Alora

by Tamie Dearen

  All had been to no avail, until today.

  While the intent of the search was to learn more about soulmates, including the possibility of breaking the bond between Kaevin and Alora without severing their lives, she’d stumbled upon a profound passage concerning an entirely different matter. The faded verse had been difficult to decipher until a dusting of pressure powder revealed the missing letters. The writing referred to forbidden dark magick that sounded much like that performed by Vindrake, and it claimed these dangerous writings were contained in an ancient parchment, the Maladorn Scroll.

  But the name of the scroll was not what had Raelene ready to dance in celebration. No, it was the postscript to a descriptive warning about the scroll, which stated it revealed “the path to power, marked by evil,” but also “power’s destruction, marked by sacrifice.” Surely that meant the Maladorn Scroll also held the key to Vindrake’s ultimate defeat.

  Only one small problem marred her discovery. Alleraen had once mentioned this same name when referring to a scroll in his brother’s possession. Obtaining the scroll would be difficult, at best. Yet she refused to believe it was impossible.

  Meanwhile, Meravelle had agreed to lead them to Serenshire, where they might still find answers about the soulmate bond, and Graely could seek an alliance in the battle against Vindrake.

  Raelene had thought Bastaeno would take them to Serenshire, but since her previous visit he had taken an oath to protect the Craedenza and could never again leave Glaenshire. Before enacting the Craedenza oath, however, he’d shown his granddaughter the way to Tenavae’s “City of Peace.”

  According to their prearranged plan, Raelene expected Alora to transport the rest of the expedition group to Glaenshire in the next few days to begin the next leg of their journey. I can’t wait to tell Graely about the message on the scroll!

  “Raelene!”

  Meravelle’s voice. She’d probably come to the Craedenza to fetch Raelene for dinner.

  “Meravelle! Come and see what I’ve found!”

  “Raelene! There’s an attack!” Bursting into the room, Mera grabbed Raelene’s arm. “Bardamen says it’s Water Clan. Come quickly and bring all the scrolls you can carry. I need your help.”

  Raelene ignored her pounding heart and moved with calm deliberation to scoop up an armful of scrolls and parchments and follow Meravelle—likewise burdened—through the open doorway into the back archive room where the majority of the documents were housed.

  Dropping her scrolls on the floor, Mera urged Raelene to add hers to the haphazard pile, and then tugged her arm, pulling her out of the archive room and kicking the smooth door shut. Then Mera bent over, placing her hand on the bottom left corner of the door, and moved her hand up along the seam between the door and the wall, across the top, and down the right side, erasing the seam as her hand passed. When she stepped back, there was no door visible in the stone wall.

  “What... what did you just do?” asked Raelene, blinking her eyes hard and squinting at the stones. Reaching out, she ran her fingers along the stones and the sandy filling between but didn’t feel the slightest indentation where the door had been.

  “Here in Glaenshire, we each do what we can to preserve and enrich the knowledge stored at the Craedenza,” said Mera, with a small shrug. “I’m a gressor, so this is something I can do. If Vindrake wins the battle, he still won’t have access to the back archives until he brings a gressor here. With a bit of good fortune, he may not realize the other room exists.”

  “Why not simply seal this main one?” asked Raelene, pointing toward the heavy wood door, flanked by massive stone columns.

  “The Craedenza entrance is immune to gresses. Once I came into my gift we thought I might seal it each night to keep it secure from any threat, but I couldn’t. It’s perhaps the same magick that binds us when we take the oath.”

  Mera opened the door and peered out, the sounds of distant drums and bugles filtering inside. A spine-chilling shriek split the air, and Mera shrank back inside.

  “A wendt,” Raelene rasped from a dry throat, glad Mera had slammed the door shut so she couldn’t hear the vile creature.

  “It has returned,” Mera rasped. “A moment ago, I saw it...” Her voice faded away, as she relived the horror.

  “Our Stone Clan warriors are valiant. They will kill the wendt.” Raelene spoke with more conviction than she felt. “Vindrake surpasses his own evil. How could he loose such a monster on the peace-loving citizens of Glaenshire?”

  If only we had already located the Maladorn Scroll and unlocked its secrets. Perhaps we would know how to send his wendts back to him.

  Mera cracked open the door and inclined her head. “I don’t hear the creature now. Come quickly, Raelene. To the healing house. Soon, we will have many wounded to tend.” Her lower lip trembled, despite the calm in her voice.

  “Are you a healer, as well?” asked Raelene, wondering at her amazing giftedness.

  “I’m not. But I’ve read every scroll written concerning the structure and function of the body, and that will have to do.” She bit her lip, nostrils flaring as she gestured toward a tall white-haired man at the front of a crowd of people standing outside the Craedenza. “For there’s our healer, oath-bound and waiting to fight, without so much as a hammer to defend himself.”

  Pre-occupied with the wendt’s chilling screech, though it was obscured from her sight by the nearby buildings, Raelene almost collided with Meravelle when she stopped in her tracks, her path obstructed by Bastaeno. The gray-bearded man with the kind face enveloped his granddaughter in his arms.

  “Meravelle.” His throat convulsed, as if he were swallowing a deluge of saliva.

  Looking even smaller beside her tall grandfather, she clung to him, tears dripping down and falling off her chin.

  “Grandfather, please...”

  “Shhh... You know I only do my duty, sweet child. And if my life is ended this night, I count myself privileged to have watched you grow and bloom and use your gifts in selfless service.” He held her face between his gnarled hands. “You, my granddaughter, are my greatest joy. Live on to serve the Craedenza and the God who bestowed it until the time you are called to do the same.”

  “Let me stand with you... beside you. I know I’m not oath-bound, but—”

  “No! You mustn’t be anywhere near the foundation stone when the warriors attack. Promise me!”

  The furrow between his brows deepened when she hesitated.

  “I promise.”

  He kissed her forehead, and she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I love you,” she said with a wobbly smile before turning to march across the square, a resolute set to her chin.

  Raelene stopped Bastaeno before he could slip back into the crowd. “Where are the Stone Clan warriors? They should be here protecting you.” Raelene knew all four quite well after their lengthy journey to Glaenshire—two men and two women—as brave and devoted as any trained by Morvaen.

  “I sent them away.” Bastaeno pressed a finger to her lips when she tried to question him further. “Only those who are oath-sworn to the Craedenza may have the honor of fighting on its foundation stone.”

  “But—”

  “Your warriors are charged with defending the citizens of Glaenshire, and they have done well to draw the wendt away. But the Craedenza is ours to protect.”

  He gripped her shoulder when she started to protest again. “Trust me—our way is wise, though it may seem foolish to you.”

  With a sad smile, he backed away, patting his heart with his hand, the Tenavae gesture for kinship. Nodding, Raelene returned the gesture, accepting his unspoken request that she would look after Meravelle if he lost his life in the battle to come.

  Only if I survive to do so.

  Crossing to join Meravelle, Raelene moved back against the wall on the covered porch, ready to dash inside should the wendt make a sudden appearance. The Craedenza guards stood with their backs to the entrance, facing the broad path where the drums
pounded louder and louder until the first rows of mounted warriors came into view. On they rode, their horses prancing forward and halting a few armspans away from the Craedenza guards.

  From his central position on the front row, a gargantuan Water Clan warrior lifted his hand into the air, and the drums ceased. Raelene heard a ringing in her ears. Beside her, Meravelle reached out and took her hand, squeezing so hard the blood couldn’t circulate. Raelene gripped Mera’s hand in return, voicing a silent prayer.

  His horse probably breathed a sigh of relief when the giant man slid to the ground. As his head turned, Raelene gasped at sight of his scarred face. His nose was distorted, permanently bent, and a jagged red mark extended from his temple to his jaw on one side, barely missing his eye. The other side of his face was crisscrossed in raised white lines, like so many threads.

  Drawing his sword, the man pointed with it, his sweeping gesture indicating the entire crowd of fifty or more by Raelene’s estimation. When he spoke, his deep voice ground out, mimicking the groan of a milling wheel.

  “You have witnessed the terror of the wendt. You see the warriors who stand ready to slay you where you stand. You may surrender now. Or all will die. The choice is yours.”

  The Glaenshire defenders, a haphazard assortment consisting of both men and women of various shapes and sizes, some armed with blades that looked better suited for gardening, others without a weapon in hand, and most with white or graying hair, stood firm. Not a single one moved back even a finger-width.

  Bastaeno pushed his way to the front of the group, his small blade still nesting in the scabbard secured about his hips. With his hands clasped loosely behind his back, only the flexing of his jaw revealed his tension. Drawing a deep breath, he blew the air out, and a benevolent smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

  “Good sir, I believe you’re mistaken about what will transpire should you choose to carry through with this foolish attack.”

  The Water Clan warrior stared with wide eyes, his slack mouth agape, displaying stained and broken teeth. Then he threw his head back and laughed, prompting all his warriors to join in the raucous cackling.

  In the midst of the uproar, Raelene felt a tug on her sleeve.

  “Raelene. Raelene, I have something for you... in here.”

  Markaeus stood before her, holding up a mottled-green bag.

  **************

  A young boy’s voice drew Meravelle’s attention away from the drama unfolding in front of the Craedenza.

  “Who’s this?” Meravelle asked Raelene, who seemed to know the boy. “And why is he...”

  She forgot what she was saying when she saw it.

  A portal.

  Unmistakable. On the porch in front of the healing house. A portal where no portal had been only a few breaths before.

  “Where did that come from?” she murmured, reaching her hand up to touch the portal door. “It’s solid. It’s not my imagination.”

  “I made it,” the little boy boasted. “I simply wished with all my heart that I could go to Raelene.”

  Then he spied the enemy guards, lined up on horseback. His bravado vanished, and his thin body began to tremble. Shielding him with her arms, Raelene hugged the boy, the green bag pressed between them.

  Shouts arose from the Water Clan warriors as their towering captain brandished his sword in front of Grandfather, having evidently lost patience with his lecturing. Meravelle held her breath, praying for God’s mercy. She wanted to close her eyes, turn her head away, anything but stand by and witness her grandfather sacrifice his life. Yet she couldn’t help watching the horrifying scene.

  “I’m not the foolish one, Old Man, you are. I’ll kill you first, and then perhaps your companions won’t continue to be as foolish as you.”

  He jabbed the blade toward her grandfather, and Mera cried out, waiting for him to fall to the ground. But something strange happened. Somehow, the blade missed as the guard stumbled, off-balance, barely staying afoot. Righting himself, the giant warrior stared at his sword hand as if it belonged to another person. He called out an order over his shoulder, and the other Water Clan warriors dismounted, drawing their fearsome blades.

  With a furious growl, the scarred warrior lunged again. This time his sword connected. Staggering, Grandfather dropped his useless blade, gripping his side, as blood bloomed on his tunic and dripped through his fingers, falling to the stone at his feet.

  With tears blurring her vision, Meravelle awaited the killing blow.

  It never came.

  The hulking warrior spun around, slashing his sword again. But this time, his target was a surprised Water Clan warrior, who screamed as he fell to the ground.

  Leaping from the ranks, a female warrior rushed forward, attacking the tall healer. Miraculously, he dodged the full force of her descending blade, escaping with only a bleeding arm.

  Whirling in a circle, she wobbled as one who’d imbibed excess drink. Pointing her sword at the healer, she cackled. “Never have I missed my mark. Good fortune must be shining on you this day. But your fortune has ended now.”

  She danced toward the white-faced healer, halting with her blade at his throat. Then her face distorted, and her blade arm withdrew. Moving like a wooden doll, she rotated, stepping over to join her captain in attacking her fellow warriors.

  Then all the warriors seemed to attack at once, and many Craedenza defenders were struck down. Confusion reigned, however, as more and more Water Clan guards attacked the Craedenza defenders, only to change course and turn to attack their fellow warriors. Adding to the chaos, the giant captain screamed out, falling on his sword. Likewise, after slaying several of her own guards, the female slashed at her own throat, ending her killing spree.

  “What’s happening?” Raelene asked Meravelle, squeezing the boy as if she could protect him from the gruesome reality of battle. “Water Clan is turning against itself.”

  “It’s the prophecy.” The answer revealed itself in Mera’s mind, as clearly as if a lantern were lit in the darkness. “I never understood before. But now I know.”

  “What prophecy?”

  Meravelle quoted the words inscribed on the Craedenza cornerstone, the lines she’d memorized as a small child and repeated over and over throughout her youth—a sing-song phrase, spoken in naivety.

  “Blood is shed and oath is given,

  To Craedenza bound.

  Shed the blood of blood so given,

  Oathless to be bound.”

  Round as moons, Raelene’s eyes opened wide. “Are you saying Vindrake’s warriors are binding themselves to protect the Craedenza?”

  Mera nodded, realizing why the cryptic words were never explained. If Vindrake had known, he might’ve avoided shedding the defenders’ blood. As it was, his men and women had killed more of their own people than the almost defenseless Glaenshire citizens guarding the Craedenza.

  “However, I believe the Craedenza bond is warring against Vindrake’s bloodbond and causing the warriors to lose their sanity.”

  Watching the ongoing battle, Raelene frowned, “Some of the Water Clan warriors are now retreating. Those who escape will report to Vindrake, and he will undoubtedly find another way to kill the defenders. Why aren’t the Craedenza defenders chasing after them?”

  Meravelle shook her head. “Grandfather says a defender can’t leave the Craedenza foundation stone while there remains a threat to the Craedenza.”

  Wringing her hands together, Raelene moved to get a better view. Indeed, Vindrake’s fighters had remounted and were riding back from where they came. Standing alone on the edge of the porch, the boy still held the strangely-patterned green sack, which appeared to be all but empty.

  “Can we not go out and tend the wounded since we can’t bring the oath-bound back to the healing house?” Raelene asked.

  Mera blinked back tears as her mind grasped the truth of the situation. “No, we can’t. Should we attempt to treat them on the foundation stone, we would likely be bound by
their spilt blood. Grandfather warned me I couldn’t stand with him to defend the Craedenza, told me I might become oath-bound, though I didn’t believe him at the time.”

  The boy clutched the sack against his chest, pointing at the decimated Craedenza defenders, who remained on the foundation stone, frantically tending to the wounded and weeping for the dead. “Are those the oath-bound?”

  “Yes, Markaeus,” Raelene answered.

  In a flash, Marakaeus was gone, scurrying toward the Craedenza defenders, ignoring Raelene’s protesting cry.

  “Markaeus! Come back!”

  Raelene made a move to chase the impetuous boy, but Mera grasped her wrist, holding her back as he climbed the steps to the foundation rock. “You mustn’t risk yourself unless you wish to remain in Craedenza for the rest of your life. Surely the boy is too young to be bound.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Meravelle sighed, wishing for once she had the moral latitude to tell a small lie.

  “No... not beyond all doubt.”

  Hopping up and down, Markaeus attracted the attention of one of the few defenders still standing, opening his odd bag and pointing inside. The woman, a weathered-looking archivist known as Lasselle, shook her head, with a wide gesture indicating the dead and wounded oath-bound. Then she pointed a craggy finger at Meravelle, and sent him back.

  With a doubtful pout on his face, he returned, and Mera sagged with relief. As she’d hoped, the Craedenza did not bind him.

  Stopping an arm’s length away, he lifted his chin and asked, “Are you Meravelle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you oath-bound?”

  “No.”

  His brows furrowed, and he backed a step away. “Then you can’t be trusted.”

  “Markaeus,” Raelene scolded, “you’re being disrespectful. Meravelle is entirely trustworthy, and you’re rude to say otherwise.”

  “But Kaevin said the scroll would only be safe with an oath-bound.”

  “What scroll?” asked Raelene.

  “An important one.” He edged farther back, looking ready to bolt.