“No!” Dnara screamed, hands clawing at the sand in a desperate attempt to get over the waves that kept sucking her back under. “There must be another way,” she begged, but the wind only replied with a mournful howl.
The dark mass swelled, rising up over the churning sea and casting an unending shadow over Dnara as she lost the will to fight the next wave. Then, from the darkness, there came cracks of light, etching their way along its molten surface like the scars upon her arms. The blight reared back in agony, a beastly shriek breaking its form apart as the crackling lines met, grew brighter then shattered. All at once, the world went silent. A pale moonlight blanketed the sea. Dnara lifted her head above the water and gasped for air.
“Breathe,” Athan insisted as he held Dnara within his arms. Papers and feathers floated down around them as the wind calmed and the room went quiet again. “Please, Dnara, breathe!”
Dnara inhaled, sputtered then coughed up a lungful of black water onto the stone floor. “The child,” she muttered incoherently, her thoughts still tossed about by the sea upon a now barren shore. “The child, Athan.”
“What child?” Athan asked, cupping her face in his hands as tears sprung anew from her eyes.
“Her child,” Dnara replied, her searching eyes seeing only a fading light where his face should be. “I could not save the child.”
And it was then that Elizabeth screeched. The priest rushed over to a bed no longer covered with blankets, and the metallic tinge of blood filled the room. The mayor let out a wailing appeal to the gods and fell to his knees. Elizabeth’s cries raised in the chorus of a spirit dying.
“A miscarriage,” the priest faintly announced, his words cut by sharp sorrow.
“Forgive me,” Dnara wept, sinking down into the comforting embrace of shadow.
18
Sleep Not in Shadow
Sleep not in Shadow,
For I shall always be near.
In my arms, I’ll keep you,
The night holds nothing to fear.
Sleep sweetly my child,
From you I’ll never depart.
So safely dream of far off lands
And those held closer to heart
Dream of the Red City,
Where Carnath’s brave king reigns.
Dream of proud Orynthis,
A land of silver and grain.
Dream of Pel’Kathor,
Where Orc’kothi tribes roam.
Dream of the Elvan lands,
Where giant trees are made home.
Sleep not in Shadow,
For I shall always be near.
In my arms, I’ll keep you,
The night holds nothing to fear.
The moon overhead shines brightly
Faedra’s light upon the earth.
The Shadow King cannot darken
the stars from their rebirth.
Valda, in silence, watches.
Thalisa carries rod and shield.
Brodan’s fire will keep us warm,
As Ishkar keeps our fates concealed.
Soon a new day will dawn,
and Retgar, the sun, shall rise.
He’ll chase Demroth back into shadow,
so close your eyes, close your eyes.
Sleep not in Shadow,
For I shall always be near.
In my arms, I’ll keep you,
The night holds nothing to fear.
-Carnathian lullaby,
author unknown.
19
The Ghosts of Fen’Nadrel
Perhaps arriving at the abandoned, reportedly haunted, Elvan fort of Fen’Nadrel just as darkness fell over his back had not been among the best of Serenthel’s ideas thus far in his journey northwest. But, here he stood, feet upon the broken masonry of a bridge that had long ago ceased spanning the narrow river that cut off the eastern side of the fort from the mainland. All around, broken alabaster pillars dotted the overgrown vegetation, jutting up like the white bone remains of an ancient skeletal giant. A few intact pillars rose high overhead to meet fallen archways, their stone faces intricately carved but weathered and cracked. One statue remained perched at the start of the bridge, one arm gone but the other holding a spear in warning to all those who would dare to cross uninvited.
His logic said go around, but his heart whispered go forward.
Serenthel peered through the growing darkness at the canal some twenty feet down, its waters slowly meandering over rounded boulders and lapping against a sandy silted shore before spilling into the ocean. The ocean pounded against the fort’s southern and western walls, or what remained of them. To the north, an easier crossing, perhaps, if the small peninsula had not been turned into an island during its thousand year dereliction. A wise person may have made camp for the night in the field of wild flowers now basking in the gentle light of a rising moon, waiting until morning to try going around the ruins with hope for an easier path on the other side. Serenthel, however, knew he was yet too young to be considered wise, and his promise to follow his heart’s chosen path to its end had been made just a short week past.
“The water doesn’t look too cold,” he said, to which Forfolyn twitched his ears and gave an argumentative snort.
Serenthel scratched the elk’s cheek, adjusted his own pack’s shoulder straps and set one foot on the downward slope. That first step slipped forward on loose gravel from the broken stones surrounding them, but after his first fall within just hours of leaving the Mother’s Grove, he’d smartened up and procured a suitable walking stick. The stout silverwood branch stuck firmly in the ground, giving Serenthel the anchor he needed to not end up rolling head first down the embankment and into a river he was certain was much colder than it looked. Forfolyn, for his part, snorted in amusement but stamped a foot in request for better caution.
After pausing a moment to catch his breath and silently thank the sturdy branch, Serenthel huffed lightly
