The Second Symbol Page 16

  His mind savage and uncontrollable, Taren became a witness to his own actions. Powerless to make the episode stop, he felt himself entirely out of control. Why was the symbol doing this? Was this its true nature? His legs ached as he continued to run, his heart pounding in his ears. Suddenly finding himself in the palm forest, he dreaded what lay ahead. His feet were taking him back to the dragon’s shrine, the one place he least wanted to go.

  Taren fought the urge to run, and reached desperately for his magic. To his surprise, he found it. Pulling with all his strength, he focused his mind to the symbol. The spell would either augment its power or quell it. At the very least he hoped it would confuse the artifact long enough to make it stop whatever it was doing to him.

  Fighting against the symbol’s will, he pushed his magic toward it. He found it dormant, and the realization swept over him. The dragon had set all this in motion. The dormant part of the symbol was now awakened, and it was going through changes along with its host. The two were at odds, but the symbol was no more in control than he was. The situation was far more frightening than he’d imagined. Neither was in control, yet both were in grave danger. Taren didn’t know how much more his body could take.

  Movement on a nearby branch caught the herbalist’s attention. His mind cleared, and he knew exactly what to do. Extending his hand, he unleashed a burst of energy at the small, furred creature clinging to the branch. It fell unmoving to the forest floor. Rushing collect it, the herbalist dropped to his knees. What he did next nearly turned the stomachs of his companions.

  Imrit turned his head with disgust, but Zamna’s eyes remained fixed. He had seen far worse in his time on the streets. Slowly, he came to Taren’s side as the herbalist feasted on the raw flesh of the small primate. The metallic scent of fresh blood forced his nostril flaps closed.

  Bite after bite Taren swallowed without chewing. Intoxicated by the urge to consume meat, he barely noticed the La’kertan at his side. When a pair of scaled hands reached for his own, his eyes flashed green, a mirror image of Iracidae’s. Dropping the primate, he took Zamna’s hands and allowed himself to stand on his own feet. This time they were entirely his own, the urge to run had disappeared.

  Trembling, he clutched at the La’kertan. “I’m becoming a dragon,” he said, his voice almost too small to hear. Then his world turned black.

  Chapter 18

  Hoisting the ailing herbalist over his shoulder, Zamna headed back toward the ship. Imrit followed behind, muttering incantations over Taren’s head. Zamna was glad that the sorcerer was making an attempt at helping his former apprentice. Though he didn’t have a cure, he knew enough magic to help ease the symptoms.

  Once Taren was safe in his bed, Imrit sat at his side. With a low chant, he placed both hands on the young man’s head. White magic spread over his sleeping form. “That will keep him asleep for a while yet,” the sorcerer said. Rising to his feet, he collected the book that had been carelessly tossed aside. “I suppose I’ll have to start without him,” he said. “It might be the only way to help him.”

  Nodding, Zamna took a seat across the room. He could offer no help with the tome, but if Taren went into another frenzy, he might be able to stop him from running away or harming himself. Physical strength might not be as spectacular as magical strength, but it was all he had to offer. He’d have to leave the cure to Imrit and Taren, once the young man was awake.

  Gently opening the front cover, Imrit caressed the pages with his hand. An inscription written in pure gold had been placed on the front page. Furrowing his brow, he said, “This must be written in some ancient elven tongue.” He shrugged and turned the page. An illustration of a dragon with coal black eyes stared back at him. Turning another page, he scanned the writing. “The penmanship is beautiful,” he said. “It’s a work of art in its own right.” He shook his head. “But the words are alien to me. Such marks I’ve never encountered in the countless ancient volumes I’ve studied.”

  Zamna seemed only partially interested.

  “This can’t be right,” Imrit muttered to himself. “I must be missing something. No language is beyond my skill. I must have simply forgotten. It’ll come back to me.” He continued to flip through pages. Beginning, middle, and end were all written in the same bizarre script. Frustrated, he slammed the book closed and looked over at Taren. The young man still slept soundly. Turning instead to Zamna, he said, “This must be the wrong book.”

  “I doubt that,” the La’kertan replied. “Iracidae knew what you needed, and I doubt she made a mistake. Maybe you should look through it again.”

  Scowling, Imrit reopened the book and stared at the page before him. “How is it possible?” he asked, mostly to himself. “I’ve studied many ancient languages, and mastered most of them. Others I’ve learned to translate using magic.”

  “Then try using magic,” Zamna said, stating the obvious.

  The old man sighed. “This language is too strange for any spell I know. Without a basic knowledge of the lettering system in use, I can’t guess where to begin.” Grunting with frustration, he placed his head in his hands. “In all my studies, I’ve never encountered such an obstacle. All of my work has brought me no reward. My apprentice suffers, and that will not end. I have failed.”

  “Keep trying,” Zamna said. “You can’t give up after we’ve come this far. There has to be a way.”

  Reopening the book, Imrit halfheartedly ran through a few spells. No good. “I can’t do it,” he said, setting the book aside. “It’s no use without Iracidae. We’ll have to find a way to convince her to read it with us.”

  “She already refused,” Zamna reminded him. “I wouldn’t go prodding a dragon to do something she doesn’t want to do. It’s a good way to get yourself killed.”

  “Pshh,” Imrit replied.

  Zamna admired how easily the old sorcerer dismissed his warning. He was brave, but it might not serve him so well. He wondered whether wisdom had abandoned the old man in his second life. Caution was needed here, and cunning too if they were going to trick a dragon into helping them.

  “Iracidae seemed to like you,” Imrit said. “Maybe if you go back alone…”

  “No,” Zamna said. “Not without a better plan than last time.” He admired the dragon and would love to look on her again, but she was incredibly dangerous. Taren would be dead if it weren’t for the artifact he carried. Zamna had no such protection, and he wouldn’t throw his life away on a whim.

  “Miserable dragon,” Imrit muttered, taking up the tome once more.

  Out of curiosity, Zamna moved to sit next to the old man and peered at the words on the page. The print was dazzling, as beautifully designed as Iracidae herself. Continuing to observe the lettering, his head began to ache. Feeling as if his eyes were crossing, he shut them tight and held them closed. After a few minutes, he opened them again. Blinking repeatedly, he tried to make sense of what he saw before him. No longer were the words meaningless. In fact, they were as plain as any other writing the La’kertan had seen.

  “Herein lies the formulae of magic spells crafted in the fire of dragons,” Zamna read aloud.

  “What?” Imrit asked.

  “That’s the first line,” Zamna said. “You can’t read that?”

  “What are you talking about?” Imrit spat, clearly insulted. “You couldn’t possibly decipher these markings.”

  “Well, I just did,” Zamna said. “Should I continue, or do you want to keep squinting at it as if that’ll help?”

  Imrit shoved the book toward the La’kertan. “Tell me what it says and leave nothing out,” he said. “And point to the words as you say them. Maybe I can find a pattern and learn some of it myself.”

  Zamna placed the volume on his lap and stared down at it. He had no idea how he was able to decipher the writing.

  “It must be your dragon heritage,” Imrit said.

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. “That means Taren might be able to read it when he wakes.”

  Imr
it seemed puzzled. “He’s no La’kertan.”

  “Yes, but if he’s dragon-bonded as Iracidae said, then Taren is as much a dragon as I am. Maybe more.”

  “Good point,” Imrit said.

  For hours the two pored over the volume, examining it page by page. Zamna pointed out each word, painstakingly sounding it out in both the original dragon-elven tongue and in the common language. They were only a quarter of the way through the book when Taren began to stir.

  His eyes protesting as he tried to open them, Taren endured the pain. It felt as if razors had been inserted in his eyelids, slicing through his eyes as he forced them open. His vision distorted as he looked around the room. He could only make out the moonlight spilling in through the porthole, and two shadowed figures sitting near a row of dotted lights. As he rubbed the blurriness away, he saw Zamna and Imrit hunched over the dragon’s book with several candles burning nearby.

  Sitting up, his body ached as if he had fallen from a great height. His hands were covered in scales, and a tacky red substance. Blood. The memory of his last meal flooded into his mind, and his stomach roiled.

  “You’re awake,” Imrit said.

  Rolling his eyes, Zamna said, “Obviously. Are you all right?”

  Taren brushed his arm against his forehead. “I’m tired,” he replied, “but I’ll be fine.” Lifting himself from the bed, he approached a small basin filled with water. His reflection nearly sent him into a panic. Scales lined either side of his face, dots of yellow clouding his eyes. Dipping his hands in the water, he disrupted the reflection. He did not want to look upon himself again. Dumping the red-stained water through the porthole, he stood a moment in silence.

  A single deep breath filled his lungs with salty air. The water had done nothing to wash away his fatigue. His desire was to return to his bed and sleep until the end of the world, but one glance at his companions changed his mind. “What have you found?” he asked. The pair seemed eager to share their discoveries.

  “Your assassin friend here can read this strange language,” Imrit began, eliciting a low hiss from Zamna. Paying him no mind, the sorcerer went on. “We haven’t made it all the way through yet, but we’ve found some interesting tidbits.”

  Taren grabbed a chair from the bedside and seated himself next to his former master. Looking over the open page, he found the language as strange as Imrit had. “You can read this?” he asked Zamna.

  The La’kertan gave a single nod.

  “And you can’t?” Taren asked Imrit.

  “I’m learning,” the old man said proudly. “Your friend here isn’t the best teacher, but at least he’s competent. He seems to have some innate gift that allows him to decipher this writing. We hoped your newly awakened dragon qualities would do the same for you.”

  “I don’t believe it has,” Taren admitted. The characters were foreign and ancient, and Taren wasn’t schooled in many languages. He knew enough to read the tomes required by the Mage’s College, but that was the extent of it.

  “This language is far more ancient than any I’ve studied,” Imrit said. “I’m certain there are no human sorcerers around who can read it.”

  Taren smiled. He knew Imrit would never blame himself for his lack of knowledge. If he didn’t know a language, then no one else in his circle did. “If the language were taught anywhere in Nōl’Deron, I’m sure you would have learned it by now,” Taren said, giving his mentor the benefit of the doubt. “It is fortunate that Zamna has the ability we need,” he added. “Iracidae would never have helped us read this.”

  “Indeed,” Imrit said.

  “So what have you found so far?” Taren asked.

  “It appears your symbol was activated by Iracidae’s flame,” Imrit replied.

  Taren was already aware of that fact, though he hadn’t chosen to share it with Imrit yet. In truth, he was still figuring out the specifics in his own mind. Having the tome substantiate his assumption was at least comforting.

  “She didn’t mean to do it,” Imrit continued. “She did so unknowingly.”

  “She meant to kill you,” Zamna chimed in. No need to sugarcoat things. Taren was not a child.

  “Yes,” Imrit said, shooting Zamna a look of disdain. “When the artifact activated, she sensed it, even if I didn’t. Did you feel anything at that time?”

  Taren scanned his memory of the event. It was a moment of sheer terror, and a split-second decision to endure the flame on his master’s behalf. “Yes, I believe I did,” he responded. When the scales had erupted on his flesh, he knew it was the symbol’s work.

  “Iracidae ceased her barrage because she had touched the magic inside you,” Imrit explained. “She knew she couldn’t harm you, for the symbol’s power protected you.”

  Waiting patiently for the rest of the explanation, Taren remained silent. He already knew this much.

  “It’s like you said,” Zamna put in. “You’re turning into a dragon.”

  “I was getting to that,” Imrit said angrily.

  “You were too slow,” the La’kertan replied.

  “Why must I become a dragon?” Taren asked, remembering his all-consuming desire for meat. It was the first act of the savage beast inside him. He shuddered at the thought. “Ailwen didn’t change form when she controlled the symbol, so why must I?” This had to be a mistake. “I won’t let it do this to me.” Fear flickered in his brown eyes. He wanted to plead with his former master to find a solution. Or maybe he could return to Iracidae and beg her to remove the curse. There had to be a way. He could not live as a dragon.

  “In time you will be able to control the changes,” Imrit said.

  It was music to Taren’s ears. His breathing steadied, and he unclenched his fists, which he hadn’t noticed he was holding so tightly. “Tell me more,” he said.

  “There isn’t much more,” Imrit said. “Not yet.”

  “I don’t read fast enough for him,” Zamna said. “And he doesn’t learn fast enough for me. We’ve gone over the same passages several times.”

  Taren looked down at the book. “Show me the words,” he said. “Maybe all three of us can get through it faster.”

  “We did read that the changes became permanent in a few individuals,” Imrit added. “Somehow they lost their ability to change back.”

  “Others shifted at will for a lifetime or longer,” Zamna said. He could see the young man was distressed, and Imrit wasn’t being thorough enough.

  “One of the symbol’s gifts to you is this shifting ability,” Imrit explained. “Those who lost the ability to change back simply may have forgotten how. Maybe they chose to remain in dragon form. Until we finish the book, we won’t know for sure.”

  “I don’t believe I want that ability,” Taren said. “I don’t want to be a dragon. I want to remain as I’ve always been.”

  Imrit’s next words were cold and calloused. “Then you should never have merged with the symbol.”

  The statement echoed in Taren’s ears. Upon Imrit’s death, he had willingly merged with the symbol. He hadn’t bothered to study about the consequences, he simply accepted it as a gift from his deceased master. It was what Imrit had wanted, and Taren had obeyed. How could he blame him now? “What of your symbol?” Taren asked. “Why has it not done the same to you?”

  “Because he didn’t walk into the dragon fire,” Zamna said. His tone was far more accusing than he’d meant it to be. However, Imrit had not walked into the fire to protect Taren. An act of selflessness had brought Taren to his fate, a fate he might not have chosen had he realized the consequences.

  The comment did not faze the old sorcerer. “Taren acted on impulse, and in so doing, he saved my life. Though I have no doubt my symbol would have protected me as well.”

  “Could Iracidae activate yours?” Taren asked.

  “She seemed unwilling to help us further,” Imrit reminded him. “I’m not quite ready to ask her to breathe fire on me.”

  “A wise decision,” Zamna stated.


  “Shall we continue?” Imrit asked, turning a page.

  Yawning, Zamna said, “I think it’s time for some rest.” His eyes were tired and dry. There would be no more translating until he’d had a good night’s sleep.

  Zamna and Imrit retired to their own rooms, leaving Taren alone in the darkness. A quiet buzzing sounded near his ear, and he spun his head to capture it. A single flick of his tongue brought the fly inside his mouth, which he swallowed without a second thought. That was, until he realized what he had done. Touching his fingers against his scaled face, he wondered who he truly was. The symbol could take him in an instant, forcing him into a creature whose actions he couldn’t control. Would his mind continue to exist, or would it be absorbed into that of a monster? Would he be noble and intelligent like the dragons in ancient tales? Or would he be a horror, ravaging towns and feasting on flesh?

  Overwhelmed, he lay back on his bed and looked up at the ceiling. In time his mind drifted to sleep, but it refused to rest. Visions of flame and gnashing teeth invaded his dreams, sending him running in fear. No matter where he fled, the evil followed him. Farther and farther into the night, he ran from the terror. When the visions faded and he believed himself safe, a pair of clawed hands dragged him back. His body was too weak to resist.

  Grasping at the ground beneath him, his fingernails scraped at the earth. Desperate for his magic, he tried to focus his mind. The symbol burned in his arm, and he felt its laughter inside him. It was mocking him, tormenting him, and stealing away his magic. Powerless, he resigned himself to his fate, allowing the clawed hands to drag him away.

  Chapter 19

  A loud rapping at Taren’s door woke him from a fitful sleep. Uninvited, Imrit strolled inside. Taren sat up in bed, his arms resting against his knees.

  “It’s a beautiful morning to continue our studies,” the old sorcerer announced.