The tide of unmaking, p.18
The Tide of Unmaking, page 18
part #3 of Berinfell Prophesies Series
Jast instinctively reached over her shoulder for her shard stave, and then threw her head back and moaned. It was gone. It was all gone. Everything.
She felt a chill tremor. Maybe it wasn’t all gone.
The Saer Heart, she thought, the chill becoming a hard freeze. The Deep Archives.
Jast was already moving, careening down the tower stairs. Crystal and wisdom, valued by the Saer above all other things, and Jast knew of no more precious stores of each than the Saer Heart and the Deep Archives. As she thundered across the only plank bridge she could find, she desperately fought the decision that was coming.
Both the Heart and the Archives should be guarded. Saer troops should have fallen back to defend these last bastions of their racial identity. But the attack had been so sudden, the enemy invisible. Maybe there had been no time to mount a defense or seal the chambers. Jast would have to choose which one, a literal fork in the road.
The Shardbearer skidded to a halt below a low cliff overhang, and snarled. The bridge gate was in ruins. There was only one other way in on this side of the mountain. Jast turned from the path and leaped into the waiting arms of a tall pine. Half-falling, half-climbing, she slipped down to the needle-covered rock. Then, she sprinted back eastward until she came to a spiny hedge that curled some ten yards around a jut of stone.
Jast cut herself a dozen times, plunging through the foliage, but she found the hidden east entrance. The heavy iron cap hadn’t been accosted. She wrenched her back turning the thing, but she managed. Then, she dropped down the ladder to a shadowy tunnel.
Jast plunged forward knowing that, in a few hundred feet of tunnel, she would be forced to make the choice. She knew of a cache of weapons on the way, but that would do no good against this enemy. No matter what she chose, there was only one hope: to trigger the chamber seal. But which one?
SCREET!
The monstrous screech seemed to come from behind her and in front. Dear Ellos! she thought. Perhaps the choice has been made for me.
18: The Home Front
KATE AND ALLAN DIDN’T SHARE their secret with anyone. And it was probably better that way. Who would believe that they were having telepathic communication—albeit one way—with their daughter? There was no way to prove it, no evidence to show that they both weren’t stark raving mad. To share their theory with anyone meant alienating any clear-thinking person, including all of their friends and family.
And if someone did believe them, that could potentially be far worse. Images of men in dark suits and sunglasses, storming their home and taking them to some underground research facility—threatening images like those were hard to avoid. After all, the government would be very interested to know that there was another world out there. Another world that could perhaps be exploited. If Kate and Allan were the only keys to that world, they might never see the light of day again.
Keeping this knowledge to themselves would not be easy. To resist searching for someone to confide in, someone who might help would be harder still. But if it meant Kate and Allan at least had a chance at finding their daughter, then that secret, they knew, was worth guarding with their lives.
Kate stopped seeing her therapist, and both of them started going to church with renewed purpose. They trusted each other, and they trusted God. Eventually, somehow, someway, they’d find her.
Kat was out there, somewhere.
None of the Elven Lords’ adoptive parents were without distress in the weeks following the Lords’ disappearances.
Jimmy Gresham’s mum and dad in Ardfern, however, were least affected. They quickly accepted the unknown fate of their adopted problem child, and gave themselves fully to their natural offspring. Yet even they wondered what became of Jimmy, secretly regretting they had never spent more time with him.
Mr. and Mrs. Bowman had worked hand-in-hand with the police on a statewide manhunt that eventually encompassed most of the mid-Atlantic states, resulting in a stymied attempt to locate Tommy. “Have You Seen Me?” posters of their precious, curly-haired son plastered the cork boards of every local business. But Tommy Bowman had vanished, seemingly without a trace.
The Briarman’s followed a similar path seeking Autumn and Johnny, making more than a few appearances on national television programs pleading for the return of their twins. The few call-in tips that came led law enforcement to a string of dead ends. Mr. and Mrs. Briarman became reclusive, turning inward to grieve their losses.
But none seemed as troubled as Austin and Hazel Green.
No one seemed to put the multi-family teenage disappearances together; after all, there were thousands of child abductions every day around the world. But the former tailback for the Carolina Panther’s got the most national, and even international press from the disappearance of his son, Jett. His former Panther teammates rallied behind him and Hazel, and the team’s owner made a very generous donation to the Missing Child Benevolence Foundation. But like most important things in the media, the story lost momentum, and people moved on.
Then one day, something happened. Hazel had been worried sick about Jett. She wasn’t sure why exactly; that sunny afternoon was no different than any other. But something brought Jett to mind in a fierce way—so fierce, it sent her to her knees. She began praying for him. Interceding was what Bishop Arlington called it. She rocked back and forth on her knees in the kitchen, weeping. Her prayers turned from intelligible English to deep groans. Then in the midst of her deepest heart cries, a wave of absolute anguish washed over her. It was as if a forest full of the sounds of crickets and cooing birds went absolutely silent, as if every standing tree had been brutally and suddenly felled. Only barren wasteland remained in her soul. She curled up on the floor and sobbed until she had no more tears to cry.
Austin found her there after he came home from a round of golf cut short by the onset of his own depressive episode. Hazel wouldn’t respond to him, and seeing her there broke his heart. So he did the only thing he could think of to do: lie down and curl up behind her. Husband and wife, father and mother, the two of them lay there until dawn, spent from long hours of crying, and having no concrete reason why it was so intense this time.
But it was. Very intense.
Gut wrenching, nerve fraying, body writhing pain. No report from the FBI, no local sheriff knocking on their door. Just an indistinct impression that something had happened to Jett, and there was absolutely nothing they could do about it.
Days later, things improved for Austin and Hazel, at least as much as things could for a couple that had lost their most prized possession. Life moved on, church moved on, investments moved on. Numbness replaced agony. Grim courage replaced numbness. Mission replaced grim courage.
And rightly so. Nothing and no one could ever replace Jett. But they had committed his destiny to Jesus long ago. “After all,” Austin had reminded his bride on numerous occasions, “we were merely stewarding him. He was God’s first, and God’s last.”
Austin and Hazel praised the Lord for the few beautiful years they had Jett in their care. The sense of guilt they carried would probably never fully relinquish its hold, Austin surmised. But at least life would go on, and they’d discover other divine orders they would need to be faithful to. Financially, they’d helped more than one family in need, and that felt good. Hazel volunteered at a local food kitchen, and both she and Austin served selflessly within the church.
Eventually something shifted even further. Austin and Hazel were growing closer through the turmoil of Jett’s loss. Instead of feeling married but distant, they felt married and in love. Whole even. In fact, there were moments during the day where their family felt complete again...like Jett was upstairs working on homework, or in the backyard working at his agility drills.
Pastor Duke said that the grieving process had come to an end, and that fond memories would take its place. It certainly felt like that was happening. But there was something more. Something they couldn’t explain to anyone but themselves. They’d share a look, and both Austin and Hazel knew Jett was with them. He was alive in their hearts again. His memory would never leave them, and that was enough.
Hazel was folding laundry while Austin was in the den, watching Sports Center to catch up on the game he’d missed in place of a benefit concert they’d attended earlier in the evening. The music was good, but wasn’t either of their styles. Hazel was humming to herself in the laundry room when she heard something upstairs.
“Dear?” she poked her head out into the hallway and peered down to the den. She could see the changing lights from the TV flashing within the room. “Austin?” she was a bit more direct.
“Yeah?” she heard her husband respond with his usual lower timber.
“You hear something?”
A beat passed, and then Austin appeared in the hallway. “What’s that, dear?”
“Did you hear something? Upstairs?”
Austin cocked his head, listening, then absently aimed the remote at the TV and pressed the mute button. He listened more closely.
“No, dear. Probably just—”
There it was again: a heavy thud. Hazel froze. Something, or someone was definitely upstairs. Austin’s face went cold, the same expression he used to wear on game day.
“I’ll check,” Austin said. “Stay there.” He nodded at the laundry room, then told her to lock the door.
Austin moved to his study and fetched a key from his top desk drawer. Across the room stood his gun cabinet. He unlocked it and retrieved a .45-caliber Colt revolver. He slid open the cylinder and made sure it was loaded. He’d never had to use his gun collection on anyone, and hoped he never would; but with his notoriety came many threats, both public and anonymous. So arming himself in order to defend his family became a priority...something that plagued him to this day…something that he was not able to do for Jett.
He walked out of his office and crept up the master stairwell, moving lightly for a man of his size. Another thump from somewhere above, far end of the hall.
An undulating creak of the floor, another dull thud. Austin felt his pulse quicken. Someone was definitely in the house. Broke in through a window, he thought.
Austin held the revolver low in a doubled-handed grip like he’d been taught by one of his FBI buddies. His heart pounded in his chest, but he slowed his breathing, willing himself to a calmer state. The calm before the storm—that’s what he called it back in his playing days. He needed it now more than ever.
I’ve lost my son, he thought bitterly. I won’t let no one touch my Hazel.
The next thud threatened to take a door clear off its hinges. Jett’s door.
Austin crept down the hallway and saw a dim light shining underneath the door to Jett’s room—a room neither he nor Hazel had touched since Jett disappeared.
Austin’s blood boiled. To think someone was in there, that someone had the audacity to tamper with their deceased son’s possessions…it angered him enough to shoot first and ask questions later. He paused just beside the door and listened. Scuffling. But no talking.
Austin took a deep breath, then reached for the door handle. He twisted it ever so slightly to see if it was unlocked. It was. One, two, three…
He threw the door open and raised his .45.
Then dropped the gun.
19: Thynhold Cairn
“GRIMWARDEN,” TOMMY SAID, GLANCING BACKWARD to be certain that Taeva was out of range, “what Asp did to Taladair…it was like a force of nature.”
“That, my young Lord, is exactly what it was,” Grimwarden replied. “But no nature that Ellos ever intended. Long have the Taladrim relied upon their walls and domes. Rightfully so, at least, until Asp managed to let in the sea. It is more than a miracle that any of the Princess’ people survived at all.”
His mount whickered. Tommy’s steed answered with a snort. Having seen the devastation of Taladair, Admiral Cuth called in every favor he had to supply the Nightstalkers with mounts. Horses, lance cats, mountain rovers—even a few maladons—anything that could save the Elves wear and tear and speed them on their journey.
“What of the Saer?” Tommy asked, absently rubbing the horse’s neck. “Do they have an army, anything that could withstand Asp’s forces?”
Grimwarden nodded slowly. “The Saer are well fortified,” he said. “Asp will not be able to trigger a cataclysm such as in Taladair. I suspect he will have to claw for every inch of rock and stone in Thynhold Cairn. It is like a hornet’s nest made of the bones of a mountain. The Saer should be able to defend their realm much longer, unless…”
“Unless what?” Tommy asked.
“Nevermind,” Grimwarden said. “It was something Goldarrow told me, something about the Conclave. But I am not certain it has any bearing here.” Grimwarden spurred his mount and rode ahead to catch up to Goldarrow.
Tommy wondered. Grimwarden’s suspicions had the uncanny habit of being dead right. But the old Guardmaster was as resolute as they came when he didn’t want to share information, so there was no point in pursuing it. Maybe the Saer would fare better against Asp. Maybe they wouldn’t. The Taladrim probably thought they were well prepared too.
Tommy shuddered. There it was again, like a cold finger tracing the spine, a sense of creeping dread. Ever since Taladair. Ever since he saw that poor child still clutching the toy he’d been playing with…before the flood waters came. And now, they were both forever locked in an underwater tomb.
“What’s wrong?” Kat asked. She rode up on Tommy’s left.
Tommy shrugged. “Death,” he said.
Kat nodded and when she spoke, her words were half-choked. “I know, so many bodies, all those innocent—”
“Not that,” Tommy said. “I mean it is, but it isn’t.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Seeing so many dead is sickening,” Tommy said. “Horrible, but we’ve seen it before. The carnage at Berinfell, then Vesper Crag. Hurricanes, floods, tornados, earthquakes…thousands dead. Thousands and thousands. But it’s more than the numbers. It’s death itself. One minute, you’re there, walking and talking…living. The next minute, motionless and cold. Nothing. Sightless eyes and a still heart. I mean, where do they go?”
“Who?”
“The dead,” Tommy said, his words sharpening with frustration. “I don’t know how to say it! When they die…the soul or spirit…the thing that makes someone be someone—where do they go?”
Kat frowned. “It depends on their faith,” she said. “You know what the Word of Ellos says on this matter.”
“Of course I know it,” Tommy snipped back.
“Well, it’s true,” Kat said. “Believe it.”
“I do believe it, Kat. Most of the time. But when someone dies, they’re just gone. We can’t know them anymore, not here. There’s like a hollow left in the world, a gaping shadow of what used to be. It…it just feels like an emptiness that won’t ever be whole again. And worse, the emptiness has a kind of gravity, like a black hole. It almost feels like it’s pulling at me.”
“I know precisely what you mean,” Taeva said, riding up on Tommy’s right side.
Kat and Tommy turned. “I’m sorry,” Tommy said. “I…I didn’t know you could hear. I didn’t mean to…”
“My Lord,” Taeva said. “Do not apologize for speaking your heart. There is no joy in this speech, but there is something. When kindred spirits recognize one another, there can be comfort. For I have felt this grasping vacuum you speak of. I’ve felt it ever since I learned of…well ever since I was very young. I feel it keenly now at the loss of my family, my people, my city.”
“But how do you fight it?” Tommy asked.
“Fight it?” Taeva asked. “You do not fight it. You embrace it. Death calls to us all. The Taladrim cannot escape it. Neither can the Elves. Let death’s call be a reminder of how to live. Of how fleeting and precious life is. Live, Tommy. Soak in every moment…and live.”
Taeva’s words were magnetic. How fine it would be to turn death and dread upside down. Tommy watched Taeva ride away. He turned to say something to Kat, but she was moving on to join Taeva.
Taeva heard the clip-clop of Kat’s horse coming up behind her. She bristled, waiting for a sarcastic remark or a rolling of the eyes. It was clear Kat didn’t like her; and why should she, or any of the other female lords for that matter? She knew the females of any race were territorial and treacherous, though cunning enough to keep their intentions well hidden…until it was too late.
But Taeva could not dismiss the hope that perhaps Kat’s behavior while diving on the ruins of her homeland was genuine…that perhaps she’d made a friend.
“How are you doing?” Kat said, now riding beside her.
Taeva looked sideways, trying to gauge Kat’s tone. The question seemed genuine enough. “I bode well, all things considered,” she replied.
Kat nodded, but refrained from speaking for a few moments.
Was that it? Taeva thought. No taunt? No snide remark?
Finally, Kat said, “I’m sorry. About your people.”
Taeva looked straight ahead. Digging at fresh wounds, she is. “It is a loss I must carry alone,” replied Taeva, “and cannot expect another to know.”
“That’s true,” said Kat. “I cannot know exactly how it feels. But you don’t need to carry it alone.”
Taeva looked up.
“That’s what friends are for,” added Kat.
Taeva didn’t know if she should reply; rather, she didn’t know how to reply. Friends?
