Fallen Dreams, Elaine Brown [novels to read for beginners .TXT] 📗

action was oddly birdlike. “Charoum, tell me, is this the only survivor? Is this the Ombrishad?” His voice was strong, like the man’s, but much less mature; and it was sweeter.
The man, Charoum, places a hand on my shoulder gently, reassuring. “I believe so, Riel. Welcome her kindly with open heart; she has been dealt a great sorrow as of late.”
The boy, Riel, bows his head again, this time to the man, and smiles kindly to me; delicately, he steps over the pillows and comes to stand a few feet away from me. Gently, he extends his hand to me and takes my hand in his, guides me to the pillows, and sits with me. The woman follows after a few seconds, sits on my other side, and takes my free hand quietly.
“Do not worry, dear one,” she murmurs, “We will let no harm befall you.”
“Mara,” Charoum says softly; this must be her name. “Riel and I will discuss what must be done. For now, please take care of her and provide her with food and clothing.”
Mara slightly bows her head, just like Riel had done. Riel, glancing at me quickly, stands and crosses to Charoum, hesitating only briefly before exiting through the flap. Charoum nods to me and departs as well. Gently, Mara takes my face in her free hand and turns me to face her; her eyes roam over my disheveled form and she seems to be assessing the work that she has been set to do. Quietly, absentmindedly, she makes a small “tsk” sound with her tongue. Then, of all things, she begins to laugh. Her laugh has a beautiful sound to it; it is soft at first, like the ringing of a small wind chime, but it grows into a more hearty sound, like the echoes of a church bell through the empty hall. Still chuckling, Mara wipes at her watering eyes; “Please forgive me, precious child. I do not intend any offense. I just thought of the first time I met Charoum; he was soaked to the bone, but he still somehow managed to look so sure of himself, like he was going to be the savior of the world.”
She shakes her head gently and brushes my hair back, off of my face. “What do you say we draw you a nice hot bath, find some clean clothes, and take a brush to that mess of hair, hmm?” She smiles kindly. “You are very pretty underneath all that you have been through, I can tell.”
I feel my cheeks heat at the compliment. “Thank you, but I can’t compare to you and your family…”
A puzzled expression fills her eyes, before understanding dawns on her features. “You mean Charoum and Riel? You are mistaken, dear one; Charoum’s and my relationship is… complicated, but Riel and I are but friends, warriors of the same mission.”
Now it is my turn to be confused. “But… you all look so… alike, like brother and sister or mother and son.”
She chuckles again. “You would think that all of us—Guardians, I should say—are related in some way or form, but most of us have no relation at all.” Her expression became thoughtful. “For some reason, all but a few of us are born with the same range of features; all of us have different shades of blonde hair and blue eyes, for example.”
I feel my eyes widen; “You’re a Guardian? And Riel?”
She smiles again and nods. “Of course, what else would we be? Now, about that bath…”

The hot water felt nice, and somehow the clothing that Mara found for me fit like a glove. I had skin tight, warm wool trousers like the men I had seen, but I also had a thigh length, form fitting green tunic that tied at the top with a leather strap. The sleeves were cut just below my shoulders, and fingerless, leather gloves covered my forearms and palms. Mara sat me back down on the cushions and, against my protests, began to brush my hair. Her long, gentle strokes reminded me of how my mother would brush my hair when I was little, and yet more tears escaped from my eyes. Mara seemed to understand, as she continued brushing and began to hum a warm, relaxing tune. My eyes begin to drift closed again as I let myself slip away from the sad feelings and just focus on the good memories that Mara had exposed.
I hear a faint rustling in the background and something is lightly placed in my lap. My eyes open slowly and I find Riel staring back at me, across from me on the cushions. Looking down, I see that a small plate of fruit and dried meat has been set in front of me; though I feel as though I am starving, I cannot find the will to eat. Not wanting to offend anyone, I nibble half-heartedly at the food.
“What news have you brought, Charoum?” Mara asks, quiet as a dormouse.
Somehow, he hears her. “I think it best I let Riel explain, Mara. Let us leave them; I will explain to you what must be done.”
I turn to see her as she stands; she has a sad expression on her face, but smiles sweetly when she finds my gaze on her. A cool wind makes its way through the tent as Charoum leaves once again, taking with him the person I had grown to trust in this strange place. When the two are gone, I turn my gaze back to Riel, only to find him standing with a hand out to me. Puzzled, I take it and allow him to pull me up. His expression is weary and he guides me to the back of the tent. But instead of stopping at the end, where the makeshift bed lay, he pushes a curtain aside and leads me into a separate room. Impossible to see from the inside, this room is darker; the fabric of the tent is stained a dark red, and a table sits at the center. The table is the only thing in the space, and atop it is spread an old leather bound book; the open pages depict a dark sword. A chill passes down my spine as I step up to the tall, narrow table; my hands gingerly fall to either side of the leather cover. There are no words on the page, but I dare not turn either ahead nor back for fear of damaging the magic obviously hidden within this page alone. The illustration is of a dark weapon of war, blade completely ebony and utterly devoid of color of any other sort; or perhaps the blade was of so many rich colors, one could no longer specify them by name. Hilt of dark silver and obsidian, it seems to jump off of the page toward me. Shadows from the unknown source of light in the room cast gloomy figures across the blade, a primitive and hypnotizing dance.
“It is all right with the world for the moment, Ombrishad;” I was more entranced than I had imagined, for his voice scares me witless, “Go on, I can see the longing in your face, the itching in your fingers; touch it. It is for your hands alone…” With a gallant sweep of his hand, he backs away from me slightly, lowering his eyes. There is a catch in my breathing as I nod slightly.
But, just as easily as I had been spellbound before, my attention is once more locked onto the mysterious sword; the pages seem to be alive with their own light. I am victim to an exhausted and fascinated imagination, for this can be the only explanation; the glow from the pages seems to grow and swell with life, as if it were breathing. It seems to suddenly yell, for the pages grow much too bright for my tear burned eyes. My tears must not have been completely depleted, however, for the brightness causes my eyes to water mercilessly. I faintly hear Riel whimper behind me, and I somehow clearly see him with his arm across his face, wincing; I never turn around, but I can still imagine it in my minds eye. The brightness at last begins to die down and, though the pages themselves are still golden with light, the light seems to be contained instead of spilling into the ordinary world. The pages contain so much light, in fact, that the image of the sword has been blotted out by the golden aftershock.
I feel myself trembling, but reach out a hand despite my ominous feelings. The pages continue to “breathe” steadily throughout all that has happened. My fingertips tingle as they come in contact with the rough, aged paper. It feels as if the pages will turn to dust at any given second. But as my hand brushes along the surface, the light dims and reveals words that had been hidden; the illustration is lost from the pages. There is a pricking at the back of my neck as Riel approaches; he hovers over my shoulder and begins to read the foreign words. I do not understand either the written or spoken versions.
“The way has been revealed,” Riel says at last, apparently finished with the reading. He turns to me, eyes bright, leading me away from the table a few feet; my eyes burn and everything is tinged with the golden light. “You are indeed of the Chosen, Ombrishad, for the path to open before you.”
“Would you stop calling me that?”
His pale blue eyes widen, and he sets upon me a curious expression; his temperament is mild, I can tell, for there are no lines in his face to indicate any emotion of displeasure. “Have I offended you?”
I sigh, averting my eyes from the startling intensity of his gaze. “No, but I do tend to prefer people using my name when they speak to me, not some foreign word I barely know the meaning of.”
With a small sigh of relief, his lips curve into a kind grin. “Of course, I understand completely. I suppose I have been utterly rude, not to have introduced myself.” He makes a deep, gallant bow, in a playful sort of mockery; I am stunned at the gracefulness of the gesture. “Please call me by my Christian name, for I have not a surname; extremely pleased to make your acquaintance, I am Riel of the Guardians.”
I feel a small blush creep into my cheeks and incline my head slightly. “Please call me Orin.”
“Orin…” he murmurs, only saying my name for the purpose of remembering it, and bends to kiss my hand lightly; the scene is ruined as he chuckles softly, smiling cheerfully at my confused face. “We are fast friends already, I can tell. But there is still much you must learn; still much you have yet to understand.”
With a last, wistful look back at the tome, I allow him to lead me by the hand once more. As we pass into the larger marquee, I feel an exhaustion take over. All of my energy, physically and mentally, seems drained. Even with Riel’s strong arm, I feel my knees buckle, my vision blurring. I have pushed myself farther than I can stand, though I have not even exerted myself. Confusion clouds what little is left of my conscious thoughts. In the distance I believe I can hear Riel, his voice frantic, worried; I feel myself falling, more mentally than anything. Riel would have caught my physical self, but I still feel the whirling of free fall, as though I had jumped from a high cliff towards glassy water. My mind smashes through the mirror of pure liquid, plunging me deep within my subconscious. I know that I am no longer “awake”.
My dreams, if you can call