The Mirror of the Moon (Revenant Wyrd Book 2) (11 page)

Jovian knew without a doubt that those trees were where the fauns lived secreted away. The splashing of the water from the Falls of Nependier roared over their inaudible speech, and the further they traveled into the valley—while their senses were accosted by the pungent smell of earth crushing under their boots—the more muted the noise became, until they neared at the edge of the lake where the whole population of nymphs and fauns gathered around a crackling fire. It was here that the roaring died down to a dull rush of noise.

Several of the fauns and all of the nymphs were crying or in a similar state of despair when the group approached them and Maeven felt awkward with not knowing what to say to console them, as should have been his duty as a votary. He reflected then that so little was known of the religion of fauns and nymphs that his words would most likely have gone unheard, or even worse unwanted and offensive.

If they had wanted to stay for the last rights of the nymphs Porillon had doubtlessly killed, it seemed they had arrived in the nick of time. A small group of fauns came up the path behind them carrying the five nymphs along on stretchers made of grapevine and lush green ferns. Their eyes had not been closed, nor had their mouths. It was customary in the faun and nymphs society that a dead body should be given last rights as they had been found for there was no shame in death.

Reverently the fauns arranged their litters in a circle at the water’s edge, and a masculine faun and one of the most beautiful nymphs in attendance stepped into the center of the circle as the rest of the procession took respectful steps back.

Orilyn had told these two of the arrival of the humans, but they had neither looked at them nor seemed to care about their presence.

There was no ceremony like would be traditional for humans, nor were there any words spoken in supplication as most other races would do. The nymph knelt in the grass and rubbed her fingers through the shifting, jewel-like blades as the faun took up a position at her side, hands clasped before him, one wrist held firmly in his other hand.

They closed their eyes, and the nymphs began to hum, a noise that seemed to echo the splashing water of the Falls of Nependier.

The nymph began to chant in a language that Maeven did not understand. The more he listened though, the more he understood that what he was hearing was not any kind of language. What the nymph was saying spoke not to the mind but to the soul. Her words were a mirror of her emotions; they were not hollow words made for decorum and ceremony, nor were they empty words that sought to console others as the rites of death were given. What she gave voice to resonated music, music that was given from one soul and reflected in every soul gathered, for what she felt was what she made vocal, and it was what all of them were feeling: grief.

It made them all think of home, and the leagues they had traveled since. How much they missed their father, and how much they wished to retrieve their sister. At times Joya thought it was hopeless to ever imagine them all being back together, of being safe at home again in the company of her best friend and the rest of her family. What would it be like if they were not able to save Amber? What would happen then? For the first time in what seemed like ages Joya thought of Alhamar. Dislike him as she may, he still made Amber happy. She guessed if nothing turned out right that at least she would always have him as a link to Amber, a link to a life she would never get back.

Another thought troubled her then. Even if they got Amber safely into their possession, neither of them would be able to live a normal life ever again. They were both sorceresses, or were about to be. For the first time she felt the weight of her calling as a burden on her shoulders, and she wondered what the future would hold for her. There was a sense of destiny around her, something grander than she could ever completely fathom, but in a moment the thought was gone and she scoffed at herself. Everything would turn out fine, for the voice of wisdom would never let anything bad happen; he told her all would be well if she sought training from him, and she knew without a doubt it would be.

As the last of their chanting ceased, a slight wind picked up and rustled the grass and ferns in a strange symphony of nature. The ferns on the litters began to shiver with more ferocity than that of its counterparts around the group, and each of the five nymphs began to fade, as if they were nothing more than a painting that began to dull with age, until finally there was nothing left of them but the litter they had lain on, and the clothes they had worn.

The passing of the nymphs drifted on the air like wyrd made tangible, and all of them shivered with the cold passing of their souls.

Grace must have felt, or seen, something none of them did. She pulled out some parchment and coal and began writing.

“Here marks the passing of twelve-year-old Andray Flesta, twenty-one-year-old Sranda Inia, eleven-year-old Alesta Vellen, fourteen-year-old Erenes Haten, and seventeen-year-old Lleon Feliays.”

They spent one night with the nymphs. Despite Orilyn claiming to know Grace, none of the fauns or the nymphs would so much as look at them. They understood, through the coldness of their demeanor, that the other nymphs and fauns would not take Orilyn’s word that the group had nothing to do with the deaths of their beloved nymphs. So it was, when the next day dawned they parted with not so much as a good-bye from the mourning nymphs.

Leading the horses up the steep incline out of Betikhan Valley proved to be somewhat of a challenge at times, and breaks were frequent while sweating human and beast took time to rest. Talking was nearly non-existent except for a few pleasantries here and there.

That left Angelica and Jovian to their own devices, and sometimes that was not the greatest thing. Having been together nearly every day of their lives, there was little that one did not know about the other, but still they found their new mental link to be incredibly fascinating as it brought them closer to one another in a way they had never been before. It was now, more than ever, that they felt more like one entity rather than two.

It was that night the voice of wisdom started Joya’s training.

“Everything is possessed of wyrd,” he informed Joya. “Because everything is made of energy, everything then is also made of wyrd. Tell me, Joya, what exactly is wyrd?” the voice of Wisdom asked her.

“Wyrd is hard to explain. It is a force that resides in beings, and it is also the force that decides the outcome of one’s life.”

When the voice did not say anything for a time Joya started to fidget.

“Yes, it has been called that, but it is also much more. Wyrd is that which comes from past influences. It could be said that wyrd is the future, or the future determined by what we have done in the past, but it is also not solely that. Wyrd also means to become, to grow, and to come to pass. It is the force that drives us, the same force some choose to call Goddess. It is what makes us, and it is what destroys us; it is the beginning and the end and the eternal moment between. Wyrd is not just an enigmatic power that we can wield, but it is our life, our existence, our very being.” So impassioned was he that Joya sat in awe for a moment. “Being that, all things, corporeal and incorporeal, possess wyrd which the sorcerer calls to himself and uses.”

“So you are saying that we draw on energies around us to work our wyrd?” Joya asked, and for the first time she was stunned at how many times, in ordinary life, she used the word wyrd to mean many different things. She had used wyrd to mean her destiny, wyrd as energy being worked, wyrd as mystical, and also as life forces.

“Now you see how often it is used and none really understand fully what it means. Wyrd is not something that can be explained so simply to the uneducated because they do not understand the mechanics of it. Yet to a wyrder the word is able to be understood, to be fathomed.” He was silent for some time as she continued to think. Finally he answered her question: “Yes, we draw on the energies around us to work wyrd.”

“Yet when I worked my wyrd all those times before it was not something that was from outside me; instead it felt as though the wyrd welled up from deep inside me,” Joya argued with conviction.

“Yes, it can seem like that when another force is teaching you to use wyrd by using your body. Wyrd is definitely drawn from other than yourself, though when you are untrained it can be difficult to discern where it truly comes from. Rest assured once you realize how to draw on it you will feel a slight difference in the way it comes to you, but that is only because you will be looking for the difference. You will understand then and feel how it is different because you will know that it is different.”

To Joya that made perfect sense.

“Well if everything is possessed of wyrd then I should be able to use my own to work, shouldn’t I?” she asked, and the voice paused for a moment.

“No,” he answered finally.

“Why not?”

“There are many reasons, one of which is that no single being has enough wyrd to work the way sorcerers do, so you will need to draw on resources to work. Another reason is that tapping into your own wyrd will tire you faster than tapping on those around you. Both methods will tire you, but using your own wyrd, even only a little, will tire you much faster than drawing on that around you.”

Joya considered for a time.

“So when do I learn to draw on wyrd?” she asked with wide-eyed interest.

“Patience, my dear. You will learn tomorrow all about sensing the wyrd in other things and also how to draw on it. For now you must rest; you have been through many things, and there are yet many more things left for you ahead. Rest tonight, for tomorrow night you might not get much.”

And with that darkness once more stole over Joya as the voice of wisdom and his light left her.

T
he morning dawned cool and dull with a heavy mist hovering over the forest floor. Insubstantial light trickled in through the canopy of leaves and needles to shine golden-green on the moss, glowing off the haze that clung to the ground and trunks. Birds could be heard twittering lazily in the cool morning light, not wanting to leave their nests, but hunger demanding their flight. Grace felt much the same as the birds, wishing nothing more than to find herself in a comfortable bed with unburdened hours to sleep away. Instead she found herself here, tracking down a youth that had been kidnapped by a former friend, now a hated enemy.

She groaned as bits and parts of her aged body protested her movements in a symphony of cracks and pops. Finally she righted herself with a balled up fist in her lower back. Days were not getting any easier on her, that was for sure, and at her age how could they? She supposed they would only get worse before they got better.

As she was normally the first to rise, Grace was a little distressed when she saw that Maeven and Jovian’s bed rolls were already empty, and with a frown she went to tend the horses, making awful childish noises at the steeds as she watered and fed them. Patting each on the head, she brushed them down, readying them for the journey ahead.

This was mornings as usual. She would rise before the others so that they would not see how much pain she was in, and then ready the horses. Maeven would normally wake next and make breakfast and coffee—and Grace was currently wondering where that was now as her stomach growled and her body yearned for the hot brew—and soon the others would stretch lazily and only rise at Grace’s insistence, and sometimes at the toe of her boot jabbing them awake.

Finally, as she finished readying the snorting horses for their trip, she overheard voices and laughter coming her way from ahead, and smiled when she saw Maeven’s shaved head and Jovian’s golden curls glowing softly in the morning light as they approached with their hunt.