Darkness Rising 3: Secrets

By Ross Kitson

"Embrace the darkness, welcome the fury, savour the anger..."
After their escape from Goldoria, Emelia and her companions begin their journey into the swamps of Ssinthor. A land ravaged by ancient sorcery, it is a place of secrets and danger. Deep in the mists an insane lizardman sorcerer wields the green crystal to devastating effect. As darkness threatens to tear them apart they must somehow challenge the awesome power working against them.
Far to the west Aldred and his new comrades travel to Artoria on a mission to save his cursed father. A chance encounter with a seer throws them into an impetuous diversion deep into the Emerald Mountains, where a terrible foe awaits.
Hidden in the secret recesses of a ruined fort a crystal of blackest sorcery awaits its former master, Vildor, Lord of the Ghasts. And the time has come for him to reclaim its power.
Darkness Rising- Secrets is the third book in the original epic fantasy series that reviewers are describing as 'epic and spellbinding.' It is a must read for fantasy fans the world over.

About the series...
"Ross M. Kitson has built a complex and convincing world here. Frankly, I wouldn't recommend just picking up just the first book, or even the first two books. Get all three, because you'll be chain-reading them." D Brzeski (British Fantasy Society)
"Totally gripping... I was completely absorbed and loved reading every minute of it." E-book review
"Each page is a new rush of tension, mystery, and adrenaline." E-book review
"Richly imagined, well written and thoroughly absorbing."
About the author:
Ross M Kitson works as an anaesthetist in Yorkshire during the day, but at night transforms into a lover of fantasy, sci-fi and comics, and a writer of speculative fiction and steampunk. He is happily married with three kids, who keep him forever young and exhausted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ross Kitson
• Release date: Jul 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310052972

Ross Kitson

During the day i work as a doctor in intensive care, twiddling ventilators and generally sorting out sick patients...but at night...? At night i tap to ridiculously late hours on my PC crafting stories of fantastic worlds and awesome magic.Day job pays the bills though...My main genres are epic fantasy and YA sci-fi, although I've had steampunk stories published in antholgies also.

Book preview

i. Map of NW Nurolia

ii. Map of SW Nurolia

iii. Map of NE Nurolia

iv. Map of SE Nurolia

v. Map of Mirioth and Eastern Ssinthor

Dramatis Personae

In Mirioth

Alfra-Te—a Mirioth merchant unlucky at cards

Urhoj—a ruffian in the employ of Mr Trestan in Kâlastan

Jirk Trestan—a gangster and Yinik dealer

Hunor—a Thetorian thief and adventurer

Kervin—an Artorian tracker

Jem—a Goldorian Wild-mage

Emelia—an escaped servant. A Wild-mage

Mek-ik-Ten—a Galvorian monk and mentor to Jem

Elbek-Trall—a Pyrian and captain of a traders galley

Marthir—a druid and wife to Jem

Orla Farvous—an Eerian knight of the Air

Tirin—a Water-mage and collector of artefacts

Isrid—a high ranking official

Cmdr Beris-Tur—Cmdr of the Third Mirioth legion

In Eeria

Mother Gresham—the house-keeper at the Keep in Coonor

Abila—a housemaid at the Keep

Cmmdr Taros—high commander of the Knights of the Air

In Thetoria

Aldred—son of Baron Enfarson

Ekris—a mysterious Azaguntan thespian

Ronen Unhert—an Eerian knight of the Air, freed by Aldred

Al’Galera—a Parorion seer

In Artoria

Vildor—the Darkmaster, lord of the ghasts

Xirik—a ghast and lieutenant to Vildor

Torm—an Islander and companion of Inkas-Tarr

Inkas-Tarr—former Arch-mage of the Air-mages

Rebroy—cabin boy aboard The Patience

Jordan Verdana—a reclusive merchant

Gelarn—lady-in-waiting to Deriala Verdano

Porkan Evertree—clerk for the Guild of Goldsmiths in Port Helix

Terias Rescort—an Earth-mage

Derialia Verdano—wife to Jordan Verdano

Hefrigh—a dark wizard from Feldor

Oilirei—a dark wizard from Azagunta

Irhit—a dark wizard from Artoria

Jukar—a dark wizard from Artoria

Cabriax—an arch-demon

Darklord Restun—commander of Vildor’s southern army

Vaarn—ancient sorcerer of the Azaguntan Cabal

Derusia—a high ranking (tier) druid; Marthir’s mentor

In Belgo

Sir Tinkek—former knight of Artoria and friend to Hunor and Jem

Nilan—a druid hailing from Evenfall

Ujor—Sir Tinkek’s manservant

Count Tarjin Armando—an Artorian noble

Countess Syringena—wife to Prince Lissar; daughter of Count Armando

Cardinal Beloui—high priest of Egos

Cardinal Markosi—high priest of Tindor

King Lissar—king of North Artoria

Prince Lissar—crown prince of North Artoria

Prince Colgin—prince of North Artoria; Artorian knight

Admiral Bostlin—Admiral of the North Artorian navy

General Elir Venidor—General-in-chief of the North Artorian army

Duke Nalergin—the king’s brother

Lord Geraint—commander of the Order of the Eagle

Lord Oytert—commander of the Order of the Lion

In Ssinthor

Risstan Helminth—Knight of the Air, fourth lance, Silver Wing

Ccrastik Asssthrs—lizardman noble of the Carisou region

Cpt Tirrillion—captain in the Silver Wing, Knight of the Air

Ak-Ra-Sssta—a zealot lizardman priest

Sir Varas—Knight of the Air

Sir Uthor Ebon-Farr—Knight of the Air and cousin to Orla

Sir Igrik—Knight of the Air

Adran-Elk—a Mirioth legionary

Jular Farvous—Air-mage and brother to Orla

Keres-Hal—Air-mage accompanying the knights

Viliss-Haath—a Sstrakk serving Ccrastik Asssthrs

Myrssta—an Incandian warrior (Chosen Blade)

Sir Erthin—Fourth Lance Eerian Gold Wing

In the past

Lerin Tor-Baal—eldest daughter of the Tor-Baal family. Orla’s cousin

Aarat Tor-Baal—son of the Tor-Baal family. Orla’s cousin

Pertin Goodmin—son to Lord Goodmin, a lowerlord of the Eerian council

Muben—a slave on the Farvous country estate

Meeufer—a slave and groundsman on the Farvous country estate

Hulgor Farvous—eldest son of Elik Farvous; Orla and Jular’s brother

Elik Farvous—Lord Farvous, head of the Farvous family

Kirin Farvous—Lord Farvous’s second wife

Karak Ebon-Farr—eldest son of the Ebon-Farrs; cousin to Orla and Jular

Madam Weritae—governess to Jular and Orla

Mr Nornad—butler at the Farvous estate

Talis Ebon-Farr—lower lord of Coonor and Emelia’s former master

Livor—Aldred’s friend, killed by Baron Enfarson

Hela—Hunor’s sister, whom Aldred visited

Jirdin—Aldred’s manservant; killed in the escape from Blackstone

Urenst Enfarson—cousin to Baron Enfarson and brother to Argas

A note on time and dates

The most commonly used calendar in Nurolia is the Imperial calendar, which originates from the time of the First (Eerian) Empire. It dates the years from the time when the god Umar gave the gift and knowledge of magic to humans. Dates prior to this are described as ante-magi (abbreviated a.m.) and dates after as post-magi (abbreviated p.m.).

The months of the year number twelve and are named:

Festivestide

Snowstide

Rainstide

Seedstide

Blossomstide

Sunstide

Flowerstide

Bloomstide

Harvestide

Leafstide

Windstide

Froststide

The Dream

I know this place. It is a hall of deception, and for this I am glad. For all here wear cloaks of secrets, which wrap around their souls with the strength of iron.

I am seated in the decayed stalls, and before me the first Act has commenced. At my side sits Emebaka. She holds my hand with her own tiny scaled one. Her eyes glitter like diamonds in the winter sun. I make to speak, but she shakes her head. The dream must command my attention. My wayward mind needs order—I need to reflect on all that has passed.

There are children on the stage, stuttering their lines like nervous suitors. The faded backdrop is of the Splintered Isles. A man is taking a sack of gold, and the children are wailing as they are carried off stage.

My father is selling me. To the Eerians.

And here are my new masters. Their flesh is grey, symbolic of the cold stone empire they once ruled, and now only reminisce about. I see myself as a girl, under the tutorage of the gargantuan Mother Gresham, growing and maturing. A young woman, surrounded by those others sold into ‘servitude.’

I see a drunkard noble son, his head that of a jackal, caressing my friend Sandy. I see her belly swell, yet the girl who is me, on the stage, is naïve of such things. I see the journey into the marketplace and watch myself running in terror through the dark streets, a terrifying sorcerer behind me.

Blessed Torik, I want to turn away because I know what happens next. My head is transfixed; there are hands as cold as ice holding it in place. Sandy is atop the Keep, where we are servants, and then she is falling. She hits the boards of the stage, and a spray of blood coats me and Emebaka. Its thick hot richness trickles in rivulets of life down me. Tiny rivers of death.

The first Act is concluding now. The girl who is me is confronting Uthor, and he is trying to hurt her. Magic surges around her, Wild-magic, and he flies back. There is a rumble of sound from behind me—there are others in the audience, but I am too petrified to turn around.

I am saying my farewell to Torm, my only remaining friend, and then I am meeting Jem and Hunor, and we are escaping from the Keep. In our clutches is a stolen blue crystal.

Emebaka leans towards me. You must watch, do not turn for a moment. There is darkness behind us, waiting for you to seek its embrace, to shy away from the truths.

I nod, but curiosity and temptation writhe in my belly.

The second Act has begun. Jem and Hunor and I are captured, years later, by the Eerian knights. Chained like dogs, and then beaten by an insane Air-mage. We fly across the sea on griffons, seeking the blue crystal. It flickers on the edge of the stage, mocking us, teasing us—a fragment of an ancient artefact, whose power destroyed an empire.

And now the actors are in a grand hall, belonging to a Thetorian baron who covets damnation. A demon rises to battle us for the crystal, and he is a puppet. My eyes are pulled by the strings that run upward from his shoulders, and looming above the stage I can see him.

Vildor—the Darkmaster. His face is whiter than ice, yet his eyes glitter like black opals. I can’t stop looking at him. He has a porcelain beauty, a perfection that has cheated death. And we have shared our dreams, through the quirks of my Wild-magic. There is a dangerous connection, and, by Blessed Torik, part of me relishes it.

Emebaka nudges me, and I see I have missed some of the play. We have met the others now, and the sight of Kervin the tracker melts away the icy desire that Vildor commands. His bearded face is kind and warm, and he smiles at me as I sit in the audience.

The stage is full now—we are all there. Jem the Wild-mage, my mentor, and Hunor the thief. Our former captor, Lady Orla, the Eerian knight loiters at the rear. Is she plotting betrayal—I had once been so sure, but now..?

It’s getting difficult to think, to focus. My thoughts are seeping from me like blood from a wound. Emebaka, what are you? Are you my guide in dreams, or just a voice created by the madness that Wild-magic taints me with?

I look to the side and you are fading, like a secret spoken to the winds.

Don’t leave me, Emebaka. You have always been with me, I am saying, begging.

There are others on stage. Marthir the druid, her voluptuous body covered in tattoos, cavorting between Jem and Kervin. I can feel my sickness as it is revealed she is Jem’s wife. Shame at my idiocy, my innocence, engulfs me.

Jem’s mentor is there too, the tiny Galvorian monk. His words are like gemstones, bright and precious, and his balance calms the chaos of the group. Through the witch-burning lands of Goldoria they march, disguised and hidden from the eyes of the zealots.

And the final scene—in Goldoria City. Above the stage I can see Vildor laughing. The Dark-mage who had chased me as a child grows from his chest, like a tumour, and then drops onto stage.

My sanity is dissolving, dissipating into the smoke-choked aisles of the auditorium. Utrok, that was the Dark-mage’s name. And he unlocks the madness within me. It erupts with the fury of the ocean, slaughtering, destroying. I am screaming in time with the girl on stage, and Emebaka has gone. I am alone in my insanity.

Or am I? Either side of me are my friends. Hunor sits to my right, his laughter and courage a beacon in my despair. Jem is to my left, face furrowed in sorrow at the secrets he has hidden from me. Their strength saves me—Utrok dies, I am rescued from the flames of bigotry and ignorance.

My friends, they are with me. And Emebaka has returned, and we all hold hands. There are secrets beneath the facades they wear, but we all have secrets, desires best left unspoken, unshared.

And I turn to face the shadowy visages of the audience, for I am not afraid. There is much left to see. The play has only just begun. There are more crystals to be found.

And Vildor sits and stares at me from the back of the theatre.

The Journal

It feels odd writing this in the pages of Livor’s journal, but it’s what he would have wanted, what he would have told me to do if we had had a chance to speak more in life.

Is there folly in conversing with the dead? Once I would have said so. Once life was simple—you lived life to the full, embracing every moment as if it were your last—and then you died. You died like my mother did, rotted by a wasting disease. You died like my father did, killed by his traitorous servant, a Dark-mage.

Except neither are truly dead. My mother lives on around me, bound in spirit by a locket of great beauty. And my father, Baron Enfarson, cheated death when he embraced the vile sorcery of the Pale.

My father, the vampyr.

Dearest Livor, how did it come to this? I scribble this entry in the half-light of a lantern, on the road south to Feldor. My two new companions are quibbling like impatient siblings. I can see you chuckling, chewing the stem of your pipe.

How did it come to this? I shall endeavour to put my shattered life into a semblance of order.

It all changed when mother died. Before then I had thought nothing more than growing into a Thetorian noble under my father, the baron’s gaze. The cold stones of Blackstone Castle were all I knew, all I wanted.

Father changed, with mother’s death. Part of him died with her, borne away to the arms of Mortis. And in that time of mourning, where nothing would dent the armour of his sorrow, he acquired a book of ogre magic. And soon after came Quigor, sent as an advisor on the recommendation of father’s cousin, Argas Enfarson.

And the malice seeped from him throughout Blackstone Castle. I left to study in Thetoria City, with you, Livor, my closest friend. And when we returned it had all changed. There were so many new faces, so many secrets.

Quigor was a man of secrets. I found his hidden room beneath the Castle, the lair of a necromancer. And when I escaped it was to a scene of terror—Quigor had become a demon, slaughtering all except my father. It was then I learned there had been others at the Castle that night—an Eerian knight, Wild-mages, and a thief, Hunor, who was recognised by a dying guard.

The weeks after were so confused, so disarrayed, that they feel at times like a delusion, a distortion of the waking day. But every fell moment was horribly real. I can still see the corpse of the first girl to die. Dark forces were afoot, but it took me far too long to solve the mystery. At first I sought more information about Hunor Markson, from his sister in the Barrowlands. A wasted journey save for the fact I encountered the first of my current companions—the Azaguntan troubadour, Ekris. A man of many faces, and I am certain there are some I am not seeing correctly, for there are few actors that can wield a sword as nimbly as he.

And now my tears smudge the script on the page. This creature that murdered within the village near Blackstone faced me within the grounds of my home—and it spared me. Even then, I could not hope to realise why a vampyr would choose not to devour me.

The answer came too late. My father, had become the vampyr, and he took your life as casually as he had so many others. My dearest, oldest friend—I am so sorry, so very sorry. I took this journal from your dead hands, knowing that it contained all the answers on how to cure my father of the curse—for it erodes him, bit by bit, and I am terrified there will soon be nothing remaining of the man I knew.

So I travel now, with Ekris, and an Eerian knight called Sir Unhert whom I freed from the dungeons of Blackstone, to the far away climes of Artoria. There we shall seek Argas Enfarson, and through him the evil sorcerer who has originated this vile curse.

We seek a ghast.

My eyes grow heavy, and my companions require my mediation. Sleep well, Livor Korianson. You shall be avenged.

Your friend, Aldred Enfarson.

Prologue The Druid Paradox

Blossomstide 1918.

Six years ago

The glow of the sunset filtered through the air of the Great Forest, tingeing the white blossom the colour of fire. The heavy odour of wild garlic mingled with the scent of damp wood as the last drops of the shower faded. The sounds of the forest resumed their chatter, at first hesitant then with growing confidence.

Marthir crept through the woodland, her bare feet padding silently on the muddy ground. Her tanned body was sparsely covered by bear furs; the brown hairs were filthy and matted. Sticky sap was smeared on her skin. She held a spear close to her body. It was a crude weapon, its tip fashioned from the bones of a bear she had slain five months before, not long after the trial of Iyris-Ferr had commenced.

In the small clearing ahead a brown bear was feeding. Like a spectre Marthir eased around a tree, and focused her mind on her prey. Six months in the Great Forest had honed skills she had previously acquired as an Artorian tracker to lethal perfection. There was an uneasy tranquillity to the forest. She hesitated, seeking out any aberration in the flow of nature around her.

Nothing, there is nothing, she thought. It’s just weariness and hunger tricking me.

Her arm tensed in preparation to throw.

The bear’s head jerked to attention. An abrupt sound resonated through the trees—the clamour of battle.

The spear hissed through the forest air at the same instant that two shapes exploded through the foliage. The bear turned, and the spear embedded in a spatter of blood in its side. Marthir cursed as the animal charged across the clearing towards her. It moved with surprising speed, driven by pain and fear.

Marthir lunged to the side and grasped the shaft of the spear as the bear reared. The animal’s momentum carried it forward and the shaft splintered. Marthir desperately tried to evade the huge creature, but she was too slow and too tired. Its claw struck her shoulder with the force of a warhammer and the crack of her collar bone echoed around the trees.

The force sent Marthir spinning backwards. Her bare feet scrambled for a foothold as she tottered on the rim of a ditch. The world span and twisted and she tumbled down the slope, each bounce sending a pulse of agony through her chest and arm.

Marthir lay half submerged in a mud-choked stream. The wet earth clogged her nose and eyes. She wiped the mud away and squinted through the canopy of ferns that now covered her. The bear was certain to pursue her down the slope; her spear had entered lung not heart.

Nolir guide me, she prayed. You have sustained me with your offerings of plant and animal over the six long months of Iyris-Ferr. Let it not end this way, before I have chance to repay your boon.

The bear was stood on its hind-legs at the rim of the ditch, blood wet on its chest. It growled in anger and sniffed the air to catch her scent. Marthir could hardly move; every inch of her ached and her arm was numb and useless.

The two creatures in the clearing screeched and roared, and the bear glanced back and then ran. Marthir groaned in pain, and began to roll out of the stream when the two animals crashed over the edge of the ditch, fur flying and blood spraying. Such was the speed and ferocity of their conflict that Marthir could not make out their species until they came thundering into the bottom of the ditch, fifteen feet away.

A mountain lion was heavily wounded. A huge flap of flesh pumped blood down its fur. Its opponent was an enormous black gorilla, teeth long and yellow, caked with gore. The pair fell apart then sprang to their feet, snarling and spitting.

To Marthir’s astonishment the lion began to shimmer and twist. In two heartbeats it had become a huge eagle.

Blessed Nolir, it’s a druid.

The gorilla roared and lunged, its paw grotesquely extending into a long hook.

The eagle screeched as the tip of the hook ripped open its belly and entrails writhed forth. It jerked and twitched as the gorilla pulled it close. The eagle gradually changed into a naked man. He was middle-aged, with tattoos extending over his arms, legs and chest.

He crumpled into the foliage eight feet from Marthir. Fear transfixed her as his glassy eyes stared into hers, before he was hoisted aloft by his opponent.

The gorilla was no longer there. Stood in its place was a figure, horribly devoid of any facial features. It remained motionless for a minute, the man’s blood running in a stream down its back. Marthir could feel her heart thudding like an elephant’s foot inside her head and she tried to stifle her breathing. Surely this monster would find her?

The seconds seemed an eternity. The faceless creature remained like a statue. It held the corpse as casually as a man would hold a sack. Then it turned and clambered up the slope and slipped from view.

Marthir lay panting in the mud and, as her adrenaline dwindled, the wrenching ache of her broken clavicle resumed. It was dusk and the half-light imbued the forest with a chill air. She shivered; her scanty furs were soaked and filthy. She pulled herself out of the muddy stream and crawled up the slope.

The woodland was empty. Marthir tugged off the fur that covered her hips and looped it into a sling. She eased it over her arm and, with a sob of pain, moved her limp arm into it. The patter of rain began an agitated dance on the leaves around her and within a minute her hair was plastered to her back.

I have to get back to my shelter, she thought. If I’m caught out here exposed in the rain I’ll be easy prey.

She staggered through the darkening forest, her body insensate with cold. The rainclouds had obscured the two moons. The trunks of the forest loomed around her whilst she tripped and slipped in the slick ferns.

Her legs gave out and Marthir slid to the ground. Her shoulder was swollen and she suspected her upper arm was fractured too. The blood loss into the deformed limb was sapping her strength.

Marthir lay in the ferns. The rain water ran in little streams down her body. Her mind screamed to get up, but her body was ignorant of its pleas. How tragic for things to end this way, she thought. I have come so close to completing this test of the wilderness. So close. Jem, Kervin—forgive me. Nolir guide me on my journey into your arms.

A huge shadow fell across her and she wearily glanced up at the wounded bear. Its black eyes met hers. She could see the flicker of life deep in those pools of night fading away to emptiness.

The ground shook with the impact of the bear as it fell back. Marthir drew on every ounce of her strength and hoisted herself to her feet. Staggering to the bloodied corpse of the bear, she dug her hand deep into the chest wound and dragged forth her spear tip. Marthir slid the keen edge across the bear’s throat and as the blood welled she lapped at the warm rich fluid like a cat.

Nolir had sent her the means to live. The bear’s sacrifice was not to be in vain.

***

Light danced on the still waters of the lake like a million motes of the sun. An image of the surrounding pine trees was captured impeccably on its flawless surface. A kingfisher hovered near the fringes of the water.

In a shimmering cloud of spray, Marthir erupted into the air and grasped the bird in her hand. Its wings beat frantically. Marthir examined the vivid blue and orange colouration, and then let the bird loose with a giggle.

Rivulets of water ran over Marthir’s curvaceous figure as she climbed onto the flat rock beside the lake. The sun was luxurious on her bare skin and she eased back onto the stone, feeling the cool indifference of the rock under her back. Her fingers drifted across the lump of her healed collarbone.

Her body had fully recovered from the six months in the wilderness yet felt oddly different. It was as if pushing herself to such unprecedented levels of physical punishment and exhaustion had produced a transformation, a re-birth. She had never felt so alive, so vibrant. She regarded every nuance of the natural world around her with the wonder of a blind man made to see.

Yet this clarity of perception had not allayed the gripe of trepidation within her gut. It was one thing to tell herself that this was the correct path to tread; it was another to believe it. Was she ready to leave her life behind? For the final rite of Yris-Tu was a reincarnation of sorts. She would no longer be simply Marthir the tracker, Marthir the Kereshian, Marthir the wife.

Though I will seem superficially the same to my friends, I will have altered beyond recognition, she thought. All that I was before will be an afterthought, a memory fading into the mists of eternity. And my gift will be harmony with the Goddess and abilities normally the preserve of the magi.

The Druid paradox. She could almost hear Jem’s ruminations on the phenomenon. The power of the druids was to transform their bodies into animal form—therianthropy. There were other talents too—hibernation, woodspeech, glamours and so forth—but it was the transformation that brought the druids such infamy and indeed scrutiny. It had proven of great value in the years since the Fall of the Artorian Empire and a continuing asset in their cordial alliance with both the South Artorians and the Feldorians.

Marthir smiled and scratched her chest. It wouldn’t be half as desirable with a gem of power soldered into her flesh, like the gems the elemental Orders of magic bore.

Was it sinful to be this curious about the paradox? Years of travelling with Jem, Hunor and the others had sharpened her inquisitiveness. Most Kereshians would hardly spare a thought—they would say it was a matter of faith. In fact that was the response from many of the druids she had met during her learnings prior to Iyris-Ferr. How did it happen? Was it like Wild-magic? Was it some enchantment to do with the ubiquitous tattoos? Or was it truly a miracle, bequeathed by Nolir to Her chosen?

A deer approached Marthir as she lay deliberating in the warm sun.

Can’t I simply enjoy the gaze of Mortis for a few minutes more, Derusia? Marthir asked.

The deer’s body shimmered and within seconds a plump woman occupied its place. Her naked body was extensively decorated with tattoos.

Tempting isn’t it? Derusia said. But as your mentor and sponsor I thought it best we practice your vows for tomorrow and initiate the sacred marks on your flesh.

Marthir sighed and stretched like a savannah cat readying for the hunt.

If it would relax you further then we could indulge in wanton coitus—you’d dry quicker, Derusia said.

Marthir smiled, trying to appear as if she took the request in her stride. No, no—I am flattered with the offer, Derusia, as always, but...

You still struggle with our liberal practices.

Forgive me, not entirely. Marthir’s cheeks flushed red. Well, perhaps a touch. Is that unusual.... abnormal?

Not at all. We each cast off the shackles of inhibition in our own time. I would postulate that your doubts run deeper than the concerns of the flesh, however.

Is it that apparent? Marthir sat upright and wrapped her arms around her legs. I know in my soul and my mind that this is the chosen path for me. Yet I still waver when I think of how I shall change. Blessed Nolir, I am so scared of letting you all down.

Derusia eased by Marthir’s side on the rock and placed an arm over her shoulder. Her flesh was browned with a life in the outdoors unfettered by clothes.

Faith shall be the spring in your step, the guide in the wilderness. Nolir assisted you through Iyris-Ferr when all of nature stood against you. Do not forget I was the one who chose you from the pilgrims who entered the Rainbow Glade that day.

And why did you choose me?

I could be puerile and say it was your admirable figure and exquisite hair, though I see now you have cropped it short...

I had half of the Forest in it after Iyris-Ferr.

So I heard—a most curious conclusion to the ritual. No, I chose you because within you I saw potential. A potential that came to me in a waking dream—a vision.

Marthir’s heart battered against her breast bone in excitement.

I saw the possibility of greatness, Derusia said, stroking Marthir’s back. I saw the glitter in your eyes, like virgin frost. Greatness—the road to which will take you beyond the confines of the Forest and the lands of our Artorian kin. You will rise to the challenges of the final ritual, of that I’m certain.

And when you underwent the ritual of Yris-Tu did you have any... regrets?

Derusia eyes shone in the sunlight.

Yes, if I am truthful. I regretted the loss of my husband and my son. Even now I have occasional pangs for them, thoughts about what might have been if I had stayed in Keresh.

You had a child? It never occurred to me that any of our kind would have children before coming to the Forest. I mean, since we can’t have them when we become druids...

Fertility is the ultimate sacrifice to Nolir, Marthir. That is the true paradox—that worshippers of the Goddess of the earth are unable to sire or bear offspring. I will never see my son again and perhaps it is simpler this way. It makes the pain far easier to endure. It is a small forfeit for the glory of communion with the Goddess.

What pulled you away from them?

Like you I had the calling, albeit driven by dissatisfaction rather than anger. And then the mark appeared, the night after the dream.

Marthir’s hand drifted to her neck. A ring of bruises circled her throat, a collection of purples and greens and yellows. The Rainbow Mark came to all those who were called, although not all heeded the summons.

Anger? Was I driven here by it? Marthir wondered aloud. Perhaps so. After what happened in the Emerald Mountains my life dissolved. My husband Jem... he just could not help. I needed consolation far deeper than he could hope to attain.

And is your heart still with him?

At moments I think so, but time is the great censor. I know that I will consider him less and less often as I embrace the love of the Goddess. If Jem were here now he would be rooting around, avoiding the mud, and muttering about the druid paradox.

Ah, yes, the paradox. I know how it irritates both the rationalists and the Orders of elemental magic.

I am sorry I did not mean to bring it up.

Discuss it all you want, but I fear you will have no answers beyond conjecture. The gift will be yours by this time tomorrow, and then all curiosity will be smothered under the weight of our faith.

Marthir smiled and stared silently at the tranquil beauty of the lake. Her uncharacteristic insecurity was eased by the reassurance of her mentor. She knew that this was preordained in some manner. When she had experienced the urge to come to the Forest it had been irresistible. It was something that could not be readily explained to her old friends, or her husband.

Anyway, the time for the sacred marking grows near. Let us retire so as to commence the preparation.

The pair left the lake and strolled back to Derusia’s residence.

***

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