Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light (42 page)

She gazed up the path, squinting her eyes at
the blurry landscape before her. Her vision was poor these days,
and her destination would appear as only a dark dimple in the
rocks. She could not afford to pass it by; time was growing short
and her arthritic body could not take much more abuse.

Her gaze fell upon a tall cedar just a short
distance away. Its ancient branches clawed the sky as if in the
throes of death. A painful memory grabbed at her insides, urging
her to turn around and never look back. She closed her eyes,
willing the image of two dark-haired girls high up in the branches
to go away. But she knew all the willing in the world would never
erase that image, nor that which had lain beneath the tree.

She navigated the terrain and stopped before
the tree, running her fingers over its gnarled bark. She looked
with mixed emotions at the towering branches, a living monument to
her childhood memories. “We are not so different from one another,”
she said. “Both of us old, both of us a witness to evil. But we
once had fun together, didn’t we?” She smiled. Yes, there had been
some happy times in that cedar-scented world. It had been a retreat
for her and her older sister, a pretend palace where they invented
kingdoms and dreamed of handsome young men. But then one day they
learned what men could be like, and the harsh reality of the world
came crashing down around them.

Their mother died a cruel death beneath that
tree, and Nannaven and her sister had been witness to it. They had
scurried up the branches at their mother’s command, swearing that
no matter what happened they would make no sound. They barely made
it to the topmost branch when their mother was dragged beneath by
the King’s guards. There the men did despicable things to her, and
there was nothing her daughters could do about it.

Nannaven felt a lump swell in her throat.
After all these years the pain felt fresh. But she was not there to
give into pain; she was there for a much more important reason. She
surveyed her surroundings. If memory served her right, the cave
would be to the left, just a short distance away. It would be
covered with brush and rock; she and her sister had carefully
concealed it before they left all those long years ago. But she was
certain of its location now, and prayed it still held what she was
looking for.

The entrance to the cave was indeed sheltered
by overgrowth, but the rocks she and her sister had piled in front
of it were now tumbled away. She pushed between a wide break in the
shrubs and clambered in, an avalanche of pebbles trailing behind
her. She straightened her back and worked to focus her eyes in the
dim light. The cave was not deep, though she and her sister had
discovered many tunnels worming into the hillside behind it. But
what she was looking for was not in the tunnels; it was here in the
main chamber.

She stepped further in, her footsteps echoing
against the high arched walls, the damp, musty smell filling her
senses with more memories. There was no more obvious evidence of
the life she had shared with her sister and mother in this place.
She and her sister had taken what few possessions they owned when
they left all those long years ago. But there were some things they
could not risk taking. And that was why she was here now.

Nannaven hobbled over to a boulder resting
alongside the wall and pulled in a breath. The last time that
boulder moved was by the will of a woman and two adolescent girls.
She prayed she could find the same strength within her now. Pushing
her weight against it, she heaved with all her might. The boulder
moved but an inch, so she tried again and again, but with little
success. She sank to the ground, leaning her tired back against it,
and turned her gaze to the recesses of the cave’s dark throat. If
she could not move this obstacle, perhaps the other would be
easier.

She worked her way to the back of the cave,
treading lightly on the slippery earth that bordered a bottomless
pool. Footprints not her own could be seen in the clay, and deep
grooves made by digging fingers. Her eyes shot toward a dark space
in the rocks up ahead. Her heart nearly stopped. There had clearly
been a rock slide. The secret hiding place was now revealed!

She cried out and struggled over, then fell
upon the debris. Her fingers bled as they clawed their way through,
but she felt no pain. Determination had a way of giving a person
unrealized strength, even to one so old as herself. But the
treasure was nowhere to be found--someone had been there before
her. Her eyes darted back to the boulder she had abandoned earlier.
Had the secret behind it been discovered, also? She rushed back and
renewed her efforts, this time moving the stone easily, thanks to
the power of her desperation.

She reached into a crevice in the wall and
pulled out a tome with shaking hands. The book’s twin was
mysteriously missing, but at least the copy remained. Her mother
had seen to it that there was more than one, and the woman and her
daughters had worked hard to keep them both safe.

Nannaven ran her fingers over the cover,
recalling some of the history contained within the pages. Her
mother had told them their people once took pride in their
heritage, reading, and writing, and singing of it freely. But
during the Purge it was discovered that knowledge gave “the impure
ones” power, and so a campaign was started against it. Jecta
parchments were burned, their writing tools confiscated, and songs
silenced. Over time, all that was left was that which remained in
people’s memories. A few secretly retained the skills of
documentation, and they were called the Memory Keepers. But they
were also called the Enemy.

Nannaven’s mother had been a Memory Keeper,
as was her mother, and her mother before that. For generations they
gathered bits and pieces of information, saving it within the pages
of the tome. Scraps of parchments scribbled with symbols were
tucked between well-written fables, random stanzas of songs, and
snippets of poetry. It had been her mother’s lifelong goal to
duplicate the information, securing its survival. She and her
daughters had spent their candlelit days rewriting the words onto
fresh parchment, ensuring the continued tradition of the Memory
Keepers. But their mother’s death changed everything, and Nannaven
had turned her back on her heritage, choosing to be healer instead.
Her sister chose a different path and disappeared from her life
altogether. Only recently had Nannaven learned where she was. Her
insides twisted at the recollection, but she could not think of
such things now. She pushed her sister from her mind.

She carried the book near the entrance,
selecting a spot where the light beamed in through the opening she
had clambered through. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, Nannaven
rested the heavy book in her lap and lifted back its cover. She
recognized her mother’s handwriting immediately, then that of her
sister. She ran her eyes over the ancient symbols, symbols of a
language believed to be lost forever. Strange how after all these
years she still knew what they meant.

She turned back brittle page after brittle
page, searching for the words that would hopefully leap off the
parchment:
fire and light
. She was certain they were in a
song, but she could not recall which one. It had been many years
since she’d thought of songs. But something about those words, and
the memory of her mother’s voice singing them in the sanctuary of
the cave, compelled her to keep looking.

As she flipped toward the back of the book,
she wondered if her memory had somehow failed her. Perhaps the
words were not there after all. She found tales of great heroes,
and poems about love, prayers for good health, and songs to the
gods. There were writings of kings and priestesses, and lies told
as truths, but she had yet to find the words she was looking for.
She scanned another page and her eyes suddenly stopped. “The Song
of Hope,” she whispered. “Yes. I remember.” She read the first
stanza, smiling at its message.

The Maker said that it would be,

The Spirit lifted life within,

The Earth, the Wind, the Flame, the Sea,

And so it did at once begin.

The familiar melody drifted into her mind as
she recalled how her mother’s voice would lilt then deepen as she
sang.

Then came one day when lies did part,

From evil hearts that lived within,

And turned the eyes raised to the star . .
.

Nannaven paused. Star? She had seen a great
star in the sky not so long ago, a celestial light blazing a trail
across an indigo night. When was it? A few months ago? A year? Then
she remembered. It had been the night of the fire, the fire
that—

“Reiv,” she whispered. Her eyes skimmed the
page until another set of words caught her attention:

But in the face of night that came,

A courage shown bright in the breast,

Of he who came as One Unnamed . . .

The Unnamed One! Could the whispers be true?
She read another stanza, then another, her eyes moving faster
across the page.
The King did breathe her will once more . . .
Fields were bathed in crimson night . . . Till memories brought by
He Unnamed…

Tears welled in her eyes. She wiped her face
with the back of her hand and moved to the last stanza.

Then came the day when Earth and Sea,

Did part before their many eyes;

But just as Fire had met Light,

Their spirits did as one survive.

And there it was—the message she had been
looking for.

Nannaven lifted her head and stared at
nothing, barely able to fathom what she had just read. How could
she not have known? All this time everyone thought it destroyed,
yet here it was, a song in her mother’s book. But this was no
ordinary song. This was the Prophecy.

She rose quickly, pulling the shawl from her
shoulders, and laid it on the ground. She centered the book upon
it, then pulled the corners of the shawl together and tied them
into a pouch. Something else would have to be stuffed in, the
book’s shape was at risk of being recognized, but she could not
leave it behind. The people thought they knew the words to the
Prophecy, but they did not know them all. Nor did Dayn and Reiv,
and they were the key to it all.

The sky looked bluer when she exited the
cave, the sun a little brighter. For too long she had seen the
world through milky eyes. Now everything seemed clear. She hurried
down the path, but paused to gaze at the cedar one last time. She
patted the tree’s ancient trunk. “Time to say goodbye, my
bittersweet friend,” she said.

Nannaven turned her eyes to the distant
horizon and all her hopes came into focus. The book would give the
people back their history; the song would restore the future they
had long been denied. Even now its verses were being sung. The Fire
had met the Light; the Unnamed One was amongst them. Could crimson
fields be far behind? A difficult path lay ahead, this she knew,
but the people of Aredyrah had no choice but to walk it. The
Prophecy would lead them there, but the Unnamed One would show them
the way.

Return to Table of Contents

The Saga Continues
in

The Search for the Unnamed
One
: Book Two of the
Souls of Aredyrah Series

Preview of Book Two: The
Search for the Unnamed One

Chapter 1:
Phantom

T
he air in the
catacombs was thick and damp and filled with the odor of human
waste and lingering decay. Whyn pulled the stench through his
nostrils and into his lungs, his belly tightening with a desire
that tingled to his toes. It was not the same desire he felt for
Cinnia, his wife, nor for any woman who had ever pleased him. This
was different, and yet the effect it had on him was as powerful as
an aphrodisiac.

Whyn stared at the slender back of the
Priestess who walked but steps ahead of him. She possessed a beauty
unlike any woman he had ever seen, and an ugliness he found equally
attractive. She seemed to float on air, her long white hair swaying
at her back, the hem of her pastel gown trailing behind her. As
Whyn gazed at her, he realized the ache in his belly was for her,
but it was not like that of a man for a woman. It was more like
that of a soul craving sustenance. Until recently, he had only
thought of the Priestess as an authority figure; even now he feared
her more than longed for her. But for some reason the need to drink
her in was overwhelming. It was as though she were a separate part
of himself, and he had only to fill himself with her to find
completion.

He glanced past her toward the light in the
corridor ahead. A grizzled old man shuffled several paces in front
of them through the twisting darkness. The lantern in the man’s
hand swayed, its golden orb casting eerie shadows upon the walls.
One by one grimy doors came into view. Wide eyes watched through
tiny, barred windows, only to melt into blackness as the lantern
passed.

A hand clawed toward the light, the pale face
behind it momentarily revealed. “Mercy, good Prince,” a woman’s
voice rasped.

Whyn kept his eyes forward, daring not to
look at the woman, nor to acknowledge her plea. She was only a
Jecta, and no doubt an insurgent bent on the destruction of
Tearia.

“Does this place pain your heart, my young
Prince?” the Priestess asked, pausing to face him.

“No, Priestess,” Whyn replied. “It lifts my
spirits.”

The Priestess smiled, her porcelain skin and
gold-painted features reflecting her satisfaction through the
darkness.

She flashed her eyes toward the old man.
“You,” she ordered. “Leave us.”

The man turned and nodded, then bowed his way
back down the corridor from which they had come, taking the lantern
with him.