The Lost Realm Read online

  I can see into it, Tarlan thought in wonder, staring down through green shallows to the coarse contours of a winding coral reef. Lifting his gaze, he observed how the sea changed from green to gray, and how in the places between it contained all the shades of blue he could ever have imagined, and a thousand more besides. He saw whitecaps of foam hurl themselves against toothed rocks. Far out toward the horizon, he saw the ridged back of some immense monster break the surface for a single, breathless second before vanishing once more into the unknowable depths.

  “It is beautiful, no?” said Melchior.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Seethan saw,” Theeta put in.

  “What?” said Tarlan. “What did Seethan see?”

  A lump came to his throat. It was still hard to talk about the old thorrod who’d given his life to save them from the elk-hunters. That terrible day in Yalasti seemed so long ago now, yet his grief was still fresh.

  “Endless lake,” Theeta responded. “Long ago.”

  Tarlan knew that was all she would say on the subject. Like all thorrods, Theeta used few words. It wasn’t because her mind was simple. In fact, Tarlan was sure, the opposite was true. Thorrods merely struggled to squeeze their thoughts down into anything so crude as speech.

  “A village,” said Melchior, pointing south along the coast toward a cluster of low buildings. They appeared to have been constructed on stilts. Long-hulled boats swarmed in the waters around the village; a fishing fleet, Tarlan supposed.

  “Is that where we’re going?”

  “No. Did I not tell you? We go west.”

  Melchior swung his arm straight out to sea.

  Tarlan squinted. The afternoon was drawing into evening, and the sun lay low in the sky, directly ahead. Its golden light was beginning to turn the surface of the sea into a field of tiny fires.

  “I don’t see . . . Oh!”

  Far offshore, an island had materialized out of the haze. It was black and rocky, jutting from the water like a giant’s hat.

  “The Isle of Stars,” said Melchior.

  Tarlan shivered. “It looks . . . bleak. Are we going there now?”

  “No,” said Melchior. “Night will fall soon, and the Isle of Stars is best approached by day. We will make camp and wait for the rest of your pack to arrive.”

  They landed in a small cove surrounded by cliffs. Tarlan and Melchior climbed down from their thorrod steeds, after which Theeta and Nasheen made a rough nest among some rocks. While the birds settled themselves, Kitheen flew back along their trail.

  “Your pack members are loyal to their leader,” said Melchior as the black-feathered thorrod disappeared into the canyon. “To each other as well.”

  It was true. Without being asked, the thorrods had taken it in turns to fly at ground level, brushing their wings through the undergrowth in order to leave a trail of scent that Greythorn, Filos, and Brock could follow.

  “It won’t take the others long to catch up,” Tarlan said. “I’ll build a fire.”

  He gathered dry driftwood from beneath the cliffs, then started collecting rocks. The wind from the sea was strong, and he would have to build a low wall to protect the flames.

  The best rocks were to be found near the waterline. As the sun began to sink below the horizon, Tarlan approached the sea with trepidation, unnerved by the bellow of the waves as they pummeled the black sand. A sudden rush of surf raced toward him, moving faster than he’d expected, and crashed around his knees. Laughing, he fought for balance, entranced by the sucking sensation of the waves as they withdrew, dragging away the sand from beneath his feet.

  Returning to the camp, he began to lay the rocks in a circle. Some were black and glossy; others shone like large jewels.

  “Are these precious?” he asked as he piled a gleaming green gem on top of a shining red one. He touched his hand to his throat, suddenly missing the beautiful green stone Mirith had given him . . . oh, it seemed so long ago.“They are sky rocks,” Melchior answered. “And all such stones are precious.”

  “Precious? Why?”

  The wizard’s piercing gaze fell on Tarlan’s fingers, still at his throat. “I do not yet know. I only know that your jewel is valuable, just like the jewels that belong to your brother and sister.”

  “I wish I hadn’t lost it. Will I ever get it back, do you think?”

  “I do not know that either, Tarlan. What is lost may not always be found.”

  Tarlan laid the last of the rocks on the circular wall. “Did Mirith get my jewel from here, then? I didn’t think she’d ever left Yalasti.”

  “Mirith received your jewel from me.”

  Tarlan looked at the wizard with renewed interest. “All right. Where did you get it from?”

  “From Gryndor.” A wistful look softened Melchior’s old eyes.

  “Who’s Gryndor?”

  “The first of all wizards. He walked Toronia before . . . well, before it was Toronia. He walked this world when the seas were dry and the lands were dreams.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Melchior chuckled. “Let us just say that Gryndor was very, very old!”

  “So where did he get the jewels from?”

  “I cannot say. But I can tell you that when the sky rocks first fell, many ages past, they formed everything we see around us today. They made the realms, Tarlan, do you see?”

  “Not really.”

  “Your homeland of Yalasti stands on sky rocks. So do Idilliam, Isur, and Ritherlee. And Celestis did too, of course.”

  Tarlan paused, his arms full of driftwood ready to be tossed within the circular wall.

  “Celestis? What’s that?”

  “The fourth realm,” the wizard replied. “City of Stars.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It is forgotten. A lost realm. Where the city of Idilliam now stands, Celestis once stood. But now . . . now Celestis is gone.”

  Tarlan began stacking the timber. As he worked, his gaze strayed to the gleaming rock wall, then up at the high cliffs, then out to sea. Finally he found himself staring straight up into the darkening sky, where the three prophecy stars now framed the comet, which by now had grown very large and very bright. The world was big and strange, and full of endless wonder.

  There’s so much I don’t know.

  “What happened to this . . . Celeris?”

  “Celestis.” Melchior tossed a handful of driftwood onto the pile Tarlan was making. “Celestis was once ruled by a king. An evil king.”

  “There seem to be a lot of those around.”

  Ignoring him, the wizard went on. “The cruel acts of this king were so hurtful to his people that Gryndor allied himself with two of his fellow wizards. Together they plotted to bring the tyrant down.”

  “Three wizards against one king? Did they succeed? They must have done.”

  “They died,” said Melchior tersely. “The king killed them before they could work their magic. As they died, their powers burst across the whole of Celestis. Their magic undermined the city, pulling the rock out from under it and burying it deep underground.”

  Tarlan thought about how the sea had tried to drag him under, and shuddered.

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “A thousand years.”

  Tarlan frowned. “Then . . . people talk about the Thousand Year War . . .”

  Melchior was nodding. “The death of Gryndor and the collapse of Celestis started the war that has raged in Toronia ever since. Ah, but those were terrible days.”

  “You talk about them as if you were there.”

  “Oh, I was just a young wizard at the time. I searched in the wreckage for survivors, but the Celestians were beyond all help. The entire city was gone, utterly crushed. It was made of crystal, you know, very beautiful to behold. Such a terrible loss. In time a new city rose: Idilliam, built upon the ruins of what had gone before.”

  Tarlan had been about to use the flint from his cloak pock
et to ignite the fire. Now he stopped. “You’re a thousand years old?” He could scarcely believe it.

  “I am as old as my eyes and a little older than my teeth,” Melchior replied with a mischievous grin. He stretched, his joints cracking like thawing ice. “And tomorrow I shall be reborn.”

  Before Tarlan could ask any more questions, Greythorn was bounding toward him over the black sand. Next came Filos, with Brock lumbering behind. Silent as an owl, Kitheen swooped through the twilight to join his thorrod companions in their nest of rocks.

  “You found us!” Tarlan said as his pack gathered around him.

  Filos looked around the beach, her blue-and-white stripes shining beneath the light of the prophecy stars.

  “What do you think?” Tarlan asked.

  The tigron sniffed the air. “I smell salt. And fish. I like fish.”

  “I prefer a hot haunch of deer,” growled Greythorn.

  Tarlan realized Brock was standing a little apart from the others and beckoned the bear over. “Come closer, Brock,” he said. “You’re part of the pack now.”

  “Brock likes the pack,” the bear rumbled, squeezing between Filos and Greythorn. “Hard to run fast, though.”

  “You kept up well enough,” Greythorn said.

  “And you kept going when we got tired,” added Filos. “I think you could run all day, Brock.”

  “Running reminds Brock he is free.”

  Tarlan ran a hand through the bear’s shaggy coat. “As long as you’re with me,” he said, “free is what you’ll stay.”

  The morning brought gray light and low, ominous clouds. The tide had climbed halfway up the beach toward the dead remains of the fire, and the waves were thick and angry. The wind was strong and laced with salt.

  After a meager breakfast of dried meat, Tarlan and Melchior climbed silently onto their thorrod mounts. As Tarlan settled himself on Theeta’s back, he felt Filos nudge his foot.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You have to stay here.”

  “Don’t go,” said Filos.

  “A storm is coming,” said Greythorn, sniffing toward the Isle of Stars, the top of which was shrouded in mist. “This is a bad day to fly.”

  “This won’t take long,” said Tarlan. He had no idea if that was true, but he was anxious not to delay further. “We’ll be back.”

  I don’t know if that’s true either.

  No sooner had they taken to the air than rain began to fall. Far out to sea, lightning scratched thin lines between the sky and the water. Distant thunder boomed, making the air tremble. Ahead loomed the Isle of Stars, a conical mountain peak with a flattened top.

  “Once this was a volcano,” Melchior called as the thorrods carried them in from the angry sea and over the black slopes of the island’s foothills.

  “What’s a volcano?”

  “A mountain that spits fire.”

  Tarlan decided he didn’t want to know any more.

  The foothills steepened swiftly to sheer mountain slopes. The thorrods climbed steadily, working their wings hard against the buffeting wind. The lightning was closer now, white sheets slicing through the clouds directly above Tarlan’s head. The thunder was a constant drumbeat in his ears, in his chest.

  This must be where the fire came out, he thought when they finally reached the island’s peak, where a vast crater yawned like the mouth of some monstrous troll. The thorrods were big, but the crater swallowed them whole. Its walls were smooth and shiny, like black ice, capturing each burst of lightning and turning it into a thousand jagged reflections. Sucked down by the crater, the air swirled around them in a treacherous whirlwind.

  At the bottom of the crater was a lake. Despite the spinning, howling wind, the water’s surface was completely still. To Tarlan’s astonishment, it was also the color of silver.

  Rising from the center of the lake was a platform of smooth, black stone.

  “Here!” shouted Melchior over the roar of the wind and the crash of the storm. “We are here!”

  The three thorrods flew down toward the lake in a lurching descent that made Tarlan’s stomach feel as if it had turned inside out. Just when he thought he would throw up, they dropped the last few wingspans and landed on the platform, which was just big enough to hold the three of them side by side.

  As Tarlan and Melchior dismounted, the giant birds held their wings wide so as to shield their passengers from the worst of the rain. Tarlan went to each of the thorrods in turn, silently touching their razor-sharp beaks with his hand to demonstrate his thanks and trust.

  “The Silverenne!” Melchior cried. The wind blew his hair and beard around his face in a white froth. He pointed at the lake. “Once it flowed through all of Toronia. But no more. The silver waters have long since retreated underground, except in this one special place.”

  “Why is it silver?” Tarlan had to cup his hands over his mouth to be heard.

  “It holds the light of the stars! And by their light, and their magic, I shall be restored to everything I once was!”

  Struggling to keep his balance in the gale, Tarlan studied the walls surrounding the eerily calm lake. Countless white stones were set into the rock. Some were the size of his hand; others were as big as the thorrods that had carried them here. Unlike the black rock that held them, these stones were dull and unreflective.

  They look dead, Tarlan thought with a shiver.

  “They are the constellations!” shouted Melchior. “Each has a number, and each number has a power. The sum of those powers totals the heart of a wizard. This is my task here today: to count the constellations back into myself.”

  Tarlan shook his head. He had no idea what the wizard was talking about. The thunder cracked, again and again; the noise was earsplitting, and with each boom Tarlan jumped.

  “How will you do that?” he yelled, fighting to make himself heard over the din. Despite the best efforts of the thorrods to protect them with their wings, his clothes were drenched. As for the birds, they looked bedraggled and miserable.

  “As each number is counted a new stone will light up!” Melchior shouted over yet another tremendous thunderclap. “When all the constellations are shining, my powers will be restored. Watch the stones while I am gone, Tarlan, and watch them well. Remember their pattern, and remember their number, for one day you may need them!”

  “ ‘Gone’?” Tarlan yelled back. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

  “As soon as I enter the water, I am vulnerable. You must keep watch. But you must also keep back! Until all the constellations are lit, until all the numbers are counted, nothing must disturb me, or all is lost. All! Do you understand, boy? Nothing must disturb me! Nothing!”

  Tarlan gaped.

  “Promise me you will not interfere! Promise me!”

  “I promise!” Tarlan blurted.

  Melchior dropped his staff. It fell to the ground, the clatter lost in the thunder. The wizard’s face, so close to Tarlan’s now that their noses were practically touching, fell abruptly backward.

  “Melchior!”

  The wizard’s arms spread wide. His yellow cloak billowed like wings. He entered the water without a splash. Silver waves closed over his head.

  The instant he hit the water, the air stilled and the sky fell silent. The lightning ceased, leaving only flat gray light. Tarlan’s ears rang in the sudden silence.

  Below the surface of the Silverenne, Melchior twitched once, then became utterly still, as if he’d been flash frozen by a Yalasti winter wind.

  Tarlan dropped to his knees at the edge of the platform and thrust out his hands, intending to drag the wizard to safety. Behind him Theeta screeched a warning.

  Tarlan drew his hands back as if burned.

  Until all the constellations are lit, until all the numbers are counted, nothing must disturb me, or all is lost! All! Do you understand, boy?

  Tarlan didn’t understand. He didn’t understand any of it. But he’d promised.

  Below him, in the still waters of
the Silverenne, the wizard floated as motionless as the dead.

  “Hurry up, Melchior,” he whispered. “Whatever you’re doing down there, hurry!”

  CHAPTER 10

  The house overlooked the lake. Its floors were carpeted with a soft moss, and the rooms were filled with plump cushions embroidered with beautiful lacy motifs, but nothing could disguise the fact that it was made of crystal.

  “This is such a peculiar place,” said Gulph, running his hand down a wall made of milky opal. “Everything’s so cold and hard.”

  “Including the Lady Redina,” Ossilius observed.

  “Do you think so?” said Gulph. “I don’t know. She did let us stay, after all. And she’s given us this house.”

  Ossilius snorted. “A grand gesture indeed.”

  Gulph threw himself down on one of the cushions. Upstairs he could hear the sounds of the others exploring and making themselves at home. Hetty had taken Jessamyn under her wing, promising her stories at bedtime; Marcus had just looked relieved to have found somewhere to lie down and recover.

  But Gulph couldn’t rest, and Ossilius’s fitful pacing of the room told him that his friend felt the same.

  “I don’t really know what to think,” Gulph said, gazing across the silver waters of the Celestial Lake. “I know we should be grateful, but . . .”

  “But what, Gulph?”

  “Maybe you’re right. There’s something wrong here. I don’t know if it’s got anything to do with Lady Redina, but . . . I just don’t know.”

  Ossilius crossed to the window, stretching his arms above his head. “I feel an ache in my bones that goes all the way through to my soul. I am tired, Gulph. We are all tired. In the morning, when we have slept, our thoughts will run more freely.”

  “Do they have mornings down here, Ossilius? Do they have nights?” Gulph couldn’t take his eyes off the lake. Tiny ripples twinkled dimly in the cavern’s constant purple twilight. “Oh, we should never have gone into those tunnels. We should have stayed in Idilliam. We should have fought for our city.”