The Fall Of Celene (The Prophecies of Zanufey Book 2)

by A. Evermore

  ‘No, it was Karshur,’ she breathed, cradling the long white undulating blade that shone brightly. ‘Karshur’s purpose has been fulfilled,’ she whispered, remembering Keteth again but in his human form, the young man he had once been.

  ‘I am really here and this is no dream isn’t it?’

  The raven made a short sharp nod with his head.

  ‘Then we have been brought here for a reason,’ as she spoke it seemed as if the spirit of the dagger, Karshur the elf wizard who made it, was near but there was nothing she could outwardly see. ‘To return Karshur home, to his people. But this is not the Shadowlands where the dagger was kept…’ She looked about her, the life-filled glade was very different from the empty shady world of wraiths. ‘Could this be his home? The home of the elves? The Land of Mists…’

  She stood up slowly and held the dagger before her. As she did so she noticed with a start faces amongst the trees that surrounded the glade. Have they always been there, watching me? They became more distinct and real under her gaze and she saw that the faces were attached to tall graceful bodies. Elves, she realised, noticing their unmistakable pointed ears and pastel coloured hair and eyes. Their hard gazes were hostile and made her feel like a trespasser.

  She tried to stand tall and proud though her heart was pounding. There seemed to be a good many of them staring at her, at least a hundred all crowding back into the forest. The raven also seemed uncertain and stepped closer to her.

  Above the treetops nine tall and shining silver spires reached up majestically into the sky. Beautiful, she marvelled at the tops of the elven city. In the books she had flicked through in Freydel’s study she had seen wondrous pictures of the elven cities of Intolana and this was similar but even from here, with it being hidden in the trees, she could sense it was far grander.

  Freydel had told her that not many elves lived in cities, many preferring the natural habitat of the woodlands, but the cities served a functional purpose and the elves did not know how to build ugliness so all things they created were beautiful. None of the elven cities survived in Maioria any more, all were destroyed by the Maphraxies, except this one. But then they were not quite in Maioria anymore, she mused.

  ‘Yes, we still reside in Maioria, but in a place where only elves can go,’ a low melodic male voice spoke from amongst the crowd.

  Issa searched for who had spoken but could not determine from whom it came.

  ‘This is our sacred haven,’ the voice continued, ‘our promised land, our Land of Mists; and you should not be here.’

  The elves muttered in hushed tones, looking at her in concern, it was well known that none but the elves knew how to get to the Land of Mists and then again only through elven magic could they enter. Even then not just any elf could enter, only those elves that had chosen to leave Maioria and all her woes many years ago. Those that chose to stay in Maioria and fight Baelthrom were forever banned from the Land of Mists. Something that Issa found quite unfair to the valiant elves that chose to stay and fight.

  ‘Er, and yet here I stand,’ was all Issa could think to say. She was pleased her voice sounded rich and strong.

  The elves moved towards her, out from amongst the trees. They were all beautiful, slender and tall compared to humans; their hair was worn long and came in soft shades from pale yellow and brown to hues of purple and blue. Their ears were naturally pointed and long and they had slightly slanting almond shaped eyes. All were dressed in flowing robes or tunics. They stopped before coming too close to her.

  Issa swallowed down a lump of jealously, suddenly feeling heavy and ugly compared to their beauty and grace. Even though she was as tall as the elven women herself, and as slender, she seemed to waddle where they glided, she was hairy and dark where they were smooth and made of light. Only Murlonius the Ancient was more beautiful and ethereal by comparison. A man came forwards out of the crowd and Issa assumed it was he that had spoken. He confirmed this when he spoke again.

  ‘The Raven Queen has no place in our peaceful Land of Mists,’ he said softly, but his eyes were hard.

  Issa considered the man. His long silvery hair hung over his shoulders and down his chest. He was dressed in a long white shirt that was bound tight at the chest and secured with a thick golden rope sash. White trousers flowed from beneath the shirt and he wore no shoes, none of them did. He had an air of authority around him and she assumed that he must be the one who led them. He stepped towards her, his smooth face serious but not as hostile, and she awkwardly stepped towards him.

  ‘How do you know who I am?’ Issa asked, hiding her doubt as to whether she was in fact the warrior of prophecy. She felt too small and meek, too normal, to be this Raven Queen. Especially here.

  ‘We watch the world of war turn below us in sadness, and are glad that we are no longer a part of it,’ the elf spoke, ignoring her question, much to her disappointment.

  She racked her brains on what to say just as Karshur pulsed a little brighter, as if reminding her why she had come. She swallowed a little too loudly as she chose her words.

  ‘Karshur is vanquished, the beast Keteth is dead and the once good man within freed. The souls of those enslaved by him; your kin, my kin, and all the Ancients that had been imprisoned for millennia, have been set free. They have finally found peace in Zanufey and she carries them onwards to the One Source of All,’ her voice remained surprisingly strong despite her fluttering heart and the hostile eyes of such a large crowd fully focused upon her. She held Karshur up, it gleamed brightly. The elf’s eyes widened in recognition as he looked at the blade but then he pursed his lips distrustfully.

  ‘I do not lie,’ she said indignantly. ‘Karshur brought me here, I guess to be brought home. Otherwise how else could I have come?’ She offered the dagger to the elf uncertainly and gave a slight bow. ‘The Lost Sea is cleansed and can once more be called the Abha Fey, the Shining Sea,’ she said in softer tones so only he might hear.

  The elf-man met her eyes and she saw a deep sadness within them as he gently took the blade.

  ‘Karshur,’ he breathed. ‘You do not tell human lies, this is indeed the one.’ He stared down at the dagger in silence for a while. His eyes glistened and Issa felt tears form in her own eyes. The presence of Karshur seemed stronger than ever before, as if he stood right beside them but could not be seen. It suddenly occurred to her that elves lived a long time and though this elf-man could not have been alive when Karshur was she felt compelled to ask.

  ‘Did you know Karshur? Was he your ancestor?’

  The elf-man looked at her sharply as if measuring her up, and then his face became guarded. ‘Time moves slower here in our Land of Mists, our years are long and our memory never fails…’ he looked away into the distance, out and beyond the trees as if seeing into the past. He spoke softly, partly to himself partly to her.

  ‘I would with all my heart undo the past, of what Keteth has done and Baelthrom, of our imperative withdrawal into the safety of the Land of Mists lest we be lost forever like the Ancients… But that is not the way of things. We must move forward with what has happened and carry our scars as reminders so that we never forget. His eyes hardened and any tears therein swiftly dried. He spoke loud enough for all to hear.

  ‘Karshur made his choice long ago. He chose to remain in the darkness, chose war over peace, chose the human world of strife over the elven world of peace. This is not his home, he is not welcome here.’

  The elves surrounding them shuffled anxiously, some faces seemed ashamed, others hard and resolute. They began whispering amongst themselves.

  Issa stared wide-eyed, unable to fathom quite what the elf had said. Anger, intense and passionate, came from somewhere beside her and she felt again Karshur’s presence. It sparked her own fury alight.

  ‘How can you say this? I doubt Karshur had much choice at all. For all that I know of him, for all that the dagger has shown me, Karshur gave the greatest sacrifice. He gave his life, bound to this dagger, for millennia, until
a time came when he could free the souls of the enslaved. Many of your elven ancestors have spent eons trapped inside the Shadowlands, imprisoned and never to be let out. Wandering a hell for so long that even they no longer remember who they once were.

  ‘Karshur chose service to others over cowardice and selfishness. Karshur chose freedom over slavery. And believe it or not, you elves hiding here in your Land of Mists are also enslaved, imprisoned!’ Her face grew hot as she spoke. This was not her land, she was a guest, and yet here she stood accusing the people of cowardice but she could not stop her angry words.

  ‘I could have died, many times, trying to free those souls. Keteth nearly enslaved me too but still I fought, I had no choice,’ the anger quickly ran out and she felt suddenly exhausted.

  ‘A great task you took upon yourself and you did not even falter,’ the elf-man agreed. So, he was not without reason, she thought. ‘Only a strong spirit, a blessed spirit, could have survived. But what happens now, Raven Queen?’ His pale teal coloured eyes pierced hers. ‘We do remember the prophecies and know full well that you have come here not only to return Karshur. I see a darker road before you, one that leads to war and bloodshed.’

  Why had she come? Purely to return Karshur? That had been why, but now she was here she felt there was something more she had to do. The raven was looking up at her expectantly. For the briefest moment she looked out across a vast battle between soldiers in armour and Maphraxies. All around were the dead and dying. Rivulets of blood trickled through the earth into pools between the hacked off limbs and lifeless faces. Terrible magic ripped through skies that were black and red and full of thunder. Her heart was hard as stone and her soul crushed into emptiness.

  Then the vision was gone and she thought she would faint as the blood drained from her face. Is that me? Is that the Raven Queen? Is that what I must become. She felt horrified but nothing about her outward appearance could have changed for the elf-man spoke as if nothing had happened.

  ‘I, Daranarta, leader of the Elves of the Mists, and my people and our ancestors whom you have freed, thank you for what you have done this day, Issa, Queen of Ravens.’

  Issa felt awkward and confused under the elf’s gaze. A horrible weight seemed to settle upon her shoulders. She wanted to be gone from here, to be alone where she could curl up and cry and dream of home as if it were still there. She tried to mask her feelings though the elf was not looking at her.

  He held the dagger in front of him and whispered in elven as he stared intently at the blade. Even though she was not in the Flow she felt the air tingle and watched tendrils of magic flowing around her in shimmering green hues. They began weaving together as they were drawn into Daranarta’s hands that held Karshur.

  A strong breeze began to blow and the flame ring upon her finger grew warm in response to his magic. She had not yet felt elven magic. Here in their secret land the old elvish magic was strong and it seemed to flow through the trees and the ground, a healing, earthy, nature-based magic that felt balancing.

  Freydel had said the elvish magic was mostly gone from Maioria when they departed to their Land of Mists. The thought made her sad, made her want to learn this magic so it was not lost. She reached out and touched the Flow with her mind, like trailing her hand in a bubbling stream, merely observing it, watching it, learning it.

  Freydel’s lessons came back to her but she still could not quite determine all this magic’s qualities. It was definitely an earth-bound magic, seeming to flow from the natural world around them, but not as dark and gritty as Edarna’s, and whether it was used for healing or destruction she could not be sure. It seemed to be a mix or could be used for either. But feel it she could and that was always the first start of becoming a master of magic, of becoming a Wizard, so Freydel had said.

  Still, she had no idea what Daranarta was doing but knew better than to interrupt magic in mid flow. It seemed as if he were communing with the dagger, reading it somehow. When he spoke his voice was low-pitched yet loud, loud enough for all to hear in the deepening silence. He was looking so intently at the dagger that she wondered what he saw there.

  ‘The vengeance of Karshur is spent, it was relinquished when it pierced Keteth’s heart. But the voices of those from which this powerful dagger is made, and the voice of the one who made it, will not let me transmute the blade…’ he trailed off as if waiting to hear more. ‘They have a gift for the one who set them free.’ Daranarta’s voice was changing as he spoke. In fact it wasn’t actually changing but becoming overlaid with other voices, male and female, all talking in unison in an almost singsong fashion.

  ‘Dark places we both have been, into evil we have seen, our journey now is done yet yours has just begun. Have faith in the darkness, move through it, with it, but do not become it. In the Shadowlands we were trapped for millennia and have come to understand many things. Remember when we walked the Shadowlands and there between the darkness and the light, beyond the living and within the dead, the Immortal Lord could not find us. Keteth gave his powers to you, to walk amongst the dead, but our gift will take you there most easily. Accept our gift. Be as the raven, Raven Queen, and walk between two worlds. It shall be as the prophecy foretold.

  ‘Speak three times the elven words; A'farion, A'farion, A'farion (I walk [in] death, I walk [in] death, I walk [in] death) and touch the raven mark with the talisman. Then will you find yourself far from the living, in a land of shadows not of Keteth’s making. Never linger past the hour and never enter more than once in any day. Otherwise your soul will begin to depart and you will become as the Forsaken, never able to return.’

  Issa frowned, ‘I don’t understand. What is the talisman? What is the raven mark? And what does “A’farion” even mean?’

  But Daranarta was not listening and she was forced to stop talking when he continued to speak, or rather the voices of Karshur spoke through him.

  ‘The elves must return to Maioria, it is their destiny. Without them all Maioria is lost and so too are they. You must get them to return. The dark moon rises even here, calling them home,’ the voices fell silent.

  Issa stared at Daranarta, wondering if he knew what he spoke or if the words were intended only for her.

  ‘They will not listen to me,’ Issa sighed but the voices said no more.

  Daranarta blinked as his eyes came into focus. Then the dagger shimmered in his hands until it was no longer solid but silver-white light.

  ‘The magic has its own will,’ he breathed in surprise as the shimmering light rose and swirled above his palms.

  All at once the light contracted and then exploded outwards casting everything in brightness. In the same instance Issa yelped as a freezing burning pain seared upon her sternum, as if she had been branded. She gasped and clutched her chest but after a moment the pain went and her chest only tingled.

  She stood there swaying wondering what had happened and in that daze heard a faint voice whisper, ‘The vortex of the heart is the portal between dimensions,’ and then the voice was gone and with it the presence of Karshur.

  She pulled down the hem of her top and could see a faint blue shimmer on the skin above her breasts, halfway between her clavicle and the end of her sternum, but no burn marks or redness. She rubbed her chest, it was tender but not painful.

  Daranarta seemed not to have noticed and continued to stare at his own smooth pale hands in amazement. The raven was looking up at her expectantly and her heart sank. She realised then that Daranarta was right, there had always been more required of her than to simply return Karshur. She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling very weary indeed.

  ‘It seems you are right, there is another reason Karshur brought me here,’ she spoke loudly for all to hear. ‘I did not know it until now, but Karshur and those within the dagger have made clear what is obvious. I only pass on to you what they told me through Daranarta’s lips,’ her voice was strong as it rang out in the glade. She felt sweat begin to bead on her brow and Daranarta’s eyes narrowed a
s if daring her to say it. Did she really have to say it?

  ‘I am just the messenger,’ she could not stop the words falling from her mouth if she tried. ‘Maioria is dying and she needs your help, we all need your help. I ask you to leave your Land of Mists to join us in Maioria and help fight against the Maphraxies that plague the land. The dark moon has risen and I know it rises even here in your Land of Mists calling you to help your world. We cannot win against the Maphraxies unless all the races agree to stand at each other’s side. If we do not fight the immortals then we will all be destroyed.’

  She paused to see the effect of her words. Her pulse was racing and her head began to throb. At first there were hushed mutterings amongst the people. Some looked worried, maybe even guilty, others frowned, as if in disbelief that she would ask such a thing. The crowd grew louder, clearly none of them were happy.

  Daranarta looked at her sadly as he spoke, just loud enough for the crowd to hear.

  ‘Pain me as it does, the answer is surely no. Our place, and our world, is here in the Land of Mists. The affairs of humans and their enemies upon Maioria are not of our concern. We fought our battles and buried our dead long ago. We belong here, safe in our sacred land. Our old homeland, Intolana, is nothing but a distant memory, lost to Baelthrom over four hundred years ago. I will not risk the lives of my people again.’

  ‘But if you return to Maioria and fight, Intolana can be yours again!’ Issa said. Surely they could see that? If she had half the chance to bring Little Kammy back she would.

  Daranarta’s face was set. Anger suddenly flared within her taking her by surprise. Anger for Karshur, anger at Daranarta’s stubbornness, anger for the stupid belittling expression on his beautiful face.

  ‘Do you not see?’ incredulity littered her voice. ‘You have to return, nobody wants to fight but we have no choice. Baelthrom wants to take everything, he will not stop until the whole world is his. And after Maioria where next?’ She thought of that dark force hunting her in the Shadowlands, powerful and vast and ruthless. ‘I have seen the darkness and it has a thirst that is unquenchable.’