Child of the Dragon Prophecy Page 10
She dragged herself away from the cliffside and let Jargon lead her down the overgrown path.
Chapter 7
An Obscure Road to New-Fars, Human Domain
Year: Rumi 6,099 Q.RJ.M.
One Year Later
Stephania kicked a stone and watched as it tumbled and rolled until it came to a stop. She kicked it again.
They had been traveling for about a year now, and Artigal was assuring them that they weren’t far from the human village, even though it would still take a good long year to reach it. The path they had chosen had proved to be slow and difficult. It never would have taken this long if they had traveled on the main road. However, with an easier path came more danger.
All the constant walking had caused the young Centaur and Duvarharian to develop incredible endurance, and with it, strong character to bear the hard journey. Even so, Stephania always began to tire before the Centaurs.
Trojan paused and looked at his sister. Her curly, red hair bobbed as her head nodded; she was nearly falling asleep while walking.
A small smile lifted the corners of his lips. He paused until she had caught up to him. He gently tapped her shoulder, causing her to jerk awake and mutter something. When she saw that it was Trojan who had tapped her, she sighed and returned his smile halfheartedly. He held out his hand to her, and she took it before mounting his broad back.
Wrapping her delicate fingers in his long mane, she leaned her head onto his shoulder and sighed, letting her eyes flutter shut.
“Tro, what do you think happens to us when we die?”
She felt him shift his shoulders. He didn’t answer.
The silence dragged on, but she waited. She knew he was thinking.
“I’m not sure, Steph.” His words were soft and well-considered. “But I think we get to go back to Hanluurasa. And there we will become a part of the stars we were born from. That is what the Emperor promises us, I think, that we get to go home.”
A bird sang. A breeze moved the still air.
“You really believe that? Do you really think something like that could happen?” She sneaked a glance at the sky. The low-hanging suns shone back, offering no answers.
Again, he was quiet for a long time before he answered. “Yes. I believe it could and will.”
“Why? How do you know?”
He turned his head to the sky, and she followed his gaze. A single star was bright enough to be seen, even through the light of the setting suns. “Because when I look at the stars, I feel like I’m looking into a mirror.” His fingers trailed the air above him. “Because when I read the stars, it feels like listening to a mother. And when I listen to the stars, it feels something like hearing about home.”
“Will I get to go to the stars?”
He frowned and hummed. “I don’t know. Artigal and the scholars have only talked about the forest children being born from the stars, never the Dragon Riders. He’s mentioned something about a Duvarharian Great Lord, I think. Perhaps that Lord is your way home.”
Her bottom lip jutted out. “But if home for me is not in the stars, then where is it?”
He shook his head, his black mane rippling in the breeze. “I’m not sure. But somewhere. Somewhere with the Emperor.”
Somewhere.
The word echoed in her mind again as it often did. Somewhere she had a home. Somewhere she fit in. But it wasn’t here. No, it was never here. Memories of a mountain room, of a shining palace with a grand waterfall and polished stone flashed before her. Memories of a mother, a father, a friend—people she loved dearly—danced in her mind. The memories washed away with blood. Then there were memories of a cabin, a cottage, the smiling face of her Centaur father. But now even he was gone. And now her home was too. She hadn’t stayed there long. Had it really been home?
The air grew still around them once again. A bird tittered and then fell silent. Trojan kicked a stone. It skipped a few times before stopping. The clatter of hooves echoed on the rock walls of the valley around them.
What is a home? Would she ever know?
Tired from the walk and from the heavy weight of wonder, she quickly fell asleep.
§
During the long journey, Trojan had taught Stephania all he that he could, from archery, to strategy games like Yu’jac, and even reading the stars.
Because Aeron was still missing, Artigal had taken it upon himself to continue Trojan’s training, teaching both young children all he could that Frawnden had not yet impressed upon them.
The majority of Trojan and Stephania’s days were spent under the watchful and mentoring eye of Artigal. Even so, Artigal still remained cold and indifferent to them, as if he were simply subconsciously mentoring them from memory.
As distant as he was from the children, Artigal always treated Stephania as an equal, walking and talking with her as if she were a seasoned adult. Even though the other Centaurs knew that she was the rightful heir to the Dragon Palace’s throne, they were still not able to grasp the idea that their strong, cold-hearted leader held someone like her with such esteem. He was never like this, even to leaders of other Kinds. He always seemed to look down on others, even Aeron and Jargon.
The young girl and the old Centaur spent many hours walking and talking together.
Most of the time, Stephania insisted on Trojan being with them. It pleased the young Centaur to be included in their private talks, and he had learned to listen and think very hard before saying what was on his mind.
They were a strange little trio to watch walking together, but soon it became a norm to see the three leading the tribe while Frawnden and Jargon walked together some ways behind.
Today, Artigal was testing Trojan and Stephania’s knowledge about Etas. He fired questions at them, and they just as quickly answered.
Jargon trotted up beside them and quietly waited for an opportunity to speak.
“Artigal, may I speak to you?”
Artigal nodded. “Children, walk ahead of me.”
The two young creatures obeyed quickly after bowing respectfully.
Stephania closed her eyes, focusing her hearing on the conversation behind her. Her hearing was far better than she let on, and this was only one of many conversations she had listened in on.
“What is it, friend?”
Jargon bowed his head.
“There is a small band of Etas approaching from the East. They are expected to reach here by dawn. I have already alerted only the elite warriors, but I have yet to alert the rest of the tribe, including Frawnden.”
Artigal nodded, unfazed by the pending attack.
“Igentis,” Jargon bowed his head respectfully.
Artigal eyed him coldly, waiting for the medic to continue.
“If I may interject, I’m not sure how helpful it is to continue to teach Stephania about her race, the Etas, Thaddeus, and everything else.” He paused, trying to read his leader’s face to see if it was wise to continue.
Artigal’s face hadn’t changed, and Jargon prayed the Igentis wasn’t angry.
“Since you have begun these studies, I have noticed an increase in attacks. I think her magic trace is growing. I understand that, to an extent, it is important for her to understand the world around her, especially if she is to be raised to be the prophecy’s savior. However, I am wondering if other studies like battle strategy, literature, language, and mathematics would be a safer alternative.” He kept his head bowed respectfully. The seconds of silence dragged into a minute. He swallowed.
“You did well not to alert the tribe.” Though Artigal seemed to have ignored everything else Jargon had said, the medic knew the Igentis had heard him and was, at least, not angry. “Send the Elite to intercept but leave a few here. Notify Frawnden, the blacksmith, and the other more reliable Centaurs. Order for them to be on the ready to defend should close combat issue. Stephania and Trojan will stay with me.”
Jargon bowed.
Artigal slumped, a low moan escaping his mouth.
“It’s the Kijaqumok, isn’t it?”
Artigal nodded, his eyes dull as his hand strayed to his chest. “It gets just a little worse every day. Not much, nothing too noticeable, but enough to cause some complications.” He held his hand out in front of him. A few veins in his wrist had turned black.
Jargon took in a sharp breath. “It’s definitely spreading.” He pulled out a few purple berries from his bag before giving them to Artigal. “I wish there was more that I could do but”—a heavy sigh left his lips—“there’s not much I can do without being in Trans-Falls. The Gauwu Zelauw can keep the Corrupt Magic in check for a while, but I’m afraid we’re just too far away.”
Artigal’s eyes darkened. “Will I be able to get Stephania to New-Fars?”
Jargon was just about answer, when as Artigal titled his head back and swallowed the berries, his sharp eye caught a small brown spot just behind Artigal’s ear. Instantly his medical instincts told him something was wrong. In all his years of knowing Artigal, he had never once seen a bit of color on the old Centaur.
Artigal took a deep breath and shook his head against what Jargon knew was the bitter flavor of the berries. As he did so, his hair shifted just slightly and Jargon took in a sharp breath. It wasn’t just one small brown spot; nearly six inches of Artigal’s milky white hair was brown.
“Is that—” Jargon pointed slowly to Artigal’s shoulder.
For a moment, something like fear and horror flickered in Artigal’s eyes, but it disappeared under red anger. In a heartbeat, a shimmering wave of nearly invisible magic washed over the Igentis and the coloration was gone.
“What are you asking, Jargon? Have the veins spread to my shoulder?” Artigal narrowed his eyes in challenge, daring Jargon to ask another question.
A cold shudder passed over the medic, and he decided to quickly drop the subject and simply answer Artigal’s first question. “I think you should be able to reach New-Fars, but you have to be careful. Kijaqumok is wild and unpredictable. Any contact with evil could cause its power to spike.”
The white Centaur stamped his hooves. He turned his face away, but Jargon didn’t miss the small flicker of relief on his old face. “Very well, then. I shall continue on my way and finish what I have started. If I die, then I die. It is all in His plan.”
Jargon frowned but made sure Artigal didn’t see. “Of course.”
The Igentis smiled and clasped the black Centaur’s shoulder. “Stay positive, Jargon. I’m not going to fall over dead any second.”
Jargon grumbled. “Actually, you could.”
“Just don’t remind me, okay?
A small smile lifted Jargon’s lips.
“Good. Now take care of those Etas.”
Jargon bowed, his bright attitude having returned. “As you command.” He quickly trotted down the path into the thick woods.
§
Stephania frowned as Jargon moved away from the Igentis and disappeared into the forest. So Artigal really was wounded. She had nursed her suspicions, but she wasn’t sure if she liked being right. Artigal’s condition seemed critical. How much longer would he be able to protect her? Was this why he was teaching her so much? To prepare her in case he died?
“Stephania, Trojan, come here.”
Stephania and Trojan paused their gait and waited for the agile Centaur to catch up.
“Now, where were we?” Artigal stroked his narrow chin. A challenging look glinted in his eyes as if he knew exactly where he had left off, but was testing if his pupils had been listening.
“You were talking about the Eta’s reproduction, or really the lack of it,” Stephania quipped in her beautiful, mystical voice, her red eyes shimmering in the light of the suns. Her soft, wavy trellises of hair moved off her face, brushed away by the cool, caressing breeze.
“Of course. I’m glad you were listening.” Artigal allowed them a small smile, one that was rare and that the two children cherished.
Artigal quickly launched himself back into his teachings, rapidly questioning the young creatures, delighting in their quick and accurate answers.
After he had kept his thoughts to himself for a while, Trojan finally spoke in his quiet, deepening voice.
“The Etas can only split randomly, without the side-effects of becoming an Elcore, one time in hundreds of years. Otherwise, they can only reproduce by having a limb cut off and then re-growing a body. That would mean war only encourages the life cycle of the Eta, because, as far as we know, they don’t seem to die of old age. Which is, of course, something similar to other magical creatures, especially the Duvarharians.”
Artigal nodded with a deep appreciation for the young Centaur’s sharp mind.
“Exactly, Trojan. But, therein lies the catch. If we don’t fight them when they attack for the purpose of reproduction, which they do, then we all get killed. Nothing stops Etas but death. The only way to rid the land of them is to completely eradicate them.”
A long silence issued as they all brooded on the information, especially Stephania.
The more she heard about the Etas, the harder it was to push aside her memories of the Battle of the Prophecy. Embracing the Etas’ existence and becoming equipped with knowledge against them had helped her be less afraid of them. Her nightmares had slowed, now only haunting her every few weeks. But in fear’s place, hate took hold. A burning, consuming hatred against the creatures that had taken, and continued to take, everything she loved away from her. And, of course, Thaddeus was at the heart of it. Artigal was right. Thaddeus, Kyrell, and all of the Etas needed to be eradicated. For Ventronovia’s sake, and for the sake of all who lived here. There was no other choice. She had no other choice.
Chapter 8
A mountain pass
A few miles from the border of the Human Domain
Year: Rumi 6,100 Q.RJ.M.
Easy now, Stephania,” Artigal chastened the five-year-old girl as she practically strangled the sword she was holding.
She bit her lip and frowned. Why does this always have to be so hard?
“Treat the weapon like it is a friend, girl, and not your enemy.”
Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Stephania loosened her grip, and her wrists stopped aching.
“Good.” He turned to face the west.
The cool breeze blew softly through his mane and tail, pushing them to the side with the wind.
It was about noonday, and the two suns were high upon their course in the skies. The small group of traveling Centaurs had stopped for a quick rest to eat and maybe take a nap.
Artigal had left Trojan with Frawnden, but he had taken Stephania with him up the side of the small canyon mountain pass that they had been traveling through.
He shifted his weight uncomfortably, his hand subconsciously straying to the right side of his chest. A sharp pain stabbed through his chest, and he clenched his jaw, his hands balling into fists. The Kijaqumok, thanks to Jargon’s diligence and skill, wasn’t spreading as fast as it could, but he felt the effect it was taking on his body. He would have random spiking pains throughout his body, which then led to his chest. He was more tired than usual, and it was slowly becoming harder to perform magic. And then, of course, there was the matter of the returning coloration. It hadn’t spread as much as he had feared, but now his right hoof was almost half brown; keeping it white was just another task he had to focus his magic on, draining his strength bit by bit.
Banishing these unwanted thoughts and pains from his mind, he shifted his attention back to his young pupil. Noticing a mistake, he fixed her fighting stance and watched as she slowly made a faux slice to the side, making sure every detail of her body would be flawless.
“Do you know why I make you train in slow motion?”
Her brow crinkled. Why indeed? She finished the cut and returned to the resting stance. “So I develop strength instead of letting the sword’s momentum do all the
work?”
He grunted in approval. “Yes, and because it also forces you to perfect the smallest details in your stance. Then each important detail becomes muscle memory and effortless in battle. It is also the same reason that we train our children from such young ages.” He poked her arm.
Forcing back a grimace, she changed the position of her arms and legs, her muscles burning in protest.
“You are impressionable at this age, like soft clay. What you learn now, you will carry with you for the rest of your life, even if you think you have forgotten it.”
She nodded, licking her sweat-lined lips.
“Will Trojan be sent off to war?” She didn’t want to ask, but the words slipped out of her lips. There was no reason to teach children to fight if they would never be sent off to battle. One day or another, each Centaur would have to choose his path in life, to be a warrior or a city worker as a merchant, scholar, architect, or similar positions. She already knew that Trojan had chosen to be a warrior. He would have it no other way.
She could feel Artigal’s cold, steely gaze on the back of her head, scrutinizing every twitch of her body, every mistake in her stance. “Yes, he will be. Though young, he has already chosen his path. After his thirteenth birthday, he will be assigned to a regiment and will train as a solider.”
She bit her lip. Trojan—her brother, her only friend, only comfort, only home—marching off to war. It didn’t sit well with her. What if he marched off and never came home? Where would she turn to? Tears sparkled in her red eyes, but she brushed them away. She wasn’t one to cry. A warrior would never cry, never show weakness. If Trojan could be a warrior, then so could she. She would follow him to the ends of the earth.
A lump formed in her throat. Her shoulders sagged. But she couldn’t follow him, could she? He would be sent off to war, to fight for his tribe as he wanted, and she would be sent off to Dalton in New-Fars and then later to the Dragon Palace to lead her people. Trojan had chosen his life’s path and was content, but was she?