The Lost Princess

Chapter Twelve: The Legend of the Swamp

Amara sat motionless, her back to a large willow. Its branches swayed back and forth, but there was no wind. The strange tree was the least disturbing of the anomalies that lurked in the dark depths of the Aramgan. Eyes glowed in the treetops, flickering here and there. The ceaseless groaning of the trees reverberated all around. Amara usually felt at home in the dark of night—not because of her time in the dungeons but because of the reverence her people held for the night sky. It was the most sacred time. The stars were charted endlessly, their movements memorized, and every single one held a name. But just like it had been in the dungeons, in the Aramgan no starlight could penetrate the thick canopy of trees above. She hated it, and the oppressive and haunting nature of the swamp only enhanced her disquiet.

A loud cracking from above startled her. Looking into the gloom above, she tried to steady her racing heart. She could not find the source of the noise.

Though she didn't like this marsh, it intrigued her. The deer's dimly iridescent hides and undead ghoulish behavior was puzzling. She racked her brain, trying to remember the stories from her childhood, but all that came to mind was that the Aramgan had not always been like this. It had once been a sacred place, but she could remember nothing else.

Fireflies danced in the air, casting an eerie glow. Amara tried not to study the dark shadows the torches cast for fear of what she would see. How many hours till morning?

Even though it was time to wake Nauro for his shift, Amara knew she would never be able to sleep in this place. Desperate for a distraction, she took a whetstone from her pack and began sharpening her knives with slow, smooth strokes. She quickly finished her task and sat idle once more. The noises of the swamp became louder. Amara stood, restless. The limbs of the willow brushed against her face; another wrapped gently around her arm. The leaves stuck to her skin, and she pulled away, a soft cry escaping her lips. She stumbled over a root and fell hard. Almost immediately a tender hand rested on her shoulder, and she looked up to see the elf queen, Eramire.

"Do not be frightened." Eramire spoke in barely a whisper, her face serene, blue eyes full of understanding. The light of the torch she held flickered.

Amara shrugged off her hand. "Who could not be frightened in such a place as this?" she growled. "Where everything draws breath and yet does not live?"

Eramire looked around, a grim expression on her face. "This place was once beautiful."

Amara studied the elf queen. Her face was wistful.

"How do you know?"

"I saw many legends unfold as a young girl," Eramire replied, still gazing about. "The fall of the Aramgan was one of them."

"Tell me," Amara requested.

Eramire pursed her lips, puckering her forehead as she tried to remember the story. "This place used to be a beautiful wood, known as the Katamoku. It was often visited by the mages of Celeblas and the few wandering wizards of men. Many valuable herbs for potions and remedies grew only here. But the most precious plant that grew here was the mallospen, and it was coveted by all magic folk and sorcerers alike. Which is why the elves placed it here—to protect it."

Eramire fingered the necklace at her throat. It was the same one Amara had tried to steal the night they had met. It was well made and very costly. Amara was sure it would fetch more than enough coin to buy almost fifty horses, and very fine horses at that.

"The mallospen has the ability to heal even mortal wounds," Eramire began again, breaking Amara's theft-motivated thoughts. "Some say when prepared in the right potion, it can even grant immortality."