The Rock of Ivanore Page 3

  Only one dared to wander from the city and stand upon the cliffs to watch the sea. Every day at twilight, the young woman lay down her bundle of kindling to stare at the vast blue horizon. Almost fifteen years had passed since she had begun this ritual—nearly a lifetime of breaking away from the ebb and flow of daily routine to which everyone else was so fettered. But no one seemed to care or even notice. Not even the Eye of Dokur wasted energy on the dark-haired woman with the distant look in her eyes, the one known only as Mouse.

  She had first come to Dokur when she was five years old. A wayward child, she spent her days in the streets scrounging for food; her nights were spent on the cliffs. When people asked her about her home and her parents, she said nothing, choosing instead to meet their questions with a defiant, tight-lipped stare. At some point she began working to earn her keep. A full belly and a warm bed were temptations no child could resist. She worked long hours, often to the point of exhaustion, but no matter where she was or what she was doing, at dusk she always came back to the cliffs.

  Mouse sat on her boulder with her knees to her chest and counted the stars as they appeared one by one overhead. The sun had long since descended beneath the distant sea, and her stomach told her she had better get back to the tavern soon or there would be hell to pay. But she chose instead to wait a while longer, braving the owner’s inevitable wrath.

  Was it the anxious churning in her chest that anchored her there tonight, or was it the ever-increasing hopelessness she felt? She thought if she could somehow hold on one moment longer, she just might catch a glimpse of that fading hope on the horizon. Yet it was not to be. With a slow, disheartened sigh, she hefted her bundle to her shoulder and made her way down the path to town.

  Six

  arcus fell into a deep and comforting sleep. In his dreams he smelled the scent of fresh leather, felt the stiff edges of a fine strap between his fingers. He imagined that inside his new satchel he carried the most delicious fare: hot corn fritters bathed in sweet Willenberry sauce, dried pears, and squares of rich fudge. As he prepared to devour this feast, a loud screech shattered his vision.

  Marcus sat up abruptly. He rubbed his eyes, still cloudy from sleep, and searched the darkness for the source of the sound, but all was now quiet. Only a cricket’s lullaby and Clovis Dungham’s rhythmic breathing reached his ears.

  He stabbed at the remains of the fire with a stick. The orange coals spit hot sparks back at him. He watched the ever-changing flames while absentmindedly fingering the key his master had given him. It felt smooth and cold—and strangely comforting.

  With heavy eyes, Marcus was about to lie back down when the screech tore through the night once more. The high-pitched shriek sounded almost human, as if someone had cried out in pain—or fear.

  The screech sounded a third time. “Watch out!” it screamed.

  Marcus leapt to his feet and spun around. There, above the glow of the dying embers, were two yellow eyes. At first it appeared as if the two glassy spheres hovered in the darkness, but as they began to sway back and forth and came forward into the light, Marcus saw that the eyes belonged to the biggest snake he had ever seen.

  The snake slid through the glowing embers, its thick body seemingly endless as it curled itself into an enormous coil directly in front of Marcus. Its massive forked tongue flicked at the air as if tasting it. Then, to Marcus’s surprise, the serpent spoke. “The foresssst issss no place for man,” it said. Its voice was a deep, drawn-out whisper, not like the shriek Marcus heard before. “Perhapssss man isss losssst?”

  Marcus tried to hold himself steady despite the fact that his entire body trembled with fear. “I’m not lost,” he said. “I’m only passing through this part of the forest.”

  “Passssing through?” The snake’s pupils dilated and then narrowed to slits again. “Alone?”

  Marcus glanced at Clovis sleeping on the ground. Had the serpent not noticed him?

  His stomach felt queasy. He was afraid his knees would buckle at any moment, but he managed to remain standing. The snake met his gaze and held it for a long while before rearing its head high in the air. Its gaze bore down on Marcus’s quivering frame.

  The snake responded to his own question. “Yessss, alone. On a long journey. Ssssoooo no one sssshould missss you for ssssome time.” The snake opened its jaws so wide that Marcus could have stepped inside without hitting his head. Though Marcus was inclined to run, the absolute terror of the moment glued his feet to the ground.

  The snake lunged forward, and as it did so, Marcus instinctively threw his hands over his face. To his surprise, Zyll’s key grew hot in his hand, so hot it burned him, and he nearly dropped it from the pain. At the same moment, the embers from the fire flared up, and a pillar of flame spiraled upward, scorching the serpent’s tender underbelly. The snake shrank back in pain but quickly prepared for another attack.

  Suddenly, from out of the darkness a figure leapt at the snake, the hilt of a dagger flashing in the fire’s glow. There was a struggle, a low, deep moan—and then silence.

  When Marcus opened his eyes he found the snake half-coiled and dead at his feet. A trail of blood ran out of its mouth, soaking the earth.

  Marcus peered through the darkness. “Wh-who are you?” The figure stepped forward, firelight casting dancing shadows upon his golden hair and fine features. “Kelvin Archer!” cried Marcus. All at once he felt relieved—and embarrassed.

  “I heard you scream,” said Kelvin. He wiped his dagger clean with a handful of leaves and nodded toward Clovis, still sleeping soundly.

  “Remind me not to call on him for help if ever the need arises,” he said, sliding the dagger into a leather scabbard strapped about his waist. Clovis mumbled something incoherent and rolled over onto his side. Oblivious, he continued to snore long into the night.

  Seven

  he high branches of the forest trees formed a tight green canopy overhead. So entwined were they that only the most persistent rays of sunlight had broken through, casting thin, yellow beams of light through layered shadows. But now that day had turned to night, the forest seemed an eternal abyss of darkness.

  The Agoran half-breed held his cloak tightly around him to prevent it from getting caught in the thorny underbrush. Using his sword, he continued to hack his way through the forest one step at a time. Though he had traveled all day, his progress was much slower than he had hoped. He knew the trail led directly to the mouth of Vrystal Canyon, the only known passage between the west and east sides of the island. However, the path proved a greater obstacle than he had anticipated. Even with his keen eyesight, the Agoran struggled to follow the trail, which had long since been shrouded by vines. The trees seemed to close in on him, suffocating him, until every part of his being screamed for him to turn back in defeat.

  If I stay on this course, he thought to himself, I will never reach Dokur in time.

  Had he the benefit of companions, each with a blade and a pair of strong arms, he could have cleared the trail in a matter of hours. Alone it would take days—and time was a luxury he did not have. Taking a moment to review the map on the scroll, the Agoran revised his plan. By shifting his path slightly west, he calculated that the distance through the Black Forest would be one mile instead of five. He would simply have to find some other way to reach the canyon.

  His determination renewed, he struck at the thick, gnarled branches with his blade. Despite his slow progress, he expected to reach the outskirts of the surrounding forest by midnight.

  The full moon was high overhead when the Agoran finally broke through the last barricade of branches. The silvery glow was a welcome sight, but not as welcome as the sheer cliff that rose directly above him. Since the forest grew right up to the foot of the cliff, reaching the canyon on level ground would be impractical. He would have to go over the mountains.

  The Agoran sheathed his sword and made certain that the scroll, his drinking skin, and the prized leather pouch were all fastened securely. While the sheer
granite face might prove an impossible obstacle to most men, for the Agoran—whose catlike claws were as sharp and sturdy as iron nails—it was a welcome challenge.

  The muscles in his arms and chest bulged as he began his ascent. The chill in the air cooled his skin and invigorated his climbing. He recalled the races he had won as a child, climbing rocks and trees in record time. What he lacked in agility, he more than compensated for with his strength. His human bone structure supported a denser musculature than those of his full-blooded Agoran peers, and he never failed to take advantage of it. Now, as he rose high above the forest, it seemed as though he could simply reach out his hand and grasp the stars. As he gazed out over the island, he considered for a moment the peace solitude had brought. He could still go back, he thought briefly, but instead shook off the temptation and increased his rate of ascent. He had lived in seclusion long enough. He had to reach Dokur soon—no matter what the cost.

  Eight

  he sounds of the nighttime forest were enough to cause even the bravest of hearts to quicken in fear, but Kelvin slept sprawled out on the ground, seemingly unafraid of anything real or imaginary. Marcus, on the other hand, sat with his back against a tall boulder, his eyes wide, scanning the darkness. He would not allow himself to be taken by surprise again.

  Midnight had come and gone when Marcus finally convinced himself that it was safe to close his eyes and sleep. Just as his mind began to drift, he heard the voice again, though it was not a screech like before, but high-pitched nonetheless.

  “Lie down and sleep, you stupid boy!”

  Marcus was on his feet in an instant, scanning the forest, his lungs gasping for air, his heart racing. “Who said that?” he hissed.

  “What do you mean ‘who said that’?” the voice retorted.

  It sounded quite near, but Marcus saw only rocks and trees and endless darkness.

  “Where are you?” Marcus called out.

  The voice called back. “Here!”

  “Where? I don’t see anything!”

  “That is because you are as blind as you are stupid, boy! I am here against the rock!”

  Marcus looked toward the boulder, against which only a moment earlier he had been resting. Leaning against it was Zyll’s walking stick.

  Marcus approached cautiously. Kneeling beside the boulder, he examined the wooden eagle head. Nothing seemed different than before. The stiff, wooden face stared blankly forward like it always had. Marcus rubbed his eyes, blaming exhaustion for playing tricks on his mind. Then suddenly there was movement. A flicker of eyelids, a ruffling of dull, brown feathers, and a beak opening.

  “Xerxes?” Marcus gaped at the bird.

  “The boy’s a genius after all,” said Xerxes sarcastically.

  “But this is impossible—”

  The bird squawked loudly. “Impossible for whom? What is so impossible about an enchanted walking stick?”

  “It was you who screamed?” asked Marcus, recalling the screeching that had led Kelvin to his rescue.

  Xerxes’ image moved as if it were a living bird. His eyes opened and shut, as did his beak when he spoke. If it weren’t for his plain, brown surface so obviously carved from wood, Marcus might have sworn it was a real bird before him instead of a walking stick.

  “You saved my life,” said Marcus. “If you hadn’t screamed out when you did, that snake might have swallowed me in my sleep.”

  Xerxes rolled his eyes and clicked his beak. “You could have saved your own life if you had only used that brain of yours. Take off my head.”

  “What?”

  Xerxes repeated his command. “Take . . . off . . . my . . . head! But replace it quickly, as I cannot speak when separated from my staff.”

  Marcus obediently grasped Xerxes’ head in his hands, giving it a firm twist. It pulled away from the rest of the wood, revealing a long, slender steel blade. Marcus inspected the weapon with awe and then sheathed the sword. “Zyll said you were full of surprises,” he said. “Thank you for helping me.”

  “Master Zyll made me swear to get you back alive,” said Xerxes. “So how could I sit idly by and watch you get swallowed whole by a serpent? If I had done that, this stone might very well have been my only companion for a long time to come. Not that it isn’t a good conversationalist, mind you, only . . .” Xerxes’ voice dropped to a whisper, and Marcus leaned forward to hear him. “It’s just that the stone’s a bit of a gossip, that’s all, and I simply detest gossips, don’t you?”

  Marcus thought of Zyll and the teasing the enchanter had endured as a result of this thing. He wondered why his master would burden him with such a disagreeable companion. Still, he had asked Zyll for a weapon.

  “So, are you to be my guide?” asked Marcus.

  The bird rolled its eyes again. “Heavens, no! I’m no guide. You have the key for that job.”

  “The key? Zyll told me it would lead me to my destiny, but how is that possible when I can’t even get it to work?”

  “That is no ordinary key,” explained Xerxes. “It was forged in the depths of Voltana from the four elements: earth, air, water, and fire. Use it well, and you will become a mighty enchanter indeed.”

  Marcus still held the key in his hand, and he now examined it more closely. “When the snake attacked me, the key got hot in my hand.”

  “Yes,” replied Xerxes, “and the fire surged at your command!”

  “But I gave no command.”

  “You did not speak it, but in your heart you called for the key’s protection, and it heeded you. Yet beware. The power of that key may be more than a boy like you can wield.”

  “What do you mean?” pressed Marcus. “I can’t even get it to obey my simplest request.”

  “You will with time,” Xerxes explained. “I am to train you. In the morning, rise early before the others awake. We will begin tomorrow. Now,” added Xerxes, “you have kept me awake long enough! I must get some sleep!”

  Xerxes gave one brief, screeching yawn, and then closed his beady eyes.

  Marcus lay down on the earth beside him, his mind churning with everything Xerxes had told him. He gazed up at the stars and, after a while, started to count them. He insisted to himself that he wasn’t in the least bit tired, but he soon lost count and drifted off to sleep.

  Nine

  t’s just a dream.

  Marcus repeated those words over and over in his mind, but the night suffocated him like a damp, dark shroud from which he could not escape. He struggled for breath. Rolling to his side, he dug his fingers into the loose soil, desperate to escape the unseen power that bound him. Then suddenly a light appeared, just as he had dreamed a hundred times before. In the light he saw the figure of—what was it?—an angel?

  The image was difficult to make out in the bright light, and Marcus raised his hand to shield his eyes. The angel came to him, reached out for him, but as Marcus stretched out his hands toward it, something pulled him back. Something black and sinister was overpowering him. He struggled to resist it. He called to the angel to help him, but the light receded until he was left again in darkness.

  Marcus jerked open his eyes. The darkness that greeted him caused momentary alarm, but the sound of Xerxes’ voice reassured him that the dream was over.

  “Just how much sleep does an orphan boy need?” Xerxes was asking.

  Marcus rubbed his eyes and stretched, his heart still pounding. Clovis and Kelvin slept beside him, their positions unchanged from hours earlier.

  “Let’s get on with this, shall we?” said Xerxes. “We’ll find a spot through those trees.”

  Marcus hesitated. He could not even see the outline of the trees to which Xerxes referred. “It’s too dark,” he said, lifting Xerxes in his hand and holding him close. “I can’t see where I’m going.”

  “A good first lesson, then.” Xerxes craned back his neck and twisted his head from side to side. “I’m a bit stiff from that damp night air,” he said. “Now, take out the key.”

  Marcus o
beyed.

  “What do you want the key to do?” Xerxes asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Marcus, shrugging his shoulders. “I want light.”

  “Don’t tell me!” scolded Xerxes. “Tell the wretched key!”

  Marcus held up the key between his thumb and forefinger. Its shape was hard to distinguish in the darkness, but as he formed the word light upon his lips, the key began to glow just enough to illuminate a shallow path through the trees.

  Once he and Xerxes were a safe distance from the camp, Marcus let out a gleeful shout. “I did it!” he said, hardly containing his excitement. “The key obeyed me!”

  “I wouldn’t feel so proud if I were you,” replied Xerxes. “Light is the simplest of effects. Even a babe could manage it.”

  Marcus tried not to feel deflated by Xerxes’ comments, but it was hard not to. He pushed his wounded pride aside and focused on Xerxes’ next instructions.

  “Zyll explained the nature of magic, of manipulating the elements, did he not? Now you must learn the art of transmutation.”

  “Transforming one element into another,” said Marcus, recalling a recent lesson in alchemy.

  “Yes,” continued Xerxes, “but it’s not what you might think. Many a foolish man has wasted his life trying to turn rocks into gold. They’ve died in poverty, every single one of them—and they deserved it.”

  “So what is transmutation, then?”

  “Simply changing the state or nature of an object by manipulating the elements around or within it. For instance, should you come across a river that needs crossing, withdraw its heat and turn it to ice. Need to dig a hole? Move the soil. Repair a broken wall? Mend the iron and granite within the crack.”