23. Twenty-Three #4
Nova stared into the opaque, unseeing eyes of the crowned wraith who had lowered itself to kneel before her. Slowly, the creature crawled along her body, its head cocking jerkily from side to side, those odd chirping noises resonating in its throat. For an instant, Nova ceased to struggle.
Cursed souls.
That’s what the sprite had called them. Her mind reeled as she tried in vain to squirm away from the hideous creature whose mouth dropped open, too wide and still lined with teeth. Had the imp been toying with her, or were these beings truly cursed?
With the crowned wraith’s gaunt face level with her chest and her death only a heartbeat away, Nova decided she may as well take the chance.
Closing her eyes, she opened herself to Illora’s power, casting about for the Light and willing it to flow through her.
All at once, the swirling white mist exploded across the darkness behind her eyelids.
Her eyes snapped open, a flash of blinding light flooding the room.
Nova’s back arched off the floor, chest seizing as if her breath had been ripped from her lungs.
Some time later, she had no way of knowing how long, Nova came back to herself.
A persistent ache in her skull throbbed in time with the beating of her heart.
Rising onto her elbows, she glanced to the left and right, noting she was no longer restrained.
All three wraiths seemed to have disappeared.
Shakily, she got to her feet, weighed down by her sodden cloak.
For a moment, she simply stood there, listening.
No clicks or chirps. No movement at the edge of the moonstone’s faint light.
With a groan, Nova bent to retrieve her sword and returned it to the sheath at her hip. Slowly, she approached the stone caskets once more. The covers lay askew, revealing the bodies within, returned to their final resting places.
She swiped her sleeve across her brow, then laid a hand over her heart in a show of respect for the dead.
As she turned to leave, she beheld the wraiths once more.
They floated a short distance away, nearly transparent and glowing with an otherworldly light that reflected off the water pooled on the floor and danced across the high ceiling.
Their flesh and fine robes restored, Nova found it almost painful to look upon the devastatingly beautiful beings.
The one closest to Nova wore a silver headdress inlaid with quartz crystals atop a head of flowing brown hair.
“Blessings.” The being spoke, her voice at once loud and faraway, as if she had one foot in this world and the other already in the next. “You have freed us from our curse.”
“I-it was nothing,” Nova stammered, managing to find her voice.
“To us”—the elf motioned to herself and the other two beings flanking her—“it is a great thing you have done. We were priestesses once. Acolytes of earth and stone. Cursed by an ancient Fae king to remain tethered to this tomb while the rest of our kind crossed to Cyraelian. Now, the very soil reeks of the bloodline that stole this land from the elves long ago.”
The priestess’s lip curled back briefly as her eyes roamed over the walls of granite, the moss-covered ground. An instant later, she schooled her features and narrowed her gaze on Nova.
“We are in your debt, child.” The priestess smiled. “We are now free to join our folk in Cyraelian. If ever you need the aid of the elves, invoke my name: High Priestess Wrenna.”
Nova could only nod, dumbfounded, as the three apparitions glowed brighter and brighter, until, at last, they evaporated into a mist quickly swept away by an unseen breeze.
Alone in the dark once more, Nova returned to the burial slabs, using what little strength she had left to push the covers back into place to protect the elven remains.
Once she had finished, she wrung out the hem of her cloak and exited the burial chamber to begin the long, slow climb to the surface.
When she emerged from the mound, Nova stood with her eyes closed, filling her chest with the wild breeze and banishing all remnants of the tomb’s stale air from her lungs.
“You look a bit worse for wear.”
Nova opened her eyes to find the boyish sprite still perched upon the slab of granite above the entryway.
“Where is my lantern?”
“Broken, I’m afraid,” Nova groaned, glancing down at her clothing. Mud painted her knees and boots. Torn at the shoulder, her shirt was stained with rust-colored drops. She raised a hand to her hairline, tacky with blood where a gash had already begun to heal.
“That’s a shame,” the sprite sighed before disappearing from sight and reappearing beside her. “Blue flames are difficult to catch. Shall I return you to your friends?”
“No,” Nova said, more forcefully than she intended. She’d had enough of the sprite’s tricks. She’d take her chances on the faerie path. “You are very kind, but I can manage myself.”
“Very well,” the sprite tsked, apparently not convinced. “But take care, miss. Someone has their eye on you.”
With that, the sprite vanished once again, leaving Nova to begin her trek back to the edge of the Wylds with only the howl of the wind and the cries of phantoms to keep her company.