Suspicion Cavern
SUSPICION CAVERN
Kasandriana comes to a slight awareness as her horse stops to lap up the cool water from a splashing brook that cascades from the mountain. Crooked sprawling trees thrust cool shade along the bank. Her frightened eyes search hopefully for Adalamon. She dismounts and swallows each handful of water as if it may be her last. The cool water feels good upon her tired face. She searches once more and resolves it’s safer to be near the mountain through the night. At least it can offer her some protection from the cold night air and those things that hide in the dark. She leads her horse towards the mountain tightly holding the reins in one hand and the sword in the other. Darkness closes around her now and she squints trying to see through the shadows.
Shaking slightly she looks into the cavern but is too dark to see inside. The musty stench of the cave irritates her nostrils. She pays close attention to any signs of distress her horse may have. Carefully she feels her way along the cool inside wall until she is confident she will be out of site until daylight.
The echoes of her horse’s hoofs offer no comfort. She ties the reigns loosely to her hand and lays down against the stone cold floor. Kasandriana decides it better to try to fall asleep and wake refreshed in the morning rather than trying to stay awake all night. If someone enters the cave her horse will let her know.
Questions swirl through her mind like clouds through a breezy sky. “Why did Adalamon risk his life for her? Why didn’t he take the sword? The council voted for Ramsor, why? Why did Ramsor murder his father? Is Garilaous going to the wizard to have some spell placed on him so he can gain power through a sorcerer’s hex? Where will Tarilaous hide the crystal?” Questions, visions and the bard’s verses repeat over and over in her head. Adalamon’s father performed heroic deeds but didn’t know the truth. Sequeller fights for her realm. A hawk cries in the darkness. A body with no head runs. A crystal falls into the abyss and Kasandriana falls after it. Her mind loses itself in mazes of confusion. She spirals downwards.
Adalamon carries her near the warm blazing campfire. Why can’t she see his face? She watches as he swings the sword killing man after man as they walk towards him through the night mist. He turns towards her with his barren eyes. She turns and runs into the mist; running and falling. The bard sings magnetic verses while her pace shifts into an almost immobile gait. Hypnotic eyes hold her in a state of unconsciousness. A sinister smile spreads slowly across his lips and he turns away beckoning her to follow him. She spirals downwards, deeper and deeper into the abyss.
Kasandriana stands motionless on a small patch of solid ground surrounded by quicksand. No one comes for her. Somewhere inside of her an aching cry wants to come forward through the darkness but it can’t escape. She steps forwards and sinks lower and lower into the quicksand. Her mouth is covered and she feels suffocated. She spirals downwards slowly.
The bard sings his verses to her. She feels comforted by his tender voice. “Sequeller only wants what is hers, she was betrayed. The crystal is hers.
The realm belongs to her. Adalamon’s father performed heroic deeds but he did so in fault.”
Kasandriana sleeps on a billowing cloud floating through the sky. The cloud suddenly darkens and separates and she spirals downwards. She tries to scream but no scream comes from her dry aching throat. Her psyche spirals downwards into the blackness of Sequeller’s underworld.
Adalamon calls out for her. She tries to run from the sound of his voice as he beckons her from afar singing his hypnotic verses. He calls again and again.
Kasandriana feels strong arms lift and carry her. Light stings her eyes and she squeezes them tightly to reject the brightness.
“Kasandriana wake up!” “Kasandriana?” Adalamon slaps her gently and still Kasandriana does not awake. Her emotional essence becomes more and more fragmented.
Adalamon carries her to the brook and sets her in the cold water. He splashes water over her head. She shivers from the cold. Slowly she opens her eyes. Confusion fills her like an infection. Her soul lays entranced in the abyss like an ancient life waiting to be remembered. Adalamon calls again and again. Kasandriana does not answer. Her pallid face and empty eyes warn Adalamon to move quickly.
Adalamon recalls his father’s teachings about the wood elves and their healing powers. Elves are rarely seen in the Edbyrga Woodlands because they live in deep forest places seldom touched by mortal men. It has been told that time within their forest dwelling moves with strange peculiarity. An hour may flow like a few moments or a few moments may flow like hours. The elves live a passionate but simplistic existence that falls into a loving harmony with the forest. They are at one with its uncultivated beauty and wild creatures. Their distrust of outsiders is quite profound and they will stop at nothing to protect their forest.
Adalamon is all too conscious of the trickery that the immortal wood elves amuse them selves with. His father warned him never to enter or take anything from their woods without permission. They participate in harmless mischievous games for pure enjoyment and to keep those from entering their domain but, they will not hesitate to bestow a lifetime of deception on those who damage their woods or take fruit or herbs without agreement. As retribution, many travelers have been driven to madness with no hope of escaping the woods when they have entered with deception and harmful intentions. Like the strange peculiarity of time, forest paths shift in clandestine alterations so immoral travelers wander them endlessly. Occasionally, a traveler who is found worthy enough to enter the deep woods will be guided by shafts of sunlight along the forest trails until he reaches a predetermined spot where the elves will greet him.
Adalamon realizes he might be driven mad by entering their forest but he also knows it is Kasandriana’s only hope. Villagers grow and harvest their own herbs and make them into salves, syrups, teas, poultices and powders for healing purposes but the elves have the greatest natural healing knowledge. The soil in the deep forest grows both powerful healing and poisonous herbs that can not thrive in the villages. The spirit berry grows in the midst of their forest. Its medicinal potion is the only thing that can bring Kasandriana’s soul out of the dark abyss. Its deep wine-coloured berries are dreadfully bitter upon the tongue. The remedy is often unsuccessful because of the nausea that compels one to spew it out.
THE WOOD ELVES
Adalamon lifts Kasandriana to her horse and promptly mounts behind her. Leaning her into his throbbing chest, he thrusts his heels urgently into the horses side. The horse’s ears point forward and its nostrils flare open as he exhales hard. With a large intake of air the horse lifts its head high and attempts to smell out any danger that lies ahead. Adalamon feels its neck muscles tighten. The horse has an innate ability to know Kasandriana is in danger. With urgency her horse jolts forward manoeuvring almost magically through heavy thickets and fallen decaying trees. They ride in desperation for several days, stopping only for water and a short rest. Adalamon struggles against time unaware of the elusive desire in his own soul. Panic seizes every nerve. The horse’s breathing becomes laborious and its aching lungs are strained by continuous rapid deep gasps of air. Within the cavity of Adalamon’s own expanded chest lies the pounding apprehension that Kasandriana may never return.
They reach the forest just before the dawn breaks. Massive redwood trees ascend since the emergence of time in an effort to touch the crimson tinted sky. An enchanting mist rises from the moist cool ground. Rays of sunlight break scantily through the dense foliage casting tiny beams of light downward giving the forest a captivating appearance. Rich dark greens contrast the soft humid rust coloured ground. Wild varieties of vegetation sprout randomly through the damp soil. Some have magical restorative powers but if one does not know how to prepare the remedy, one could just as easily die from poisoning as from the wound or sickness that ails them.
Adalamon forages on foot through the dense woodland walking Kasandriana along side of him. He has long forgotten the horse left behind in a small clearing. Adalamon is no longer sure how many days he has been walking through the forest searching for and following rays of sunlight that have fallen on unexpected pathways as his father taught him. Kasandriana, exhausted and void, drops to the ground in a statuesque position that blends in with the static trees. Nervous tension and physical exhaustion embrace him at last. He resigns himself and sits beside Kasandriana hugging his knees in an effort to protect himself from the desperation that wants to explode inside his chest. The deafening silence seems to drag on for eternity. It is the same deathly stillness that remains on blood splattered battle grounds. Hopelessness engraves itself on his sullen face. The lump in his parched throat expands. A yearning from somewhere deep within pushes an uncontrollable tear to the surface of his eye. He squeezes his eyes tightly closed to restrain the feeling of defeat that clutches his very being then slowly he reaches over and runs his fingertips gently down Kassandriana’s pale, expressionless face. Her vacant glassy eyes remain deathly motionless. Gently he kisses her forehead and lays it upon a nearby grassy knoll. A strange sensation engulfs his very being.
Cracklings of the forest bed shatter the silence. Adalamon raises his weary head enough to see several lithe and slender elves emerging from the forest carrying finely carved spears and bows. Long, fine, silky fair-hair falls behind noticeably pointed ears that are supported by bony ridges on either side of their skulls. Large slanted eyelids reveal sparkling green eyes. High prominent cheek bones frame small narrow noses. Various shades of green and brown leathers cover their bronzed skin. Each elf has a tattoo of a vine circling a branch around the top of their left arm. The tallest of the elves walks confidently ahead of the others. “I am Ahloyhn. Why do you seek the deep forest where mortals seldom leave?”
Adalamon speaks weakly, “I am Adalamon who seeks your help. Kasandriana’s tormented soul lies in darkness. Her mind was afflicted in Superstition Cavern. She has little time left.” He turns away to conceal a deeper truth that lies within him.
Ahloyhn takes notice of the sword and curiously lifts it from the forest floor. The fragments of light around it feel warm. His opposite hand gravitates along the length of the blade in an unhurried smooth motion admiring the transformation of colours. Ahloyhn’s insight is greater than those of mortals and he foresees the sword being used in a great and noble battle. Ahloyhn questions, “What will you barter for the spirit berry? Will you bargain her life for the sword?”
Adalamon’s defeated face turns ashen with the feeling of his heart being torn right out of his chest. Seconds of silence pass as he tries to reason with the conflict in his mind: save Kasandriana or save Castargan? He knows without a doubt he does not have sufficient strength to seize the berry and endure the trek with Kasandriana back out of the woods. The risk of capture is far too absolute to even consider. All Adalamon has is his own morality. Castargan must come first.
“I will not trade the sword,” he says disheartened. Within his true conviction lies the last particle of hope that Ahloyhn will have some compassion, not for himself, but for Kasandriana.
Ahloyhn thrusts his head from back to front motioning the rest of the elves to come forward. “Take them to the encampment.”
Just before twilight they reach the camp. The camp is surrounded by large vines exposing polished dark green pointed leaves and winding tendrils that clasp their way around a towering barrier of stones. Torches, positioned at the height of the barrier, boast their flames in the dusk. The faint calming sound of a flute is heard within.
Inside the gate, they cross over a ravine on a weathered bridge built from sturdy branches. Sweet aromas suddenly make Adalamon more aware of his hunger. His stomach aches for nourishment. His throat is parched for need of water. His pace is marked with the weight of his exhaustion and dejection. He collapses into his absolute powerlessness.
Fireweed, the overseer of the healing plants, gathers only what is sufficient for Kasandriana. He crushes the spirit berries in a small carved wooden bowl. To that he adds some other secret herbs, each measured three times, crushed, and then added to the spirit berry.
He lifts Kasandriana’s head into the crook of his arm. With two fingers on his other hand he pulls some of the mixture out of the bowl. He slides his fingers as far down Kasandriana’s throat as he can, holding her tongue down so she can not spew it back out. Firewood continues the routine again and again. Kasandriana heaves again and again. Once the mixture is completely swallowed he continues to keep Kasandriana upright with his fingers laid gently at the back of her tongue to avoid the potion from expelling. He watches over her compassionately through the long night. At long last she breaks into a fever and sweats freely. He holds a flask of water to her lips and pours it out drop by drop. She starts to cough as the wetness slides down the dryness of her throat. Slowly her eyes flicker open and closed. “Adalamon,” she whispers and then she falls into a soft blue light spiralling down into a warm deep slumber. Firewood wraps the covers around her snugly and knowing she is out of danger leaves quietly into the first light.
Adalamon awakes on a smooth silk covered mattress made of soft grasses. Urgently his eyes search the room for Kasandriana. Leaping out of bed too quickly, dizziness just about flings him to the floor. His shaking knees and aching body cry out for rest but his apprehension for Kasandriana suppresses his own needs. Just as Adalamon reaches the door, Shadow appears with a tray of food. Shadow, is rightly fitted to his name as he follows closely behind those that enter the forest.
With a hint of contempt, Adalamon demands, “Where is Kasandriana?”
“She is well and sleeping restfully now,” Shadow calmly replies. “Sit down and eat. I will take you to her in a short time.”
In one moment, Adalamon’s rigid face melted into relief. The scent of food awakens his hunger. Shadow watches as he eagerly eats every morsel almost without tasting it. His stomach is not too pleased with the hastiness in which he ate.
Adalamon can not wait. Restless hands clench into tight fists showing the whiteness of his rough knuckles. Worried pale green eyes reflect his desperation to know she is okay. Fireweed is irritated by Adalamon’s endless pacing and decides it is of little comfort to let him just sit and wait.
“Follow me; I will take you to her.”
Adalamon follows anxiously.
Adalamon looks down at Kasandriana’s sallow face. Her eyes open and lock with his. A stab of shame collides with his delight that she is safe and a veiled smile cracks across his concerned face. She hazily returns his smile, and then as if she is slightly embarrassed, she turns to focus on large dew drop covered leaves. Just for a moment, she sees a dark sky splattered with millions of stars.
Firewood interrupts and demands every one leave her to rest.
The humid afternoon expels the damp mustiness of the forest. Minute drops of sweat drip down Adalamon’s forehead and chest as he lies semi-naked across the bed. Exhaustion forces him into a deep restful sleep.
The snorting of horses awakens him at dawn. A clear pink sky speckled with downy clouds welcome him. Promptly he seeks Kasandriana. A small spark of happiness cracks across his lips as he watches her saunter down a golden brown pathway. A twinkle of delight reflects in her hazel eyes. They lock in a warm embrace and silently absorb one another’s affection for several moments. Kasandriana can sense the slight trembling that makes him step back nervously.
HAYGAR
Kasandriana follows Adalamon into the desert wastelands. Beneath the burning sky gusts of wind twist the sand into mottled ripples of serpents crawling across the desert floor. With the one horse between them they decide it is better to walk and save the horse’s strength for the time it is needed. The fetid stenches of the wastelands burn their nostrils. Girans perch overhead on naked trees. Hungrily, they watch every movement in edacious silence feeling invisible. Their consuming presence is enough to send quivers through Kasandriana’s entire being. She feels the ghosts of those that have died here. Vegetation does not exist here; creation itself has come to its own demise. Death’s stench is everywhere. A steaming volcano spews its endemic yellow haze over the entire sickly terrain. One burnt colour blends in with the next predicting, “You too will be a part of this!” Kasandriana moves nearer to Adalamon almost wishing he would offer some protection. Nervously, Adalamon moves away.
The sun beats down insistently offering no mercy. Behind them the fading horizon of Castargan glows in a deep warm orange. She wonders if she will ever set her eyes upon its beauty again. Inhaling a deep breath in a feeble attempt to ease her apprehension; she retches with the inhalation of sulphur. Adalamon chuckles to himself thinking her so foolish to do such a thing.
A prophetic wind begins to stir. Adalamon cautions Kasandriana about the fickle sands that drift in one direction or lie silent and still; then suddenly turn and devour the unaware. The winds change direction fashioning towering crescents that without warning release a granular avalanches of burial sand One can lose sight of something in a split second. Kasandriana grasps on to his sash and wishes she were brave enough to hold his hand tightly instead. Within minutes the wind picks up and sharp grainy dust particles whip in relentless circles creating dense blankets of thick whirlwinds that envelope Adalamon and Kasandriana. The world ahead of them is invisible. Cautiously Adalamon focuses on each step and prays they do not encounter the sand snakes. One puncture leads to immediate paralyzation. He feels more fear for Kasandriana than himself. Instant paralyzation from its venom is not what brings death. One still remains acutely aware of their surroundings while the snakes wriggle and crawl over and under a body in an attempt to bury it. In this dust storm it will happen more quickly but that is of little comfort to Adalamon. Paralyzation can last for days. Slow death may come by dehydration, suffocation, or the girans. Worse yet, one could be found by Sequeller and used for her black magic spells.
Suddenly, a physically powerful hot dry wind rising upward casts a hissing brown wall of sand in their direction. Kasandriana feels the sash and the horses reign slip out of her hands. Like a leaf in the wind her body hurls to the ground. Granules of sand bite at her flesh. She struggles to gain control of her body that is forced by a will not of her own being.
“Kasandriana,” Adalamon calls out loudly. Again and again he calls. His dry parched throat aches and thirsts for water. He hears nothing in reply except the howling of the storm. Adalamon’s eyes burn from the punctures of sharp dust particles that have obstinately pierced them. Gasping for a breath of air, he inhales through his caked scarf, barely satisfying his dust filled lungs. The putrid smell of sulphur is even more nauseating now. His sick weak body strains forward with every minute movement.
Kasandriana manages to get her bruised and tender body off the ground. Vision is almost nil. Frightened of being separated from Adalamon, she holds back a deluge of tears. “Where’s Adalamon?” “Where’s the horse?” She can’t tell which direction she came from let alone which one she should move in. She decides to just move in the direction she’s facing hoping that it is the right choice.
Something hard nudges her back. She screams! Lead weights in her feet anchor her to one spot. Another nudge thrusts her forward onto the ground. Panic restrains her. Rapid thunder vibrates through her heart and upwards to her head. She lies there frozen in fear. Slowly fear begins to dissipate and she needs to weep for Adalamon but no tears are found, only a large empty void. Petrified, she hears his warnings about the wastelands bringing a sure death to those who enter.
Hours pass, before another jolt slams against her body. Tensely she moves in the opposite direction feeling like every nerve ending will explode with fear. One last nudge on the back of her shoulder persuades her to think logically. Somewhere in the haze and panic she considers the notion that if this thing meant to harm her she would already be dead. From somewhere in the dark void she feels a new strength develop within. Reaching out into the darkness, Kasandriana searches for the unknown creature. Sand particles pinch at her hands and continue to stir the darkness until she feels the welcome muscles of her horse’s chest. Grateful hands follow his chestnut chest upwards to his neck and over his cheek resting just above his nose. She finds some reprieve realizing her horse is capable of finding her while she rests her face upon his sand covered hair. She questions, “Will Adalamon?” A powerful will of determination sweeps through her entire being resolving not to die here.
The wind stops with the same suddenness as it began. Her throat tightens from intense thirst. Her dry mouth tastes like dust. She gathers what mucous she can in a feeble attempt to spit the dryness out. In every direction mountains of arc shaped segments of sand ridges blend together. Kasandriana begins to climb with one foot after the other sinking and sliding a quarter of the way back. She holds tightly to her horse’s reigns. At the top of the dune lies a repetition of tangled mazes.
Sequeller lets out a revolting laugh as she is well pleased with her spell. She achieved exactly what she was determined to do. Sequeller had to perform a black spell in order to achieve the separation of the two souls. It is much harder, if not almost impossible, to capture two souls who unite in purpose than two souls who are apart. Some bonds are not easy to break and pure unity only serves to forge those bonds more tightly together. Sequeller cackles triumphantly and plans her next move.
Written by Beverley Woznica
