Jenna Elizabeth Johnson
-The Ascending-
The Legend of Oescienne - 4
In loving memory of my dear friend Patty Fish, whose Spirit has gone to the Stars but whose Song carries on in this World, inspiring me to continue weaving my own Melody.
-Prologue-
The Winds of Change
It is said among the ancient ones in Ethoes that the trees know the goddess’ secrets. Toward the clouds their branches stretch, and into the depths of the earth their roots reach, so how can they not? They do, however, keep these secrets close, revealing them to no one, for Ethoes understands her creation would not be able to accept most truths. Despite their loyalty and silence, the secrets the trees keep do not always stay with them. Where the trees guard confidences, the wind shares them. Laughing, crying, singing. The wind does not know the meaning of silence. Rising from the seas, coursing down the valleys, rolling through the grassy plains, dancing over the dry deserts, climbing the mountain peaks. The winds of Ethoes comb through the boughs of oak, pine, beech and fir, tickling their thoughts from their leaves and branches, carrying them across the lands for anyone to hear, so long as they know how to interpret the trees’ language.
However, the breath of the earth carries not only the secrets of Ethoes, but also bears the voices of those holding dominion over others. For those who know how to control and manipulate it, the winds can be very useful in conveying messages across continents. And, depending on the time of year, those loquacious gusts can prove useful to anyone wishing to communicate over a vast stretch of land.
In the Hrunahn Mountains of the west, during the thawing weather of early spring, one is likely to find an abundance of wind, fresh and cool and eager to spread its gossip. And it just so happened someone was waiting to take advantage of its garrulous nature …
Boriahs wrapped his threadbare cloak closer to his body and cursed the relentless breeze. Not only did it bite at his exposed skin and cause his eyes to water, but it also worked to draw information from him. Far to the east, his Master awaited news of his exploits, and he would not be surprised if the wind had already tattled on him.
Shaking aside his concerns, he continued his search for a small pool of water that wasn’t frozen over. He longed to be out of these accursed mountains, to be moving east again back to his desolate homeland of Ghorium. But he wasn’t too eager. The biting cold would be worse there, and he had yet to accomplish something to appease his merciless Master. Twice in Oescienne, he had failed to capture the human child, and then once again in Lidien. He had been mere hours from making his most recent move, a strike which would have been successful. Yet, that accursed Tanaan dragon had somehow discovered his plan, fleeing the city with the girl right under his nose. They were still moving, even now as he stumbled around in the forest, heading north toward the realm of the Creecemind. If it were up to him, Boriahs would have gone after them right away. But to change his plans without informing his Master would be suicidal. And it had already been several days since their last conversation.
Boriahs cursed, a long, nasty string of barbed words laced with magic. A cluster of small saplings nearby shriveled and turned black, the result of his careless language. The man sneered in perverse satisfaction. He did not like trees, and being in the tree-infested mountains of the west was only turning his mood fouler. But he knew the true reason for his anger and fear: his inability to capture the human child his Master so desired and the repercussions of that failure. Yes, Boriahs was frustrated, but more than that, he was afraid. The Crimson King had been patient for five hundred years, surely he could be patient for a bit longer. Boriahs, however, didn’t want to be the one to test that patience.
He kicked aside the ashen ruins of the trees which had played victim to his ire and ascended a few dozen feet more through a thick carpet of pine needle detritus, making it past one last rocky outcropping. He stumbled upon an empty glade a minute later, his heart clenching and giving a relieved flutter in the same beat. Several pools of frozen snowmelt littered the ground like icy mirrors. Boriahs was glad the strenuous hike was over, but he feared what awaited him. Seeking out the largest puddle, he trudged over, the muddy ground pulling at his boots. To his great relief, the pool had only a thin layer of ice covering the top.
This is the best you are going to get, he told himself as he picked up a rock and smashed away the film of frost. Cool, black water soaked into his gloves, and once the liquid settled, his reflection stared back at him, glowering. Stark eyes, unkempt hair and a slightly crooked nose suggested a life of hardship, but the most distinguishing, and telling, feature was the scar on one side of his face. Boriahs lifted a hand and brushed at the brand that marked him as the Crimson King’s slave. Years of suppressed memories and suffering rushed forth, almost stealing Boriahs’ breath away. He had joined the king’s army when he was young, his heart torn asunder for the loss of all those he loved. He had willingly given up his mortality and free will for the promise of vengeance.
His father had tried resisting the Crimson King when he’d first come to power. A simple tradesman in one of the coastal cities of Ghorium, he had helped lead a rebellion against the Tyrant in the north. But they would never gain their chance to challenge the king of Ghorium. Boriahs’ father and his companions were discovered and brought to ruin. The townsfolk had uncovered the men’s plot and had recognized it for what it was: a risky venture that would only result in angering the Tyrant who ruled over them. Boriahs’ father and his companions were captured and tortured.
Every single rebel was killed that terrible day, their dismembered bodies strewn throughout the town, a warning to those who still wished to draw attention to their city by provoking the Tyrant King. To make certain the townspeople never took it upon themselves to revolt again, the families of the usurpers were also dealt with, many burned to death within their own homes. Boriahs managed to escape, but not his mother and sisters. He had been sixteen years of age when he fled, and on the anniversary of the slaughter of his entire family, he’d returned to that sleepy little port with a contingency of the Crimson King’s army and a fresh scar burned into his cheek. He had watched in cold satisfaction as the men who had caused so much harm and pain succumbed to the same fate as his parents and siblings.
He had enjoyed seeing their suffering, but when the Crimson King’s men continued to burn and kill and raid their way through the entire town, Boriahs learned the terrible mistake he had made. For one single moment of revenge, he had forfeited his soul, pledging it to a madman controlled by the god of death and chaos. He understood, as he and the army left the ruined city behind to return to their new Master, that his life was bound to that of the king’s. So long as the Tyrant lived, so would he.
Taking a deep breath of the biting air, Boriahs tried to clear his thoughts so that he might get through his task. But the past’s dark memories clung tightly to him, their claws buried deep, and by the time he was in control of his own mind once again, the sun had broken free of the horizon.
Cursing a second time, Boriahs used his numb fingers to dig out his dagger. He had best hurry. His men would be waking soon, and he needed his next set of orders from his Master. Removing the glove from his left hand proved tricky, but he didn’t even feel the cold steel as he pressed it against his palm. One swift movement reopened the wound that could never quite heal. Fresh blood, dark red and tainted with poisonous magic, welled up. Boriahs released the dagger and used his free hand to pull a cord from around his neck. The pendant hanging from it was the color of yellowed ivory, a bloodrose carved from bone. According to the Crimson King, it was bone taken from the last king of the Tanaan before his people and descendants were transformed into dragons. Boriahs believed it was bone, but he had his doubts about where it had come from. Human, perhaps, or more likely bone from one of the Tanaan dragons his Master had captured and killed over the years. Regardless, Boriahs wrapped his bleeding hand around the talisman and held it over the pool of water. He gripped it tight, forcing the blood to bead and drip from his clenched fist. As the dark droplets met the surface of the water, he muttered ancient words of dark magic under his breath. His concentration was absolute, and soon the dark puddle was swirling and rippling, even though the wind had finally ceased its endless barrage.