“Turquin,” the girl's voice pleaded, “We're not supposed to be here!”

“Just a little farther, Lothaea,” her brother replied, “I want to see where that light is coming from.”

“You know what Father said about the Llani Caves,” Lothaea said, cautiously picking her way over the rugged stones in her brother's wake, “They're bright only until you try and find the beauty for yourself. Then everything becomes norked – dark,” she translated with a shudder.

Turquin turned back with a short sigh and held out his hand.

“I don't want the light for me,” he said, helping Lothaea up onto the stone beside him, “But yesterday I heard Master Mithehlor talking to himself about how if he could only find the source of Llani's brightness he-” and here Turquin's voice caught in his throat. After a brief pause the boy swallowed and gazing into the distant darkness murmured, “He could make Mother well again.”

“You know master Mithehlor has said things like that before,” Lothaea replied, taking her brother's hand with a pleading expression, “And each venture has turned to naught! Those heroes who set out bravely to find the cure are either lost, or when they return carrying their prize it is proven to be worthless.”

For a moment's silence Turquin stood, gazing into the further shadows after that single point of shimmering light. He knew Lothaea was right and that he should turn back before something happened, but the thought, the hope of a cure flickered brightly in his heart. If he could just find the light! Perhaps it was simply a hole in the cave's side that let in that brilliant ray through the face of some gem, or the rippling flow of a small water fall. Maybe even a flame that burned on, year after year as it had done down through the ages since time began.

“Or since someone lit it, and if someone did wouldn't they have had to go back there with the flame? There must be a way,” he thought. A quiet word broke the tense stillness,

“Farther,” Turquin said, gazing after the light, “Just a little farther, then if the light does not grow we can go home.” and turning to his little sister he smiled, “Deal?”

Lothaea paused, uncertainty clouding her eyes and causing her entire tiny face to turn downwards in a frown. At last she gave a shaky sigh and a faint, uneasy smile lit her countenance.

“Deal. But when we go home you must promise me we'll – you'll – never come back here without Father or one of the Vigilants,” she said.

“Absolutely,” Turquin replied absently before turning and stepping down from the large gray stone onto the pebbled floor beneath. He heard Lothaea as she followed quietly behind him, her light, soft-leather shod footfalls whispering gently into the stillness. His own sturdy booted steps sounded rather horse-like next to her dainty tread, but then he was two whole years older than her and at least three hands taller. At twelve winters and head-high to his father's shoulder Turquin already deemed himself a man, disdaining to play dolls with Lothaea as he once had and spending most of his days conversing with the various guards that were stationed around his father's palace. He was seldom to be seen anymore in the palace gardens or library as he had before his twelfth birthday. Now his hours were spent in and amongst the horse-trainers, stables, armory, smith's-shop, soldier's barracks and wherever he could find a Vigilant on break. These quiet, grim members of the Lostrisaen Vigil had become Turquin's heroes and, someday, he promised himself, he would be just like one of them.

“Turquin?” Lothaea's voice sounded, bringing him back to the present, “Turquin? Are you there? Turquin!” her voice rose with panic, “Turquin, come back! Don't leave me here. Turquin?”

At her first call Turquin had turned around and espied her small, cream-clad figure at a very short distance behind him.

“I'm here, Lothaea,” he called, running back to her, “Lothaea, look up! I'm right here.” and a laughter filled his voice. What game was she playing now? Still she did not reply, only stood, looking about her and blinking owlishly.

“T-turquin,” she whispered, a single tear trickling down her face, “You promised.”

“Lothaea,” he said, reaching her and putting his hands on her shoulders, “I'm right here. Can't you see me? Stop this nonsense, we still have further to go.”

She did not respond and instead stood, trembling with fear, one hand raised as if to feel the darkness around her.

“I cannot see, I cannot see, Turquin?” she murmured, waving the hand slowly back and forth.

“Lothaea,” Turquin said, his voice now exasperated, “Stop it. You can see, I'm right here! Look, over my shoulder, don't you see the light?” and so saying he turned. A piercing scream tore the silence, shattering Turquin's confidence into a thousand pieces which scattered before a frigid wind. Stark terror stared wildly from his widened eyes and up into the gleaming eye of the creature before him. The shimmering light he had seen before was now nearer, so near he could almost feel its piercing light burn into him. A tower of darkness filled the cave before him and in the center the light gleamed out from a single, unblinking eye. Another shriek rent the silence, jolting Turquin out of the creature's gaze as the monster's, and not Lothaea's voice, pierced his thoughts.

“Run!” Turquin shouted, turning his back on the swiftly billowing darkness. He snatched Lothaea's hand out of the air, energy of fear surging into his legs as he broke into a sprint. A dead weight suddenly pulled on his arm and spinning 'round he saw Lothaea lying full-length on the floor.

“Lothaea, get up!” he screamed, stumbling to his knees beside her and trying to heave his sister to her feet. Lothaea did not respond but lay, eyes wide, mouth slightly open and entire body rigid with fear as her gaze remained fixed on the gleaming eye above them. Turquin glanced over his shoulder into the darkness at his back but did not look into the gigantic eye that now loomed almost directly overhead. Slipping one arm under Lothaea's shoulders and the other under her legs Turquin staggered to his feet, gasping as the air around them thickened with a sickly sweet smell. He had to get them out!

Again the creature's shriek sounded, and a wave of impenetrable shadows rolled across Turquin's path, blocking the way out. Without a second's hesitation Turquin plunged in, forging ahead through the clinging darkness at a stumbling run. Quickly his arms grew weary and a pain like fire coursed up and down his straining legs.

“Father! Father!” he shouted, as another shriek and wave of darkness accosted him, “Father!” and a blow to the back sent him sprawling to the stony floor. As he fell Turquin twisted sideways, Lothaea landing on top of him as he protected her from being scraped by the rough stone.

“Let me go,” he heard her voice murmur softly in his ear, “Let me go, I mustn't stay here. The law has been broken, I must pay the life-penalty.”

“No! Lothaea, wake up!” Turquin shouted, clasping her close as she struggled weakly in his arms, “Come back! Please come back,” a sob shook his voice as he whispered in her ear, “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Let me save you.”

Turquin could not tell if she had heard him, but the struggling ceased and she lay, eyes tightly shut, breathing deeply and evenly as if lost in sleep. A low hiss shivered the sudden quiet, slicing through the thunder of Turquin's pounding heart. Carefully, he pushed Lothaea off him, laying her gently on the cold floor before standing and turning t face the surrounding darkness.

“I'm not afraid of you!” he shouted, drawing his small dagger and holding it above him. A bright green light flickered along the magical blade, illuminating the blackness thickened air and dispelling the stifling shadows. Then he saw it. A huge black head, shaped like a dragon's but three times larger with a single gleaming eye staring directly at him out of the center of its forehead. Again the low hiss and a wave of fear chilled Turquin's heart, causing his hand to tremble. He stepped back a half-pace, eyes fixed on the enormous creature before him. It rose, the towering body of a giant serpent uncoiling from the surrounding darkness to lift the monster's head towards the cave's roof as its unblinking, unmoving eye never left his face. Another step back and Turquin's foot tread on a corner of Lothaea's dress. He glanced down into his little sister's face, so calm and peaceful as she slept through the terror. A sinking despair threatened to engulf his small, wavering hope and he realize, with a pang, that she had been right all along. They should never have come.

“This is my fault,” he whispered, his dagger-wielding hand lowering to hang at his side. He shook his head, eyes blurring with tears, “I'm so sorry, Lothaea. It's my fault. I should have listened to you.” a silence ensued, broken several moments later by the great serpent's menacing hiss. Shaking his head Turquin dashed the tears from his eyes with his free hand as, in the other, he held aloft his dagger once more. He did not know what law had been broken, nor did he understand why the crime was deserving of death, but he knew that he could never hope to win a battle with the creature behind him. Yet he still might save Lothaea's life.

“Serpent!” he shouted, turning to look up into the terrible beast's eye, “We should never have come, and I know that. I knew it before we came and it was I who brought us here. Lothaea is not to blame.”

He strode forward, continuing to hold the dagger aloft.

“Leave my sister be, she hasn't done anything wrong!” he continued, “I alone am to blame. Please, just let her go.”

The enormous head above him seemed to pause, its single eye ever fixed on his face as he drew nearer. Lowering his arm Turquin allowed the dagger to slip from his hand. It fell, with a short clatter, to the stone floor. Unarmed before the great creature Turquin stood. Slowly the serpent lowered its head until it hovered just above the floor, less than three feet before Turquin and just on eye-level.

“In the name of my father and his father and his father before him,” Turquin murmured, “In the name of my mother and her mother and her mother before her. In the name of Loelyon, Giver of all creatures' breath,” a single tear tracing its salty line down his dusty face, “And in the name of all that living creatures hold dear – the sun, the moon, the water and the breath. Please,” he slowly shook his head, “Take my life, but let my sister go.”

Another low hiss broke the stillness and the creature opened its mouth.

“Iemma!” a voice sounded and a bright light exploded in the thick darkness. Turquin was thrown back as the serpent lunged forward, snapping its mouth shut just an inch from his face before jerking upright as the voice continued.

“Arsinera lenak, Innorked,” it said, rolling like billows of the sea in an ancient, unknown tongue, “Aer mireno flur turath saithal!”

The serpent, at first transfixed by the words spoken, now moved. Turquin looked up from where he had landed on the floor and watched, eyes wide as the enormous black coils began receding into the darkness. As suddenly as it had blossomed the light faded, dwindling to a small golden glow behind where Turquin lay.

“Turquin,” the voice sounded, this time softly. Turquin gasped and rolling over, rose shakily to his knees.

“Father!” he exclaimed as a pair of strong arms swept him into their embrace.

“You brave fool,” his father's voice murmured into his ear as he threw his arms around his father's neck.

“No, Father,” he whispered, trembling as the adrenalin faded away and the terror of what he had just been through began to shake his every limb, “No, I am not brave, but I am a fool.”

Turquin's father said nothing, only clasping his son closer for a brief moment before setting him down on his own two feet and kneeling beside Lothaea's still form. Turquin stood, trembling with fatigue and shaking with stifled sobs, watching as his father gently felt Lothaea's brow and listened to her heart-beat. After a pause Turquin's father carefully wrapped Lothaea in his cloak and lifted her from the floor, cradling her in his arms.

“She will be well,” he said and glanced to his left, “Help your brother, Ornun.”

Out of the shadows behind Turquin's father another tall, familiar form stepped and stooping down, lifted the single golden lantern from the floor. Walking forward Ornun swept the cloak from his own shoulder's, wrapping it around Turquin's trembling form.

“Come, little brother,” Ornun said, smiling, “Let's take you home.”

And all four walked, carefully and quietly, out of the Llani Caves.