Maylin's Gate (Book 3) (15 page)

She gave a short nod and the room stopped spinning. “I think I can stand.” She glanced to her left. “Jeremy, don’t go far, okay?”

“I won’t. I promise.”

Nervous flutters rolled over her stomach, but helped chase away the shock. She stood on wobbly legs. The mural pulled at her. It beckoned for her attention and she submitted turning her gaze upward.

Sir Alcott’s brow furrowed. Meranthia’s preeminent historian studied the drawing as a master artist would his greatest creation. “Extraordinary.”

She found her balance and straightened her back. “Those are heartwood trees.”

“Yes.” Sir Alcott nodded in agreement. “But, that’s not the extraordinary part.”

“What is it?” She said.

Sir Alcott motioned around him. “This entire section of ruins predates the first heartwood tree, and not by a little mind you. From what I’ve gathered, this entire level is at least three thousand years old.”

“That can’t be,” she said. “How would those people know about heartwood trees? Lora created them.”

“How can you be sure?” Jeremy said.

“Her own notes said as much,” she said.

“That’s not entirely true,” Arber said. The guardian’s eyes wandered over the mural as if soaking in every detail. “Lora’s notes mentioned the discovery of the heartwood. But, she never said how or, more importantly, where she made that discovery.”

“What are you insinuating?” She said.

Arber glanced sideways eyebrow raised.

She folded her arms and pursed her lips.

“I meant nothing sinister,” Arber said. “Ayralen scholars have made broad interpretations of Lora's writings. Some have taken those opinions as fact.”

“This mural would tend to support your argument,” Sir Alcott said.

“What do you make of those creatures?” Jeremy pointed to the winged beasts flying above the treetops.

“I’ve not seen their like. Not in paintings or ancient text,” Sir Alcott said. “But, I could say the same of those beings commanding them.”

“Who are they?” She said.

“What are they might be a better question,” Sir Alcott said.

“The whole scene looks so…,” Jeremy said.

“Alien,” she said finishing Jeremy’s thought. She stepped forward her footsteps echoing from the faded stone floor. Her eyes drifted to the green and red sphere near the mural’s bottom right corner. “That’s Lora’s sphere.”

“And that’s Elan’s.” Jeremy pointed to blue, yellow, and white sphere drawn near the mural’s bottom left corner.

“The third one must be Trace’s,” she said gaze locked on the blue and white sphere at the top.

Sir Alcott’s eyes narrowed. “Three spheres so much like our own. But how? Elan, Lora, and Trace created those spheres. Of that, we’re sure.”

“Couldn’t the drawing depict a fantasy?” Jeremy said. “Why are we assuming it’s real?”

“Why don't you think it's real?” She said. “An artist who lived a thousand years before Elan and Lora painted the trees and the spheres.”

“Just because the ruins are three thousand years old, doesn’t mean the mural is the same age,” Arber said. “It’s possible the artist lived during Elan and Lora’s time.”

“Maybe the spheres existed before,” Jeremy said. “Elan, Lora, and Trace could’ve rediscovered them.”

“The artist drew the scene inside a circle,” she said. “It almost looks like…I don’t know.” She shook her head.

“A door?” Sir Alcott said.

Her stomach churned and she nodded. “I thought you might think me crazy if I said it out loud.”

Sir Alcott squinted then gestured toward the black lines connecting the spheres. “What’s your take on those beams?”

“They look metallic,” she said.

“Sir Alcott.” A thin reedy voice came from the room’s center.

Sir Alcott whirled as if caught off-guard.

The grating voice pulled her from another world. A world filled with heartwood trees and strange flying creatures. She turned and the stone pedestal at the room’s center drew her in.

Roddy stood beside the pedestal and pointed at a long, thin black object resting atop it. “You might want to look at this.”

Blue light reflected from the object’s shiny, black surface.

On leaden feet, she trudged forward unsure if she wanted to discover whatever came next. She paused behind the pedestal and held her breath.

Two objects sat atop the pedestal. The first, an eight-foot sheet of black metal reflected the room’s blue spirit energy. The strange symbols engraved on the key and the walls also appeared on the metal.

Beside the black strip, a perfect round ruby glistened under the shield light.

Sir Alcott glanced between the drawing and the black strip. “The symbols match.”

“What?” She faced the mural and searched each of the three struts connecting the spheres. “Which one?”

“The bottom connector.” Sir Alcott pointed to the strut between Lora’s and Elan’s spheres.

She noticed the pattern. A perfect match. Her stomach fluttered. “Why would anyone leave a ruby that valuable in these ruins?”

“I would guess it holds importance beyond a clear monetary value,” Sir Alcott said. “But, I don’t see the ruby depicted on the mural.”

“Look,” Arber said turning over the sphere. “I see a hole here in the bottom.”

“Can I see it?” Arber handed her the ruby.

A circular hole in the bottom extended to the ruby’s center.

She held the ruby to her eye and gazed down the shaft. “It’s empty.”

Sir Alcott’s eyes locked on the ruby. “May I?”

She handed the ruby to the scholar. “Sir Alcott, do you think Trace knows about this?” She gestured to the mural. “Do you think this is why he wanted the spheres?”

“I think it’s a strong possibility,” Sir Alcott said.

Her pulse accelerated and her gaze drifted to the heartwood trees. Should she dare ask the next question? “Do you think the spheres could open a door to this world?”

“I don’t think we can jump to any conclusions,” Sir Alcott said. “We’ve only found this place.”

With trembling hands, she fumbled inside her belt pouch and withdrew the silver key. “You should see this.”

Sir Alcott stepped forward and studied the silver key. “The symbols appear consistent with the others in the ruin.” The scholar’s sharp gaze held hers. “Where did you find this?”

“Arber found it inside an engraving that belonged to Trace.”

Sir Alcott’s face turned a shade paler. “Did you ask him?” The words came out a hoarse whisper.

“He wouldn’t say, but he looked scared Sir Alcott. He told me to leave it alone.”

“Perhaps we should heed his advice,” Sir Alcott said.

She tucked the silver key inside her pouch and drew the straps closed. “I’ll ask you again, do you think it’s possible that another world exists? A world where heartwood trees grow wild. A world that might save the human race.”

Sir Alcott tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Aye. But, I think it’s a place we should leave alone until we’re good and ready.”

“Don’t tell me you’re siding with Trace.” She clenched her fists and glared. “People are dying. We don’t have the luxury to turn our backs on such a discovery. What if the plague comes to Meranthia? Do you know what a plague would do to Freehold?”

“But, what if you make it worse?” Jeremy said.

She whirled. “Not you too.”

“He’s being sensible,” Sir Alcott said.

“This isn’t a time for timidity. Arber, please tell them,” she said.

“I understand the urgency,” Arber said.

“You’re not answering my question,” she said.

“If this doorway to another world was such a great thing, why is it buried here?” Arber’s question hung heavy, but no one came forward with an answer.

She wandered across the room. Her gaze shifted across the strange symbols canvasing the wall. “Sir Alcott, can you translate any of this?”

“No, Your Highness, I can’t understand it…yet,” Sir Alcott said.

She bristled at the honorific. Her good natured friend had retreated. “How long?”

“The realm’s best linguists are already devoted to the effort, but it could take months.”

Her stomach sank. “We don’t have months. Without the heartwood, we could experience an outbreak at any time. Especially among our newborns.”

Sir Alcott held her gaze without speaking.

“I mean to find this world,” she said. “I will bring home a heartwood tree.”

“What if it kills you?” Sir Alcott said, eyes filled with moisture.

She let the question hang, unanswered.

“I’m coming with you,” Jeremy said.

“Count me in,” Arber said.

“Sir Alcott, I need your help with the translations,” she said. “Where’s Brees? I need to speak with him.”

“Master Brees left not three hours ago,” Sir Alcott said.

Her stomach sank. “He’s gone? Where did he go?”

“Brees needed to check on his family. Without the heartwood to cure the plague, he didn’t see any reason to stay.”

Sir Alcott’s words slapped her across the face. Had she meant so little? “He went to Mara? Did Keely take him?”

“Aye,” Sir Alcott said. “Why do you need him?”

“Brees can help us find his brother Aren,” she said. “Aren knows about the silver key.” She turned her gaze on the mural and Trace’s sphere at the gate’s apex. “Aren can lead us to Trace’s sphere. We need to leave for Mara right away.”

“You’re missing two pieces to the door,” Sir Alcott said.

“I’m betting whatever this silver key unlocks will give us more answers,” she said.

“Or more questions,” Sir Alcott said.

She clenched her jaw and gazed at the heartwood forest. “For all our sake, I hope you’re wrong.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Maltha River Basin

Tremors shook the rear wall of Moira’s cabin. Dry mud crumbled from the daubing nestled between the logs. Porcelain dishes stacked inside a nearby cabinet rattled. A cook pot filled with bubbling beef stew swayed on the lug pole where it hung over the hearth.

Ronan’s ears perked. He sat up and shoved aside a thin blanket. Moira was here and he could get some answers. More importantly, he would see his friend whole and unharmed.

A long low hiss slithered from General Demos’s chest. In a blur of motion, a steel blade appeared in the general’s hand.

“Relax.” He nodded toward a fur cloak hanging beside the hearth. “Bring the cloak.” His muscles screamed when he pushed his legs over the couch. “Moira hates the cold even more than you and she’ll want her wrap.” He rubbed away the soreness in his thigh where the bloody draco ripped him apart.

The general’s tongue flickered in short rapid-fire bursts. “I sense no threat.” General Demos’s shoulders eased. “Another avalanche.” The general’s gaze shifted to the arrow shafts and fletching piled atop the table.

“No.” He walked toward the door and grabbed a heavy fur cloak from an iron wall hook. “Not this time.” He slid the cloak over his head and shoulders then tugged on a pair of fur gloves. Cold wouldn’t slow him despite his inability to channel Elan’s magic. “You coming or should I get the cloak myself?”

In the hearth, the fire crackled. Soft lamplight spread a comforting haze across the cabin. The rich aroma of beef broth bathed the air with a reminder of home.

A mild look of annoyance passed across General Demos’s face. “As you said, I detest the cold and these arrows won’t finish themselves.”

“That wasn’t an avalanche.” He tightened the straps of the cloak until it hugged his body. “Besides, you’ll want to see this.”

General Demos sheathed the blade. With a flourish, the general arranged a fur cloak over a pair of broad shoulders. A cloak made by combining three of Moira's blankets. The general secured a quiver of arrows and grabbed a longbow they had discovered in Moira’s shed.

“You’re not going to war,” he said. ”You can leave the weapons here.” He brushed past General Demos and tugged open the front door.

A blast of frozen air rushed through, and the gray sky beyond offered the possibility of new snow.

General Demos yanked free Moira’s wrap and followed. The longbow disappeared beneath the folds of the general’s long cloak.

He gritted his teeth and pulled a fur hood around his ears and face. The wind whipped his eyes and left his cheeks numb, but he didn’t dare channel a drop of magic. He didn’t think he could anyway. Something had changed inside him during the trip through the valley. Elan’s magic lay beyond his grasp like a name waiting on the tip of his tongue. He hadn’t tried to channel, but emptiness gnawed inside him.

General Demos followed and an audible click came when the repaired door shut.

“She’ll be waiting behind the cabin,” he said loud enough for the general to hear over the howling wind.

General Demos followed in silence. The black hood covering the old trooper’s face hung low blocking the wind’s full force.