The Lost Realm (4 page)

T
he instant she awoke, Elodie knew something was wrong. She crawled over the blankets to the front of the tent. Throwing the flap aside, she scrambled out into the forest clearing.

An army encircled her tent. Hundreds of men and horses stood facing her under the purple predawn sky. In the gloom, their faces gave off a faint glow. They were translucent, like soldiers made of frosted glass.

An army of ghosts.

“What's wrong?” she said, suddenly wide awake.

One of the knights spurred his horse forward. He was old and haggard, yet his back was straight and his phantom eyes were bright.

“We wish to leave,” Sir Jaken replied.

The words struck Elodie dumb.

She looked beyond the rank and file of the ghost soldiers to where the Trident camp was awakening. Through the glassy horses, she saw ordinary men and women going about their early morning duties: carrying water brought from the nearby stream; lighting fires; tending to livestock. They trudged with tired limbs and bowed heads.

You lost the Battle of the Bridge
, Elodie reflected.
You lost your friends and comrades. Is it any wonder you look beaten?

Yet they were still alive, these surviving rebels of Trident. And all thanks to this ghost army.

An army only I can see.

Filled with resolve, Elodie swept her red-gold hair back from her face.

“You can't leave,” she said firmly. “You simply can't. We've come so far together. These people need you. I need you. You can't turn back now.”

“It is not a question of turning back,” Sir Jaken replied. “Rather of going forward.”

Elodie shook her head in frustration. “There's so much to do. Gulph is still trapped in Idilliam. I have to . . . Tarlan and I have to find him. We're supposed to be together, the three of us. I thought that's what you wanted.”

“Only fate can decide whether you and your brothers will be one. We have played our part. Now we seek peace.”

Elodie scanned the faces of the watching ghosts. Red light was bleeding into the sky: a fiery dawn.

“Brutan is in Idilliam too,” she said, determined to convince them. “He's the one responsible for your deaths. Have you forgotten the War of Blood? Don't you want revenge?”

“We are beyond revenge.”

Elodie's dismay was turning into anguish. She'd placed her trust in these abandoned souls. Placed her heart.

“Please,” she said, rubbing her eyes. She wouldn't cry, not in front of them. “Think about it. You made a new bridge to help us cross the chasm to Idilliam. We might need it again.”

“Our bridge broke.”

“And cast a whole legion of Brutan's undead monsters into the chasm! Don't you see what a difference you made? Without you, everything would have been lost!”

Elodie stopped, suddenly aware she'd been shouting. To anyone watching, it would look as if she were yelling into thin air.

A boy dressed in a squire's uniform stepped out from behind Sir Jaken's horse. She'd been hearing the voices of ghosts her whole life—though she'd only known it these past weeks—but Samial was the first spirit she'd actually seen and spoken to.

And become friends with.

“Samial,” she implored, holding out her hands. “Surely you can make them understand? Together we're strong. If we part now . . .”

“We do understand,” said Samial. He cast an anxious glance at Sir Jaken, who nodded for him to continue. “You brought us here, Elodie. You led us out of the Weeping Woods so we could take revenge against Brutan. You set us free.”

“But we lost the battle,” Elodie protested. “Brutan still holds Idilliam. He . . .”

“In freeing us,” said Sir Jaken gently, “you brought us out of the shadow of death. You allowed us to fight our final battle. Now that battle is over. Vengeance has been served, and we are at peace.”

The misty faces of the ghosts nodded in assent. Tears stung Elodie's eyes. “But you can't just leave.”

Samial took her hand in his ghostly fingers. Cold as it was, his touch comforted her. “Elodie—this part of it is over.”

She looked into her friend's eyes. “So that's it? You've just come to say good-bye?”

“No,” said Sir Jaken. “There is something you must do for us.”

“Me? What do you need from me?”

“We need you to set us free.”

Elodie pulled her hand from Samial's and turned away.
But this was my destiny,
she thought, desolated.
I was born to lead a ghost army. I know it. I'm the only one who can do it. Without them I'm just . . .

“There are other spirits in this world,” said an old, cracked voice.

Elodie jumped. She hadn't heard Melchior's footsteps—but then the wizard's feet, as always, were bare, and the carpet of moss on the floor of the clearing was soft.

Maybe he didn't walk here at all. Maybe he just . . . appeared.

“You scared me,” she murmured. A thought occurred to her. “Do you see them too, Melchior?”

The wizard stared out at the ranks of ghosts. His yellow robe glowed faintly in the dim light of dawn. His hands gripped his wooden staff so tightly that his bony knuckles turned white.

“No,” he said at last. “That is beyond me. But I sense the weariness they carry. You feel it too, I think.”

Elodie considered arguing. But Melchior was right; she
did
feel it: a slow, insistent beating, like the wings of a trapped bird eager to take flight.

She sighed. “What must I do?” As it often did when she was nervous, her hand stole to the green jewel she wore around her neck. It was as much a part of her now as the blood in her veins; like that blood, it joined her to her brothers.

“The ritual is simple but powerful,” Melchior said. “You must take a talisman—a possession that means something to these lost souls—and bury it.”

“Is that all?”

“That is all.”

“Like a funeral?”

“Like a funeral.”

“But what possession? Where can I . . . ?”

“That is why we led you here after the battle,” said Samial.

Behind him, the phantom horses drew back, some to the left, some to the right. A corridor opened up in the body of the ghost army, at the end of which Elodie saw a huge oak tree.

“Let me show you,” said Samial.

Elodie looked at Melchior, who planted his feet wide and placed both hands on his staff.

“I will be waiting,” said the wizard.

As Samial led Elodie to the tree, she felt the ancient presence of the knights and their steeds pressing in around her. She walked as if in a dream, her head light.

The tree was age-worn and enormous. Its lower branches—themselves thicker than the trunks of many lesser trees—drooped almost to the ground. Guided by Samial, Elodie picked her way between them to the oak's tremendous base. Here she found a dark hollow edged with green fungus.

“Inside,” said Samial.

As Elodie stretched her hand toward the hollow, the tree creaked. She glanced up, startled.

“Don't be afraid,” said Samial.

Biting her lip, Elodie reached inside the hollow. Its interior was damp, but her fingers alighted almost immediately on something soft. She drew it out, held it up.

“It's a flag,” she said in wonder.

“The Standard of Morlon,” said Samial. “It carries the colors under which we fought, all those years ago.”

“Morlon. He was Brutan's brother, wasn't he?”

Samial nodded. His ghostly fingers brushed across the rotten fabric of the flag, tracing stripes that might once have been purple, a crest that might once have been gold.

“Brutan stole the throne from Morlon and we fought to reclaim it. We failed. The flag was hidden here by the last of our standard-bearers, on the last day of our last battle.”

As they left the tree, a second passage opened up in the ranks of the ghost army. Elodie followed it, awed that these dead knights were steering her through this final task.

Melchior was waiting for her at the other end of the corridor, stabbing at the soft ground with the end of his staff.

“Here it is,” she said, raising the flag, “their talisman.”

The wizard nodded and tossed her a short branch. “Help me dig, Elodie.”

She began working at the ground with the branch, but soon found she made better progress with her hands.
Back in Castle Vicerin, I'd have made a servant do this for me.
She scooped out clods of earth, piling them beside the steadily growing hole. The Vicerins had raised Elodie as their daughter, but planned to use her to claim the throne for themselves.
They'd hardly recognize me now
, she thought, staring in wonder at her filthy hands.

Once they'd finished excavating, Elodie sat back on her knees. The hole looked like a grave.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“I think you know,” Melchior replied gently.

Elodie picked up the flag, folded it, and placed it at the bottom of the hole.

“Now cover it over,” said Melchior.

“Shouldn't we say something?”

“Do you wish to?”

Elodie shook her head. She was too upset to think, let alone speak.

Melchior touched her shoulder. “If no words come, Elodie, do not fret. Everything has already been said. This is an act of deeds, not words.”

Elodie's sadness swelled as she scooped up a handful of soil and scattered it on the flag. As she did so, a series of ripples surged through the ghost army.

“Another,” said Melchior.

Elodie obeyed. With each handful of earth, the rippling increased. Elodie closed her eyes, feeling the air move strangely around her as her hands continued their work.

“Ah, you are here, Princess Elodie. Melchior—good morning to you.”

The voice jolted her from her reverie. She looked up to see Fessan's tall frame silhouetted against the red sky that was brightening rapidly to orange behind the trees.

“Another day begins,” remarked Melchior, rising awkwardly to his feet.

“Our last here, I think,” Fessan sighed. The low dawn light carved harsh lines into his face, making him look tired, and much older than the youthful commander Elodie remembered from their first meeting.

“I think we will break camp tomorrow,” Fessan went on. “We lost many during the Battle of the Bridge. It is vital we recruit more soldiers. Besides, the men need a purpose. Trident must continue to . . .”

He broke off, seeming to see the hole in the ground for the first time.

“What are you doing?”

A little annoyed at Fessan's interruption, Elodie stood up. She brushed the earth from her hands. “I am honoring those who helped us, Fessan.”

“Honoring? Honoring who?” The scar running down the side of Fessan's face twitched as he looked around the clearing, his gaze passing straight through the ghosts.

“My army. Our allies. The knights who saved Trident.”

“The ghosts?” Fessan's eyes widened. “Are they with us now?”

“They're here. But they're leaving. Their work is done, and now it's time to set them free.”

“Leaving? But, Princess, half the soldiers of Trident died at the bridge. Many who survived are injured. If not for your . . . your friends, we would have been defeated. You cannot let them go! We need them!”

Fessan's whole body was shaking. Elodie was taken aback. Had Fessan ever lost his temper with her before? She didn't think so. Yet his anger only served to make her angry herself.

“How dare you?” she snapped. “How dare you question the right of these . . . these
warriors
to find peace. They have done their duty. And I
will
lay them to rest.”

“And I will not let you!” Fessan's white-knuckled hands clenched at his sides.

“But you will,” said Melchior, stepping smoothly between them. He tapped the end of his staff on the half-covered flag. “This is a blood debt, Fessan. As a man of the sword, you must understand that.”

Fessan's shoulders dropped. He appeared suddenly exhausted. “Trident looks to me. I have a duty.”

“The spirits look to Elodie,” Melchior replied. “And she has a duty too.”

Emotions fluttered across Fessan's face. Then, abruptly, he said, “Very well. Do what you must. I only hope that Trident does not pay for this with more deaths.”

Turning on his heel, he stalked away toward the camp. Elodie watched him until he was lost among the trees.

“He's done so much for me,” she said. “Fought so hard to put me on the throne. He raised an army for me, Melchior. And he lost so many on the bridge. But . . . oh, why does he have to make this even more difficult?”

“Fessan is a great leader,” said Melchior, “and so he carries a great burden. As do you, Elodie. You just carry them in different ways. He is a good man. That is why I chose him to lead Trident.” He turned his attention back to the hole in the ground. “And now we must finish what we have started.”

In silence they returned to their task. As Elodie covered the flag, she felt her anger at Fessan drain away. Everything drained away, leaving just her, and her hands, and the damp soil they touched.

“It is nearly done,” said Melchior quietly.

Blinking, Elodie came out of her reverie. Only one tiny corner of the flag remained visible. Her hands were poised over it, holding the final scoop of soil. All around her the ghost army was watching, as still as a held breath.

She looked around sharply. She knew she had to release the army, but she couldn't bear to lose quite all of them—not yet. “Samial?”

“I am here.” He appeared as if from nowhere, a tired smile on his thin, grubby face.

She closed her eyes, opened them again. “Samial, answer me truthfully. Do you wish me to set you free?”