trunk and returned with a pot of steaming fluid.

  He pushed the concoction into Daimon’s hands. He reluctantly drank, his face twisting at the stinging bitter taste. “Tastes like… I can’t describe it. Hang on…”

  Daimon’s eyes glazed over. He stumbled and leant against a tree. He shook his head to clear his mind.

  “Go with it. Trust the potion. Sit,” said the third man.

  Daimon followed the lead of the three little men and sat facing them, cross legged. His larger body cast a shadow across their faces. For a long while Daimon’s head lolled and lurched about his shoulders. Bevan watched with interest. It looked as if the men had given him strong drink for their amusement. Suddenly, Daimon sat bolt upright, alert but unclenched.

  The first man said, “You do it wrong. Not with weapo
n in hand. The land is for harmony and peace. Let your mind go with the land. Picture the grass and dirt and air. Feel it. Hear it. Smell it. Be here and nowhere else.”

  Bevan watched Daimon squint in concentration, until he was stabbed in the toe by the second man.

  “Ouch.” Daimon winced.

  The first man growled, “Not with your mind, with your body.”

  The second man said, “Picture each particle, the tit and tad of each blade. Feel the power of the land coursing through your veins.”

  Daimon breathed slowly and purposefully, in and out for some time. After a while he spoke. “I feel something, see something.” He held his hand to the light and smiled. “I can see inside my hand. Are they the particles?”

  “Sshh,” said the third man again and poked Daimon’s other toe.

  This time Daimon didn’t react.

  The second man said, “Now reach out to the grass I give you. See it.”

  Daimon held a large limp blade of grass that filled his hand. “I see something flowing through it.”

  “Push yourself into it, gently.”

  Slowly, to Bevan’s amazement, the limp grass grew straight in Daimon’s hand.

  The first man said, “Now, picture the particles of the air that hover around the grass. Push yourself into those air particles—hold the grass up with the air.”

  “I see the air.” Daimon’s voice was distant.

  “Slowly, take your hand away,” the second man said.

  Daimon, his hand almost shaking, let go of the blade. It began to drift to the ground before stopping and tentatively hovering in front of Daimon’s astonished face.

  Bevan was ecstatic. He strode over to Daimon and slapped his back. The blade of grass fell limply to the ground with Daimon’s loss of concentration.

  “What are you doing?” Daimon said.

  “What?” Bevan said. “You did it boy. You did it.”

  Daimon lay down and held his head. “My head hurts.”

  “Of course, of course,” said the first man.

  “It will get easier,” said the second man.

  “You will become stronger,” said the third.

  “Must you speak like that?” said Bevan.

  The three men looked blankly up at the giant before them. Daimon closed his eyes to rest.

  Bevan saluted the three little men. They nodded, handed him a pile of leaves and said, “When practising, melt these herbs into a drink. It will help.”

  “What about my sword?” Daimon said.

  “In time, all will come to you. You know the basics,” said the first man.

  “Time to sleep,” said the second man.

  Bevan sighed at the strange custom of the people, but was grateful for their help.

  It was another day of waiting. The night set, the sun rose and set again. The three little men had grown tired of the Prince’s outbursts of frustration, and had not returned after their next noon meal. A light rain added to the darkness in the swamp. Bevan missed his comfortable castle, his bed, and his friends. He was pleased Daimon had taken to his new powers with glee, and was soon able to connect to stones and trees and water. Connection to his CBlade still eluded him.

  Bevan strode through the swamp back to the carriage. There was no sign of Ketty or Zenon. Damn fools, he thought. Don’t they know they are only a few leagues from the Korakians? If they discovered they were associated with him, they would hold them hostage or worse, kill them. He tried to Thoughtspeak with Ketty but her mind was not responding.

  When the second night was at its peak the Healer allowed them to visit Sabina.

  Bevan caught his breath when he saw the girl. Her skin had lost the grey-green tinge and her breathing was full and even. Her mouth was slightly open and relaxed. His heart thumped with hope in his chest. He took a deep breath and said, “She looks better.”

  The Healer said, “The poison is neutralised. She is strong. Very strong. She will survive. But…”

  Bevan didn’t wait for the woman to finish. He knelt and moved a strand of silver hair from Sabina’s face. He lifted her limp wrist. He let go and it fell to the dirt.

  After a while Sabina stirred. She was unable to lift her head. She mouthed silent words to her onlookers.

  Bevan poured drink into her mouth. He wiped her chin. He said, “Rest. You have been saved.”

  The Healer paused and rubbed her little chin. “She is different. Her particles, different. That is what saved her, but I cannot fully heal her. That which saved her also prevents her recovery. I can do no more.”

  “What do you mean she is different?” Daimon said.

  “She drank much poison. That much will kill even the largest Annwynian. But her particles are different. I have never seen it before. As such, I can’t heal her.”

  Bevan was worried. He said, “What should we do?”

  “Don’t delay. Take her to Errenor immediately. They might know. They are the best in the land.” The Healer shook her head, her hat now empty of plants and vines. She stooped and strolled back into the hole of her bunker.

  Bevan was torn. They didn’t have time to stop at Errenor. They had lost too much time already. He pulled a blanket over Sabina’s shoulder.

  “Where is Errenor?” Daimon asked.

  “On the south-west coast, four thousand leagues away.”

  “Is it near Nilawen?”

  “Lucky for us, yes. But we don’t have time to stop there.”

  Daimon suggested, “Maybe we can leave Sabina in Errenor while you and I retrieve the… thing.”

  Bevan brightened at the idea. It might work. His mind raced again. If they flew non-stop they could get to Errenor in two cycles. He still had the problem of how to retrieve the Harp. Sabina knew those details. But she had been right about the Mithrans. He hated to admit it, but she was right about most things.

  He said to Daimon, “We must leave tonight. We need to find my aides. I think they are close-by in Korak.”

  They picked up their packs to leave. Bevan bent down and shook the damp hands of their new friends. He screwed up his face and dried his hand on his tunic.

  Above the rhythm of the chirping crickets a twig snapped in the distance. Only the keen-eared Mithrans heard the sound. Generations of warfare taught the little people to recognise the invader. Within two heartbeats they silently scuttled into the safety of the dark swampland. The three travellers were alone.

  Holding Sabina, Bevan gazed into the darkness. Only the yellow of the two waning moons, Tas and Lar, reflected off the swamp water. His stomach churned, this didn’t feel right. Just then, two crystal darts gleamed as they spun and whooshed through the night air and into Bevan and Daimon’s throats. A third hit Sabina’s arm through the cape Bevan had laid across her shoulders. Daimon flopped to the damp ground next to Sabina in a thud, his CBlade tinkling in the dark. “What in Enki’s name–” was the last thing Bevan said before his knees collapsed, he dropped Sabina, and his unshaven face landed in a stagnant puddle of Mithran swamp-water.

  Chapter 34

  Eostra’s Egg

  THILAMETH-CITY OF AIR,

  ANNWYN

  Emily’s head was thick with tiredness when she woke. A stream of pink light poured through the window where she slept. Squinting out the window of Lupi’s tree cottage she smiled, wondering if she would ever get used to the different coloured skies of this beautiful land. On Earth, it was easy: blue sky for sunny days, grey sky for rainy days, with a little yellow and pink when introducing or farewelling the night.

  She rubbed her ears, trying to clear her head. She liked her sleep, but lately she was getting less and less. Lupi was asleep with her hands under her pointy ears. Her gentle breathing matched the peace in her face. Emily vaguely remembered last night, talking with Lupi and her parents. Her heart felt dull at the torture Lupi had lived with. It was a painful reminder to Emily of how she felt when she insisted she and Noogie explore the human settlement on Earth, and how close she came to suffering a similar fat
e.

  A young Agramond with spiky silver hair appeared at the door, buzzing nervously, waiting to escort Emily to the Queen. Emily couldn’t see Rupurt anywhere. He must have already left for the morning meal; typical Rupurt, she giggled, always on time for meals. She decided to let Lupi sleep and hopped after the Agramond.

  Long wisps of morning cloud stretched low across the valleys, a silky, ghost-white scarf wafting across the greens and browns of Thilameth; a reminder to Emily of what living in the clouds was like. The air was thin and crisp; the sounds of the babbling stream and Pandrien pipes permeated the Thilameth sky. Emily wistfully watched small birds, royal blue and pale pink, race about in playful camaraderie. Emily ached for the lost days of her time as a free bird on Earth.

  A group of Agramond children had gathered along the stream. They took turns jumping feet first out of a tree. They would hold their hands underneath their bottoms and create blasts of air to soften the blow of landing on the grass. Some children failed to generate blasts with sufficient power and landed on their bottoms, much to the laughter of their friends.

  “What are they doing?” she asked her guide.

  “The young ones are learning how to control the Air-Element,” he said. “In this lesson they are creating an air pillow in case their wings ever fail them. It is a basic safety lesson all Agramond must master.”

  Emily saw the sense in such a lesson and wished she had a safety net when she was a bird on Earth. She supposed falling from the height of Thilameth in the clouds was more dangerous. Her belly churned for Lupi’s friend and the horror it would have caused the entire Agramond nation.

  They hopped along the stream, eventually bypassing the Queen’s home that sat high on the hill to the east.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Emily said, “we just passed the Queen’s cabin. Where are we going?”

  The smiling Agramond informed Emily the Queen had instructed her to be taken to a special place.

  Emily was used to unexpected detours. She shrugged. It was probably where the Egg was being held. She remembered the Queen talking about a test. Her heart raced and her nose twitched when she realised this was where she was going. She now wished she had taken the time to wake Lupi and find Rupurt. ‘Be strong, Emily,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Retrieve the Egg and get it back to Magas.’