Grym Prophet (Song of the Aura, Book Three) (14 page)

And she did.

Chapter Ten: Comings and Meetings

Elia found herself in a forest of emerald and brown, bathed in the lingering twilight that belonged to neither night nor day.

Putting out her hand, she touched the trunk of the tree nearest to her. The bark felt smooth, twisting in wrinkled patterns under her hand, swaying and shifting in the breeze. She closed her eyes and inhaled the delicious, enlivening air of the forest around her, imagining for a moment that the noises of the tree were its breathing, in and out, in and out, as it took nourishment from the sun. A tree that breathed sunbeams.

With a start the Wave Strider opened her eyes and drew her hand away. It hadn't been all her imagination- the tree really
was
breathing! She had felt what she could have sworn was a pulse! With puzzled eyes she scrutinized its trunk and branches for any sign to explain the phenomenon, but there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary about the tree.

“What a strange place,” she whispered, looking all around her before heading deeper into the forest. Every tree was a different shape, some short and some tall, some warped and some straight, but all seemed to have the same brown bark and silvery-green leaves, and all held the magical pulsating life she had felt in the first one.

Perhaps
life
was not the right word.
Awareness,
maybe. The trees all had an uncommon sort of intelligence... a vibrance... an aura...

Come.
She shivered at the unexpected word which broke upon the outer edges of mind, trickling down her spine like the excited, uncomfortable symptoms of love... Love like the kind she was trying to hide. Like her love for Gribly, thin and untested as it still was. Love like she had never felt since her family and all those she cared about had been ripped from her life with bloody claws.

Come.
There was a distinctness to this voice that she could not ignore. It was calling her, and she must obey: it was that simple.

Come.
The haunting melody of string instruments she couldn't see pulled at the edge of Elia's hearing, bringing back memories both sad and endearing.

Her feet were moving beneath her. She looked up and found to her utter astonishment that she had been walking for some time, and that the grass and foliage beneath her had begun to slope downwards significantly. It was all so strange, she wasn't sure whether to be excited or afraid. The melody continued, her heart pumped, and the voice in her head spoke one last time.
Come.

Just as the last echoes of the word died away, Elia found herself at the bottom of the wooded slope, standing at the edge of an open, grassy dell which swam in a misty light. The cool radiance seemed not to come from the sky, but from the human-like being who sat in the center of the clearing.

It was a man, or what looked like one, clothed in white, with light-colored skin and golden eyes. He was sitting in the nook of a mighty tree, the only one in the clearing, on what looked to be a living throne made of the tree itself. In an almost-disconcerting way, Elia could see his features clearly despite the light that emanated from him. It made her think of a glass vessel, such as a king or prince might use to drink from. The man was the vessel, and the light was shining
through
him into the world beyond.

She shivered. The man on the throne lifted one hand serenely, and beckoned.

She took a step closer, putting her bare foot in the long grass of the dell. Then she took another.

And another.

She walked towards the white-clad man, who rose to greet her, taking her hand in his.

Then she knew. He was Swaying Willow, the innkeeper, but he was
Wanderwillow,
too.

He was an Aura.

“Welcome, Child,” he said, calmly gazing at her in the way only her father had done before.

The feeling she had felt at the first touch of his mind, back in the forest, returned to wash her mind clean of all thoughts but one.

“My will is yours, Nympharch,”
she said, her voice trembling as she spoke in her native tongue. Kneeling, she bent her head in reverence. This was the Lord of Nymphs. She knew it, though she had never been told. She knew it as she felt any nymph to meet him would know... Wanderwillow was the part of the Aura that most resembled nymphkind; the spirit of the World most in love with the race that had given her birth. Perhaps he himself had created them?

“No, dearest. I did not create. Only One has, and it is He Who creates All. I am only the Protector... the Guardian and Patron of your race.”

One hand touched her chin, raising it up. She looked into Wanderwillow's eyes and saw all the vast wisdom of the Aura reflected in his glance; reflected from above, as was the light that shone through him. It came from a higher place than himself- higher, even, than all the Aura or any beings like them.

She saw, or knew, or felt all at once...

His power was from the Creator Himself.

“Rise, Halanyad,” the Aura said, taking her hands and helping her to stand. “I am not worthy of your worship. We are both no more than a single thread in the tapestry which the Creator wields over all of Time and Distance. And your own part in that pattern is no small one. Feel no shame, Halanyad. Be free, be loved.”

She shivered, feeling the power of the unfamiliar name by which he called her... but she held his gaze. “Thank you,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “Thank you...”

She wasn't sure exactly what for, but she knew that she needed to say it, just as she had known without being told who this Aura was.

“Now you are healed,” intoned Wanderwillow. The light that shone through him grew brighter, and Elia felt beyond a doubt that his words were true. She bowed her head, smiling through tears of peace and joy. “Elia.” Now he was speaking the name she knew was her own. “Child. I have waited long for you to come and find me, and we will have much to speak of; but I sense much fear and anxiety on your heart. Tell me what troubles you…” And she did.

~

In the night-shrouded honeycomb of stone spires behind the Swaying Willow Inn, Gramling stalked from shadow to shadow in what could only be called the most contemplative- and dangerous- mood he had ever been in.

There has to be a way to break whatever spell is nullifying my powers,
he told himself now, focusing on the problem ahead while simultaneously scanning the surrounding terrain for enemies. On a whim, he snapped his wrist twice in a Pit Striding technique for generating fire.

The gust of flame that spurted from his hand surprised him so much that he let go of the flow that sustained his power. His powers were back, but why so soon?

The answer came to him at once.
Because that fool of an innkeeper meant just what he said. He's no sorcerer or cleric! Striding is only deadened by the power of that blasted inn... so now that I'm far enough away, my powers are back. Simple as that.

It really
was
simple, and he cursed himself profusely for not figuring it out sooner. He'd let his guard down and his ambition fade, fleeing battle with his tail between his legs like some muddy cur, thrashed by a bigger dog than itself.

He needed to test this new revelation, determining to what extent his powers had returned. Reaching out into the nightly shadows with the dark strength of his mind, he called out in the language of the Pit Beasts.

Bonedale.

Not very much to his surprise, the deep, raspy voice of his falconhorse companion responded. What shocked him was that it came from
directly above him
.

“Master.”

The only sign that Gramling's composure was shaken was the twitching of his eyebrows as he jerked his neck to stare up at the silently flying mount above him.

“Impressive. You are a worthy servant indeed.”

“I am no longer your servant.”

“What?!” Gramling’s danger sense buzzed furiously in the back of his skull, and sparks of flame were dancing between his fingers the next second.

“You were a worthy master, but another has come. One vastly more powerful than you. I have no choice but to serve him. He has commanded it, and the Powers of the Pit stand behind him.”

“No…” Gramling hissed, icy understanding churning his stomach. “It can’t be… He
can’t
have come yet! I haven’t failed, blast it all!”

“Oh… but you have, my child.”

Gramling froze in utter horror as a familiar presence gripped his body in a vice of power and turned him forcibly around. A tall, hideous form melted out of the night, deeper and blacker than any shadow.

Straight back, hooded face. Clawed fingers, glinting eyes, and dark robes Gramling knew to be splattered with blood.

“Look into my eyes.” It was the Golden One. The Death of Worlds. The Breaker of Minds. His voice echoed of shattered stone; of broken ice and burning wave; of death and decay and violence.

When his Master spoke, the command had to be obeyed. He had no choice but to meet the fiery gaze of the Golden One.

“Spare me, Master...” he pleaded, voice sinking to a pitiful whine. “I can do this... I won't fail again, I promise you!” His words died into a scream as his body suddenly moved with a mind of its own. His limbs splayed out as he was lifted into the air by an unseen force, the blood boiling in his veins as his back bent farther and farther, threatening to snap at any moment.

Gramling's vision was a sea of blood and fire as pain wracked his body. Slashing through the white noise of suffering was the insistent whisper of the Golden One.

“I do not reward failure with death, my child. Only fools in power do so. Your punishment will be great, but it will be because I wish you to be a better servant for me. I have taught you to conquer pain- have you forgotten that? No... you will not die. You will only become stronger, the more you are chastised.”

Suddenly the grip on his body vanished, and Gramling went tumbling to the ground. His Master's words filling his mind, he managed to ignore the pain in his body enough to land in a battle-ready crouch, a sneer on his face.

“Command me,” he grunted, his concentrated effort to
not
break into tears lending a hard edge to his voice.

The Golden One chuckled, low and unmelodious. “Your punishment will not come immediately. I am a merciful god, my child. Should you prove yourself in the coming struggle, I may go so far as to rescind it entirely.”

“S... s... struggle?” Gramling managed, standing warily.

“The time has come.” The young Pit Strider felt himself tense, from excitement this time. “You have failed in your original mission... it is true. But in doing so you have led me straight to the root of the last thorn in my side.”

The shadows fled as the Golden One let his hood fall away, revealing the glowing golden skin and yellow eyes beneath.