Return of the Shirán: Elven Worlds 3, page 1
Copyright © 2024 R.K. Lander. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Map of Northern Naz’arán
1. Staying Alive
2. Keep Walking
3. Odyssey
4. To Fool a Demigod
5. Sacrifice
6. Arlysians
7. Memories of Bel’arán
8. Identity
9. To Turn A Dragon
10. Chockybob
11. Beyond the Edge
12. Beguilement
13. The Flying Lizard
14. Fantasy
15. Power
16. The Laughing Warrior
17. Beyond the Deep Forest
18. Shirán Lands
19. Strategies
20. Evolution
21. The Beacon of Fort Arlys
22. A Piece of Talanor
23. The Squaria and the Hand
24. Ever Faithful
25. Prayer
26. The Return of The Silvan
27. Sanctuary
Also by R.K. Lander
About R.K. Lander
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Staying Alive
Llyniel Ara Aradan, Lestari, legendary healer from Ea Uaré, hers was the mind behind the Junar, first antidote of its kind to combat hybrid poisons, amongst them that of the Nim’uán. She saved Fel’annár of Lan Taria’s life once. Could she do it again? Not with potions and infusions, but with a balm that can only be used on the soul, that cannot be touched, only felt? The elusive balm of love remembered?
Journals. Lieutenant Falkite Tensari.
Llyniel’s eyes were filled with the glaring light of a new world, but her soul was dark like wet soil, like poisoned blood.
The afternoon sun was so bright she could hardly make out the colours of this sea-swept world in which she had been sailing for nearly two weeks. A salty breeze blew into her, clothes flapping behind and around her, strands of loosened hair snaking about a sun-kissed face that felt dry and tight from too much sun and salt.
She’d come from the desert, travelled to Galorath, then Port Galo, taken a northward-bound ship to the Blessed Isle – to Estuary – the final port, end of the Short Road, doorway of the dead.
She’d hardly spoken to anyone save to procure food, not for pleasure but to stay alive. She didn’t care if her bread was riddled with weevils, if the cheese was rancid or the water stale. She just needed to keep breathing, so that she could find Talanor and then…
Every time her mind brought her to this moment, which was often, it would stutter and grind to a halt. What would she do when she found him – found them?
She closed her dry eyes, squeezed them tightly shut, forced herself to push past the barrier in her mind. But it wouldn’t let her, for to drop that shield would be to hope, hope that Talanor had found himself, that he was happy once more and that he would recognise her, still love her, even though she had failed him. She dared not force that door open, see behind it, wonder if Fel’annár was close, and yet pray that he wasn’t, for how could she face him after what she’d done, or rather what she hadn’t?
Her eyes flew open, no longer dry but swimming in misery and self-loathing, because the mere mention of him was enough to remember the things she had tried so hard to forget – that day in the forest when her world quite suddenly made no sense at all.
Hope?
There was none for mothers like her, mothers who failed to protect their children. She had stood paralysed, before panic had taken her, and she had struggled to break free from her daughter’s iron clutch. But her pathetic attempts to free herself from Aralas and run to them had been useless. And so, she had watched as Sand Lords killed her heart, her soul, first Talanor, and then Fel’annár as he threw away his precious life thinking he could save his son.
He had not.
She had always known Fel’annár would die before her, warrior that he was, but she had always imagined he would lose his life on the battlefield, that he would march away to war and never come back. Instead, it had happened on a lazy morning, an unexpected incursion from a patrol of Sand Lords that had strayed too far south. Here in Naz’arán, they called them Calrazians.
She swiped at her eyes, smoothed back a strand of hair that had stuck across her cheek, and took a calming breath. This was her life now. She was getting used to it – crying then chiding herself, resolving to stay alive, even though half of her heart had been ripped out, the agony of it almost unbearable.
Just a few more days, the captain had said, and stubborn hope stirred in her heavy chest once more. She quelled it, as ruthlessly as she always did, ever since she had set foot on the Long Road, leaving Ea Uaré, crossing the entirety of Bel’arán, in search of Talanor and Fel’annár. If, by some miracle, she did find them, what would she say? What would she feel? Could she ever look them in the eye, tell them that she loved them beyond life, even though the sight of them would conjure torment? Be a constant reminder of the tragedy they had all endured? How could she ever separate the love she held for them, from the agony of their loss?
She didn’t know if she could. All she did know was that Talanor needed her, and so, wherever he was, so would she be, no matter it would tear her to pieces.
Flesh struck flesh, the smack echoing around the large, underground hall. The ropes that held Ezrah’s arms aloft wavered from the force of the blow, their brittle fibres chafing his wrists. He splayed his fingers, all of them except one which was stiff, the angle of it wrong. He closed his eyes, waited for the sting to subside, but instead, a sharp blow to the gut drove all the breath from his lungs.
He was suddenly free of his constraints, and he crumpled to the floor, waiting for the moment his lungs would function again, trying not to panic when they didn’t. He could hear his own, pathetic attempts to draw air into his body, saw boots just in front of his face. He braced for impact, but it never came. Instead, just as he drew in a laboured breath, a face appeared before his doubled over form.
Bright green eyes gleamed in the half dark, the mark of revenance just above them, framed by the flawless face of a revenant warrior. To look at him, one would never guess at his cruelty, the cool detachment with which he meted out suffering.
“Where is the elf bird? Tell me where your crow painter is!”
The voice seemed almost whimsical, like a kindly teacher, and Ezrah lifted his heavy head, blinking in a futile attempt to clear his blurry vision.
“I don’t know.”
The beautiful face was gone, and in its place, a black object hurtled towards him until it blocked his vision and pain exploded in his head. Sometime later, he slowly opened his eyes, and took a moment to orient himself. The ropes were still hanging overhead, no longer swaying but utterly still. There was no soft breathing at his side, no footsteps, no soft laughter or taunting words. All he could hear was the soothing sound of dripping water, its echo high above him.
He opened his dry lips, wished the dripping water was directly overhead, so that he could quench his terrible thirst, so that it would wash over him, cool his burning skin. But the throbbing ache in his leg made him feel sick and he daren’t move in case he jarred it. They would though, when they came back to continue his torment.
Saijon was just beyond his locked door, somewhere down this same corridor, suffering the same torture as he was. He knew because he’d heard him, Arzen’s minions made sure of that. Still, at least he knew that Saijon was alive, although he probably wished that he wasn’t. But what of Manon? If he hadn’t escaped, he would be dead. So many days without crossfleshing would have driven him to starvation, amongst other, even more unsavoury consequences. Strangely, he realised that he cared about the Rodite’s fate, something he’d never done in Origenta. All he’d cared about was himself.
His heavy head pounded in time with his heart, and he told himself one more time that he would never answer their question. Squaria Ezrah had been called many names in both of his lives, by Feldar amongst others, but traitor was not one of them. He would never disclose the whereabouts of the Illustracorvax. To do so would be to doom the Order of Shirán to oblivion, earn himself the wrath of gods.
He screwed his eyes shut, rode the waves of deep aching that shot from his leg and to the base of his skull. Only now, in this hell pit of anguish and suffering, did he realise just how painful his life in Origenta had been. Here he lay with a broken leg, a twisted finger and a body full of bruises, burns and cuts, and yet these physical wounds were nothing compared to the lonely life he had led until just recently. In the city of the Shirán, no one except Saijon had seen his wounds, the ones that scarred his mind. His friend had kept him sane, and the gods only knew how he had put up with him. Feldar had been the catalyst for change, for good and for bad. Slowly, they had come to understand each other, only for war to get in the way of their journey from enemies to companions. But was it enough for Feldar to care what happened to Ezrah? Enough for him to come back and help him get Saijon out of here? Would Feldar risk his life for the one who had made his
One way or the other, Ezrah had something to live for now. He had Saijon, the promise of friendship with Feldar, and the tentative hope of love that lapped softly upon the shores of his conscience. He’d always admired Galara-Quyn, never admitted to such a thing, even to himself. An image formed in his hurting mind, a skew-whiff smile and confident blue eyes.
And then there was Commander Ortalan. He would be furious with Ezrah for inadvertently running too far, past the point of no return and into the enemy’s range of fire. They hadn’t killed him but captured him and now, for reasons he had yet to understand, Arzen wanted the Illustracorvax, the Key Painter, wielder of Liminality, etcher of magic. Did he think she would paint him a Key? Did he think he could cross the Source and into Bel’arán? Back to his home world? Well, he couldn’t; he wasn’t Shirán, he was revenant. Ezrah told himself it was impossible, and yet the demigod had magic, powers they had yet to understand. Who was to say Arzen wouldn’t find a way to go back, given time?
One thing Ezrah did know. The demigod feared Zionar, because somehow, his brother Squaria’s blue fire could undo revenance, or so it had seemed to him at the time. Ezrah had heard the guards talking about it when they had thought him unconscious – about the Grey Ones, former revenants who had been touched by Zionar’s light and had shrivelled but not died. He knew the Guiding Lights had been released, but were those poor souls still immortal like Deviants? Doomed to rot away in life? He didn’t know, wondered whether anyone did.
He shifted, groaned, told himself he should try to sleep, but pain and regret were throbbing in his head. Ezrah had walked into the hands of Naz’arán’s greatest enemy, given him an unexpected boon – a chance to possess a war dragon.
Ezrah frowned, looked at the wall but didn’t see it. Perhaps there was a way to undo the damage he’d done. Arzen wanted the Illustracorvax, but he also wanted a Shirán, and what better Liminal was there for him to possess than a Squaria? Yes, the demigod would continue to torture him. But he wouldn’t kill him, which was more than he could say about Saijon. What if Ezrah could give Arzen hope that he would serve him, make himself indispensable so that their captor wouldn’t kill Saijon, even free him. And then, perhaps Ezrah could destroy Arzen in the only way he could – from the inside.
His head was pounding in pain and frustration. He was close to desperation, and he forced himself to turn from it. In his mind, he conjured the forests of Ea Uaré in deep winter. In a small glade, a wolf sat placid, her thick coat a grey, coal and white mantle, speckled with snow she did not bother to shake off. She seemed happy there, enjoying the silence of her world, basking in its unequalled beauty, watching it through the wise blue eyes of an Arimal, allowing creation to warm her.
He smiled from where he imagined himself, sitting on a low-hanging branch, watching her unblinking, vigilant eyes.
His heart slowed, and the pain from these last days of torture faded. He closed his eyes, breathed in, not the dank smell of mould and stagnant water from far beneath Fort Arlys, but the fresh smell of eucalyptus and pine, the snow-kissed forests of Oran’dor where Galara-Quyn reigned queen, and Ezrah was once more Tanakai.
Zedah, rightful heir of Fort Arlys, smoothed a hand down her satin and velvet robes, checked the pile of hair upon her head was perfectly folded, knotted, curled and clipped, then took a deep breath. Reaching for the door, she turned the knob and slowly pulled.
Standing before the princess was a warrior, her face placid, skin flawless save for the black mark that decorated her forehead, its triangular shape showcased by the design of her helm.
“The High Lord Arzen requires your presence in the throne room. I have come to accompany you, Zedah.”
Zedah bristled at the lack of respect. She was tempted to give the revenant warrior a mouthful, but there was something ambiguous about her. She was so placid, seemed so peaceful, and yet there was detachment too, a stony lack of empathy that Zedah rather thought made her capable of anything.
The two women set off along the corridor that led to the grand stairwell and downwards. She was free at last, after days of uncertainty in which she had not been allowed to leave her rooms. Guards had stood at her door day and night, had delivered food and water, asked if she had needed anything to which she had said only her freedom. But they had bowed and closed the door once more. She’d spent that time looking out of her window which sat at the rear of the royal palace of Fort Arlys. She could see its empty gardens, and beyond, the great walls, not her father’s guards atop the battlements but Arzen’s beige-and-red-decked revenants. She wished she could see the other side of the palace, the area which looked out over the main courtyard and the gates that led to the desert. She needed to know what was happening, whether she had been right to join her lover, Commander Dariot, by betraying her own father, the king.
The revenant warrior led her down the wide stairs, not a lord or lady in sight, only other warriors who looked at her side on. What were they thinking? Did they pity her for her mortality? Did they know something she didn’t? What did Arzen want of her?
Zedah suppressed a shiver, the pang of anxiety that threatened to steal her breath and walked on. Reaching the ground floor, they continued through the open doors, the horned helms of the guards twisting high over their heads, casting warped shadows on the walls beside them. The sight was so foreign, so far removed from her life of just days ago. She reminded herself that she had wanted this, that she had betrayed her own father for all this.
Smoothing down her stately robes, she stood proud, lying eyes confident. But on the inside, there was a churning vortex of doubt and anxiety, twisting ever faster the closer she came to the throne. She had not seen her father, hadn’t even seen Dariot. She had seen Arzen briefly from a distance, before she had been ushered away to her rooms after the battle. Now, as she approached, dread threatened to rock her off her feet.
The revenant demigod sat imperiously on her father’s throne, and she pushed away the outrage, reminded herself she had lied and manipulated, all but opened the gates to Arzen herself. She searched the room for her father, felt stupid for it but she needed to tell him that it was all right, that Arzen would not harm them, that she had been right to betray him, that he too would see it in the end.
To look at, Arzen was magnificent in his darkness, beautiful even. She could well have mistaken him for an elf had it not been for the black crystal decorating the centre of his forehead. Upon his head was a crown of gold, two carved horns twisting skywards, making him look like a giant. The ornate carvings hugged his face, snaked around his pointed ears, down his neck and back. He was, indeed, a god to look upon and his mere presence instilled in Zedah the need to run, to kneel before him, to obey his every order. She fought the feeling, for she was a princess, had not been raised to obey but to be obeyed.
At Arzen’s side, a burly warrior decked a lord stood utterly still, gaze lost to the horizon, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. On the other side, a man she knew well. Commander Dariot stared back at her, expression unreadable, even to the woman who had shared his bed for so long. The dread was back, and she schooled her face in a way few could.
Arzen’s heavy gaze was upon her, his shocking violet eyes roving over her body, down it, but whatever he saw did not seem to evoke the slightest emotion in him. Cold as marble, stare unwavering, he stood, his golden mantle falling around him with a soft swish, and as he walked elegantly towards her, Zedah saw wispy tendrils of blue mist which disappeared no sooner than he stopped before her.
“Zedah, daughter of Jessiah. It is my pleasure to meet you.”
He stood watching her, as if he had put before her a test, one she dared not fail. In the calmest, steadiest voice she could manage, she answered him. “Lord Arzen of Arzenon.”
Arzen seemed to grow taller for a moment, and a gleam came to his eye. “Of Arzenon and Fort Arzen.”
Hers was a mental flinch, but then what had she expected? She had always known he would take her father’s throne, had told herself he would be magnanimous, that he would not dare kill the ruling house of Arlys. She still held to that, for Jessiah had been a good king, and Arzen in his nascent reign, would not dare push her people to rebellion. Dariot had agreed with her, had wanted revenance as much as she had. Her gaze flitted to him, still standing by the vacated throne, no longer looking at her. For the first time, she saw the insignia of his rank. He’d been demoted to captain.
