Crossroads and the Dominion of Four by C. Toni Graham
“Sounds surreal,” said Jake.
He was hoping for more information but decided not to push. She had teleported to practically all areas of the castle in an attempt to get to the library. Each failure had been followed by a growl, puff of smoke, or slam of the tail by Rileau.
“Surreal, huh? Yeah, that’s not how I would describe it,” Shayna sneered.
Jake hated watching Shayna roll her eyes. He was at a loss for words, and that had been the best he could come up with. He started picking up books and putting them back on the shelf in an effort to deescalate the situation. He didn’t want to add to her humiliation, but it was important for Shayna to master teleportation. The more extensive an arsenal they had to face Brigara, the better, although he had to admit he was worried Shayna might injure herself.
“Shayna, I was thinking about a tactic you might try next time. You know, just to minimize hurting yourself,” said Jake.
“If there’s a next time, you mean,” Shayna said.
“Listen, what if you focus on all aspects of the place you want to go, even the tiniest details? Do a complete picture in your head before you swipe your reflectoire. Maybe you’ll have better luck,” said Jake.
“Use all five senses, and really picture yourself there,” added Conner.
“I thought I was doing that, but he said the brain is literal—whatever that means,” said Shayna. She sighed and examined her bruises. A purple one was swelling and pulsating on her forearm. She rubbed it and then winced in pain. “Do you think Keene Ardara’s chocolate will help these bumps and bruises?” she asked.
“Chocolate is a cure for whatever ails you!” Conner said as he joined them in returning the books to the shelf. “I have plenty of it in my room. I’ll get it when we’re done here.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Shayna stepped away and allowed the boys to finish replacing the books. She climbed onto the incredibly comfortable overstuffed ottoman. She tried to lie down in the least painful position, but she realized she ached all over, including her heart. She was exhausted and homesick. She missed her father. She closed her eyes and tried to picture his face as she imagined what he would be doing at that moment. She wondered how he’d reacted when told his daughter was in the Otherworld. Images of his smile, his brown eyes, and what she always considered to be a bad haircut came into focus. She longed to reach for his face and wipe the smudges from his glasses. It was a habit for him to constantly touch the lens of his glasses, and she would make a fuss each time she removed them for cleaning. He was always patient and tolerated her high energy, which was the opposite of his calm and steady demeanor. She wondered what had caused the separation of her parents and why he had lied about her mother dying in childbirth. Growing up without a mother was a void in her life that could never be filled. She rehearsed what she would say if she got the chance to confront him. Each imaginary conversation ended the same way. She couldn’t fathom a different ending that would give her the satisfaction she craved.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Training Day
“Why do I get the feeling this is going to be a long day?” Seneca mumbled to herself as she waited for Wren’s arrival.
She had awakened well before dawn. She’d had a restless night and tossed about for the majority of it. Exhaustion couldn’t begin to describe how tired she felt. She’d grown used to sleeping in unfamiliar places, so she knew that wasn’t the cause of her sleep deprivation. The anxious news of learning what it meant to be druid was what created her angst. She had skipped breakfast and gone straight to the garden well before sunrise.
The garden was oval shaped and nestled in the center of a grove of trees. It was peacefully quiet. The only sounds were from a family of birds that rustled about in the trees. Seneca wondered how the lessons were progressing with Shayna. She’d really wanted to be included in the teleporting lesson. She sighed heavily and plopped down on a small bench. She whipped her head around when she heard the snap of a twig. Wren stood mere inches from her.
“You are prompt—nice quality in a druid,” said Wren.
How had Seneca not sensed her approach? It must be an elf trait, she thought. “Uh, hi. I didn’t hear you walk up,” said Seneca as she stood and looked up. Wren was at least a foot taller.
Wren cast her eyes down but never tilted her head, keeping her chin raised as if to emphasize her superior height. “It appears you must adjust your sensitivity. It is familiarity with your surroundings that will yield you protection as well as opportunity.”
“It sounds like the lessons have begun,” said Seneca.
“And so they have. What about your wings? Have you learned their capacity for attack? Or perhaps the magic they possess?”
“Well, I’m not sure. I know they’re strong enough to create a force to knock a couple of teenage boys on their butt,” she said, beaming with pride. “They glow brightly when I’m angry.”
“That doesn’t seem useful. Have you used them in battle—other than putting boys on their bottoms, I mean?” Wren asked.
She’s all business, and this is going to be a long day, Seneca thought. Wren seemed fixated on interrogating her. She knew her wings could probably do more, but she’d thought the lesson was supposed to be about being a druid and learning to fight.
“No, only to get away,” she said. “You know, like fly out of their reach.”
“You’re not using your wings at all, it would seem. What a waste,” Wren scoffed. “This is definitely going to be like placing petals back on a spring bloom upon the emergence of autumn.”
“You’re basically calling me hopeless or a waste of time?” Seneca asked, fuming. “Not cool, Wren!”
“I am just reciting the obvious. If you’re not curious enough to delve into your gifts, then why should I waste my time? It appears your motivation is lacking when it comes to exploring your capabilities.”
“Look, I thought you were going to teach me about being a druid, but if you’re not up for it, I can talk to Rileau, or we can just call the whole thing off,” snapped Seneca. “I really don’t need your sarcasm, and to get things straight, I am not a waste!”
Seneca’s wings appeared in full spread. The tips vibrated blue, which was a perfect contrast to her red cheeks. She raged inside. Wren’s expression caught her by surprise. It was smug and content. It was obvious Wren had been trying to get a reaction that would force Seneca to expose her wings. Seneca wondered if it had been a test and if she’d passed.
“You are quite testy to be so demure,” said Wren. “Perhaps you might actually have the makings of a suitable druid. It seems you have a bit of a temper, though. You must learn to control that. You wouldn’t want it used against you.” She smirked and then turned away to retrieve her staff.
Seneca let out a huge exhalation. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.
“Glad you did that,” Wren said. She glanced over her shoulder with the same smirk still present. “Breathing is quite important. It keeps your stamina during long battles. You can anticipate that your battles will take you to your limit, and Brigara will know exactly what that is. It’s highly probable you will not be able to keep pace.”
The unmoved smirk was hard to dismiss. Seneca mocked the expression and glared as Wren’s snide smile slowly faded to become more of a grimace. Why is she so rude? Seneca wondered. If Wren didn’t believe in their abilities, then why was Rileau trusting her to help? Seneca had more questions than answers.
“Wren, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to stop Brigara, and it’s obvious you know more about her then I do. Can we just focus on whatever it is I need to know?” Seneca asked.
“You must first realize that I can only teach you basic skills. Your natural gifts will need to be used when you deal with her. You will need to use your wings and push them to their limit. Do you understand what I am telling you?” asked Wren. Her
“Yeah, I get it. But are my wings really a weapon?” Seneca asked. “They don’t seem like they should be used for that purpose. Seriously, they’re wings.”
“You underestimate so much. Know that an elemental’s gifts, such as your wings, are the arc of your magic. They are what ground you when calling on magic. They act as a beacon for spells and charms,” said Wren. “Surely you must know this.”
“There’s a lot I don’t know. I’m not scared to admit it either. I can tell you this much, though: I went my entire life not even knowing I came from this place or that my parents and I were druids. Heck, I didn’t even know what a druid was until I got to the Otherworld. Excuse me if I’m not all-knowing about all things magic like you! You even said that not all elementals have magic, so I’m sort of like them in a way. I’ve gone my entire life without knowing anything about my gifts. I trust you when you say my wings are important, but that’s it. It ends there. I don’t know how to make them my beacon. Don’t you get it? I need your guidance.” Seneca was out of breath. “Great. Now I’m rambling on like Shayna.”
“So be it. We shall begin with expanding your mind to embrace the nature of your elders. It is a long tale, and your attention cannot waver,” said Wren.
Seneca sat in the tall grass and folded her legs beneath her. “Please tell me what you know.”
Wren’s expression softened. She tilted her head and nodded slowly. She circled Seneca and then came to rest on a mound of earth that served perfectly as a stool. She told stories of the Otherworld, explaining the strife and the harmony of the elementals in great detail. She showed her pride whenever she spoke of the elves. She explained that they and the druids were kindred leaders. She told of the fate of magic and how most were born with some degree of it, while others were completely without. Seneca could tell from the change in her tone that this was a delicate subject. Seneca asked questions periodically and asked for demonstrations of some of the magic Wren possessed. The time went by slowly, and the information was vast. Seneca was about to ask about the signs for identifying animals that could speak, when Wren abruptly stopped speaking and jumped to her feet. The action startled Seneca, and she searched around for the possible cause.
Wren folded her arms across her chest and began to hum a tune that first began slowly and then stopped in the middle of a note. Seneca was confused and started to interject but remained silent as Wren reached behind her back and untied a slender tubular-shaped object attached to her belt. It was bronze and approximately eight inches in length. Seneca wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. On one end, it curved slightly in an L shape, while the other end was a sculpted head of a bird. She didn’t know many species of birds, so she couldn’t make an accurate guess on the type. Wren rotated it several times in her hand. She took hold of her shirttail and began polishing it. She raised the L-shaped tip to her lips and blew. It was a musical instrument that made sounds like no other horn Seneca could recall, yet the melody was familiar. It took several more notes before she recognized it. It was a song that her mother often sang at bedtime, a lullaby she’d heard during her entire childhood.
The words and sound of her mother’s voice filled her head. Seneca began to sing softly, at first missing a few of the words and humming in the spots where she couldn’t remember any. The more she sang, the more she remembered, and her volume increased. Wren played the song again without pause, keeping her eyes closed as she swayed slightly to the melody she created effortlessly. By the third round, Seneca sang along without hesitation.
To be strong is to be subtle, and to weep is to bend.
The trees will ever sway, protecting you till the end.
To be brave is to be true, and to forgive is our blight.
The birds will ever soar, giving warning in their flight.
Our life’s blessing is to be true; our promises we must keep.
With the moonlit sky, my dear one, it is time for all to sleep.
Upon rising, the day will be anew; the sun shall be our guide.
Until then, my dear one, ’tis our sweet dreams we must now abide.
Wren wiped the instrument with her shirt and then slipped it around her belt, where she secured it. She remained quiet. Seneca could tell she wanted to discuss what had just happened, but it was the last thing Seneca wanted. If she dared to utter a word, it would likely end in disaster. She was on the brink of tears that would surely turn into a loss of all composure and obnoxiously loud sobs. Too many memories were wrapped in that song. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d heard it, but she knew it was one of her mother’s favorites. She gulped hard and took a deep breath. She blew the air out slowly until her shoulders relaxed.
“Wren, I’m guessing you figured I would know that song. Why did you play it?” Seneca asked. Her voice quivered as she fought back tears.
“It is a song that is sung to lull the young to sleep or to put to rest any fear they may have encountered. It is a song the elders find pleasure in passing along. It is also a song that druids and elves share. We are quite similar—elves and druids, that is. We are especially aligned in our place in the Otherworld. We seek balance among all elementals,” Wren said. “It is why Rileau believed I should be the one to teach you the ways of the druid. As I am an elf, I may teach you only so much, but it is better than no teachings at all. Would you not agree?”
“I suppose,” said Seneca hesitantly. She desperately wanted to know more.
“Why do you not ask what you have been carrying in your heart? It is best that you do not sit on thoughts that interfere with the rhythm that beats in your chest,” Wren said flatly.
Seneca thought she detected a hint of compassion, but it was so slight she couldn’t be sure. “I was just wondering … Well, I mean, I wanted to ask if you know my parents.”
“Ah, that is a fascinating question. I am pleased and honored to respond. I have known of your parents since I was quite young. They are prominent in the prophecies of our teachings. The ways and actions of those who impact our way of life in the Otherworld are passed along to all elementals. Your parents sacrificed their gifts to protect our way of life. Do I know your parents? I have never met them to share greetings, but I know of them in my heart,” said Wren. “They are why I chose to help you and the others. You are vital to restoring peace. Druids are necessary to maintain the balance of power. You are needed, Seneca.”
“I didn’t know. Thanks for telling me. It helps to know that you feel that way about them—and me,” said Seneca softly. “Thanks for the song too. It brought back great memories.”
Seneca wiped a tear away before it spilled over. She wanted to know more about how the Otherworld viewed her parents and their infamous sacrifice. She suddenly got a surge of determination to focus on her mission. She wanted to make them proud and not regret all they had given up. She and the others were there to bring peace and restore balance. She couldn’t lose sight of that.
“I thought the song would be a nice distraction. Your focus was waning,” said Wren.
“I’m good to go now. Teach me what I need to know,” replied Seneca. “What’s next?”
“I will tell you more about the ways of the druid,” said Wren.
Wren stood back, examined Seneca for a moment, and then shook her head and frowned. She adjusted her headpiece and pushed her long ringlets of hair away from her shoulders so they cascaded down her back. As she moved, a medallion on her breastplate caught the sunlight and cast a beam of amber light that sparkled at Seneca’s feet. She watched it as curiously as a cat until she realized its origin. The medallion’s engraving was similar to the smooth stone in her pocket. It was the Stone of Fate. Seneca resisted inquiring about it, as she had been told to keep the stone guarded. She felt it linked them together in such a way that made her feel connected, not just to Wren but also to the Otherworld.
“Druids are born with distinct gifts. These gifts involve the primal senses,” said Wren. “These gifts are those of touch for healing or sight for visions of events that have not yet occurred, which is quite rare. There is hearing of thoughts, and that happens to be quite common.” Her brow furrowed as she waited for a reaction.
Seneca was unable to contain her feelings as her mouth stretched into a thin line, but she refused to reply. Wren smirked and then regained her staunch composure.
“There are druids who control elements in nature. Only a rare few. Finally, there is the common gift of being endowed with wings,” said Wren flatly.
“Really? I can control things like wind and fire?” Seneca asked excitedly. She elected to ignore the snide remark about her wings.
“I said usually. I haven’t seen any sign of you being endowed with these gifts,” scoffed Wren.
“If you say so. I’m not sure I’ve mastered anything, but thanks for telling me about being a druid,” said Seneca. “I was hoping to learn how to use my gifts, but it seems today was more about a history lesson. I guess you know best.”
She was frustrated, but she was committed to learning as much as she could. Survival in the Otherworld was her first priority, and bringing down Brigara was a close second. She didn’t want to derail the progress she was making by complaining.
“You remind me of someone close. I am hard on her as well. I must remember this in future teachings. Of course, you may have complaints, as you are new to our Otherworld. You are not to blame for your parents’ deceit or poor judgment in preparing you. Gifts are not to be wasted. Surely, they should have been wise to this,” said Wren.
“Add judgmental to that list too. You certainly aren’t shy about expressing your opinions of others,” snapped Seneca. “Sometimes it’s best to keep your thoughts to yourself.”