The Lost Princess

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Taking the Mark

Earwen crept down the stairs. One creaked, and she froze, heart pounding. She stood there listening a moment for any stirrings in the rooms above. No one came. She sighed in relief and tiptoed down the remaining stairs and out the door. Tint fluttered down from the roof. He nuzzled her, begging for a treat.

"Not now," she whispered. "Besides, you're bound to get fat with all those snacks. You won't be able to fly, and then where will we be?"

Tint gave an indignant screech and took to the air, following the elf princess as she trotted down the dark streets.

Soon Earwen was sitting behind Feredir as they flew off into the night. Clouds dotted the sky, black and ominous, but they did not cover the moons, and the way was easy to see. They flew in silence, and even Hinnorn seemed to feel the slight chill coming from the north. The cold breeze made her huddle closer to Feredir. He hadn't explained where they were going or why, only that tonight was important for the upcoming qualifiers.

She could see they were moving toward the stone forest. The mist wove between the dark pillars like water around rocks in a river. She could see a fire atop a large pillar ahead, and soon multiple shapes could be made out around it.

They landed not far away from the fire. A couple of Feredir's friends, Malik and Nicolau, were there with their teammates, along with the other teams. A lot of them Earwen had already met.

After greeting everyone and taking their places by the fire, Earwen turned to Feredir. "What are we doing here?" she asked.

He smiled. "It is a ritual we do before every season. We always retell the stories of the original dragon riders."

Earwen looked over at the mist-shrouded pillars. She shook her head. "It is an honor to be counted among you."

Malik chuckled. "Oh, you aren't just yet, miss."

Earwen frowned. "What do you mean?"

Feredir shifted. "Well, you see, you never went through the initiation of a new rider."

Earwen looked at the others. "What initiation?"

Everyone had stood and begun walking toward the stones, away from the fire. Feredir winked and took her hand.

Two torches were lit before the entrance of the stone forest, and a table with several articles was set up. Feredir picked up one with a thick black liquid in it. A sharp, pointed pen lay in the bowl of ink.

"Earwen, the Cadamus Circuits are fast approaching. Soon you will take part in the most dangerous race of your life. Do you accept this danger and promise to face it head on and without fear?"

Earwen nodded. "I will."

Feredir smiled. He held out his arm, and Earwen was surprised to see a black mark there, inked onto his forearm. She couldn't believe she had never noticed it. It looked like a y with an extra arm in the middle—a fork of sorts. She felt gooseflesh race over her skin.

"This is the mark of protection," she whispered. "The mark of the mallospen—the mark of the white stag. Sacred to all races."

She ran her fingers over the symbol and looked into Feredir's dark eyes. "How did you come to choose it as your rune?"

Feredir smiled. "My brother chose it."

Earwen released his wrist and rolled up the sleeve of her right arm, holding it out. "I hope I can be worthy of it."

Feredir picked up the quill and smiled gently as he handed the bowl to Malik to hold. "You will be."

He placed his hand under her arm and in the flickering torchlight began to tattoo the symbol into Earwen's fair skin. She winced as the sharp point of the instrument scratched the ink deep, but she did not flinch away. The symbol was not intricate, and soon the mark had been made.

Feredir retrieved the bowl from Malik and dipped his fingers in the dark liquid. He raised his hand and smeared a line above her brow and two down her chin. His eyes glowed with a peculiar, possessive light. He was proud of her, but something else lay beneath the desire to win the race.

He stepped back and placed the bowl back on the table. He held up his arm. The others followed suit, their fists raised, showing their own chosen symbols. Earwen, with a proud smile, raised her hand. The men gave out their warrior cries, and Earwen threw back her head and shouted with them.

When the echoing of their voices had vanished and the still silence once again hung in the air, the Athlons returned to the fire. The elf princess watched as one man brought out a pan flute and another a barbiton, a stringed instrument. Earwen frowned at Feredir, but he only smiled. Another man brought out a small drum and began to tap on it. Music floated up and into the darkness, reverberating off the stone pillars. Those who had no instruments clapped in rhythm with each other. She was just beginning to enjoy the music when a voice broke through the notes. Earwen opened her eyes.

It was Feredir singing. She had never heard a voice like Feredir's, so deep and melodious. She tried to concentrate on the words he was saying. He sang of the history of his ancestors, the giants—the dragons' riders. She stared at the smoke, and it seemed to her to change and open a window to the past. Great reptiles with flawless scales and two pairs of wings rose out of the flames in the form of smoke and danced in the sky. Huge men rode on their backs, swarming a hillside. Fire exploded from the depths of the mountain they attacked. Fire rained from the beasts' great maws and raged on the ground. The Purge.

Earwen watched it unfold before her as if she were reliving the end of the giants and the dwarves. She could feel the sorrow and the anger. The two races fought each other with fire and claws. Great sweeps of a tail would send a whole platoon of dwarves flying, and yet glowing red swords cut through scales like a knife through smoke. The words surrounded her, harsh and mournful. She touched the fresh mark on her arm and winced. She was a part of this history.

The song changed. It was no longer fiery, and it turned desolate. A few survivors of a race that had no home. They had ended in flames. The countryside was scorched beyond recognition. They were outcasts; they traveled miles to reside in the villages of men. She mourned for the foolishness of the two warring races.

The song did not dwell on the time of wandering. The words became fast, and the tempo picked up as well—the journey of the Taimanians back to their home. Back to the wild red mountains. The taming of the gryphons had begun, and the rise of the half-blooded was beginning. The red mountains would have a king once again. They would reclaim the gift long lost in the form of a new creature and the gift of the dwarves. A new alliance was formed.

Earwen let the music swell in her chest. She felt a love for the rise of the Taimanians. She stood and sang in the language of her people the words Feredir had said. She committed them to memory. Her silvery voice joined his, and she danced, auburn hair floating in the firelight. She swayed to the music. Her feet left the ground and returned. Arms captured her waist, and she opened her eyes to stare into the young blacksmith's. Other couples joined, and the band's music swelled. And they danced—danced to the history of the people. To the race that had claimed lives. To the wilderness in which they lived.

And Earwen, in the back of her mind, could see that the pillars were dragon's teeth; the fog, the great reptiles' breath. The great beasts of old lived on, kept alive by the Athlons.

Thank you so much for reading! <3

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