This final statement by Denaeh was almost a whisper, breathed out as if speaking it any louder would cause her pain. After a few moments’ time, she took a deep breath and murmured, in a tone that seemed strange coming from this woman who was usually so vibrant, “Yet again, he may not have heard of the transformation of the Tanaan, but how could that be?”
She was no longer talking to Jahrra, but to someone, or something, beyond the boundaries of time. She had her arms clasped across her stomach now and was once again gazing past the dripping ropes of moss tangling up her doorway. Something left her then, part of her spirit or some hope she clung to. Jahrra wasn’t sure what had happened, but she could feel a deep loss saturating the air.
Jahrra blinked away her confusion and reflected on the story she had just heard. The hair on the back of her neck had stood on end as she listened, and she’d grown more and more uneasy. The Mystic hadn’t noticed, but when she spoke the words “blood rose”, Jahrra had turned stone cold. Denaeh had named it as a symbol of Ethoes, but Eydeth had told her it was the symbol of the Crimson King.
Jahrra suddenly felt she could no longer stay quiet. For months she’d been telling herself that the man who had attacked her in Lensterans wasn’t dangerous. She had been ignoring her conscience when it warned her of the danger, and she had ignored Eydeth when he told her the dark stranger was associated with the Tyrant King. She had to ask someone, someone she could trust, someone unlike Hroombra or Jaax who would lock her up for the rest of her life or burn her to a crisp if they knew what had really happened. Denaeh’s description of the blood rose was a perfect opportunity, so, erring on the side of caution, Jahrra thought of a way to ask her friend without actually telling her what had happened.
“Denaeh, I’m a bit confused,” she queried cautiously. “I was told in class that the blood rose was a symbol used by the Crimson King. Why would the Tanaan prince have a compass with the Tyrant’s symbol carved into it?”
Denaeh stayed silent for a long time, her head bowed low. Finally, after Jahrra was beginning to think she hadn’t heard her, the Mystic exhaled softly and said remorsefully, “It wasn’t that way before, but it is so now. He adopted it as his own emblem after the mass slaughter of the Tanaan and the good people of Ethoes, after he spilled their blood upon the Desolate Plain.
“You see, the blood rose only grows when blood has touched the soil. A long time ago, it was seen as one of the symbols of Ethoes because blood is equated with life, and Ethoes gives life. There is an ancient story about the first creature that shed blood. Ethoes’ children were fighting over their belongings on the earth, and an innocent was killed over it, spilling his blood upon the ground. Ethoes was horrified at what had happened, so she willed the first blood rose to arise from the bloodshed and claimed that life should never again be taken in the name of anger, hatred or greed.” Denaeh paused. “Only a few know this story now,” she continued softly.
“What does it look like, this blood rose?” Jahrra asked, trying not to sound too anxious.
As Denaeh meticulously described the very flower etched into the back of the compass, Jahrra became white with fear.
It had to be the compass of the Magehn that she had found. The compass of the prince of Oescienne! But that also meant that her would-be-captor in the east wood of Lensterans really was loyal to . . . Jahrra gulped and pushed that thought away from her mind. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe it was the way the moon’s light fell on his face that made Eydeth think he saw the Crimson King’s adopted mark.
Denaeh finished her description, all the while staring sadly past her moss curtain, not once seeing Jahrra’s surprised and frightened expression.
After a few more moments of quiet reflection, Denaeh turned her golden eyes onto Jahrra and said with a voice that sounded more like her old woman’s rasp than her youthful melody, “What exactly did you see in that book?”
Jahrra looked up, not knowing precisely what to say. She thought for a moment, and then answered, “Lettering of some sort, not the writing I’ve seen in Master Hroombra’s books and maps, but it looked similar.”
“So it isn’t written in Draggish?”
Jahrra shot her head up in surprise, but Denaeh just smiled sadly.
“I’m a Mystic, dear girl. I know many of your thoughts, remember? Besides, I’ve been alive long enough to have heard the language spoken between many, and I had no problem recognizing the random Kruelt words that play around in your mind. But the Magehn and the king had a unique code they used to communicate. Perhaps this is what you saw.”
“Well,” offered Jahrra, getting up to go to her saddlebags, “I wrote a few things down in my journal when we found the book the first time.”
Denaeh looked as if she might faint, but she did her best to recover.
“And you have your journal with you?” she inquired in a harsh whisper.
“Why yes, of course.” Jahrra smiled as she stepped through the tangled moss to retrieve the tome.
As soon as the girl was out of sight, Denaeh began pacing frantically. If that book is really the Magehn’s log, I must see it! But how on Ethoes will I get it away from those dragons!
Jahrra pushed back through the strands of moss a few moments later carrying her own leather-bound book. Denaeh abruptly stopped her pacing. The Mystic watched patiently as Jahrra flipped through the pages, pages that suddenly looked alive in the dim firelight. Drawings of various birds and insects, reptiles and mammals of all shapes and sizes skipped by, but she had no time to admire them. A few of the sketches even looked like unicorns, but she let the thought escape her mind as the images of maps, creatures and writing flew by. Finally, Jahrra reached the pages where she’d jotted down the characters from the dead man’s book. When Denaeh saw the black scrawl, her heart nearly stopped.
The Mystic knew then what this writing was, even if she couldn’t decipher it. She now knew for a fact that this was the book of the Magehn, and that Jahrra had made a very important, but very dangerous discovery. For a few moments, Denaeh thought of proclaiming this truth, but then she realized what telling the young girl would do. She shrouded her eyes as best as she could and released a long sigh, trying hard not to let her sorrow escape with it.
“Is this the writing from the Book of Kings, the book of the Magehn?” Jahrra asked eagerly.
“No,” Denaeh lied, speaking with a tone of disappointment, “it looks like some rubbish language the pirates might have used in keeping their coastal lairs safe. I’m afraid that book may only be useful in finding a treasure that no longer exists.”
Jahrra was puzzled by Denaeh’s disappointment. The Mystic had been so sure, why this sudden change of heart?
“What about the compass?” Jahrra offered. “The description you gave me was exactly accurate.”
Denaeh smiled and said, “Many compasses were made to resemble the one belonging to the prince. It could very well be one of those, stolen by the ruffian who crawled into that cave and died.”
Jahrra was unable to pick up the deceit in Denaeh’s tone; the Mystic was far too good at lying and Jahrra had no idea if more compasses had been made or not.
She looked down at her journal pages once more and shrugged. “If it really is an ancient code to a hidden treasure, then it could be more exciting than the book of an old Magehn.”
Denaeh winced at Jahrra’s words, but she knew the girl knew no better. She smiled despairingly nonetheless. If only you knew the truth, child. For the smallest of moments, Denaeh had been overwhelmingly tempted to tell Jahrra of her purpose in life, to tell her the truth about the book and about the elf who had guarded it with his life. She held back, however, knowing that all too soon Jahrra’s true identity would be revealed to her by those who cared for her.