Defiance (The Priestess Trilogy) (50 page)

             
Mæja shook her head. “That won’t be necessary,” she told the man. “Ilario could care less about our little resistance. I’m afraid he has higher goals in his head and it is those goals that we should truly be worried about.”

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The Valley of the Fallen Star, the High Wood

The tallest and most ancient of all the trees in the sea of trees known as the High Wood were the ones in the Valley of the Fallen Star. Known as Starfall to many outside the High Wood, the Valley of the Fallen Star was home to the long lived Álfar race. The redwood trees were tall and proud, their massive limbs reaching high. Thick ferns thrived in the shade offered by the giant trees while large, woody bracket fungi wound its way along the thick trunks of the trees, forming a natural staircase which lead up to the homes situated in the boughs of the trees. The Álfar homes were made from the broad branches which had been bent and tied together, leaving it open and airy, but also providing shelter from rainfall. Sheer cloth swayed in the breeze in places that served as doors and windows, allowing some amount of privacy.

             
Amena Evenwood, Lady of the High Wood, stood before a low basin of water, her hands resting upon the cool stone. Her sapphire blue eyes were trained upon the surface of the water, watching a leaf spin and glide across the water with the gentle breeze of the wind. Her long, golden blonde hair rustled with the breeze, catching a glistening glow when sunlight peeked through the leaves. She wore a dress of soft lavender-blue that bared her shoulders over a longer sheer chemise. The sleeves were wide and patterned like the wings of an eastern-tailed blue butterfly, the skirt edge also mirroring a butterfly’s wings.

             
“The darkness will soon fall,” she murmured to herself. “But there is still time. I must draw them here, one way or another before time runs out. Before Midgard falls into utter chaos once again. Loki must not be awakened. The false god must remain in his sealed slumber.”

             
Fireflies danced about as Amena turned away from the pool of water and began walking along a grassy path. Vines hung down from trees, becoming thicker and thicker as she made her way until they formed a curtain before her.

             
Reaching out a delicate hand, she pushed aside the vines and stepped into a small glen where a weathered and worn stone shrine stood. The passage of time had played its part on the small building, wearing away at the stone and covering parts of it in a thick green moss. It was a shrine to the goddess Freyja. Most of the world had begun to forget the gods who had ruled over Midgard before the great doom known as Ragnarök. But she had not. She remembered the gods; she remembered that all the kingdoms of the Midlands had once been one undivided realm. Her eyes saw much: past, present, future. There had only been one other since the Age of Man began who could see all as she did: the oracle Acelora of the High Order.

             
Amena approached the doorway of the forgotten shrine and paused for a moment. Many paths lay before her and she could see them all. But to follow them all could easily force her to lose her own way. She knew she had to take the right path and pay no heed upon the others. Amena could see them clearly, branching out before her like a massive tree. Closing her eyes, she focused until seven began to glimmer with a golden glow. Following them, she found that they merged together.

             
“So there are the ones who can help save this world,” she murmured to herself, opening her eyes and entering the shrine. “Those who will play the largest role in the path the world will soon be undergoing. It may take a long time, but I must seek them out.”

             
The shrine was open inside, holes in the roof allowing pillars of light to illuminate the chamber. Faded paintings covered the crumbling walls. At the far end of the room stood a tall, long stone altar with carvings surrounding the base. The carving depicted a great tree in the center. A rainbow arched out above it, connecting the gods home o
f
Asgard on the right and Midgard on the left. To the average man, those carvings would confuse and dumbfound. But to her, they meant much.

             
Amena paused before the altar, kneeling before it and clasping her hands together as she closed her eyes. She often came there to clear her head and think. And this time was no different from the others. To be in the shrine of Freyja, whom many Álfar revered in the Age of Gods, filled her with the added strength and wisdom she needed.

             
Because of Loki’s actions, Midgard became the place it was today, broken and scared. But perhaps it was the gods that the people of Midgard need now more than all the wonders that had made their lives so carefree. For the death of one at Loki’s trickery, many of the gods had paid with their lives. Their power had become a part of Midgard and was now being abused and fought over.

             
Yet she had seen something that many had not. With each passing year, that very power housed within levistones, energy crysts, and lumini stones was slowly draining away the longer the gods remained forgotten. Amena feared that far too soon, they would be forgotten completely, and time would have worn away all that spoke of their lives. It was a matter she wanted to prevent. Midgard needed their gods. Midgard needed legends and heroes. Midgard needed to mend her scars and unite as one kingdom once again. And she would do all in her power to bring such about.

             
The Lady of the High Wood opened her eyes and rose to her feet. “Gorrowen.”

             
A form shifted from the shadows in the corner of the shrine.
“Yes, my lady?”

             
“There are dark times creeping upon us,” continued Amena. “There is one who seeks to awaken Loki. We must prepare ourselves so that no matter what happens, we will not fall. In the end,
he
must fail.”

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The Sacred Hart, custom class airship. Current Location: somewhere over Caerdydd

“Are you sure about that?” asked the Dökkálfar man, propping his elbow up on the table and resting his chin on the heel of his hand. His eyes, the palest of blue, were trained upon the slightly glowing speak stone sitting on the table before him as he sat with a foot propped upon his knee. His skin, like most of the Dökkálfar race, was a dark gray tinged with blue. His platinum white hair was long enough to fall into his eyes and bore violet dyed tips. Small, brightly colored speak stones also hung from gold cuffs on both of his long, pointed ears. Many would think him very privileged with the manner of his dress: a silver embroidered black vest over a rich blue shirt. His breeches where a muted gray and well crafted leather boots adorned his feet.

             
“I am quite certain.”
The slightly fuzzy voice came from the speak stone itself.
“All research points to the former royal capital of Vigrid, Ragnarr. The treasure lies, unfortunately, somewhere within the castle itself. It seems to be
extremely
well hidden.”

             
“Well that will prove slightly difficult,” muttered the man in a rich, upper-crust accent.

             
“Ah, but it’s nothing that you cannot handle, right Ril?”

             
The Dökkálfar man laughed. “Of course not. That is where all the fun lies,” he continued. “Where is the challenge if it is too easy? Besides, those Imperial dogs will never see it coming.”

             
Laughter came from the speak stone.
“You never change, do you?”
There was a pause.
“Be sure to keep your eye out, just in case. We don’t want the Empire trying to get their hands on you.”

             
“Now where is the fun in that?” smirked Ril.

             
“You should know better than to encourage him, Jude,” came the sultry voice of a woman.

             
Ril glanced over his shoulder at the Rhine Maiden.

             
She stood leaning against the wall, a foot propped up behind her and her arms crossed just below the swell of her breasts. She was tall and shapely with skin that was a soft, subtle tone of ashen blue. Her hair was the red-brown of autumn leaves and reached to the middle of her back. Her eyes were the warm amber of the incandescent glow of a setting sun. Her lips were a rich violet in color, mirroring the petals of a black lotus. Brightly colored speak stones matching Ril’s hung from her ears delicately.

             
Once more a warm chuckle came from the stone.
“As observant as ever, aren’t you, Mjrn?”

             
The woman stepped away from the wall and walked towards the table, her light, translucent jade green garments flowed with her movements. “Someone has to be,” replied the woman with a straight face. She came to stand behind Ril, leaning an arm against the tall back of the wooden chair.

             
“I would suggest leaving the Sacred Hart docked safely outside Ragnarr,”
continued Jude seriously.
“If the right eyes see her, then they’ll be
looking
for you.”

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