A Facet for the Gem (6 page)

They stood and watched him vanish, and even Felkoth took in the spectacle with wonder. But with the wizard gone, he let his mind stray from thoughts of any who might challenge him now. Korindelf was his at last, and his prize lay somewhere in the Forbidden Isle, held by a runt who probably hadn’t any understanding of how to use it. He would just have to wait for him to foolishly emerge, or, discover how to gain entrance himself. Either way, he intended to kill the boy and take back what was his.

And that was all he was, Felkoth assured himself. Just a boy, nothing more.

Chapter Four

In The Forbidden Isle

M
orlen groped around
as though immersed in water, his toes stretching to touch ground and finding none. He could hear by his pursuers’ muffled shouts that they were unable to follow him through the boundary, and, remaining suspended in the mist, he was filled with peace. They may as well have been miles away.

Clasping his bow, he leaned forward to swipe at the thick vapors and fell face-first into a grassy floor on the other side, which was fragrant and soft. Then, flat on his stomach, he looked ahead at a sight that even hours without blinking would fail to fully capture. Colors he had never imagined were painted all across a broad forest, each tree a spectrum of dripping light, with swollen fruits that looked to have gone unclaimed for some time, until now.

Jumping to stand, he plunged into the shimmering grove and embarked on the daunting task of choosing among the apples that dangled above and on every side. Some were the blue of watery depths, and others the purple and pink of sunset, with a slew of mixtures in between, caressed by shades of indigo, emerald, turquoise, amber, and gold.

With the bow slung over his shoulder again, he reached up, wrapped his fingers around one fruit’s smooth, almost glassy mauve surface, and plucked it from its branch, surprised at how dense it felt in his hand. Then he opened hungry jaws and crushed into the apple’s side, blinking through a luminous splash as he took off a chunk so large it kept his lips apart, and chewed until his mouth became flooded with nectar that drove out pain and fear.

He enthusiastically bit again, letting his teeth bring out a cool wave that soothed even more, and potent juice dripped down his chin while he tried another apple, knowing he would grow old and gray before sampling them all. And as he devoured the Isle’s fruit, his senses seemed to expand, detecting many life forms that sent warm vibrations through the soil.

Making his way south, he delved deeper into the woods, arms spilling over with apples he couldn’t bear to leave unbitten. Beds of lavender decorated the forest floor like hundreds of purple carpets around the plentiful orchards, lifting fresh perfumes and stretching far in each direction. Sunlight filtered through a leafy canopy above, reflected by every branch’s heavily strung orbs, and the air remained cool and fresh, unpolluted by the fires and stench that covered the adjacent lands.

The apples sustained him through hours of walking, and the resultant waves of heightened awareness brought with them the suspicion that he was being watched. Soon, he glimpsed bright movement in his periphery, like flames springing up on either side, and came to a halt. When he slowly turned to look between the trees, countless pairs of silver eyes under thick, flowing manes stared back, observing him carefully. Drawing a quick breath, he saw, concealed in the brush, that the Isle’s fabled lions had gathered all around.

He felt no danger or threat from them, instead drawing comfort from their presence. One calmly pushed out of the bushes, shaking leaves from its fur in a graceful march toward him. The lion’s stout head was as high as his chest, but he stood unafraid when it came closer to sniff him curiously. Seeming to decide he was no intruder, the creature withdrew its inspecting prod and affectionately nuzzled his arm. To Morlen’s astonishment, the others emerged and followed suit, taking a closer glance at him while pressing moist noses against his hands.

Then, they bowed their heads around him, permitting his passage, and he stood in awe of their unwarranted show of respect. Often he’d felt a strong kinship with beasts of the wild, as if he could somehow empathize with them and they with him. But he had never experienced anything like this, almost able to inhale their bravery and resilience. Pulsing with humility, he moved through their ranks and knew without looking back that they were following him. He was glad to have their company, unsure of what or whom he would encounter as he journeyed farther.

He had always been fascinated by stories of the Isle’s people, reclusive warriors whose strength and speed were said to be extraordinary, noted to emerge only when Korindelf was under attack. But why had none shown themselves this time? No tale he’d ever heard suggested they were prolific, but some could very well still reside here. And, if any did, he wondered how long it would be before they found him, since his presence was already quite conspicuous.

Eventually the sound of water tickled his ears, and parting trees yielded to an open strip that sloped down toward a river. Its current was gentle, and it wound for miles past his vision east and west. He eagerly strode to it, convinced there could be no purer water anywhere, and got down on fertile soil that dampened hand and knee, drinking deeply. He dunked his entire head, scrubbing away all grime he had carried with him, not for the last few days, but years. After minutes of washing up for the first time in too long, he looked down at his reflection through dripping hair that clung to bruises and scars soon to be forgotten, and was clean.

Purple hues painted the sky as night fell, and he decided to travel no farther until morning. He would rest within the woods, and rise at first light to follow the river east, though what compelled him to go in that particular direction he could not precisely say. Above all else, some inner part of him was being pulled that way.

He reclined underneath the trees, and the lions keeping to his trail bedded down in a semicircle behind, where they seemed content to remain all through the night. Surrounded by his willing protectors, he lay in complete relaxation, and despite the horrors that had transpired that day, he could not help but feel happy, happier than he recalled ever having been in his sixteen years. He did not even remember that the Goldshard, which he had coveted for so long, sat in the pocket over his beating heart.

He let all worries melt away, and sleep swept over him while the apples twinkled above, uncharted constellations within the forest. He needed no bed, no pillow, no fire; the Isle’s soil was soft, and its shelter warm.

Morlen’s eyelids were slowly pried open by sunlight, and he awoke like he’d slept for years until this day. He could tell the lions were still close, feeling the air buzz with their focused interest in him. But, there was something else,
someone
else, a presence charged with loneliness built up over years of unbroken solitude, though it exuded great power as well. He gingerly rolled to his other side, and saw that a man stood a few paces off with his back turned, facing the river.

“I envy you,” the stranger said. “Tasting the Isle’s divine fruit, feeling its unequaled comfort for the very first time. I myself was born here, and I took this place for granted until I left its shelter, long ago. When I came back, I was as you are now—alone, afraid of the world outside, immersing myself in the Isle’s pleasures and vowing never to leave again.”

Then, the man turned around and looked down at him. At his side shone the steel grip of a large sword sheathed under his brown cloak. He folded both thick arms across his chest, which puffed out beneath light furs stitched together. His face and long hair were rugged, but his eyes were cool and relaxed.

Morlen regarded him almost as an apparition brought on by the Isle. “You’re one of the people the stories are about,” he marveled.

A grin opened up through the man’s dark beard, further diminishing his wild look. “Before your entrance I was the only one left, and had been for quite some time. But now, I am glad to say that we are two.”

“Glad?” Morlen laughed skeptically, propping up on his elbows. “Hardly anyone has ever cared where I go, as long as it’s away from them.”

“Those horsemen cared very much. So did the shriekers. Yet, though they were at your heels you eluded them on foot. Is that something you dismiss as an ordinary feat? Something any man could have survived?”

“I was afraid,” said Morlen, “desperate, really. I didn’t have time to understand it. Anyone being threatened like that would have run just as hard.”

“Just like anyone with a mind to enter the Forbidden Isle could do so at will?” the man retorted. “Those fellows looked determined to follow you to the ends of the earth. But you are here, Morlen, and they are not.”

Taken aback, Morlen sat up with arms around his knees. “How do you know—?”

“What I know matters little. And what the people of Korindelf knew is far less. You place such great value on what others think of you. But what do
you
know, Morlen? Who are you?”

Morlen stared at him in bewilderment. “I…” He fell silent, grasping at nothing.

“You do not know?” the man asked glumly.

“Who are
you,
then?” Morlen said in frustration. “Is it easy for you to understand?”

“It is never easy. For me, there are moments when, like you, I am at a loss. But at this moment, I know with complete certainty. I am Matufinn of the Blessed Ones.”

Morlen raised his brows at the answer. Straightening stiffly while remaining seated, he said, “The Blessed Ones are dead.”

“Yet look at us, the two remaining sons of Morthadus, in good health,” said Matufinn. “Separated by a world that would see his line extinguished, now together in the place where it began.”

“I’ve never heard of him before,” Morlen cut in.

“You have,” Matufinn answered, “though not by name. He led the lions into the Battle of Korindelf centuries ago, against those that cast down the rest of his order. That strength endures in his blood, strength that has undoubtedly manifested itself in you, though you refuse to acknowledge it. But soon enough, you will.” He bent forward, stretching out his arm.

Though utterly unsure what to make of the man’s claims, Morlen felt no reason to fear him, and saw danger now as something foreign while taking his extended hand. And Matufinn effortlessly lifted him to stand, his grip lingering slightly longer than necessary as though to savor the first human contact he’d had in many years. Then he abruptly let go and turned to walk beside the river.

Morlen followed, silently in awe as Matufinn appeared something more than human. His mind ached trying to comprehend this paradise that had for centuries stood uncorrupted by the world. “What is this place?” he asked. “How could it have stayed so pure for all this time?”

Matufinn replied, “When Morthadus escaped the massacre that ensnared his brothers, Korine the Ancient gave him this realm, so that the Blessed Ones would always live on within its borders. The river that flows from beneath the high mountain, the fruits that never wither—these are gifts to only us, to be touched by no other, except those we invite inside. And the children of Morthadus have kept it for him ever since he departed, some looking to his return.”

“You’re saying this… Morthadus… is immortal?” asked Morlen.

“Yes,” said Matufinn. “The original One Hundred all were. The Blessed Ones, chosen for their bravery, endowed with the powers to protect Korine’s city through the ages. But after they fell, massacred by the shriekers, their tradition lived on in Morthadus, and it is said that as his sons grew old and died, he remained young. We have carried on his legacy ever since, fighting for Korindelf as he did.”

“Then, if this is true,” Morlen replied, clearly having difficulty accepting it, “you’re telling me that makes us… brothers?”

Matufinn chuckled at the question. “What it makes us is ours to find, in time. What remains to be found is in you, and always has been. You must decide whether or not you are ready to face it.”

They traveled for miles through woods that receded to reveal wild grasslands, down green hills and quiet glens that opened into valleys of violet and jade. When Morlen passed under more enticing apples, he eagerly gathered two, relishing them both. Matufinn, however, hardly even glanced at the overhanging bounty.

“The apples,” Morlen sputtered through a mouthful. “I’ve never had anything that made me feel so… free. Why are you not eating them?”

Matufinn smiled. “The apples are beyond your world, but they have always been an ordinary part of my own, from the moment I left my mother’s womb and opened new eyes to see them around me. It is through knowing the vastness outside of what we’ve known that we find real freedom.”

Morlen cautiously pressed, uncertain whether he should question Matufinn’s decision to live here in seclusion. “And did you find that, when you left this place?”

Holding quiet at first, the man led Morlen to think he’d struck a nerve. Before long he replied, “I found a great many things when I left, when I was not much older than you are now. Death and suffering, more than anything else. I lost… people, out there… one in battle, and the other later, in Korindelf.”

“You did battle with the shriekers?” Morlen asked intently.

“Oh yes,” said Matufinn. “Along with the only other of my kind who dwelt here, years ago. We charged into the fray with Korindelf’s army—men who served long before those treacherous fools currently in power, mind you. We moved like water and wind,” he boasted, drawing his sword to swiftly cut two apples from a nearby branch, slicing them both cleanly in half with a single stroke before they hit the ground. “We shattered scores of foes by the minute, letting none land a single blow.

“Until”—Matufinn’s voice became grave—“the two of us were separated. And I, engrossed in the task of keeping them off of me, saw that they had overpowered him… biting, ripping, pulling him deeper into their fold where even the strongest bones are crushed, and thickest skin devoured.

“I drove them back in rage,” he continued, “lifting one after another as shields against the rest, hoping that as they withdrew, they would leave something of him to recover. But they leave nothing of what they take.”

Matufinn stopped from time to time as though basking in the atmosphere, guided by every energy that Morlen was only beginning to feel, near and far. Such an odd mannerism led Morlen to suspect that if Matufinn had ventured to Korindelf during his upbringing, perhaps his own uncommon features would have met more acceptance than distaste.

“When you first went to Korindelf,” said Morlen, “did you feel—”