Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
...To Be Continued...
Chapter 1
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From | Daughter of the Drackan | Book One of | Gyenona’s Children
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About the Author
Dedication
Acknowledgments
COPYRIGHT
Chapter 1
Wind howled outside the tower, punctuated only by the crash of waves against the rocky cliffs below. Nine men lined the walls of the circular room, Torrahs among them.
Lorraii had insisted she join them, though he’d given no such indication that she would be excluded. Her presence at Deeprock Spire had seemed to irritate the other members of the Brotherhood the most—more than Torrahs’ own return or the mysteries he’d brought with him, yet to be revealed. Not one of them had expressed this verbally, though they’d returned her scowls and shook their heads at each other in silent disapproval when she passed them in the halls. Torrahs had had little opportunity for private conversation with any of his Brothers; tonight marked the end of his and Lorraii’s cautionary confinement and the beginning of his opportunity to prove his claims. No doubt the woman would remain at his side, senses trained on his every move and whisper, until he ensured her the use of the training ground she so desired. She did not like waiting, and he also knew she did not wish to be on the other side of anyone’s secrets.
In the middle of the room was a solid wooden chair, all four legs chained and bolted to the floor. Within it sat Dehlyn. Her blonde hair hung limply beside her bowed head, and only once the sun had vanished below the horizon had the tears and terrified whimpers ceased. She had not seemed to notice the shackles clamping her wrists to the arms of the chair; the presence of eight strange old men had terrified her the most, Torrahs thought, especially when he had not responded to her childish pleas for help. Now, it seemed as if she slept, her hunched shoulders gently rising and falling. The mournful cries of the gales outside did not wake her, though they were louder in this tower than anywhere else in the Spire.
For nearly twenty minutes, she’d been this way. For nearly twenty minutes, Torrahs, Lorraii, and the Brotherhood had surrounded her, waiting in tense silence. He caught nervous Ambrous exchanging a questioning glance with Fortenu—the frowning, shuffling man with too much gut and too much caution. The only time Fortenu did not exercise such discretion, Torrahs mused, was when he filled his belly. The man had fattened grotesquely in Torrahs’ absence, and he’d also seemed to have stepped into whatever leadership role left vacant by Yelen’s passing. But Fortenu was easier to reason with than Yelen—more easily terrified and therefore more easily manipulated—and Torrahs was glad for the opportunity this shift provided.
Ambrous wrung his hands together, blinking profusely. Amidst the hushed whispers of morbid curiosity and rising impatience from the others, Fortenu turned his frown upon Torrahs. But when the man opened his mouth to speak—no doubt to question the validity of what their returned Brother promised—Torrahs raised his hand to silence him. The other man’s mouth hung agape, his glower momentarily erased by a wide-eyed surprise at such an unexpected personal offence. Torrahs wanted to smile, but he could not. Not yet. He merely gestured toward the woman confined in the chair. Fortenu cleared his throat, and his robe—of a red so dark it was nearly black—fought heartily against the strain of his bulging stomach at the forced sound. His eyes darted about the room, then landed upon Dehlyn, and his frown returned.
They waited, and finally, their captive stirred. Torrahs tightened his grip upon his staff. None of the Brothers needed such items for their work, though a few of them carried stones or small knives as talismans. Torrahs preferred the staff in particular; he found it a useful channel for his focus and his energies, and with it at his side at all times, it lent him the impression of a certain dependent feebleness. He and Yelen had at least thought alike in that regard.
An expectant hush replaced the doubtful restlessness in the tower, all eyes focused on the pale, blonde woman in chains. Her head rose slowly, deliberately, until she sat straighter in the chair than she had thus far. When she opened her eyes, they were no longer their usual pale blue but a striking, emerald green. They almost seemed to glow in the dimly lit room, but Torrahs conceded it might have only been anticipation fueling such a vision. Either way, she had undoubtedly changed into something else entirely.
Dehlyn turned in the chair as far as her bonds would allow, then glanced slowly about the room from one man to the next, as if assessing each of their lacking qualities. Then her gaze returned to Torrahs, who stood directly in front of her against the wall. “Tonight,” she said, her voice both controlled and overwhelmingly commanding, “you fail.”
Torrahs did not hesitate. “Begin,” he said and raised his staff.
The tower filled with the mumbling of old men at their incantations. They had not practiced such things in decades, and a sliver of doubt still remained as to whether or not they could rouse themselves from their own complacency. Still, Torrahs thought the information he’d given them and the woman he’d delivered to Deeprock Spire would be enough proof for the Brotherhood. Knifepoints, stones, and outstretched fingers all pointed toward the creature chained to the chair, no longer the woman-child but now some other being who took her form. Torrahs believed, after all he’d seen, that he’d uncovered and now possessed the vessel they’d all sought over countless years.
He studied the green-eyed Dehlyn, who did not seem in the least affected by the Brotherhood’s words. She watched them all again from beneath calm, stern brows, as though daring them to do their worst.
A flash of purple light flew from the knife in Ambrous’ twitching fingers and struck Dehlyn’s arm. Surprised by his own work, the coward flinched, wide-eyed, and withdrew his hand. It had nearly the same effect on the other Brothers, whose eyes moved from their target to the man who had attacked first. Fortunately, only Ambrous had ceased his muttered spell. Torrahs had not expected the man would be the first among them to harness his knowledge into successful action, but he could not allow the shock of it to distract the others.
“Continue,” he said, his voice rising just enough above the chaotic chorus of mumbled words to be heard. “Focus.”
The Brotherhood did as he bade them. Even Fortenu no longer balked at Torrahs’ assumed command in this. The low, guttural spells filled the tower, incomprehensible as they echoed against the stone yet sparking the energy of accessed power and fierce purpose. The hair on Torrahs’ arms and the back of his neck, even beneath his robe, prickled and stood on end. He pointed his staff at Dehlyn and joined his force to that of his Brothers.
Another beam of light, this tinged with silver, shot from the outer circle and hit Dehlyn in the shoulder, throwing her back against the chair. Still, she made no sound. Within seconds, a lightning storm of magic lit the tower’s highest room, flashing purple, silver, and electric blue. Spells of command and undoing—among others summoned with the aim of compulsion—crackled from each man against the wall, casting unnatural, flickering shadows over bodies, dark faces, and limbs outstretched in concentrated intensity. The flashes of light pummeled Dehly
n in her chair as though they were physical blows to her person. Face, wrists, shoulders, stomach—every part of her took the brunt of their combined attack until she thrashed in the chair like a panicking rabbit within a snare. Then she screamed.
The sound of it was otherworldly, reverberating against the stone walls as if the bowels of the earth themselves had opened to release a cry of rage. Torrahs thought for a moment that the tower itself shook before he realized the discordant howl merely vibrated the fibers within him. This only seemed to hearten the Brotherhood, renewing in them the vigor they’d lost with age. Their mumbled chants grew fierce and strong, until the volume of their voices nearly matched the violence of their power. Sweat beaded on creased brows, limbs trembled, but their concentration did not waver.
A column of white brilliance, brighter than any cast by the Brotherhood, shot through the center of the tower’s ceiling and momentarily blinded them. In its wake stood a massive amarach, arms outstretched and black wings extended until they nearly brushed the walls above their heads. The creature’s presence brought a number of scattered gasps from the chanting men, shocking them more than Ambrous having cast the first assault. But Torrahs had expected this.
“Do not stop,” he shouted above the din of their voices. He immediately resumed his own force of words, and it spurred his Brothers to do the same. Beside him, Lorraii drew her daggers.
The amarach’s orange eyes glowed with a ferocity Torrahs had not yet witnessed among the immortals, their vengeful light neither daunted nor dimmed by the blazing streaks of magic surrounding him. Then the being placed his hands upon Dehlyn’s bare shoulders, and instantly, the tortured pitching of her body ceased. Her haunting green eyes rested upon Torrahs once more, and she tilted her head ever so slightly; she gazed at him as though he were a child who’d burned his hand upon the stove after having been repeatedly warned. Then the glaring brilliance filled the tower once more, and both amarach and woman were gone.
The ensuing silence consumed the very air they breathed. A dreadful ringing filled Torrahs’ ears, and not even the howling gales outside registered within the void of sudden disappointment. Breathing heavily, the Brotherhood stared at the empty chair before them, which now boasted only a few wisps of smoke above the black, charred wood.
The knife fell from Ambrous’ hand and clattered against the stones at his feet, puncturing the stillness. Then the man slumped to the floor.
Chapter 2
Kherron woke with the sun and the weight of the amarach’s curved blade in his hand, now warm from holding it through the night. The fibers of his cloak glistened with cold dew, and when he uncovered himself, he used the knife to pierce a hole beside where the second clasp piece had ripped through the fabric. Hooking the remaining clasp through this would work for a time.
With a few bites of aged cheese, the heel of the second-to-last loaf of bread from his pack, and cool water in his belly, he stood from against the tree and took a moment to look around. What had started as his forest-hidden camp the night before had now become an inverted clearing, the tangled mass of unnaturally fallen trees at its center. He’d uprooted the circle of grown, mature trees in the fight for his life, nearly killing the amarach who had attacked him and surprising them both beyond measure. The evidence looked far less ominous now and more accidental in the morning light, though if anyone else traveled through this place, they’d be hard-pressed to decipher how such a thing had happened. But what others thought of what he’d done the night before was none of his concern.
He felt completely alone in the forest, the dawn birdsong and stirrings of nature’s creatures notwithstanding. The tickling sensation that had come over him just before his attacker arrived the night before did not return, nor did any other instinctual hint of danger he could not explain. For now, it seemed, the immediate threat had passed.
The knowledge of having driven away an immortal foe seemed to lighten the weight of his burden as he exited the forest and returned to the wide Watcher’s Road. When he’d stepped beyond Hephorai’s white city gates, laden with the knowledge of his duty and a bursting pack of rations—courtesy of Zerod Ophad—Kherron had thought himself completely at fate’s mercy. Once again, he had been wrong, but this time, he’d managed to prove that to himself. Some part of his odd effect on material objects came from his own will, whether intended or not. They moved in his presence, did impossible things, and up until he’d successfully staved off the amarach’s attack with the dagger, incited fire, and moved trees, he’d assumed their only intention had been to murder him. Though only a fraction of understanding had dawned on him—there had to be more to his strange ability than what he’d done the night before—it made him question the other times inanimate things had come to life around him.
Walking silently along the dirt road as the morning sun rose in front of him, he watched the changing colors of the sky and mentally catalogued those occurrences. Aside from the day he’d met Torrahs at the Iron Pit and his travels with Siobhas—the cat-man who changed his form from human to feline at will and had once carried the ability to change into many others—these things had only happened when he was alone. But each one left a bitter tinge of betrayal and confusion, like a dog that always obeyed its master’s commands suddenly lunging at the hand that fed it. This made him think of the packs of stray dogs roaming the alleys of Beliran.
He’d seen them fighting once, over a scrap of food one of the street urchins had offered a particularly mangy, emaciated mutt. Kherron couldn’t fathom what had possessed the young girl to try to feed something so unpredictable and feral, let alone share her scavenged meal. The mutt had approached her gently, as if it understood how frail they both were, and sniffed her hand. The other dogs noticed the exchange immediately and raced toward the child, slavering and baying in wild hunger. The lone mutt had jumped on the girl then, knocking her to the ground; it seemed the thing had quickly thrown aside its compassion in place of the primal instinct to survive and take what it could. But instead of attacking her, taking the food, and fleeing before the other strays could seize the opportunity, the animal turned to face the oncoming pack, hackles raised and a low growl of warning in its throat.
Kherron hadn’t stayed to watch what happened after that; there were too many urchins and too many strays to care about two of them, especially when he had his own belly to fill and his own survival at hand. Whether the mutt had succeeded in driving the others away or had fallen to their consuming desire to live, he’d never forgotten the strangeness of that exchange. He could vividly imagine what that young girl must have thought the moment the seemingly docile animal had leapt at her—everything had been fine, just as it should have, and then the thing attacked her. Most likely, she’d written the animal off as dangerous, lost to instinct, and never attempted such an act of kindness again. Or perhaps she forgave the thing for its violent performance in favor of thanking it for its protection, if indeed it had defended her from the feral pack.
Then it occurred to him that the same thing might apply to himself. If he were the urchin girl and the objects were the kind, hungry mutt who bowled her to the ground in an attempt to keep her from the more immediate danger—if indeed that had been the thing’s intent—then everything Kherron thought he knew of his strange effect on lifeless items, however little that might be, was wrong.
A skeptical laugh escaped him; the very thought was mad. Yet so was accepting the fact that he was at the center of the final celestial prophecy, foretold to bring the end to an amarach war and unbind them from their punishment. So was having understood, cared for, and protected a mind-addled woman-child, simultaneously giving his heart to the ancient woman who possessed her body in the night, holding more power over him than his own free will. So were men who turned into cats, and villages that disappeared in an instant, and tiny glowing fae who saw his memories and healed fatal wounds.
Kherron kicked up a spray of dust from the road and wiped the sweat from his brow, though the autumn season had be
gun and a cool breeze accompanied him. Now was not the time for disbelief. He had to stop denying what his senses told him, had to stop trying to squeeze his life into a tidy package of logic and reason. The world was nothing like he’d imagined, whether despite him or because of him, and the more he tried to make sense of it, the faster his failure would consume him.
After everything he’d been through, he deserved to put aside his natural inclination to rationalize—and to fight what he didn’t understand. The thought of being aided by objects—the amarach’s Sky Metal dagger tucked into his belt, the trees, the fire, the rain, anything that had moved on its own without his conscious intention—made the unknown before him that much less overwhelming. He still didn’t know how to incite that aid, or even why it existed. But if he agreed to acknowledge this new understanding, he’d have more than unreliable luck and his bare fists at his disposal. And it would give him something to focus on while he traveled east to the Amneas Sea and Deeprock Spire, pulled by his unrelenting vow to find Dehlyn and protect her. Letting his mind wander would only end in more shame and fear.
Again, Kherron wished for a guide—someone to show him how he might tap into the things he could do. But not even Mirahl or Zerod had seen before what they knew of him; if an immortal and a man who’d dedicated his life to the study of unnatural things in the world could not enlighten him, he doubted anyone else could.
That left him with one teacher—himself. He’d hardly experienced learning anything on his own, let alone in subjects of his own choosing. Feeling a rising flutter of anticipation in his stomach, he glanced down again at the dirt and pebbles of the road he traveled. The boulder that had rumbled down the hill toward him and Siobhas on their journey to Hephorai had indeed been one of those objects; perhaps dirt and earth were no different.
“Move,” he muttered. Then he stopped and focused on a piece of the road. “Move.” He waved his hands as if shooing away an animal in his path, thinking gestures might be a part of it. Nothing happened. The night before, the trees had slammed to the ground toward his amarach attacker when he’d mimed throwing a weapon, yet the dirt road remained as it was meant to be. But the trees had also responded to something within him—the rage he’d felt and the murmur of a dormant force, both fragile and incredibly fierce. Kherron had heard them reply to his request, though he did not know what that had been or how he’d made it. Still, he distinctly felt the lack of that sensation now, of whatever connection he’d made to rouse such action from the forest.
Secret of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 2) Page 1