THE PROMISE

In the days when the great sea dragons still plunged and howled in the wild dark icy waters of the bitter North Sea, Nikora, once prince of Vlessaholm, walked the restless shores of the island of his exile. Ceaselessly he walked, though the sun burnt his once fair skin and the wind whipped stinging sand and biting spray into his face and eyes. Stumbling over the rocky pathless shores, his haunted eyes stared out to sea, and his thin and haggard face was lined in concentration. He was listening.

Trembling with exhaustion, Nikora stopped, pushed long dark hair matted with salt and sand away from his face and turned his gaze inland to the castle that had been his summer palace. Once renowned for its comforts and pleasures, it was still a place of exquisite beauty, its colored spires and ornate gardens set like a jewel among the jagged pale grey cliffs that towered high above the crashing green-grey sea. Gilded now by the setting sun, the palace blazed in golden brilliance, but its beauty was a torment to Nikora, for it was empty.

Nikora turned back to the sea with a look of desolation in his eyes. The rolling of the surf pounded always in his ears, the smell of salt and fish and water stung his senses used to perfumed baths, exotic spices and delicately flavored foods. But these hardships were as nothing. He was alone here, left to die here, and the relentless loneliness was the one torture he could not endure.

His hollow eyes swept over the sea, but he saw nothing, for every sense was focused in him into listening. He had heard a voice, the heart-stopping sound of a voice singing. Many times he had heard it now, and it was this that he searched for without rest, this which drove him, half-dead, half-mad, to drag himself onward over the narrow, rocky beaches that rimmed the island below the steep stone cliffs. Did he hear it now?

Nikora ran toward the sound, as he had each time before, his heart pounding in his throat in fear and hope, the sand and his weariness dragging at each step. He ran near the edge of the sea, through tall vaulted arches and massive pillars carved from the rock by the relentless surf. He climbed over the remains of ancient cliffs, hills of shifting stones, some larger than himself, where brightly colored crabs scuttled away from him, dropping out of sight into dark tidal pools, and where one misstep could mean a dangerous fall. He listened intently as he ran, and still the wind carried bits of sound to him, sound that could only be singing.

Then, suddenly, the cliffs turned sharply across the beach to plunge into the sea. Nikora found his way blocked by a massive rock wall that rose fifty feet above him. There was no possible way around. He stood looking up, breathing hard, one hand on the wall, his other hand gripping his right side where it ached from his running. The singing was clearer here, but it came from beyond the wall.

The wall was sheer, rising straight up, but pocked with ridges and indentations. Nikora reached up and found a crevice that he could grip with his fingers. Heedless of pain, he began to climb, pulling himself up little by little. Soon the muscles began to cramp in his arms and legs, his fingers and toes were scraped and bleeding.

Twilight fell quickly as he climbed, shrouding the rock in dim light. Nikora felt for holds his eyes could no longer see. Without the sun, the wind blew cold across his sweat-soaked body, and he began to shiver. Still, he clung to the wall and climbed.

Frantic and panting, at last he reached the top and pulled himself onto a wide ledge. But there was nothing, no one, to be seen. Only the wind sang here in the falling darkness. Cold and lifeless, the wind moaned over the sea and rocks.

“No,” whispered Nikora. “No!” he screamed. He stood up upon the summit of that great wall of stone and screamed his furious disappointment, his cracked voice loud and shrill in the face of the wind, then lost in the crashing sea-spray.

“Damn you, Gaelij! Damn your warped and twisted mind! You should have killed me! You destroyed my kingdom, but that wasn't enough. You must have never-ending suffering to satisfy your evil hunger. I curse you!” he howled. “From the icy bowels of hell to the fiery arch of heaven, I curse you, Gaelij! I curse you!”

He covered his face with his blood-smeared hands and wept, his breathing racked with painful sobs. Dizziness came over him and he crumpled where he stood. Lying on top of the cold stone ledge, while darkness closed over him, he wept until at last he fell into that profound sleep of weariness and despair, and hoped to never wake.

But, in the moments before dawn, he woke, suddenly, every sense alert. He had heard something. Now he heard it again. It came to him over the morning mists, rising on the sun's first streamers of light, drawing him, calling him. It was close by.

With straining eyes and ears Nikora searched his surroundings. He was standing on one end of a towering formation of stone cliffs that rose straight up out of the deep ocean to form a semi-circular inlet. It was as if the sea had taken a monstrous bite out of the land here.

Nikora ran to the edge of the cliff and looked down. In several places, the cliff face had crumbled, leaving steep inclines of loose stones that ran down to a ledge just above the level of the sea. Far below, sitting among the flat stone slabs that littered the ledge, he saw her. Sitting on the wet grey rocks just above the spray, she was singing to the sea. She sang a song of calling; he could feel the power of her voice upon him as an almost physical force, pulling, magnetic, irresistible.

Nikora lowered himself over the edge of the cliff just above one of the collapsed inclines and dropped. He slid and fell as he hit the hill of treacherously shifting stones, but caught himself. He looked down at the girl. Her back was turned to him, she sang out to sea, and he could see only her hair that fell down her bare back. It was the color of moonlight on water and upon it was a sparkling net of droplets from the spray. She lifted her arms, bare and shining wet in the dawning sunlight in a gesture of supplication, and her song reached a crescendo of such longing that Nikora held tightly to the rocks to keep from falling.

Then with a roar, the waters in the small cove spouted upwards and broke, surging aside, as a great sea dragon rose from the deep. In the early sunlight, its scales glittered like a million brilliant gems, sapphire, amethyst, and emerald. Its rows of dagger-sharp teeth shone diamond bright within the ruby jaws as the sea poured off its sides in great rivers of foam. Nikora clung to the rocks, paralyzed with fear, but the girl held out her arms and the beast came and laid its huge head in her lap. She gently stroked its shining face, and laid her own face against it.

Fearfully, Nikora finished the climb down, his gaze riveted over his shoulder at the wondrous spectacle of the girl holding the deadly beast. At the bottom, he stood with his back braced against the cliff face to support his shaking legs and watched with amazement.

She began to sing again, this time a song of love. Her voice echoed and reverberated in the small cove with strange power and beauty. Nikora forgot all fear as his heart soared with her song, and broke, and soared again. All of love was in this song. All the joy of truest love joined and the pain of parting poured forth in her voice so that Nikora trembled where he stood and wiped tears away with his long black hair.

When the song ended, the dragon sighed and slid back into the deep. The girl sat silently, gazing after it. In a moment, Nikora realized, she too might disappear, leaving him alone again.

He must speak to her. He crept near her and suddenly saw she had the tail of a fish, and he knew then, he dared not see her face. He tried to turn away before he spoke, but he could not tear his gaze away from her shining hair.

“Don't go,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Please . . .”

The mermaid froze, she did not turn, but neither did she flee.

“I am alone here,” whispered Nikora. “Please don't go away. I can't bear it anymore. I am almost mad from the loneliness. Please, I beg you. Stay.”

The mermaid bowed her head. “I too know what it is to long for another,” she said. Her voice was as sweet and sad as her song had been.

“The dragon?” asked Nikora gently.

The mermaid sighed and her head bowed down even further. “We are cursed,” she said.

“Tell me,” said Nikora. “Your voice is so beautiful . . . the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.” Nikora crept nearer, staying behind her so that her face was hidden behind her silvery hair.

“My name is Cechelle,” she began in a low voice. “The dragon was my betrothed, Seylond. A year ago, I was captured by an evil sorcerer.”

Nikora stiffened with hatred. “And the name of this sorcerer . . . ?”

“. . . was Gaelij,” whispered Cechelle.

Nikora's hands tightened into fists at the sound of that vile name.

“He tried to force me . . .” She stopped and shuddered, but then spoke on. “He wanted me to be his wife. But I refused and resisted him because I loved Seylond, and at last, in anger, he cursed us both. Now Seylond is changed to a sea dragon, doomed to live where the dragons feed in the icy waters of the North where I cannot go. And I,” she paused and drew a ragged breath, “if ever I look upon any man other than Gaelij, shall be turned to stone.”

Nikora stood, hatred running hot within him. “I, too, have suffered for Gaelij's perverted pleasure. It is he who has trapped me here to die from insanity.” For a long moment only the crashing of the sea sounded around them as Nikora struggled against his burning rage and tried to think. “Can nothing end your evil enchantment then,” he asked finally.

“There may be one way,” answered Cechelle sadly. “Gaelij himself taunted me with the knowledge, so there may be no truth in it. But even if it were the truth, it would be impossible.” She shook her head and her moonlight hair shimmered down her back. “If the man I look at can, of his own free will, throw my stone self back into the sea, the spell will be broken and Seylond and I will be free.”

Nikora groaned inwardly, remembering tales he had heard. It was said that any mortal man who looked upon the face of a mermaid would be bound to her heart and soul. He would never be able to give her up though she was turned to stone. But surely, thought Nikora, since she must look at him, he could close his eyes . . .

He crept a step closer to the mermaid. “Cechelle,” he said, his voice shaking, “if I promise to do this thing for you, will you stay here . . . if I could only hear your voice, talk to you sometimes, so I would not go mad.”

Again, Cechelle shook her head. “I could not stay. Though I would owe you thanks beyond measure, Seylond and I must flee far from this place to escape Gaelij's wrath. There could be no safety for me here.”

Nikora stood in silence and stared bitterly out to sea. How could he not help her . . . how could he not go mad when he had let her go. He saw Cechelle's body trembling, heard her whisper, “I am sorry,” and he realized she was weeping.

Nikora went down on one knee behind her, wishing that he dared to touch her, to comfort her. He reached out his hand as if to touch her shoulder but then did not. “Don't cry,” he said gently, his heart suddenly aching more for her pain than his own. “I promise I will help you. Perhaps it will give my heart peace to know you are happy. Will you sing to me one last time before it is done, so that I can remember your voice in my loneliness?”

“I will gladly sing for you,” answered Cechelle, her voice breaking, “but how can you end this enchantment?”

“When you turn to look at me, I will close my eyes,” said Nikora, “and blind I will give you back to the sea.”

He saw Cechelle take a shuddering breath. “Perhaps that may work. But whether it does or not, you may pay for helping me with your life.”

“Yes!” said Nikora. “Let me meet that vile worm, Gaelij. I would rather die than live in this unending loneliness, and if I die, I hope to take him with me.”

Cechelle straightened and raised her head. “So let it be done,” she said. Then she lifted her voice and began to sing, softly at first then with gaining strength.

She sang old songs from the ages of beginning, of the deep warm secret places in the sea, of the sweet seductive voice of the moon which woos the waters, of haunting mysteries lost forever to the ancient mists that prowl upon the face of the ocean floor, and of undersea places and people of beauty unbroken.

Nikora still knelt behind her, transfixed by the power of her voice. It seemed to surround and engulf him. His head bowed down upon his knee and his eyes filled with tears as her song filled him with unspeakable joy. With all his heart he longed for it to never end.

And when at last it was ended, Nikora spoke with awe. “I will hear your voice always in my heart and it will comfort me. I thank you, for you have surely saved me from insanity.”

Cechelle turned toward him, her face averted and still hidden behind her silver hair, and held out her hand to him. “It is I who must thank you,” she said, “for what you are about to do. And I pray that we may all be free.”

Nikora took her hand and held it gently. “Goodbye,” he whispered. Then he bent and kissed her hand and sadly released her. He stood and stepped forward to stand at the very edge of the rocky shelf next to the mermaid and closed his eyes. “Now let this thing be done,” he said. “I am ready.”

Suddenly, driven by the winds that raced across the island or by some sinister unseen power, a great wave rose and fell crashing around Nikora's feet. In the same instant that Cechelle turned to look at him, Nikora's eyes flew open to save his balance against the raging force of the water.

For one brief moment their eyes met, and in that breath of time, Nikora saw in Cechelle's face and eyes the eternal depth and beauty of the living seas. Beauty beyond imagining met his gaze for a timeless instant, and then there was only grey stone and silence.

Nikora stood for a second shocked to the core of his being, then his face twisted with horror and he fell to his knees before the figure of the mermaid, grey and still as the rocks she sat upon. Sobbing, he cupped his hands around her face. “You are so beautiful,” he cried. “More beautiful even than your voice.”

He put his arms around her and lifted her, cradling her against his chest. Love illuminated his face, and then anguish. He kissed her face, her lips of stone still warm. Tenderly he stroked her hair and laid his head upon her breast. How could he give her up . . . and yet he must. He had promised.

He held her out above the sea to give her up, but his arms would not let her go. Her beauty held him without mercy. His loneliness compelled him to hold her forever, but his promise bound him to set her free.

Tortured, Nikora stood at the edge of the sea, his arms wrapped tightly around the stone sea maiden, struggling, his mind tearing apart, splintering like broken glass. He cried out in torment and the blackness of insanity engulfed him.

* * * * *

For three days Nikora sat in the gardens of his palace, gazing at the statue that stood in the center of one of the marble fountains there. It was a new statue, and how strange, he thought, that he could not remember how it came there. He marveled endlessly at the detail and the perfection of its beauty. Truly, it seemed sometimes as if it were a living thing, as if at any moment it would shake off the stillness that held it and reach out to him. And so he sat beside it, hour after hour, watching and waiting.

Now, it was the eyes that held him. They seemed to speak to him of things, terrible things he did not want to know, things that lay just beyond the reach of his memory. But cold fear crept into his mind with a numbing blankness and he could remember nothing. Instead, he gently reached out to touch the slender perfect hand and kissed the lovely haunting face. Then, from far below, from the foot of the cliffs before the sea, he heard a sound. Could it be a voice? Could it be the voice of the one he heard singing so often in his mind.

Leaping up, Nikora raced across the garden to the wall that overlooked the rocky cliffs. Directly below, a huge sea dragon had dragged itself half out of the water to lie exposed upon the beach. It lifted its head as Nikora watched and cried out in a voice laden with sorrow, a piercing wail that fell to a low chilling moan.

A look of horror passed over Nikora's face. The hair on his neck and arms stood up. His legs trembled so that he could hardly stand, and fear turned his stomach. Deep within him was the undeniable feeling that he must know something about this . . . that he did know why a great dragon of the icy North lay keening in grief below him. But the blackness of fear shadowed his mind and he could only cower, filled with dread, his shaking hands pressed over his ears and his contorted face hidden against the wall.

Behind him, across the garden, one, then two, small teardrops trickled down the face of the stone mermaid and fell silently into the pool below.

Then, the sound of evil laughter fell like a slap across the face of the garden. It filled the air, echoing back and forth across the cliffs, shattering windows in the castle. Nikora rose from where he had crouched in shame and turned his face, livid with rage, to the sky. With the force of a thunderclap, his broken mind snapped back together and he remembered. He remembered Gaelij, the mermaid, and his promise. The cruel laughter stung his mind, but he remembered everything.

With every ounce of his will, Nikora walked to the stone mermaid and lifted her in his arms. The shrill laughter tore at him, but he walked. Across the garden, down the carved stone stairs cut into the cliff, down to the sea, he walked, carrying Cechelle to make her free. He took no notice of how his heart and mind were breaking, pain became insignificant to him. He must do this or die. Gaelij must never win.

At the edge of the sea, there was no sign of the dragon. Nikora walked straight into the water until it reached his knees and then he gently lowered Cechelle into the rolling surf. Terrible pain seared his chest as he released her and he staggered, gasping for breath, back to the beach.

He fell on his knees, panting, clutching his heart with one hand, a look of bitter hatred on his face, for he had seen, even in his pain, that it had all been a lie. Cechelle was still a statue standing in the surf, not a mermaid swimming green and silver and free.

With effort, Nikora looked up. Above him the sky swirled and blackened, churning with angry storm clouds. The sea was dark, rising in fierce breakers that smashed against the rocks. There was no more laughter, only the loud furious hissing of the wind whipping across sea and stone.

Nikora forced himself to stand. A great black clot of storm was rushing across the sky toward him. Nikora summoned all his strength. He would die here, he knew, but if he could somehow find a way to destroy Gaelij, he would die as the Prince of Vlessaholm he had been born to be.

The black clot came upon him with a howl and hung above the sea before him. The cloud parted and Gaelij stood within it, sparks of lightning crackling around him. He raised his staff and pointed it at Nikora.

Nikora lifted his chin and met his enemy. He had no plan, all was clearly hopeless. But still he stood, proud and defiant in the face of death. He was a Prince.

Gaelij threw back his head and laughed. The evil sound darkened and poisoned the air. “So, my little prince, you thought you could win a victory over me.” He swung his staff and pointed to Nikora's left. “Look again.”

Nikora looked where he pointed and his heart twisted in him at what he saw. There, rocking slightly in the surf, was the stone mermaid, but now her face was disfigured, her body bent in some nameless unvoiced suffering.

Shaking with rage, Nikora turned back to face Gaelij. “Kill me!” he screamed. “Do what you want with me, but let her go!”

Gaelij laughed again and sparks flashed and burned around him with a acrid smell. “Oh, yes,” he laughed, his eyes burning into Nikora with fiery menace. “I intend to kill you. I grow weary of this little game. But, do not think that death will set you free. I have the power to bind you here...yes, even in death...and she will still be mine forever.”

Gaelij swung his staff in a wide arc over his head and aimed it at Nikora. Brilliant red and orange lightning streaked from the staff and surrounded Nikora in a crackling fiery cloud of sparks. Nikora screamed and fell.

In that same instant, the water below Gaelij's cloud burst skyward with a mighty roar, as the sea dragon shot from the sea in a tremendous leap, its long-toothed jaws gaping wide with murderous intent. The dragon seized Gaelij with one horrible snap of teeth and bone. All time and sound seemed to stop as the great beast fell in a slow grizzly arc back toward the water, until it hit the surface and carried Gaelij's severed body under with a thundering splash.

Slowly, the evil blackness faded and vanished from the sky, to be replaced by streams of clean sparkling sunlight. The sea was blue and clear, softly lapping at the shore. A peaceful hush settled over all.

Gentle hands helped lift Cechelle from the water. She opened her eyes and saw Seylond bending over her. With a cry of joy and relief, she clung to his neck for a moment, her eyes full of tears as she met his gaze.

On the beach, Nikora moaned once, then lay still. “We must help him,” she whispered, and Seylond nodded.

Cechelle pulled herself across the beach to Nikora's side. She turned her face away for a moment, for his body was badly burned. Then she bent and kissed his forehead and closed his eyes with a tender touch.

“He is dead,” she whispered to Seylond who came up beside her. “But his soul still lies trapped within him, I can feel it.”

“Gaelij meant to trap him here forever,” said Seylond. “Sing to him, Cechelle, tell him that he is free.”

Cechelle took Nikora's lifeless hand and held it to her cheek. Then she lifted her voice and sang. Out over all the island and far out to sea, her voice rang clear and golden in the newborn sunlight.

She sang of the air, of the boundless sky, of winds that blow from all the ends of the earth and never rest, of the dazzling colors that shimmer and dance upon the highest cloud-strewn paths where winged spirits walk, and of the stars that laugh and sing upon the very veils of heaven. She sang of wings of power, of soaring flight, and of freedom. And as she sang, a quiet mist began to grow and hover over the still form of Nikora. Pale and chill it was, at first, but it grew in shape and warmth. Skyward it rose, and Cechelle's song wove patterns of sunlight and rainbow around it as it shaped itself into wings and head and feathered tail.

As the song ended, a great white sea eagle circled twice above Cechelle and Seylond. Its grace and beauty were magnificent to behold. Turning in air on its wide white wings, the eagle's eyes searched out to sea as if it heard something from afar. Then with a final turn, it soared out over the sea and away.

Cechelle wiped tears from her face, laid Nikora's hands across his breast, and gazed after the eagle. Seylond put his arms around her. “He is free,” he said.

She smiled and nodded. “And look,” she said, pointing far out by the horizon where a group of eagles joined the lone one, riding the winds in a dizzying dance. “Now he is no longer alone.”

The End

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