Page 101 of To Scale the Emerald Mountain
Lightning strikes, golden light briefly flashing as rain patters against the glass windows.
Alec lifts the book, his fingers splayed against the ancient binding. He cocks a brow at me in question, waiting for my permission to read the story. Kraeston watches us stoically, the willowbane tree on the map peeking over his shoulder where he sits.
“Go on then,” I encourage.
A glimmer of a smile traces Alec’s lips before he begins reading, reciting the words rapidly in their original language—the timeless foreign words rolling off his tongue.
Something about it makes heat creep up my stomach and the burning fire around my heart dance joyfully. My lips part, a shaky breath sneaking past them.
Kraeston snorts a laugh, breaking me out of Alec’s trance and effectively decimating the strange mounting tension. “I think she was expecting you to read in a manner she understands,” he calls out, his amused tone only a shade too loud.
Alec looks up from the book, his ill hidden smile still lighting his eyes. “Of course. Apologies.” He then offers me a smirk, eyes roving over my form, aware of the reaction his stunt has pulled and telling me he isn’t sorry at all.
He clears his throat once, snapping me back to our task, and begins to read:
“In the heart of the forest, there lived an ermine.
“When the small stoat opened its beady eyes of liquid black, the Fates said, ‘We give you a white coat, so you will always know you are set apart.’
“And though not large or mighty, the ermine was cut above the rest.
“Throughout his realm, he fashioned himself a king. He forged a crown of nail and tooth before then resting atop his throne of twigs and leaves, the ruler of the forest.
“When the stoat said, ‘Live,’ his surroundings would transform; a boulder becoming a bird; a drop of rainwater becoming a chrysalis, its heart holding something new.
“And oh, how the King of the Forest’s children sang for him!
“But every time the sun folded to sleep, a new orchestra would arise, a great crescendo culminating at midnight. In the late hours, the ermine king was denied rest by the creaking chirp of night crickets and cicadas, calling to the darkness in a melody of praise, much the same as the birds of the day sang to the stoat.
“And then, so came a storm; a companion of the night; an idol born anew.
“The earthen smell of ether and rain blanketed the forest with its sultry arrival. Roiling clouds smothered the sky and thunderclaps shook the world, pulling even the stoat’s creations of light from their evening slumber, waking them to see glazed green of wet leaves. Thestoat tried to calm the cawing and baying of his children; their frantic dance moving in time to the forks of static light racing across the sky.
“Madness gleamed in their glassy eyes, unseeing for anything but the power of the storm.
“And when morning light came again, yellow rays of sun presented a mosaic of death, the creatures lying dead on the forest floor at their creator and king’s feet, their racing hearts failing in the frenzy of the storm.
“A stain of brown soaked across the ermine’s back, marring it away from its pristine white shine, the truth of his children’s awe of another too much for him to bear.
“At least you are close to me again, the ermine thought with resentment as a burial was performed during another night storm, a mockery of a ceremony to show the rain and the night that his children would sing and dance for them no more.
“The ermine made its bitterness its own song, sitting alone atop his decaying throne, the leaves long since brittled and browned. Each tainted note that he hummed to himself staining his coat darker from root to tip. But still, he found consolation in his children entombed at his feet.
“Until up from the ground covering the corpses came shoots of tender green grass. Tight blooms of flowers towered between the stalks, new life blossoming despite the ermine demanding his children stay dead, finding fertility even in death.
“The stoat’s crown of tooth and nail twisted—a halo of claw and fang—blood from gnashing wounds dripping in his eyes and tinting them red. And though he created again, his new children were only shadows of his once lively creatures, melding and morphing them to adhere to his bitterness, to have no voices to sing at all,until all that was left was a shroud of darkness and hate around what was once a kind heart.”
Alec finishes reading the fable, softly closing the book and placing it back on the floor by my knee.
My blood races, beating loud in my ears. “A heart shrouded in darkness—as in an emerald in a cave?” If I hadn’t had that vision, the story would have been far too vague for me to come to this conclusion. My heart races at this clue to where the emerald was hidden. Had Locane pieced together anything of true value from this story?
“I would say so,” Alec says, his voice tight.
Picking up the book, I quickly thumb through the pages, easily picking out the stories relating to the other four gems, given the heavily featured colors of blue, red, white, and purple, all interspersed between other stories. “Do the others give mention of where they might be found?”
Kraeston kneels beside me, gently closing the book and taking one of my shaking hands in his own. “Slow down, Elly. One step at a time.”
I open my mouth to argue, wanting to know more, wanting everything, but Alec stops me, his muffled words coming from between his hands covering his face—clearly exhausted. “He is right, my clove. That is enough for now.”
