ELON, Book 2, Amora Trilogy

By Arena Julia

Surely such a trial of wills and willpower should be a once in a life-time thing?
Sidhe Faery Mae, is beset with nightmares so foreboding they can't be ignored.
'It's the Plight of Elon," her Windhorse reveals. 'It's the only way to end this state within you, bursting now from your mother's protection.'
Following the whim of the winds on her Windhorse, Naweeya, Mae must unravel this mystery of the Plight of Elon before she becomes a beast akin to Esor. Dread fills her, for if her nightmares are any indication, what lies ahead is a pustuled witch with a blood-eyed dagger, a silver platter, and deadly intentions.
From hidden Lands to hidden pasts, through twisted trusts and tainted loves, this second adventure coils in a complex web of daunting deceptions, determined desires, and enduring devotion.
ELON, by Arena Julia, is the second adventure in the Amora Trilogy, a coming of age, 'other world' fantasy, for tweens, teens, and the young of heart.
Magickal, Beguiling, Riveting, Inspiring

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arena Julia
• Release date: Aug 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994391605

Arena Julia

I am an Australian Author and Educator privileged and fortunate to live high in the foothills of the D'Aguilar Ranges in Queensland. From my front garden, those foothills fill the skyline in a protective hug from the east, sweeping to the north and into the west. On a clear day they surge close and green into the deep blue of the skies. On others, the cold and damp drops in globs of thick fog, covering them like snow.It was those mists which opened a portal into the enchanted land of Amora, the fantasy setting for my first series, Amora Trilogy. Because of this, it doesn't really feel so far away, or so far-fetched in imagination. For I'd seen it long before it began to manifest within the pages of the first book, ESOR. Each day, I can see its fantastical figment as I fill my kettle or weed my garden. I see there, too, folk beyond my obvious knowing, who share that world - in their own reality, in their own parallel dimension. These are the folk who inhabit ESOR, and continue in their adventures in the second book, ELON, and the third book, EVER. I hope you enjoy the ride, just as I did, for I found the journey supremely magickal. Much gratitude to the folk who live within those many pages for allowing me to share their turmoils and triumphs for four wonderful years. I will miss such closeness, and will ever cherish having shared the adventure!My second series, ORB Rider, is also close to home, but in another way. While the setting is fictional, it is highly influenced by my childhood experiences - growing up within cooee of the bayside region of Brisbane, and having spent many hours of many days on its shores and on its waters. This dystopian series is set in modern times, in South East Queensland, in Australia. It is suitable for YA and adult readers, with a paranormal theme, and a gamut of esoteric practices. Singing bowls and otherworldly travel are predominant in our hero Aurin's work as an Orb Rider. ORB Rider, Angel of Shadows, is Part 1, with Part 2 due in 2021. I hope you enjoy this new, intriguing adventure!

Book preview

ELON

~Book Two~

"Who owns the heart, owns control."

Contents

1 ~ T’IS TIME

2 ~ WINDHORSE

3 ~ NAWEEYA

4 ~ ICE CLIFFS

5 ~ ELON

6 ~ KAVEN of the KAVE

7 ~ WORDS

8 ~ To WIN a WINDHORSE

9 ~ RUSKO

10 ~ SPRITES of SIMMARON

11 ~ SORTING CHOCOLATE

12 ~ SPRITELING

13 ~ SNOW BEAST

14 ~ VENNAGLE

15 ~ LAND BELOW

16 ~ SHAMAN

17 ~ STICK WOODS

18 ~ FATHER

19 ~ TWINKLING

20 ~ LEACHINGS

21 ~ TURRET HOUSE

22 ~ LIBRARY

23 ~ LUMIA

24 ~ WART WITCH

25 ~ RITUAL

26 ~ BROTHER

27 ~ WITCH MAGICK

28 ~ MANUS

29 ~ WORLD BEYOND

30 ~ SHIMMER

Chapter 1

T’IS TIME

Not a single soul gets a perfect life.

The table beneath Mae was ice cold, a glacial slab against her back. Her wrists screamed at the bindings, which held them tight against her thighs. But her thighs did not object. They were numb.

Mirrored in the iced ceiling, black eyes menaced through a mess of ice-white, dark stained, frizzled dreadlocks. This evil reflection didn’t even recognise its true self - the Mae strapped to the slab, the one who froze with cold and fear. This Mae in the iced ceiling was a creature possessed with an unwavering will to have what it wanted. And what it wanted was inside the Mae on the slab.

Mae turned her head sideways. She couldn’t watch this. Beside her, a shelf appeared - solid ice, suspended, adjacent to the ice slab. Soon after came a circular silver tray. Upon it were three items - a dab of butter on a miniature, mint green porcelain dish, a small silver butter knife, and an athamé bejewelled with blood red diamonds on its grip. They swirled those diamonds, surly like an evil eye.

A robe approached, tied with the twisted vine of hawthorn. Its owner bent over her, a haggard woman who slurped saliva from her pustuled lips. Her large warted eye quivered, as if trying to peer through the rotten flesh which sealed it.

Closing her eyes, Mae wished it all away. So intensely, she wished it wasn’t happening. She felt herself melting away to someplace else, into blankness.

When she came to, the old hag still sagged her ugliness over her. The silver tray still sat on the shelf beside her. But the athamé blade was dripping with blood the colour of its evil diamond eyes. On the miniature porcelain dish, merely a small smear of butter remained. So too, another smear ran along the front edge of its silver butter knife. The rest of that dab of butter was now melting warmly, oozing over, a throbbing black heart.

Mae found herself heaving with a sudden start of realisation. As she tried to lift her head, pain erupted, searing through her. She could see it then, above her, in the ice-mirror ceiling, a gaping wound where the black heart had been.

Mae! Mae! a voice called her as a hand shook her. Wake up! It just be one o’ yer dreams again, Dear. Ye be alright!

It was Berry, now perching herself on the side of the bed, her plumpness merging with the soft puffiness of Mae’s petal coverlet. Mae nodded in response. It was the most she could do for this moment, to let her aunt know she was aware and awake.

T’was a bad one then?

Mae bulged her eyes in emphasis. The worst one yet, she gulped. It was the same haggard old lady, the same one I saw as Rose’nMae. But I saw the ending this time. I saw what was on that tray. And what that old hag wanted the evil me to do with that silver athamé.

Ye face be black ’n blue again, Dear.

I know. My skin feels heavy, Mae ran her palm across her cheek.

And yer hair all afrizz again too.

Mae’s hands agreed, scrunching at the frizz on her head. Not the gentle waves she’d had at the Festival of Veils two Springs ago, or the tight softness of bouncing curls like those of Brom and Fernseea. No, these were wild, as if the wind had teased them for a lifetime.

An’ not a drop o’ yer mother’s precious water left either, in that Urn o’ hers, te get ye through again. T’is time I fear, Mae. Whatever’s next - t’is comin’. There be no more hope fer delay. I can feel it in me toenails, as sure as there be soil o’ the garden beneath them.

Why was I born like this? Mae’s head fell into her lap. Why is this my life! her hands ripped at her dishevelled frizz. And now your life too!"

Yer life be what it be, Dear. Not a single soul gets a perfect life.

"But surely none get this, Auntie? This torment! she turned to her aunt, screeching frustration. Who else was born with the curse of a black heart, which just won’t die! It taints everything within me, and everyone around me! I’m so tired…," Mae dropped her head into her lap again.

Feelin’ sorry fer yerself will get ye nowhere, Young One.

As if Mae wanted to hear that!

"Not now, Aunt Berry! Now’s not the time to be so right! Or so…, adult! Even you’re more heavy with weary and worry of late. You can’t deny that, surely!" she screeched before she could stop herself.

This vicious attack of Mae’s tone surprised even herself. However, her aunt simply left the bedroom, busying herself with the stirring of porridge and the making of tea.

I heard Words, Auntie, Mae followed soon after, sitting herself at the kitchen table, a change of demeanour by way of apology. "But they weren’t from the old hag. It was singing. Well, more like chanting really. From a small, female child, I feel, though I didn’t see who it was. She sang so sweetly, with such vulnerability, that I just wanted to save her from something, sweep her up into my arms and carry her to safety. But another part of me knew there was something truly awful afoot about her. I can still hear her Words, her chanting, over and over inside my head.

Through the thatching, down the lane,

A twist and a twirl and out again.

Up the hill to the turret plain,

Find a visage mean and blain.

What could they mean? They send dread through me still.

I don’ know who that child be, Mae. Or how she, or those Words fit with all o’ this, Berry dipped a ladle into her porridge pot, filling a deep bowl with its contents, placing it before Mae. "Though a turret, an’ a visage blain, they’re confirmin’ clues, I feel. As we’ve discussed befer, the hag ye describe does sound like the Wart-eyed Witch, an’ fer such a witch, only a turret house would do. She not be the most appealin’ o’ folks, I’ll grant ye. But I ne’er suspected her o’ such things as ye describe. Firstly, te have such power te be doin’ such a Workin’ from so far away. An’ secondly, te have the inclination.

An’ ne’er has she been known te do real harm t’another. Even the scarin’ o’ the Tiny Ones with nightmares. T’weren’t her doin’, Mae. That be the doin’ o’ others, just usin’ her reputation te their purpose.

But Auntie, surely, even if my dreams aren’t trustworthy, the power of Rose’nMae couldn’t be wrong?

Filling Mae’s cup with chamomile tea, Berry left the pot for a refill. The only certainty we have, Dear, is that it must be an active Workin’. Te be savagin’ such a healin’, te be ravagin’ such a righteous Workin’ as yer mother did, te such an extent as this, it has te be an active Workin’.

Mae sipped the calming chamomile. It was warm and soothing, and just what was needed. So, it’s definitely not just remnants? From what happened at my birth? Someone’s keeping all this going somehow?

Aye, Dear, I can’t help but think that be so.

Well, how do we find this Worker then? How do we stop them?

I be offerin’ me best suggestion, that be all. An’ that be that ye go te where yer first clue be, Dear, an’ start from there.

"To the Wart-eyed Witch? Auntie, you can’t be serious!"

Never more, Dear.

But in my dream she was cutting my heart out! And I swear she was planning on eating it, smeared with that dab of butter!

Whether it be she, or another, ye must face this, Dear. So wicked or not, the Wart-eyed Witch be yer only clue. Ye must start somewhere, even if it don’ appear te be the most desirable o’ spots te start.

So there’s no other hope? No other help?

Not here in Amora, even in these Outa Regions, that’s fer certain I feel.

Berry’s forehead was creased with gravity. She was tidying bench tops and putting away, which she wasn’t prone to do at the best of times, but especially before she’d had her tea.

"The escalation o’ yer dreams be timely though. This matter must be settled befer Winter arrives, or that dark heart will be leakin’, black as a thunder storm. And ye, Dear, could very well be chained an’ bound like the beast yer mother once was - at Forbidden Hollow at the very least - till Spring comes or longer."

Berry had stilled her busyness, a dusty vase in her hand, with nowhere to put it but where it was before, her eyes direct. I can feel it in me bones, Dear, as sure as they’re holdin’ up me plumpness, that’s the likely scenario fer ye. Ye must act quickly an’ decisively, or ye’ll be too far gone I fear.

Such truth seemed even too heavy for Berry, the kitchen table now supporting her, as if the weight of her woe had suddenly become too much for her legs alone.

It’s alright, Auntie. I’ll be alright, Mae had an arm around her now, rubbing her hand up and down Berry’s arm, as if trying to wipe all the anguish away. I’ll call Naweeya.

That be right, Dear.

Together, they made their way down her auntie’s long dark Hallway, to her mother’s Rosebud House. Mae had made this journey so many times of late, that its nothingness no longer bothered her. Mae just accepted it as a particular state of being that her mind could not grasp, but that the rest of her had experienced as real. This seemed enough to settle any uneasiness about the place. Nevertheless, at this moment, another uneasiness beleaguered her - the dread of what was to come. For Mae was certain that it had to involve an evil witch, a blood-eyed dagger, a dab of butter, and deadly intentions.

Chapter 2

WINDHORSE

Surely such a trial of wills and willpower should be a once in a lifetime thing?

Outside in the garden at Rosebud House, early morning was just beginning to glint through the misty cloak of night, with stars still hovering, reluctant to leave. Mae made her way to the small grove on the northern side. At its centre, stood the large sacred Urn, which had once held healing waters. Now this hallowed vessel echoed with emptiness, as if winds from faraway realms had taken up residence within its corpulent, hollow belly.

Respectfully, through the confusing coils of the grove’s protective labyrinth, Mae approached. Once before it, she wasted no time. Reverently, raising her arms to the crisp, pink mists of the morning, she breathed deeply into herself, and then out again, three times as was the way. She was ready now to say the Words her Knowing had given her when Autumn’s breezes felled the leaves, sprinkling them like coloured snow.

Gently into the belly of the Urn before her, Mae directed the calmed, quiet breath from within her, to call Naweeya. Soon the Words sang out of her, easily, fluently, as if she’d always known them.

Winds of my heart, winds of my soul,

On holy hooves, with hallowed breath,

Bring me your honour, bring me your whole.

By the power of the winds and the shimmer they be,

With honest voice, I make my plea.

Winds of my soulmate, winds of my friend,

Come to me now, for thee I do send.

A prayer to our bond, a plea for your aid,

T’is time, Dear Naweeya, the future is made.

On the whim of the winds, as Destiny demands,

Take me, Naweeya, to Unknown Lands.

Sweetly, softly, Mae’s words hummed inside the Urn. From somewhere deep beneath its base, whispering murmur replied. Filling the belly, it resounded more loudly. Soon, flowing from secret spaces beyond any Knowing, vortices of wind replaced the hum, spiralling, surging upwards.

Out the open mouth they reared, absorbing the mists, forcing Mae backwards. Swirling, twisting, this way and that way, all about her, they sniffed at the scent of Mae’s energy, grasping her fragrance. Then, off they shot, clearing a path through the thick morning fog enveloping the Woodlands. Mae knew where her Windhorse was heading.

I’ll see you there, momentarily, Naweeya. I won’t be long.

She’s on her way, Auntie, Mae reassured Berry when she returned inside. To Gusty Lane.

Mae’s imminent departure seemed to have Berry more herself again, her apprehensions now distracted with fussing, and toing and froing. She’d already made a new batch of tea, and was now disappearing into her long dark Hallway. Barely had Mae filled the fresh cup her aunt had placed for her, when Berry returned, carrying a bundle of clothes. They carried an aroma of being freshly made, and never worn.

"New clothes?" Mae asked, confused, since time seemed to be so of the essence, and trying on clothes seemed to be a waste of it. With closer inspection, Mae became even less sure of what to think.

"A dress, with trousers?" Mae queried.

While Aunt Berry was more comfortable in male attire, that was her quirkiness. It wasn’t really Mae at all. Although, these were a most beautiful blue, and Mae could see that the fabric and workmanship were of the highest order, woven to a snug fit. And the dress would mostly cover them.

Yes, Berry affirmed. Made by yer mother’s hand fer this very occasion.

"Mother made them? So she knew? What was coming?"

Berry didn’t answer, and nor did she need to. Of course Rose would know.

Ye don’ know where ye’ll end up, Mae. An’ these might seem an aberration fer ye, but I feel in me Knowin’ that this garb might be more suitable te ye, wherever that be, Dear. An’ times are changin’, as ye know. Ye might start a fashion amongst the Young Ones! she chortled cheerfully, like nothing untoward was unsettling the inside of her.

Thank you, Auntie, Mae smiled at her aunt’s effervescence. She would miss it. I understand. And I love the colours, thank you.

"Don’ be thankin’ me, Dear, since it be yer mother’s love that went inte that lot. But this one, I’ll take credit fer."

Berry revealed the final item, passing Mae a new hooded cape. As blue as the deepest sapphire, shimmering like stars danced within its fine downy wisps, it was clasped with one of Berry’s precious emeralds.

It repels the damp, bein’ from the finest hair o’ the Unicorn, so keep ye warm too. Collected it all last Spring, I did. Been sheddin’ like old felt that lot. Clumps here, handfuls there. Thirteen cycles in the shadows can cause quite a thickness o’ coat te build-up, ‘specially on Unicorn. Be a shame te waste it.

And the emerald?

Let’s just say, it might help ye te voice yer true feelin’s from time te time. T’is only a small one mind, in case it gets inte the wrong hands an’ such. But t’will give ye a boost when ye need it most.

Mae dressed quickly, mindful that her Windhorse was waiting.

Ahhh, ye look a treat, Dear! Berry clapped her hands.

O’ course, there’ll be no dress o’ Rose’nMae fer yer quest this time. An’ nothin’ nearer te it, really, than that Windhorse o’ yers. An’ ye can take little but yerself an’ what ye’re wearin’, Dear. But I think ye’ll get away with a wee bit more as well.

Taking Mae’s left hand in hers, Berry warned, Now this will hurt a tad.

Gently, Berry pressed the ball of her thumb into the centre of Mae’s left palm.

Ouch! It did hurt!

Very soon the sharpness of pain became a tingle. Then Mae saw. Emanating from the centre of her palm was an indigo spark from a miniature orb.

That’s just a small piece o’ the love an’ care I have fer ye, Dear, te take with ye on yer journey. An’ ye can keep in touch a little too. If ye look into it with a starin’ eye, it becomes like a lookin’ glass inte Amora. T’will allow ye te see titbits here an’ there, an’ hear a little too. A small connection so yer heart an’ soul don’ lose their way.

So I can take this? It’s not considered contraband?

Well, in a sneaky kind o’ way, no, Berry smiled. T’is essence o’ me, so not exactly magick. An’ o’ course, t’will only be visible when ye require it, so hidden away most o’ the time anyways.

Thank you, Auntie, Mae beamed at Berry, appreciating her edge of the Lore willingness when things were dire. But something was niggling at her. Mae’s heart didn’t want to say anything, but her mind decided otherwise.

Auntie, she paused, almost stopping herself.

T’is alright te ask it, Dear, her aunt prompted.

Well…? Mae said no more.

Yes, me colour’s indigo. As is yer orb. As is that stain o’ darkness in yer hair. But t’is the balance o’ light an’ dark that makes the difference, Dear. I embrace all o’ me, as ye know - faults an’ all. So I don’ mind a colour, which takes a bit o’ the black inte itself. But it does raise some suspicion amongst the folks hereabouts, I’ll grant ye. An’ within ye, t’is causin’ some issues too. But in yer orb, t’will agree with ye more where ye’re goin’. Keep ye communicatin’ in the shadows, so te speak.

Thank you, Auntie, Mae’s tone apologised.

Now that thing in yer palm - t’isn’t fer eaves droppin’ mind. T’is fer honest seein’, that be all. Not fer things ye have no right te. Keep that in mind, Dear. But ye’ll know soon enough, I can tell ye, if ye step beyond the proper boundaries, her aunt was chuckling now.

Mae knew exactly what Aunt Berry meant. Almost two cycles earlier, she’d experienced the same scorching sting, when she’d chosen the wrong emerald from Berry’s Emerald Tree.

Now, where’s that young Sylvie, then? Ye need te leave her safe with Fernseea at the very least, while ye be gone.

Sylvie! Mae raced into her mother’s bedroom.

She couldn’t believe she’d almost forgotten her. Her tiny feet had clung to the curved collar of Mae’s dress since that morning on the rooftop two Springs past. Inside this delicate silver moth dwelt Brom’s precious Soul Promise, for always and evermore. But now…

Rushing back to the pile of clothes she’d left in a disgruntled heap on her mother’s petal bed, gently, Mae sifted through them.

I’m so sorry, Sylvie, Mae apologised, scooping her up with the lightest touch, resting her on the left shoulder of her new cape.

Momentarily, Sylvie’s mouth dipped in a curve of despondency. However, being a caring, forgiving soul, she soon fluttered like the loyal, constant friend she’d been to Mae, over these past seven seasons.

I’ll be headin’ off as soon as ye’re gone, back te me Outa Regions, Berry fussed. But while ye’re droppin’ Sylvie off, see if that young man o’ yers can give ye a bit o’ healin’, te get ye through till ye get te where ye’ve got te get te. But don’ be delayin’ yerself mind. He’ll be with ye long enough, soon enough, I’ll see te that. So just be gettin’ yer healin’, an’ be on yer way.

I will, Auntie. I won’t delay, Mae promised, curious as to why her aunt needed to see to Brom at all. Surely, he’d be with her one way or another, if not with a Windhorse, perhaps with one of Fernseea’s portals? Or even riding the winds on his boot soles, as he did anyway, for sport, in spite of the evil ache the winds left behind inside his head. Once Mae knew where she was going, Brom would follow. He might even come with her this very morning.

Passing through the kitchen into the living room, Mae slurped the last dregs of her tea. But that last chink of her cup, as she returned it to its saucer, sent shudders through her, spurring memories of an entire series of events, which had not so long ago occurred. These were the events which tore the heart from the evil beast her mother, Rose, had become, which had Mae climbing to the very top of the Mountain of Mysteries high into the endless skies, and which had her cursing herself with the black heart of Esor, to sever its hold on Rose.

Surely, such a trial of wills and willpower should be a once in a lifetime thing? So why, deep within Mae, did she feel it might be about to begin again? And why did that look in her auntie’s eye, confirm her qualms were probably right?

All at once, this house, this short lady, and this cluttered porch where Mae now stood to say her goodbyes, felt the most precious things in her whole world - too precious to be leaving behind, for perhaps evermore. A deep breath, and a deeper sigh, gave but small relief. Mae hugged her Aunt Berry as if for a lifetime, but it felt not nearly enough.

Now be rememberin’, Berry was still fussing, straightening Mae’s cape, pushing rebellious curls back where they belonged. "Don’ be ever lettin’ yer hope die, Dear. ‘Cause when it does, ye do too. That’s one truth ye need te hold onte, no matter what. But I will see ye again, Dear, soon enough. I know I will," Berry repeated too many times to be reassuring, as she waved Mae off.

Nevertheless, Mae hoped with all her heart and soul, that those reassurances were right. Hurrying away, holding back tears, and smothering doubt, Mae forced herself not to look back. Instead, wending her way through the final bend in Liana Way and into Gusty Lane, Mae listened for the Windhorse she knew would be there.

Chapter 3

NAWEEYA

Just above the surface of the leaf cluttered path she emerged…

Since the Fall of Esor, Windhorses had returned to the hills and valleys, to the mists and shadows of Amora. Mostly they preferred the isolation and seclusion of the Vale of Serendipity, or the large open skies of the Outer Regions. Occasionally though, for sheer exhilaration, they chanced the nearness of Gusty Lane. Their shimmering haze flitted in the shadows, and it had become quite a common thing to catch the flick of a tail, or a wind-driven mane, in the corner of one’s eye.

However, as ever, it was never an easy task to harness one, let alone mount one. Staying on was even more rare, but bestowed with it a precious gift. For once a Windhorse finally gave its heart to a rider, imprinting on its rider’s unique energy, it gave its soul too, evermore. No other rider would it trust. No other rider would it serve. No other rider would it allow to direct its storms or surf its prevailing winds. Some even told that on rare occasions, the rider and horse would become as one, like a blur of winds sweeping the sky.

Once bonded, without its chosen rider, that Windhorse would no longer exist, and nor would the winds