The Lost Realm (16 page)

“Oh, I was just a young wizard at the time. I searched in the wreckage for survivors, but the Celestians were beyond all help. The entire city was gone, utterly crushed. It was made of crystal, you know, very beautiful to behold. Such a terrible loss. In time a new city rose: Idilliam, built upon the ruins of what had gone before.”

Tarlan had been about to use the flint from his cloak pocket to ignite the fire. Now he stopped. “You're a thousand years old?” He could scarcely believe it.

“I am as old as my eyes and a little older than my teeth,” Melchior replied with a mischievous grin. He stretched, his joints cracking like thawing ice. “And tomorrow I shall be reborn.”

Before Tarlan could ask any more questions, Greythorn was bounding toward him over the black sand. Next came Filos, with Brock lumbering behind. Silent as an owl, Kitheen swooped through the twilight to join his thorrod companions in their nest of rocks.

“You found us!” Tarlan said as his pack gathered around him.

Filos looked around the beach, her blue-and-white stripes shining beneath the light of the prophecy stars.

“What do you think?” Tarlan asked.

The tigron sniffed the air. “I smell salt. And fish. I like fish.”

“I prefer a hot haunch of deer,” growled Greythorn.

Tarlan realized Brock was standing a little apart from the others and beckoned the bear over. “Come closer, Brock,” he said. “You're part of the pack now.”

“Brock likes the pack,” the bear rumbled, squeezing between Filos and Greythorn. “Hard to run fast, though.”

“You kept up well enough,” Greythorn said.

“And you kept going when we got tired,” added Filos. “I think you could run all day, Brock.”

“Running reminds Brock he is free.”

Tarlan ran a hand through the bear's shaggy coat. “As long as you're with me,” he said, “free is what you'll stay.”

The morning brought gray light and low, ominous clouds. The tide had climbed halfway up the beach toward the dead remains of the fire, and the waves were thick and angry. The wind was strong and laced with salt.

After a meager breakfast of dried meat, Tarlan and Melchior climbed silently onto their thorrod mounts. As Tarlan settled himself on Theeta's back, he felt Filos nudge his foot.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “You have to stay here.”

“Don't go,” said Filos.

“A storm is coming,” said Greythorn, sniffing toward the Isle of Stars, the top of which was shrouded in mist. “This is a bad day to fly.”

“This won't take long,” said Tarlan. He had no idea if that was true, but he was anxious not to delay further. “We'll be back.”

I don't know if that's true either.

No sooner had they taken to the air than rain began to fall. Far out to sea, lightning scratched thin lines between the sky and the water. Distant thunder boomed, making the air tremble. Ahead loomed the Isle of Stars, a conical mountain peak with a flattened top.

“Once this was a volcano,” Melchior called as the thorrods carried them in from the angry sea and over the black slopes of the island's foothills.

“What's a volcano?”

“A mountain that spits fire.”

Tarlan decided he didn't want to know any more.

The foothills steepened swiftly to sheer mountain slopes. The thorrods climbed steadily, working their wings hard against the buffeting wind. The lightning was closer now, white sheets slicing through the clouds directly above Tarlan's head. The thunder was a constant drumbeat in his ears, in his chest.

This must be where the fire came out
, he thought when they finally reached the island's peak, where a vast crater yawned like the mouth of some monstrous troll. The thorrods were big, but the crater swallowed them whole. Its walls were smooth and shiny, like black ice, capturing each burst of lightning and turning it into a thousand jagged reflections. Sucked down by the crater, the air swirled around them in a treacherous whirlwind.

At the bottom of the crater was a lake. Despite the spinning, howling wind, the water's surface was completely still. To Tarlan's astonishment, it was also the color of silver.

Rising from the center of the lake was a platform of smooth, black stone.

“Here!” shouted Melchior over the roar of the wind and the crash of the storm. “We are here!”

The three thorrods flew down toward the lake in a lurching descent that made Tarlan's stomach feel as if it had turned inside out. Just when he thought he would throw up, they dropped the last few wingspans and landed on the platform, which was just big enough to hold the three of them side by side.

As Tarlan and Melchior dismounted, the giant birds held their wings wide so as to shield their passengers from the worst of the rain. Tarlan went to each of the thorrods in turn, silently touching their razor-sharp beaks with his hand to demonstrate his thanks and trust.

“The Silverenne!” Melchior cried. The wind blew his hair and beard around his face in a white froth. He pointed at the lake. “Once it flowed through all of Toronia. But no more. The silver waters have long since retreated underground, except in this one special place.”

“Why is it silver?” Tarlan had to cup his hands over his mouth to be heard.

“It holds the light of the stars! And by their light, and their magic, I shall be restored to everything I once was!”

Struggling to keep his balance in the gale, Tarlan studied the walls surrounding the eerily calm lake. Countless white stones were set into the rock. Some were the size of his hand; others were as big as the thorrods that had carried them here. Unlike the black rock that held them, these stones were dull and unreflective.

They look dead
, Tarlan thought with a shiver.

“They are the constellations!” shouted Melchior. “Each has a number, and each number has a power. The sum of those powers totals the heart of a wizard. This is my task here today: to count the constellations back into myself.”

Tarlan shook his head. He had no idea what the wizard was talking about. The thunder cracked, again and again; the noise was earsplitting, and with each boom Tarlan jumped.

“How will you do that?” he yelled, fighting to make himself heard over the din. Despite the best efforts of the thorrods to protect them with their wings, his clothes were drenched. As for the birds, they looked bedraggled and miserable.

“As each number is counted a new stone will light up!” Melchior shouted over yet another tremendous thunderclap. “When all the constellations are shining, my powers will be restored. Watch the stones while I am gone, Tarlan, and watch them well. Remember their pattern, and remember their number, for one day you may need them!”

“ ‘Gone'?” Tarlan yelled back. “What do you mean, ‘gone'?”

“As soon as I enter the water, I am vulnerable. You must keep watch. But you must also keep back! Until all the constellations are lit, until all the numbers are counted, nothing must disturb me, or all is lost. All! Do you understand, boy? Nothing must disturb me! Nothing!”

Tarlan gaped.

“Promise me you will not interfere! Promise me!”

“I promise!” Tarlan blurted.

Melchior dropped his staff. It fell to the ground, the clatter lost in the thunder. The wizard's face, so close to Tarlan's now that their noses were practically touching, fell abruptly backward.

“Melchior!”

The wizard's arms spread wide. His yellow cloak billowed like wings. He entered the water without a splash. Silver waves closed over his head.

The instant he hit the water, the air stilled and the sky fell silent. The lightning ceased, leaving only flat gray light. Tarlan's ears rang in the sudden silence.

Below the surface of the Silverenne, Melchior twitched once, then became utterly still, as if he'd been flash frozen by a Yalasti winter wind.

Tarlan dropped to his knees at the edge of the platform and thrust out his hands, intending to drag the wizard to safety. Behind him Theeta screeched a warning.

Tarlan drew his hands back as if burned.

Until all the constellations are lit, until all the numbers are counted, nothing must disturb me, or all is lost! All! Do you understand, boy?

Tarlan didn't understand. He didn't understand any of it. But he'd promised.

Below him, in the still waters of the Silverenne, the wizard floated as motionless as the dead.

“Hurry up, Melchior,” he whispered. “Whatever you're doing down there, hurry!”

T
he house overlooked the lake. Its floors were carpeted with a soft moss, and the rooms were filled with plump cushions embroidered with beautiful lacy motifs, but nothing could disguise the fact that it was made of crystal.

“This is such a peculiar place,” said Gulph, running his hand down a wall made of milky opal. “Everything's so cold and hard.”

“Including the Lady Redina,” Ossilius observed.

“Do you think so?” said Gulph. “I don't know. She did let us stay, after all. And she's given us this house.”

Ossilius snorted. “A grand gesture indeed.”

Gulph threw himself down on one of the cushions. Upstairs he could hear the sounds of the others exploring and making themselves at home. Hetty had taken Jessamyn under her wing, promising her stories at bedtime; Marcus had just looked relieved to have found somewhere to lie down and recover.

But Gulph couldn't rest, and Ossilius's fitful pacing of the room told him that his friend felt the same.

“I don't really know what to think,” Gulph said, gazing across the silver waters of the Celestial Lake. “I know we should be grateful, but . . .”

“But what, Gulph?”

“Maybe you're right. There's something wrong here. I don't know if it's got anything to do with Lady Redina, but . . . I just don't know.”

Ossilius crossed to the window, stretching his arms above his head. “I feel an ache in my bones that goes all the way through to my soul. I am tired, Gulph. We are all tired. In the morning, when we have slept, our thoughts will run more freely.”

“Do they have mornings down here, Ossilius? Do they have nights?” Gulph couldn't take his eyes off the lake. Tiny ripples twinkled dimly in the cavern's constant purple twilight. “Oh, we should never have gone into those tunnels. We should have stayed in Idilliam. We should have fought for our city.”

“Had we stayed, we would be dead.” Ossilius's tone was flat and final.

“Don't you mean ‘undead'?”

“I suppose I do. Does that make it better?”

“Of course not. It makes it worse.”

“We
will
fight, Gulph, when the time is right. Brutan
will
be defeated. You have my word on it. In the meantime, my job is to protect you. That is why we entered the tunnels: to keep you safe.”

“Well, I don't feel very safe. And I don't feel very good about abandoning my friends. They could be dead or . . . worse. Don't you feel the same?”

“If you ask me if I want to be here, I must answer no. But coming to Celestis has at least given us shelter and put space between us and the enemy and given us time to think.”

Gulph joined Ossilius at the window. He took a deep breath. “What do you know about bakalisses?”

Ossilius lowered his voice. “Is that what troubles you, my king? It is just a story.”

“Pip used to say stories are like the roots of a big, old tree. Just because you can't touch them doesn't mean they're not real. Or important.”

Ossilius put a hand on his shoulder. “It's the here and now that matters. Show me a bakaliss and I will face it down. Until then mythical monsters are not our concern.”

Gulph spied movement on the path outside the house. A young man was trotting toward the nearby town square carrying a basket of what looked like fruit. He had his back to Gulph, but there was something familiar about his lopsided gait.