The Lost Realm Page 3

  “Our bridge broke.”

  “And cast a whole legion of Brutan’s undead monsters into the chasm! Don’t you see what a difference you made? Without you, everything would have been lost!”

  Elodie stopped, suddenly aware she’d been shouting. To anyone watching, it would look as if she were yelling into thin air.

  A boy dressed in a squire’s uniform stepped out from behind Sir Jaken’s horse. She’d been hearing the voices of ghosts her whole life—though she’d only known it these past weeks—but Samial was the first spirit she’d actually seen and spoken to.

  And become friends with.

  “Samial,” she implored, holding out her hands. “Surely you can make them understand? Together we’re strong. If we part now . . .”

  “We do understand,” said Samial. He cast an anxious glance at Sir Jaken, who nodded for him to continue. “You brought us here, Elodie. You led us out of the Weeping Woods so we could take revenge against Brutan. You set us free.”

  “But we lost the battle,” Elodie protested. “Brutan still holds Idilliam. He . . .”

  “In freeing us,” said Sir Jaken gently, “you brought us out of the shadow of death. You allowed us to fight our final battle. Now that battle is over. Vengeance has been served, and we are at peace.”

  The misty faces of the ghosts nodded in assent. Tears stung Elodie’s eyes. “But you can’t just leave.”

  Samial took her hand in his ghostly fingers. Cold as it was, his touch comforted her. “Elodie—this part of it is over.”

  She looked into her friend’s eyes. “So that’s it? You’ve just come to say good-bye?”

  “No,” said Sir Jaken. “There is something you must do for us.”

  “Me? What do you need from me?”

  “We need you to set us free.”

  Elodie pulled her hand from Samial’s and turned away. But this was my destiny, she thought, desolated. I was born to lead a ghost army. I know it. I’m the only one who can do it. Without them I’m just . . .

  “There are other spirits in this world,” said an old, cracked voice.

  Elodie jumped. She hadn’t heard Melchior’s footsteps—but then the wizard’s feet, as always, were bare, and the carpet of moss on the floor of the clearing was soft.

  Maybe he didn’t walk here at all. Maybe he just . . . appeared.

  “You scared me,” she murmured. A thought occurred to her. “Do you see them too, Melchior?”

  The wizard stared out at the ranks of ghosts. His yellow robe glowed faintly in the dim light of dawn. His hands gripped his wooden staff so tightly that his bony knuckles turned white.

  “No,” he said at last. “That is beyond me. But I sense the weariness they carry. You feel it too, I think.”

  Elodie considered arguing. But Melchior was right; she did feel it: a slow, insistent beating, like the wings of a trapped bird eager to take flight.

  She sighed. “What must I do?” As it often did when she was nervous, her hand stole to the green jewel she wore around her neck. It was as much a part of her now as the blood in her veins; like that blood, it joined her to her brothers.

  “The ritual is simple but powerful,” Melchior said. “You must take a talisman—a possession that means something to these lost souls—and bury it.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That is all.”

  “Like a funeral?”

  “Like a funeral.”

  “But what possession? Where can I . . . ?”

  “That is why we led you here after the battle,” said Samial.

  Behind him, the phantom horses drew back, some to the left, some to the right. A corridor opened up in the body of the ghost army, at the end of which Elodie saw a huge oak tree.

  “Let me show you,” said Samial.

  Elodie looked at Melchior, who planted his feet wide and placed both hands on his staff.

  “I will be waiting,” said the wizard.

  As Samial led Elodie to the tree, she felt the ancient presence of the knights and their steeds pressing in around her. She walked as if in a dream, her head light.

  The tree was age-worn and enormous. Its lower branches—themselves thicker than the trunks of many lesser trees—drooped almost to the ground. Guided by Samial, Elodie picked her way between them to the oak’s tremendous base. Here she found a dark hollow edged with green fungus.

  “Inside,” said Samial.

  As Elodie stretched her hand toward the hollow, the tree creaked. She glanced up, startled.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Samial.

  Biting her lip, Elodie reached inside the hollow. Its interior was damp, but her fingers alighted almost immediately on something soft. She drew it out, held it up.

  “It’s a flag,” she said in wonder.

  “The Standard of Morlon,” said Samial. “It carries the colors under which we fought, all those years ago.”

  “Morlon. He was Brutan’s brother, wasn’t he?”

  Samial nodded. His ghostly fingers brushed across the rotten fabric of the flag, tracing stripes that might once have been purple, a crest that might once have been gold.

  “Brutan stole the throne from Morlon and we fought to reclaim it. We failed. The flag was hidden here by the last of our standard-bearers, on the last day of our last battle.”

  As they left the tree, a second passage opened up in the ranks of the ghost army. Elodie followed it, awed that these dead knights were steering her through this final task.

  Melchior was waiting for her at the other end of the corridor, stabbing at the soft ground with the end of his staff.

  “Here it is,” she said, raising the flag, “their talisman.”

  The wizard nodded and tossed her a short branch. “Help me dig, Elodie.”

  She began working at the ground with the branch, but soon found she made better progress with her hands. Back in Castle Vicerin, I’d have made a servant do this for me. She scooped out clods of earth, piling them beside the steadily growing hole. The Vicerins had raised Elodie as their daughter, but planned to use her to claim the throne for themselves. They’d hardly recognize me now, she thought, staring in wonder at her filthy hands.

  Once they’d finished excavating, Elodie sat back on her knees. The hole looked like a grave.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “I think you know,” Melchior replied gently.

  Elodie picked up the flag, folded it, and placed it at the bottom of the hole.

  “Now cover it over,” said Melchior.

  “Shouldn’t we say something?”

  “Do you wish to?”

  Elodie shook her head. She was too upset to think, let alone speak.

  Melchior touched her shoulder. “If no words come, Elodie, do not fret. Everything has already been said. This is an act of deeds, not words.”

  Elodie’s sadness swelled as she scooped up a handful of soil and scattered it on the flag. As she did so, a series of ripples surged through the ghost army.

  “Another,” said Melchior.

  Elodie obeyed. With each handful of earth, the rippling increased. Elodie closed her eyes, feeling the air move strangely around her as her hands continued their work.

  “Ah, you are here, Princess Elodie. Melchior—good morning to you.”

  The voice jolted her from her reverie. She looked up to see Fessan’s tall frame silhouetted against the red sky that was brightening rapidly to orange behind the trees.

  “Another day begins,” remarked Melchior, rising awkwardly to his feet.

  “Our last here, I think,” Fessan sighed. The low dawn light carved harsh lines into his face, making him look tired, and much older than the youthful commander Elodie remembered from their first meeting.

  “I think we will break camp tomorrow,” Fessan went on. “We lost many during the Battle of the Bridge. It is vital we recruit more soldiers. Besides, the men need a purpose. Trident must continue to . . .”

  He broke off, seeming to see the hole in th
e ground for the first time.

  “What are you doing?”

  A little annoyed at Fessan’s interruption, Elodie stood up. She brushed the earth from her hands. “I am honoring those who helped us, Fessan.”

  “Honoring? Honoring who?” The scar running down the side of Fessan’s face twitched as he looked around the clearing, his gaze passing straight through the ghosts.

  “My army. Our allies. The knights who saved Trident.”

  “The ghosts?” Fessan’s eyes widened. “Are they with us now?”

  “They’re here. But they’re leaving. Their work is done, and now it’s time to set them free.”

  “Leaving? But, Princess, half the soldiers of Trident died at the bridge. Many who survived are injured. If not for your . . . your friends, we would have been defeated. You cannot let them go! We need them!”

  Fessan’s whole body was shaking. Elodie was taken aback. Had Fessan ever lost his temper with her before? She didn’t think so. Yet his anger only served to make her angry herself.

  “How dare you?” she snapped. “How dare you question the right of these . . . these warriors to find peace. They have done their duty. And I will lay them to rest.”

  “And I will not let you!” Fessan’s white-knuckled hands clenched at his sides.

  “But you will,” said Melchior, stepping smoothly between them. He tapped the end of his staff on the half-covered flag. “This is a blood debt, Fessan. As a man of the sword, you must understand that.”

  Fessan’s shoulders dropped. He appeared suddenly exhausted. “Trident looks to me. I have a duty.”

  “The spirits look to Elodie,” Melchior replied. “And she has a duty too.”

  Emotions fluttered across Fessan’s face. Then, abruptly, he said, “Very well. Do what you must. I only hope that Trident does not pay for this with more deaths.”

  Turning on his heel, he stalked away toward the camp. Elodie watched him until he was lost among the trees.

  “He’s done so much for me,” she said. “Fought so hard to put me on the throne. He raised an army for me, Melchior. And he lost so many on the bridge. But . . . oh, why does he have to make this even more difficult?”

  “Fessan is a great leader,” said Melchior, “and so he carries a great burden. As do you, Elodie. You just carry them in different ways. He is a good man. That is why I chose him to lead Trident.” He turned his attention back to the hole in the ground. “And now we must finish what we have started.”

  In silence they returned to their task. As Elodie covered the flag, she felt her anger at Fessan drain away. Everything drained away, leaving just her, and her hands, and the damp soil they touched.

  “It is nearly done,” said Melchior quietly.

  Blinking, Elodie came out of her reverie. Only one tiny corner of the flag remained visible. Her hands were poised over it, holding the final scoop of soil. All around her the ghost army was watching, as still as a held breath.

  She looked around sharply. She knew she had to release the army, but she couldn’t bear to lose quite all of them—not yet. “Samial?”

  “I am here.” He appeared as if from nowhere, a tired smile on his thin, grubby face.

  She closed her eyes, opened them again. “Samial, answer me truthfully. Do you wish me to set you free?”

  “Not if you want me to stay,” he answered at once.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I do, Samial. I do.”

  “Then take this.” The ghost boy drew an arrowhead from his tunic. As he held it up, the sun sent a thread of light through the trees, painting yellow light down its edge. “It has always been my lucky charm. If you keep it, you will keep me, too.”

  Elodie’s fingers trembled as she took the arrowhead and slipped it into her tunic pocket. She swallowed hard. Then with a shaky smile she looked around at Sir Jaken and the rows of shimmering knights.

  “Good-bye,” she told them. “And thank you.” Then she placed the last of the dirt on the flag.

  The ghosts of the knights and their horses glowed with a brilliant light and Elodie took a step back, dazzled, her hands shielding her eyes. The knights raised their arms in one last salute. Then they dissolved into the morning, fading like a forgotten dream.

  Elodie stared at the empty trees for a moment. Beside her, Samial bowed his head.

  “There,” she said with a long, ragged sigh. “It’s over. I just hope I did the right thing.”

  “What does your heart say?” asked Melchior. He stood some distance away, leaning against a tree.

  “That I did my best. But was it enough?”

  “So like your mother,” he murmured.

  His words cut through Elodie’s grief. She snapped her head around to look at him. “My mother? You knew my mother?”

  “Yes.”

  He said it in such a matter-of-fact way that at first Elodie thought she must have misheard him. But his small smile told her she hadn’t. She strode toward him. “Tell me about her!”

  The wizard cocked his head, seeming to consider this. He looked to Elodie like a heron poised on the bank of a river, waiting patiently for a fish to pass.

  “Her name was Kalia,” he said at last. “She was a witch-of-the-earth, and never did I see a mother more devoted to her children. She was prepared to give up everything for you. Even her life.”

  Everything inside Elodie had stopped: the beat of her heart, the pulse of her blood, the breath in her lungs.

  “The Vicerins told me my mother was a peasant woman,” she said slowly. “But that was just another lie, wasn’t it? She was a witch! No wonder they didn’t tell me.”

  “And if they had told you?”

  She felt a smile twitch her lips. “I might not have let Lord Vicerin treat me like a puppet. I’d have liked to see him try to get the crown without me.” She glanced back to where Samial remained by the buried standard, kneeling on the ground beside it. A thought occurred to her. “So my mother had magic! Is that why I’m like this, Melchior? Could she see ghosts too?”

  “It is possible.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I am sorry, Elodie. There is no easy way to tell you this. When Brutan discovered that you and your brothers were still alive, he had your mother burned at the stake.”

  Elodie felt cold all over. “Then she’s . . .”

  The old wizard nodded. “Yes. I am afraid your mother is probably dead.”

  She looked at him sharply. “Probably?”

  “Indeed. As soon as I learned of the execution, I tried to intervene. But Brutan had barred all access to the Undersalle.”

  “The Under-what?”

  “Never mind. I was forced to find another way. I made my way onto the battlements, but I was too late to damp the fires as I had planned. So I improvised.”

  “What happened?”

  Melchior’s blue eyes stared far into the distance, or perhaps back in time. His hands roamed over the etched surface of his staff. His toes curled in the soil.

  “I attempted a spell no sane wizard would ever try to cast. Just before the moment of Kalia’s death, I tried to withdraw her from the world.”

  “You . . . saved her?” Elodie felt numb and confused. Could she even dare to hope her mother was still alive?

  Melchior’s eyes regained their focus and locked on hers. “I do not know. The magic I used was ancient and . . . brutal. To withdraw a person is to take them beyond both life and death, into a realm that has little to do with either. The process is perilous. As for bringing them back . . .”

  Elodie’s excitement was mounting. “But you think you might have succeeded! You do, don’t you?”

  The wizard shook his head. “I cannot say. When I examined the pyre later, I found nothing but ashes.” He sighed. “The older I get, the more I realize that wizardry is more about questions than answers.”

  “But your spell might have worked.” Elodie wrestled with the idea, trying to squeeze it into her overloaded heart. “And I don’t care about quest
ions, Melchior—I’m just glad we have a wizard on our side!”

  “Alas, currently you do not.”

  Elodie gaped at him. “What? What do you mean, you’re not on our side?”

  A smile appeared on the wizard’s face. “That is not what I meant, Elodie. Never doubt my loyalty; I am with you to the end. I simply meant that I am no longer a wizard.”

  Elodie stared at him.

  “The spell of withdrawing is forbidden. When I used it to save your mother—to attempt to save her—I broke all the laws by which magic turns. The instant the spell was cast, the stars took back my powers. Ever since that day, ten years ago, I have wandered the world in impotence. Oh, I have helped here and there; I helped Fessan to create Trident, for example. But now, I fear, you need more than just a frail, old man. It is time for me to recover what was lost.”

  “Get your powers back? Can you even do that?”

  “I do not know. But I must try. I must go on a journey and, at journey’s end, I must lower myself into the ocean of time and plead with the stars.”

  Now Elodie felt goose bumps rise all over her skin. It came to her that the man standing before her—this stooped old fellow in a scruffy yellow robe—was not a man at all.

  “I tell you all this in confidence,” said Melchior, placing one gnarled hand on her shoulder. “Trident must not know. Fessan must not know—he bears a heavy enough burden as it is. Until my powers are restored, it is our secret. Will you keep it?”

  Elodie nodded dumbly. Since waking this morning, she felt as if her whole world had tilted, leaving her balanced precariously between past and future. She pressed her hand against her pocket, relishing the hardness of the arrowhead Samial had given to her. A lucky charm, he’d said.

  Well, we could do with a little luck.

  At long last, far behind the trees, the new sun rose.

  CHAPTER 3

  Hold tight!” Tarlan cried. “We’re here!”

  Bunching his fingers into Theeta’s golden neck ruff, he bent forward as the giant thorrod plunged down toward the trees. The four women riding behind him gasped and clung to each other.

  Tarlan glanced left and right, to where Nasheen and Kitheen flew in perfect formation, each with five more survivors on their backs. Plucking these wretched people from the smoke-shrouded Idilliam battlefield had been hazardous, and when they’d crossed back over the chasm surrounding the city, he’d been afraid his passengers would fall. Yet here they were, soaring over the Isurian forest, toward the Trident camp. The third rescue flight was over.