Ageless Fury

by S L Matthews

  “What about Dandrik’s brother,” her mother said, her focus quickly returning to their argument. “He said we should talk to Adagi as soon as we got to Feathermoon.” She stepped toward the slit in their tent, pulling against one flap. Muddy footsteps and whispered voices filled the tent, the portal to Feathermoon’s streets now opened ever so slightly.

  Eramus scoffed, throwing a stack of papers onto the floor. “Celien, can you really trust that man? You know the reputation he has. Besides, one of the Saracian herbalists mentioned he was up north now, in Ander’s Watch” He rifled through a leather-bound notebook, thumbing frantically through page after page until planting the book down upon the table.

  “Ander’s what?” Celien added, visibly frustrated. It proved difficult to break the pensive man’s course, but after enough persistence, Marina’s father finally relented. “Oh, it’s a camp, like Feathermoon. Outside Kir’Anora.”

  Marina watched as her mother’s mouth grew impossibly wide. Celien’s bowl slipped from her hands, crashing into the floor. The scent of lamb and thyme nearly choked Marina, who fought valiantly to keep it down.

  “Eramus,” she whispered, her gaze shooting to the streets of Feathermoon. “Syndra told me—Kir’Anora. It can’t be a coincidence!”

  Eramus thrust a finger onto the page and tugged at Celien’s elbow, pulling her away from the street. “Diadem of Ilythyr,” he said, bringing his voice to a dull whisper.

  Marina sat tall, twisting her head to see the drawing in her father’s notebook. Twelve perfect pearls, white as the sun, formed the ridge, bound by a large, obsidian centerpiece. Two wingless dragons wrapped around its band, their fangs sunk deep into its murky depths.

  That was it! Marina thought, clasping a hand over her mouth. She only saw it for a split second. It was dusty, parts of the band had rusted, and the orb had lost its luster, but that glance was all Marina needed.

  Her legs burned as scalding liquid poured down her thigh. Marina flinched, and a wooden bowl skipped across the floor, her lamb stew coating the sheets of her cot.

  Eramus snapped the notebook shut, and Celien jumped. “Oh, Rina,” her mother said. “You have to be careful. We don’t have much more.” She picked up the bowl and dabbed at the stew with her cloak, pulling it away from Marina’s legs. Her father looked to Celien’s empty bowl, joined alongside Marina’s. “She has to be careful?”

  Marina was in pain, yet relieved to discover the supply of stew was running low. Her curious gaze darted to her father. “That was it, wasn’t it?”

  She pointed to the notebook, then through the small slit in the tent door. “The tiara, err…dia—dem? That man.” Her eyes returned. “That was it!”

  Eramus sighed, his eyes growing solemn. “Is there anything you don’t notice, little one?” He chuckled, pushing the notebook further from sight. He covered it with more papers and tucked it under his cot, then grabbed his bowl of stew and offered it to Marina, much to her dismay.

  She wanted to refuse but hated seeing him upset, so once again, she offered a polite smile and took his bowl, pretending to enjoy its contents. Her parents, it would seem, took that as an invitation to resume their spat.

  “Think, Celien. What is a relic of the Kurodai, ancient kings and queens of Valshyr, doing in the hands of a man like that? And what is a man like that doing riding out of Feathermoon on a wagon heading west?” He tugged at his glasses once more, wiping them with his shirt sleeve. He reached for Celien’s arm and pulled her close, his eyes begging her to listen.

  “Kir’Anora,” Celien said, placing both hands on his shoulders. “Syndra said, we won’t find answers in Valshyr. What we need lies in those tombs. She was going to take me.”

  Eramus’s expression grew blank, the air escaping his chest. “You were—going to leave?”

  Marina’s parents both stared at one another in silence for an impossibly long time.

  “Umm, Mother? Father?” Marina whispered, realizing the only voice to break the silence would have to be hers.

  Eramus furrowed his brow, shaking his head and pointing his glasses in frustration. “We spent years assembling this expedition. How can you come all this way, only to leave when we finally get here?”

  Celien pulled away, backing against the edge of the tent. “You have to trust me, Era…”

  “Trust? You were the only one here I trusted, and you were going to leave without telling us!”

  Marina’s gaze drifted to her mother, hoping she would tell her father it was all a misunderstanding. “Mother?”

  Celien sighed, shaking her head. “We trust the expedition, I trust Syndra, and Cassien Ferael saved your daughter’s life.” She absently tossed Marina’s old bowl onto the table. It skipped across the edge and fell to the floor as Celien sank into her seat, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “I have to protect my family.” She grabbed his hand. “No one’s succeeded, Eramus. No one.”

  Marina’s father, however, snapped his hand away, lunging for the tent door. “We hand-picked the best scholars in Cyrea, in case you’ve forgotten! We traveled from all corners of Kel Doran to study this mist, to stop it before it destroys everything we hold dear.” He paced back and forth, more agitated than Marina had ever seen. “This was our dream, Celien—our dream.”

  Celien pulled at Eramus’s chin, her eyes begging him to understand. “That wagon carried criminals and a two-thousand-year-old artifact, stolen from a Kurodai tomb. We’ve been attacked by sabres that have been extinct for hundreds of years, Marina almost got trampled, and I had a knife pointed at my chest.” She pulled his gaze to meet hers, caressing his cheek. “The mist isn’t what we thought it would be. We were wrong, Eramus.”

  Marina’s mother stepped away, idly sifting through stacks of notes. “I can’t put you two in any more danger.”

  Silence fell over the tent, and Marina failed to comprehend her mother’s words. Her gaze bounced between her parents, desperate for one of them to make sense of the madness.

  Eramus broke the silence, an eerie calm returning to his voice. “You were going to leave with that sentinel. Do you trust her?”

  A gentle smile crept across Celien’s mouth. “I—have to.”

  Marina’s father laughed and shook his head, standing in silence. Worry crept into Marina’s heart. She knew when he was mad. She was no longer concerned about the stew or the tiara. She no longer cared where her family went. She just wanted the argument to stop.

  “Mother? Father? It’s oka…”

  “How can you do this to us?” Eramus asked, pulling the glasses from his nose.

  Celien’s voice softened, rushing to comfort Eramus. “It’s okay, dear. You and Marina will be safe here. It’ll be just like back at home.”

  Eramus turned to meet his wife. He gently extended his hand, running a finger along the bloodied slit in her tunic. “I’m sorry, Celien. It’s not okay, and this isn’t home.”

  Celien’s mouth quivered. Tears formed along her eyes, and she covered her mouth. She glanced to Marina before turning and bursting through the tent door, into the muddy streets of Feathermoon.

  Eramus turned his back to Marina, pretending to thumb through his notes while he suppressed the tears that threatened. Celien had never stormed out on him—ever. He opened the notebook, mindlessly thumbing through page after page.

  “Father?” Marina questioned, concern ringing through her words.

  Eramus didn’t turn.

  Drawings, doodles, and pages of notes fluttered past his eyes until they landed on a detailed sketch: a regal woman dressed in royal robes. She wore a silvered tiara, jeweled earrings, and a polished, onyx amulet.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Marina continued, not accepting silence as an answer.

  Eramus knew every curve of that tiara, even if he had only held it for a moment. He was angry for bringing his family to this place. He was angry for every reason his wife stood up for something, and for every reason she was right.

  “Father!” Marina demanded
.

  Eramus jumped, startled at her words. He grabbed the notebook and spun to meet Marina. She stood in front of her cot, hands upon her hips, looking just like her mother.

  “She was right, Marina,” Eramus said. He opened the notebook and held it before his daughter. “This isn’t what we thought. She wants to protect you—protect us. Those men stole a…”

  Eramus snapped his head as a muffled noise echoed from outside their tent. Footprints tapped against the muddy ground, drawing quieter with each step. A shadowed form crept along the edge of the tent, given life by the braziers dotting the street.

  His pulse quickened, and he brought a finger to his lips, snapping his gaze to Marina. Eramus slowly nodded his head. Marina responded, vaulting over her cot. She dug into her pack and cloak, scattering their contents into the corner of the tent. Her frantic search came up empty, however, and her expression grew desperate.

  Eramus dove into their cases, searching for a weapon—any weapon. He pushed aside clothes, scrolls, and books, looking for anything that would suffice.

  A cool breeze leeched through the tent, accompanied by the flap of the tent door. A chill shot up Eramus’s back. He was on his hands and knees, his back to the door, and a shadowed figure stood at the entrance to their tent, silent.

  A ghostly voice whispered. “Eramus.”

  “Mother!” Marina called out, bolting from behind her cot. Eramus spun to find Celien standing in the doorway, sweat beading from her forehead. Her skin was pale, and she looked feverish. As Marina ran into her, arms outstretched, Celien barely supported the weight of the blow.

  She leaned against the tent, snapping the flap free from the poles. Her body crashed into the table, sending pages and notebooks high into the air.

  “Celien!”

  Eramus rushed to her side while Marina’s arms wrapped around her mother, a look of shock draped across her face. Her expression turned to horror as her gaze fell upon a small circle of blood growing ever wider across her mother’s back.

  Marina screamed.

  Eramus jumped to Celien, resting her head on his lap. He dabbed at the wound, afraid to touch it, but knowing he needed to apply pressure. He pressed against Celien’s back, eliciting a dull groan from his wife. Her body went limp as another pool of blood formed on the floor of the tent.

  Marina screamed again.

  Eramus tugged at his daughter, pulling her terrified eyes away from her mother.

  “Marina! I need to get help,” he said, fighting to keep his daughter’s attention. Tears continued to stream down the girl’s face, oblivious to the words coming from his mouth.

  “Marina!” he called again. “I need you to be strong. She needs you.” He pulled at Marina’s hands and placed them on Celien’s wound, pressing into her back. “You must push, Marina. Push and don’t stop, for any reason.”

  Marina nodded through the tears, unfolding her fingers and leaning into her mother. Eramus ripped at the tent flap and stormed into the muddy streets. Dozens of onlookers had gathered around their tent, drawn by the frantic calls and the terrified screams. Scattered snowflakes drifted through the air, and Eramus sensed the steam that billowed from his breath. He turned, desperately seeking the one thing that could help Celien.

  “Syndra!” he screamed.

  | Chapter XVIII

  The Calling

  “Stop!” Ava screamed. Dust fell from the rafters and walls rattled. Glass slid from tables and crashed into the floor while the chaos of the tavern came to a halt. Weapons stood poised to strike, yet all eyes had turned, their amazement landing on the young woman near the back of the inn. A cloak of silence fell over the room as Viktor opened his lecherous mouth.

  “I thought you would try something stupid, bitch.” He twisted the dagger, eliciting another painful grimace from his captive. “You will surrender yourself to Captain Ferael, you will be arrested and sentenced to death, and you will do so peacefully, or this assassin will meet the same fate as the last one you sent.”

  Ava stepped forward, her lethal gaze locked onto Viktor. Cyrean soldiers reformed their lines while Cambrian and Huntsmen forces cautiously withdrew, weapons drawn.

  A shadowed form emerged from Ava’s path of escape, the hallway leading to the back of the inn. A soaked man with a scarred face and a grave scowl stepped into the light, a bloody cutlass gripped in his outstretched hand.

  Jorel stepped forward, bewilderment stretched across his face. He snarled at the line of mercenaries, Cambrian soldiers, and Huntsmen.

  “The fuck is going on here?”

  As his gaze fell upon Rowan and the Cyrean soldiers, however, his eyes softened. He gulped, and his sword lowered. Jorel reached for Ava’s tunic, pulling her attention away from Viktor. He lowered his voice, pulling her closer. “’ave you seen Taryn? Coop and I, well, we need to ask ‘im somethin’.”

  “Taryn?” came a stern, unyielding voice. Rowan eyed Jorel, a malicious expression draped across his face. “Was that his name? The skinny one that screamed like a damn girl?” A wry smile etched its way into Rowan’s mouth while he twisted the blade in Ava’s mind. “The look on his poor face. Priceless,” he added, baring a wicked grin.

  Heat welled within Ava. She jerked her arm from Jorel’s grasp and squared her feet. “What did you do to him?”

  Rowan bellowed, patting himself on the chest. “What was it he was screaming in the water, crying like a baby?” He stepped in front of Ava and stared down at her. “Ara? Eva, was it?” He lowered his shoulders, coming to eye level, and with a devilish grin, said, “oh, right — Ava.”

  Ava forged a fist, locking her gaze to Rowan. “What did you do?”

  Rowan’s wicked grin grew, stepping closer to Jorel. “A stranger arrived in town, and the Promenade set sail…seemed like a good opportunity to go fishing. And guess what we found.”

  “You set us up!” Jorel shouted, shoving Rowan to the side. “Ava, it was a trap.”

  Rowan threw back his head in laughter, eliciting similar reactions from his men. Within an instant, however, his expression snapped back to the snarling mercenary she dealt with earlier. “You see, Ava. Pirates are a lot like rats. Sometimes, the best way to catch a rat is to throw out a big piece of cheese.”

  Ava’s confusion deepened while her thoughts turned darker. She turned once again to Rowan, asking, “You were after—pirates?”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.” Rowan snarled. “We know what the Promenade was doing out there, and you know what I was doing out there.” His gaze fell upon Jorel, and his wicked grin turned to contempt.

  “You should ask yourself—what was he doing out there.”

  Countless stories between Cooper and Jorel flooded Ava’s thoughts. She turned to Jorel, his head hanging, and his shoulders stooped.

  “You’re—a pirate?” came the softest whisper from Ava’s lips. Jorel’s gaze quickly faltered. Her words were delicate, yet stern. They were unassuming, yet carried the full weight of judgment. The air escaped Jorel’s chest, and his shoulders sank to the floor. Ava grabbed his chin, forcing him to look her in the eye. His gaze bounced around the inn, from patron to patron. Hers did not. Her jaw quivered while her eyes asked questions her lips dare not mention.

  “Well?” she persisted.

  She maintained her gaze while Jorel struggled to find words. Her innocent expression went from questioning, to concerned, to enraged, all in the time it took a single noise to fall from Jorel’s mouth. Even as he opened his lips, she knew there wasn’t a single word that would calm the storm in her heart: a storm that would erupt, whether he told her the truth or not.

  Jorel shook his head, and Ava sensed his frustration building. His brow furrowed, stretching his scar into a tight ridge across his forehead.

  “We was just doin’ what you all were thinkin’,” Jorel bellowed, flashing his crooked, scarred gaze across the inn. “They was all leavin’ us. To fight, to die, to starve. Don’t tell me none of y’all thought the same thing. The ones with mo
ney, leave. The ones with balls, the ones willing to try. We stayed.”

  Viktor’s haunting voice boomed from the stairwell. “They were surviving—as are we all.” She heard his footsteps, climbing higher onto the stairs, no doubt another opportunity to play to his audience. “How do you think this town survived? No merchants, no caravans, barely a ship in our docks.”

  Ava refused to turn, refused to take her eyes off her friend. He, in turn, couldn’t look her in the eye to save his own life.

  “Your king wished it, and this man made it happen. The money and goods that were stolen from our fair city were returned. They paid for your food, your shelter—your lives.”

  Viktor clapped his hands, and many of his sheep followed suit. “To our best privateer, Captain Cooper Quinn. And of course, his first mate.” A round of applause echoed from the rafters, and Ava’s blood boiled. She stepped closer to Jorel, daring him to return her lethal gaze.

  “So you and Cooper, you’re both…” Ava couldn’t finish the question, refusing to repeat the word. “You work—for him?” Her teeth clenched, and an unstoppable heat rose throughout her body. She looked upon him in horror. There was a nightmare she had reserved for one man in this world, a world Cooper and Jorel were now part of. She stepped to within inches of Jorel’s face, afraid of the answer that would come.

  “The Promenade? Taryn?” she whispered. “It was you?”

  Jorel stuttered, fighting to explain.

  “It’s not like that, Ava.” He reached for her wrist, and she quickly snapped it from his hand. His voice grew panicked while he explained further. “It was all a lie.”

  Ava waved a finger to the line of Cyrean soldiers, snarling at Jorel. “Let me guess, they sent you looking for the stranger from Crossroads.” Her hand turned toward the obsidian rock of the fireplace. “They lured you out there for that damned amulet!”