For a few moments, she stood still and simply caught her breath. It had been a hard journey from the outskirts of Cahrdyarein to Nimbronia. She and Milihn, who awaited her return beyond the wall of the City in the Clouds, had managed to dodge the Crimson King’s soldiers and their scouts, crossing Nimbronia’s southern bridge under the cover of night. She and her feathered companion had timed their arrival to just miss running into Jahrra, Jaax or their mysterious comrade. Since her last attempt at ferreting the strong magic wielder out, Denaeh had not tried again. The experience had rattled her and plagued her with nightmares ever since. No, she would wait a little longer. If anyone knew patience, she did.
Shaking her head to rid it of such dismal thoughts, the Mystic returned her attention to the present and what had transpired in Dhuruhn’s throne room. She knew the risk she had taken by offering to share her visions with the king of the Creecemind. She had gotten what she wanted, a chance to use the scrying pool in the temple of the Sacred Pine, but it might mean offering Felldreim’s sovereign much more than what she was willing to part with. There was no way to be certain her memories and her deepest secrets would stay confined where she had locked them away, deep within her mind. Denaeh sighed. That was just a risk she’d have to take. Gaining access to the temple under the Pine and the Truth she could learn there was far more important.
Speaking a single word, the Mystic brought small tongues of flame to the dusty lanterns hanging at intervals along the cavern walls. It was clear this makeshift temple hadn’t been used in a very long time. Denaeh couldn’t imagine the Creecemind visiting, for the cave could not accommodate them.
Perhaps, when they felt a need to connect with the goddess, they merely flew to the mountain’s crest and rested beside the Tree for a time. A few crude stone benches sat against the curved walls every few feet, some had even been cracked by the thick roots of the Tree. Toward the end of the cave temple, only a dozen or so feet away, stood a great stone basin supported by a massive coil of Pine roots.
Denaeh approached the strange altar and placed her hand against the solid ice occupying the shallow basin. The surface cracked, and the water swiftly became liquid again, impossibly cold and emitting a pale blue luminescence. A pair of unearthly, haunted eyes gazed back at her through the magic-infused water. Denaeh snatched her hand back and pressed it flat against her stomach. Her other arm she held rigid beside her, her fingers curled into a fist.
The Mystic drew in a breath of the frigid air and said in a loud voice, “The scrying pool has awakened. I am ready.”
Dhuruhn’s powerful voice responded from somewhere outside, “Then place your hand upon the Pine, and let us see what you have to offer.”
Denaeh took another breath, steeling herself for the shock that was to come. She stepped forward and found a large knot on one of the roots, the bark split away and bearing a bit of the heart wood beneath. Denaeh reached out her hand and placed her fingers upon the smooth root.
Immediately, she felt a rushing sensation pulse through her, as if the ice of the mountain had seeped beneath her skin and flooded her veins. Her breath hitched, and her eyes felt as if they were being stabbed with frozen needles from within. Her free hand clenched, and her toes curled within her boots. She gasped as Dhuruhn’s mind, strong, unyielding, aggressive, brushed against hers, demanding entrance. Denaeh swallowed, forced those memories she could not bear to share back into their distant cell, and opened up her mind to the dragon.
A scene flashed before her eyes, one fraught with wind and blurred colors, the way these visions always displayed themselves. Upon a windswept mountain, surrounded by snow and ice, a great demon spread its wings and yawned wide. Below the monster stood a tiny figure, a young woman with hair of gold, kneeling as if in acquiescence. Behind her stood a woman, her scarlet hair and red cloak unfurling in the unearthly wind. In her hand was a dagger, held high above her head. The demon yawned wider, and an army of great monsters, Morli dragons, lifted to the sky, their battle fury met by dragons far greater than them, Creecemind dragons breathing ice and death down upon the aerial warriors. In the next moment, the dark cloud that was the demon dissipated and became nothing, leaving behind a blank whirlwind of smoke and ash.
That was all Denaeh wished to show the king of the Creecemind, but before she could pry her frozen hand away from the Tree’s root, another scene flashed before her. It was a strange one, a vision of a bright room in a castle, of a young woman cradling a new born baby. The child cried, and the mother crooned at him, hushing him and entreating him to sleep. The windswept vision was suddenly free in Denaeh’s mind, and she could feel the tendrils of Dhuruhn’s mind grasping at it, trying to catch it as if it were a wayward dust mote dancing in the air. With a cry of anguish, pain and terror, Denaeh ripped her hand free of the root, severing the bond before the Tree was ready to release her.
The effect was agonizing, the backlash of raw magic forcing the Mystic to the ground and sending shockwaves of numbing pain up her arm. The ache spread into her chest, causing her breath to come in short gasps and forcing her heart into an unsteady, quick rhythm. Denaeh lay there, waiting for the hurt to subside, and her heartbeat to return to normal. Finally, she felt strong enough to sit up, the bright flash that had accompanied the blast of power fading from her vision.
Slowly, Denaeh stood and climbed back out of the cave, blinking painfully against the bright sun and the harsh wind.
“That was foolish,” the king of the Creecemind growled.
He was hanging onto the side of the mountaintop like a squirrel clinging to the trunk of a tree. His claws dug into the rock with little effort, and his great size made the stairway back down into the city seem like nothing more than a tiny notch cut into the cliff. But, he had nothing to fear. If his grip slipped, all he had to do was push himself away from the mountain and glide back down to his castle. Denaeh, on the other hand, must carefully pick her way down the narrow path and pray she didn’t lose her footing.
Despite her exhaustion, the Mystic was able to flash the dragon king an angry look. “You were given permission to view my visions concerning the human girl and the end of the Tyrant, that was all.”
The king snorted. “And if you had the chance to fish around in your enemy’s head, would you not take advantage as well?”
“I am not your enemy,” Denaeh spat.
The king sneered in disgust. “You are dangerous, unpredictable, and I have no idea where your loyalties lie. You are most definitely my enemy.”
Denaeh did not respond, but clutched her side and began climbing the steep stony path back down the mountain peak.
“Tell me,” the king drawled as he clung to the rock, “who is the infant?”
Denaeh paused in her efforts and shot him another look of anger that bordered on fear. “That is not information you need to know.”
“Well, I demand to know something!” he stormed in response. “All I witnessed was a girl crouched before what could or couldn’t have been the god Ciarrohn. The scene disappeared before I could discern whether or not this girl actually defeats him. Or, if she is even Jahrraneh Drisihn.”
Denaeh paused in her attempt to descend to the next step on the narrow path. All that separated her from plunging to her death was a slab of ice-slicked granite no more than two feet wide. She wanted to press herself up against the side of the vertical mountain peak, but instead she turned and shot the Creecemind king a look of such loathing, it would have caused any other being to quail.