by Bryan Davis
She pulled back, this time with her muscles flexing. “I will not rest until I find him, but I need those details.”
“I have something that will help.” He nodded toward his closet. “In the far corner, you will find a lockbox. The key is under the mattress. Once you open the box, you will understand.”
She caressed his cheek for a moment before sliding off the bed. After finding a small silver key under the mattress, she walked toward the closet, glancing back at him with every step.
He nodded. “Go ahead. The time is right.”
She found the box, a heavy, leaden container about the size of two bread loaves, and carried it to the bed. After unlocking it, she flipped the lid back. Inside lay a courier’s tube.
As she lifted it out, her father spoke softly. “Fortunately, the undertaker at the time was my friend, and he had access to video. In addition to other disfigurements, you will see six stab wounds, each one close up and in detail, and you will hear his commentary as he measures and catalogues them.”
The tube grew heavier. Her hands trembling, Marcelle set it on the mattress, imagining the horror that lay within. She had heard of this role the undertaker sometimes took for peasants, since the official coroner rarely cared to record such details except for those of nobility. Now she would have to witness it for herself.
“I …” She swallowed through a painful lump. “I will have to do this later.”
“It has waited fifteen years. It can wait a few more hours or days.” He squinted at her. “How long will you be gone?”
“I’m not sure.” The details of her mission roared back into her mind. If she managed to get to Dracon, who could tell how long it might take to bring the Lost Ones home? “I’ll carry it with me, in case I’m delayed.”
“But if you lose it—”
“I’ll have a copy made,” she said. “A courier will bring the original back to you.”
“Very well.” He rubbed his palm along his bed covering, taking several seconds to make it smooth. “So this is good-bye, I suppose.”
She climbed back onto the bed and kissed his cheek. “I will return as soon as I can. I promise.”
“It is foolhardy to promise what you cannot control.” He dropped his gaze as if ashamed of his words. “But I understand.”
She slid down and ran to her room, talking while she grabbed a pack and stuffed it with a change of clothes. “Remember, keep your goblet with you. And wipe your plate and utensils. Try to think of any way someone might be poisoning you.”
His voice filtered in from the front room. “I am not a child, Marcelle. I know how to heed a warning.”
When she returned to his bedroom, she picked up the tube and pushed it in with her clothes, making sure it had plenty of padding. She then straightened her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “And I will heed your warnings, as well, but finding Mother’s killer is more important than my own safety.”
He gazed at her lovingly. “Not to me, my dear. That’s why I was being such a stubborn goat about your assignment.”
“No need to apologize,” she said. “I understand.”
“I wasn’t apologizing.” He nodded toward the door. “Now go. Before I change my mind.”
She took his hand into hers and kissed his knuckles. “I will hold your other hand when I return, while we watch the hanging of Mother’s killer together.”
FOUR
CARRYING a few essentials in his duffel bag, including the courier’s message tube, Adrian marched from his home and toward the forest path with Jason following close behind. Earlier, they had talked about Jason’s new bodyguard assignment, and Adrian had given Spirit to him with its scabbard and belt. For himself, he had chosen to strap on his old battle sword, a much better option for the task that lay ahead. It was time for them both to embark on exploratory journeys, Adrian to find the portal to the dragon world, and Jason to find the key and perhaps even Elyssa.
As they drew closer to the forest, a man cried out. “Adrian!”
Both brothers turned back. From the field near the woods behind their communal home, their father hurried toward them. Carrying a thick-handled axe against his shoulder and favoring a leg wounded in the great war, his face contorted, yet he continued a resolute march.
“Come,” Adrian said, pulling Jason into a trot. After a few seconds, the trio met near a head-high woodshed, where the coming winter’s store of firewood grew each day, mainly due to the muscular arms holding the axe.
Breathing heavily, Edison set a hand on Adrian’s shoulder and leaned his stocky frame against him. A slight tremble passed from his roughened fingers into Adrian’s body. Anxiety? Probably. How could a bereaved father ever shake the pain of a lost son?
“I wanted to tell you something.” As Edison paused, his shadowed eyes grew wide and tear-filled. The trembling increased, as did the weight on Adrian’s shoulder.
Adrian grasped his father’s forearm, trying to push strength into the grieving warrior. But could he say the right words to provide inner strength as well? Father always loved oratory. Maybe a bit of eloquence would help now. “You have nothing to fear. I will honor you in all I do, your wisdom, your vision, and your legacy. We are not saying good-bye, for even more certainly than I carry a sword at my side, I am taking your heart and your passion with me. I will find the Lost Ones and restore them to our world.”
For a moment, they stared at each other in silence. Adrian tried to read his father’s eyes. Something changed. What was once a shadow of gloom transformed into a spark of confidence, as if the warrior within had awakened for a moment, ready to take up a sword and fight. The vision sent a ripple of strength through Adrian’s muscles. What a joy it would be to march into Dracon with his father at his side! The Ram, his fellow soldiers had called him, was a warrior, indeed, a man who charged into battle with his head down and his sword swinging, not caring about the arrows that flew over his battering-ram body.
The flicker, however, quickly faded, and the tired old man returned. Adrian relaxed his arms. It was all for the best. Edison Masters had long ago sacrificed his body for the good of those less able to fight. He deserved to rest from the wars of yesteryear. Yet, he never seemed to rest, not with the shadow of doubt hanging over him. One of his fellow soldiers had accused him of treachery. Of course, the charges were never proven, but the cloud of guilt followed him ever since, even among his fellow peasants. Still, he never once mentioned the name of his accuser. He preferred that the story die and be forgotten.
But Edison Masters never forgot. Though his desires remained unspoken, all three sons knew that he longed to redeem himself in the eyes of his friends, a desire that could never come to pass. With its neighbors no longer rebelling against King Sasser, Mesolantrum lay at peace, and Edison’s wound kept him bound to labors in which he could use his powerful arms. Without good legs, the old soldier would never rise again.
Edison laid down his axe and pulled both brothers into a tight embrace. Then, staying quiet, he marched alone back toward their home. Although his limp was less pronounced now, his head hung low, and his shoulders shifted in rhythmic heaves.
“Come,” Adrian said, pulling Jason by the arm. “We must not watch his grief.”
While they walked along the path through the forest, Adrian gave Jason the courier tube and explained his mission, to listen to Victor’s message, solve the mystery about the key, and find any record of what really happened to Elyssa. The arching branches of the ever-present manna trees seemed to provide a veil of secrecy, as if laying a muffling hand over the sound of their voices.
When they reached a glade where the trees thinned to expose the late afternoon sky, Adrian set his feet in the soft loam that fed a carpet of lush grass. A mere three steps away, Miller’s Spring bubbled up from the ground, providing cover for their conversation.
He laid a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “My brother, I know you have doubted the stories Frederick and I have taught you all these years, and I have offered you no
solid proof. But you have honored your family by working with us as if you were a true believer. Soon, however, you will reach a cross-roads that will force you to decide to either believe in or betray our cause. You will find that you can no longer stand outside the tourney ring.”
Jason averted his eyes for a moment. He seemed pensive, unsure. Did those words act as a stinging rebuke or rather as flint stones set against a well-oiled torch?
“You’re right,” Jason finally said as he grasped Adrian’s wrist. “Even though the legends sound like storybook fables, I will keep my mind open. But as long as I live, I will never betray you or our family, no matter what happens.”
Adrian gazed at his brother. Oh, yes, the torch was well oiled. Now the message would be easily received, and his fire would ignite with a passionate blaze. He pulled Jason close and kissed his forehead. “Good. Because if you betray us, I’ll walk all the way back from Dracon and introduce you to a mama mountain bear who has lost her cubs.”
Hiding a grin, he gave Jason a hearty pat on the back, then marched away, following the shallow stream into the woods. Again manna trees drew thick shadows on the soft carpet, and the grass thinned, making the newly forged path muddier. Yet, even more difficult paths lay ahead. The place where his compatriots had found Frederick’s hat was dangerously near the boundary to the Forbidden Zone. Since the hat provided the first clue that helped Victor prove the existence of the dragon planet, and since the extane-seeking dragon had left more messages in the vicinity, Adrian had to explore the entire area once again.
After an hour of hacking through the underbrush with his sword, he broke into a clearing. He took one step into the open and sniffed the air—damp, slightly musty, and sprinkled with the scent of wildflowers. Although not as well-developed as his father’s, his own sense of smell was acute.
Clouds flowed from the horizon to his left, darkening the sky further. Evening approached, and a storm brewed, a violent one if the sudden rise in humidity had anything to say about it.
His mind drifted to a communal house near his own and a cramped bedroom where the Underground Gateway’s inner circle of five men stood around Victor as he lay on his deathbed. “Feel the air,” Victor had said. “Take in deep draughts. You will find the dragon’s meeting place through all your senses—tension at the tips of your fingers, sharpness in your nostrils, and a presence in your mind, a phantom that stalks but cannot be seen. When all these come together, know that you likely have already been discovered by the dragon, and he will summon you to his presence.”
Adrian took in a deeper breath. Now that he had passed the boundary and entered the Forbidden Zone, new sensations filled the air. The odor was different, sharp in a way, but it also carried a hint of human perspiration, a dirty, oily sweat, obviously not his own. Someone lurked nearby, not real close but close enough for the hidden man to realize that he had to stay silent or be discovered. Adrian expected a pursuer, but hacking through the underbrush had likely masked any noise the man had made.
The approaching storm kicked up a breeze at his back, fanning the mixture of pines, beeches, and manna trees and stirring up a cacophony of noises. Would the commotion be enough to give the tracker courage to draw closer? Whoever it was likely had no idea that the breeze would reveal his presence. Being upwind, his odor would allow Adrian to sniff out his angle of approach and identify where his body created a slight buffer for the breeze. He would not be able to launch a surprise attack.
Adrian resisted the urge to turn and show his sword, choosing instead to hold it steady at his side. If his pursuer believed himself equal to the task of attacking the son of Edison Masters, then he likely would have made his move by now. Perhaps he was a scout who awaited his opportunity to flee and report his findings to others.
A crackling sound rose over the random bustle of wind and branches. About fifty paces into the woods, a man wearing a soldier’s uniform leaped out and dashed away, charging back on the path Adrian had blazed.
Adrian stayed put. Short and lean, this scout scooted like a jackrabbit, obviously too fast to catch, and he carried no weapon to slow him down.
Sliding his sword away, Adrian strode to the other side of the glade and crouched in the shelter of two leafy bushes—ironwood bushes, the older folks called them. He searched the branches for any berries the birds had left behind. As expected, only a few remained, and the tender bark had turned orange and was flaking away, similar to rust on an iron bar. Once stripped for winter, the bush would lose every leaf but one, a leaf at the top of the focal shoot that would stay green until spring when it would finally wither and fall, signaling that new buds would appear the next day.
Since this bush grew wild in the forest, no one had picked it clean. He grabbed a berry and popped it into his mouth. The sweet juice carried a stinging bite, a reminder that eating too many would make his stomach bitter. The flavor also brought an aroma, another biting sensation as it flared his nostrils. Was this the sharp smell Victor had mentioned?
He peeled off a strip of the failing bark and rubbed it between his fingers. Its ridges dragged along his fingertips. Tension. Was this Victor’s meaning? In his death throes had he fashioned a riddle, thinking that perhaps he would keep the secret safe from fools or infiltrators?
Still, no phantom stalked this glade. No sense of a looming presence entered his mind, and that scout was certainly neither phantom nor dragon. Maybe the dragon would show up later. It was a little early yet.
Now hidden for the moment, he settled down to think. When would the scout return with his company? How many would be with him? Adrian glanced at his sword. He might be able to take on two trained soldiers, but not three or more.
Could he risk leaving this spot? The dragon might show up at any minute, and if the beast seemed to be dealing with integrity, Adrian would have to go to the extane collection site and bring the tank here, along with the help of whomever Drexel had chosen for that task. Yet, this might not be the right place at all. Victor’s riddle could have many meanings.
As the breeze again whipped through the forest, the damp air moistened Adrian’s cheeks. Maybe the storm would come first. Heavy rain and high winds would give a hidden warrior a supreme advantage over his pursuers. Besides, even if the storm passed him by, no company could sneak up without raising a lot of racket. Staying put had to be the best option.
After eating three more berries, Adrian kept his eyes trained on the clearing, a circle about ten paces across. Lightning flashed far away, brightening the dimming sky. It wouldn’t be long before the storm arrived. This portal-finding mission would become a chilling nightmare with or without a dragon. These autumn storms sometimes carried quite a punch—cold wind, flooding rains, and even sleet.
Again the sky lit up, but this time the brightness lingered. An aura appeared in the center of the clearing, dazzling white and shimmering. Roughly the shape and size of an adolescent female, yet without details of face or form, the aura spun slowly.
Feeling a chill, Adrian rose to his feet and, drawing his sword, took three steps closer. Particles of even brighter light swirled in the midst of the feminine shape, like excited fireflies buzzing in a tornadic frenzy. Still, the form itself maintained a slow rotation, a graceful dancer spinning on her toes. She seemed to be wearing a skirt that fanned out with her motion.
He extended a hand, expecting to feel warmth from the glowing visage, but frigid air surrounded it, as if the ballerina had been sculpted from ice. Dirt swirled up into the vortex, thickening from bottom to top as it rose. Soon, the feet took on color, the flesh tones of a barefooted girl. The legs solidified. Two slender limbs protruded beneath the hem of a flowing dress that seemed to fabricate its own snowy white array from the upwelling soil—a calf-length skirt, silky sleeves that extended just past the elbows, and a high, lacy neckline. Then a cloak materialized, fanning out around her as she spun.
With every rotation, the remaining light took on substance, and details drew themselves in place—shining
green eyes on a thin, alabaster face; streaming red hair that fell past her shoulders; and a scant frame that told of malnourishment or perhaps illness. In one hand, she carried a small leather bag, tied at the top with string, while the other hand clutched a parchment.
As the spinning form slowed and her cloak settled around her, Adrian cleared his throat and called out, “Hello? Can you hear me?”
After a final twirl, she stopped, and her aura began to dim. A girl no more than fifteen years old staggered at the center of the clearing, setting and resetting her feet to keep from toppling.
Adrian grabbed her forearm, steadying her. “Are you all right?”
Her soft voice broke through the gusting breeze, weak and fragile. “I am well.”
Releasing her slowly to make sure she could stand, he looked at her wrist where his fingers had grasped. In the failing light, the imprints in her tender skin seemed blue. Adrian stared at his own fingers. Was she really as cold as she felt?
She gazed up at him, a smile on her lovely face. “Who are you?”
Adrian stepped back and bowed. “I am Adrian Masters.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” she said, offering a curtsy. “I am Cassabrie.”
Adrian couldn’t resist smiling with her. This girl had appeared out of nowhere from a spinning halo of light and now acted as if materializing in the middle of the forest was as natural as the wind and rain. Apparently a portal lay here in the center of this clearing, exactly what he had been searching for, but how could one pass through? Time would tell. “May I ask why you are here and where you came from?”
“You may ask,” she said, her expression turning serious, “but I cannot tell you anything until I contact the people I have come to meet. My business is a matter of life and death.”
She opened her bag and withdrew a white stone. “I have work to do, so if you’ll excuse me, I must go, and I can’t have you following me.”