Hroombra ended his somber tale suddenly, the final sentence hanging in the air like a resounding, mournful note. He took a few moments to let it pass before looking down at Jahrra once more. When he finally did, he couldn’t help but give into the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth; she stared up at him as if he were changing colors before her very eyes.
“Now,” he said, his tired voice sounding slightly strained, “I’m sure you have many questions, so I’ll allow you to ask three.”
Jahrra’s eyes, if at all possible, became even rounder. Questions? she thought. I never get to ask questions after a story! She sat quite still for a while, not wanting to waste her three precious questions.
Finally, after what felt like hours, she asked, “If the humans were turned into Tanaan dragons, where did all the dragons go?”
Hroombra smiled knowingly. He’d been expecting this inquiry, and it would be an easy one to answer, easier than some at least.
“They still exist in the world, only not in Oescienne any longer. As a matter of fact, you’ve seen one before. Jaax is a Tanaan dragon; his ancestors are the very same people who were cursed by the Crimson King so long ago.”
Jahrra started at the mention of Jaax’s name but simply nodded, her lips sealed tight. Hroombra smiled secretly, however, when he realized that her mind was fighting against itself, the evidence of this portrayed in her facial expressions. He was sure she wanted to ask a million more questions about this answer but knew she only had two questions left. He suppressed an urge to laugh out loud and waited for her next query.
“Did the Crimson King ever take over the world?” she blurted.
Jahrra knew of his existence of course; she had learned so in class and from Hroombra, but she never knew if he really ruled the world or if he just ruled the province of Ghorium.
“No, Jahrra, he hasn’t yet taken over this world. It is thought that the curse he set upon the Tanaan and their castle weakened him so severely he is still, centuries later, recovering. Many believe that he is building up an army that will be unconquerable, but no one is brave enough to venture into Ghorium to find out for sure. For now we sit and wait, hoping he’ll never inflict war upon the lands. Now,” Hroombra breathed deeply, “one last question.”
This time it took Jahrra longer than before to come up with her question, but when she finally asked it, Hroombra knew she had picked a good one.
“Whatever happened to the Tanaan prince?” she said timidly, gulping slightly. “Did he die when he fought the Crimson King?”
Hroombra took a breath and spoke, “It is said that he survived the battle, but it’s uncertain whether he escaped with the rest of his people. You see, once they became dragons, the Tanaan no longer recognized one another. It’s hard to say if the prince was one of the many to escape or not. Some say the prince’s mentor believed he survived the battle and took to searching the ends of the earth for him, only to perishing in his hunt. I myself like to think the prince is still out there somewhere, waiting for his second chance at revenge.”
Jahrra listened and when Hroombra was done, she nodded her head contentedly. She closed her eyes and mulled the story over in her head, making it into something beautiful the way an oyster makes a pearl. After several minutes she stood up and walked back to the mural, to the end where she had seen the figure on the horse facing off the dark, menacing form.
“So, this is the whole story of how the Tanaan became dragons, the story of why Oescienne has no king,” Jahrra whispered with a heavy heart, her hand pressed against the brave, faceless figure challenging the Crimson King, her eyes locked with Hroombra’s.
“That’s right,” he said, “before the castle began to crumble, someone painted the last part of the story upon this wall. But they left several feet of the wall at the end there. I like to think they held out hope that somehow, someday, the land and the castle would return to the way it was.” Hroombra sighed. “Many believe that someday the Tyrant will be defeated and there will be nothing left to fear.”
“Master Hroombra?” Jahrra asked, furrowing her brow. “What exactly is a “tyrant”? Master Tarnik has talked about the Crimson King, but he has never called him by that name.”
Hroombra curled his lip grimly and answered, “A tyrant is someone who rules by fear and oppression, but I don’t want you to worry about it now, Jahrra. The king is far away and can’t hurt you, but it would be best not to talk about this at school.”
Hroombra released his breath, suddenly realizing that he’d been holding it, as Jahrra nodded her head in agreement. He knew that this statement may be true now but it was only so long until the king would want to find Jahrra, to destroy her. I’m sorry young one, I lied, the old dragon thought in private agony. The king can hurt you and I fear someday he will. But not now, I won’t let him harm you now. Hroombra shook these awful thoughts from his head and looked back down at Jahrra.
She was now peering more closely at the people running in terror, those casting the shadows of dragons. Hroombra imagined she was trying to impress the pictures into her mind so that they matched up with the story he had told her. Jahrra trailed her fingers over the images slowly, but halted her hand when she spotted something else. It was a strange writing that followed the tale along the bottom of the mural. She had ignored it before, figuring she didn’t need to read it. Now she was dying to know what it said.
“What is this writing?” she asked shortly.
“That, young one, is Kruelt, the language of the dragons.”
Jahrra looked up with innocent eyes. “What does it say?”
“Oh, more or less what I just told you, but those words tell much more of the story . . .” Hroombra said in amusement.
“How much more!?” Jahrra exclaimed, nearly falling over as her hand glanced off the wall. “Master Hroombra! You’ve got to read it to me!” she insisted.
“That, I won’t do.”
Jahrra looked simply crestfallen.
“Don’t fret, you’ll know it in time.” He laughed, sounding cheerful for the first time this day. “In fact, it’s about time you began to learn Kruelt. I have always meant for you to learn it since you live with a dragon, and now is a good time for you to start. Once you’ve mastered the ancient language you can come back here and read the entire story for yourself.”
Hroombra smiled and Jahrra made a sour face.
“Learn a new language?” she said. “Just so I can read this story? Wouldn’t it be easier for you to read it to me?”
The young girl gazed up at Hroombra with a look of slight annoyance on her face.
“No, you shall learn Kruelt,” Hroombra pressed adamantly. “Someday you may be grateful you learned it. And when you do, you can come back here and see what these words say.”
“I don’t see how I could someday be grateful for extra lessons,” Jahrra grumbled, pushing her hair behind her ears and crossing her arms.
Hroombra grinned and said, “You’ll understand, Jahrra . . .”
“I know, I know,” she cut in impatiently, rolling her eyes, “all in good time.”
Hroombra chuckled, his eyes crinkling in good humor, “Very good, young one. Now, is there any other part of the Castle Ruin you would like to see? It is growing late, and the sun will be setting soon so we must be moving along soon.”