“My father is,” Nora said softly.
“Yep. The only person whose opinion counts is your daddy. And there’s no way he’s giving up on his plans. No way at all.”
Nora’s shoulders drooped. “That wouldn’t have been the case in the past. Before he . . .” She trailed off.
“Before he what?”
Nora bit her lip and looked off to the side.
“Listen,” Hatlin said, his voice now edged with annoyance. “I don’t have the time to fly out here and meet with children every week, but I told you I’d do it anyway. You think I’m gonna share information with you if you’re holding back? You tell me what you know. I’ll do the same. Do we have a deal?”
Nora sat up straighter and met Hatlin’s gaze again. In a calm, clear voice, she explained her father’s brain-lysting capabilities. Krey had told Hatlin that the militia was mind controlled, but he’d never explained how that worked.
Hatlin’s mouth dropped open within the first minute of Nora’s explanation. When she finished, he licked his lips, swallowed, and shook his head. “Damn. I’m, uh . . . I’m glad to know that. Damn.”
Nora nodded. “We probably should’ve told you before.”
“Yeah, you should’ve. But at least I know now.” One of his thick eyebrows rose. “I’ve got time to warn a New Therroan who’s gonna start working in the palace tomorrow.”
Nora leaned forward. “You’re planting someone in the palace?”
“Yeah. She’ll clean the offices at night.” He tapped his temple. “She’s sharp. And she’s one of our few magic eaters. Dirt eater—good at it too. She’s keeping her talent secret.”
Nora spoke in a tense whisper. “She can’t let my father touch her.”
Hatlin nodded. “I’ll tell her.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of feathers. “I should go.” He shoved the feathers in his mouth and blew out his candle.
They stood, said quick goodbyes, and agreed to meet again the next week. Hatlin flew off.
Nora’s gaze lifted to the sky as they waited for Osmius. Ovrun watched her, admiring the way the moonlight outlined her profile. Her jaw was firm, her eyes focused and steady. He reached out and took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. “You’re so beautiful. And so strong.”
She grinned, her face relaxing as she turned to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I could say the same about you.”
She laid her head on his shoulder, and he stroked her hair. This Nora—relaxed limbs, her breaths timed to match his—she fit him perfectly.
The Nora who could easily negotiate with a trog leader four times her age or a man more than twice her size? Well, he admired her. To be honest, her confidence was a turn-on. Yet he still wasn’t sure he knew her. And while she certainly fit in his arms, he wasn’t sure he fit at her side.
He held her tighter, trying to find the words to express his concerns. Do you think there’s any way we can make this work? Give me some hope here, Nora, because my future is slipping through my fingers.
He bit back the words. He’d felt the stress of Nora’s responsibilities slide off her as soon as his arms came around her. No way was he going to throw another problem her way. Hey, Princess, I know you’re trying to keep your kingdom together, but can you also take a minute to figure out our relationship? He couldn’t do that to her.
“Osmius is coming,” Nora murmured.
Ovrun let go of her. He couldn’t help but feel this trip had been a failure.
11
Next year, Derogan schools will no longer have pallaball teams. I haven’t seen students get so angry since our cafeteria stopped serving coffee.
My opinion on this matter won’t make me popular, but I’m paid to be honest, so here goes. Every year, ten percent of student pallaball athletes are injured. It’s time we move past such violent sports.
You know where no one gets injured? The library. Turn the old pallaball court into a second library, and we’ll all be much happier.
At least I will be.
-“Trade Sports for Books” by Genta Ril
The Derogan Chronicle, dated Quari 17, 6293
“We are trogs!” Eira’s voice filled the air over the Star Clan’s fighting force of teens and adults.
The words made Nora shiver, which was odd, considering she wasn’t a trog. But standing here, in front of the large warehouse where the militia had been housed, she could pretend she was truly part of this clan.
From atop a small platform, Eira cried, “Trogs are brave! Trogs are fierce!” The crowd cheered, but she held up her hand, quieting them. “Trogs remember.” Her voice turned more thoughtful, just loud enough to reach those in the back. “We live in Deroga to remember those who come before. Those who live here when every street is full. The rest of Anyari may forget. Trogs remember.” Again, she shouted. “Will we let anyone rule us? Turn us into those who do not remember?”
“No!” the crowd cried.
“Will we let new leaders force their new-city ways on us?”
“No!”
“Trogs, will we fight?”
“Yes!”
“Today, we train!” Eira shouted. “When they come, we will be ready!”
When the cheers died down, the white-haired trog directed people to their practice locations. Those who had experience with bows left for an archery field. Ovrun waved to Nora as he jogged away. Experts with knives and swords moved down the street to drill and spar. Nora watched them go, wondering if arrows and blades would be enough. Too bad we don’t have more guns.
What they did have were lysters, both trog and former militia. Nora ran ahead and met them all at the warehouse’s large, open bay doors. Eira had asked her to organize this part of the training. “There’s fuel inside,” Nora said. “There’s even a bowl of shimshim blood for the healers, in case anyone gets hurt. Everybody eat up, then come back to the street to practice.”
She smiled as they all rushed in. Traditionally, trogs practiced their weapons or magic individually or in small groups. After meeting with Hatlin two days before, Nora had encouraged Eira to start public training days. “There may be more spies out there,” she’d said. “We want them to tell their officers just how capable trogs are. It may not keep the army away, but it’ll mess with their minds.”
“I know not if the army will hear of it,” Eira had said, “but it will be good for us. It will bring us together.” She’d even passed along the suggestion to the other clans.
Nora was about to enter when she realized Zeisha was still standing outside. “Is it tough, thinking about going back in there?” Nora asked.
Eyes wide as she gazed into the big space, Zeisha nodded.
A couple of the other former militia members in the room were hanging back, looking around with nervous expressions. Most of them, however, had rushed to a line of chests along one wall. “Check out all this fuel!” Isla cried. She was scooping soil out of a chest, shoving it in her mouth with a huge smile. Nearby, a trog watched her enthusiasm with a scowl.
Turning back to Zeisha, Nora said, “We came here because there’s still a lot of fuel left from when . . . you were using it before. But we could always move the chests to another building for our next training session.”
Zeisha shook her head, blinking rapidly. “It’s . . . it’s fine. I guess we should fuel up too, right?”
“Probably so.” Nora smiled.
Zeisha returned the gesture, but it looked forced. They both walked in but didn’t get far when Zeisha stopped. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as her head swiveled, taking in the whole room.
Ahead, Krey was approaching the fuel chests. Nora jogged up to him.
“I don’t suppose we have any ice,” he said.
“Actually, we do.” Nora pointed at a chest that was smaller than the others. “Eira gave us some from the little icehouse at the butcher.” Noting Krey’s slight shudder, she suppressed a laugh. He’d made it clear many times how much he hated being around dead
animals. He’d cook the meat, but he didn’t want to be around when she was cleaning a shimshim.
But she hadn’t approached him to talk about fuel or the butcher. She touched his arm. He turned. “Zeisha won’t say it out loud,” she murmured, “but she doesn’t want to be here.”
Krey sighed. “I should’ve thought of that myself. I’ll talk to her. And I’ll say it so you don’t have to: I’m an ass.” He gave her a rueful smile then stepped toward Zeisha.
Nora approached the ice chest. Four militia members and several trogs were already there, fueling up. “Do we have more than this?” someone asked her.
“No, but I’ll get us more later this week.” She’d already communicated with Osmius. He’d agreed to pick her up early on Friday, well before her meeting with Hatlin. He’d fly her to get more ice in the mountains.
Nora was almost done fueling when she noticed Zeisha and Krey kneeling next to a nearby chest. Zeisha was putting a piece of bark in her mouth, laughing at something Krey had said. Nora smiled and returned to fueling up. Before long, Krey joined her.
“Is she okay?” Nora asked.
“I think so. She’s always loved using her talent, but it makes her nervous now. She doesn’t get how the other militia members can be excited to be back here. She could barely walk in the building.”
“I hope you told her everyone handles hard times differently, and it’s okay that she’s struggling.”
“I did, or something like that. I’m not a complete idiot, you know.”
“Just a partial one?”
He chuckled. After eating a handful of ice, he said, “I’m hoping today will be good for her. Nothing stressful, just having fun with magic.”
Stomach full of ice, Nora moved away from the chest so others could finish fueling up. It felt good to get fuel back in her system, to feel the chill it sent through her body. At the same time, a seed of dread was growing in her gut as she thought about using her magic.
The last time she’d lysted, she’d formed a spike, hard as the stone itself. It had sliced her throat as she sent it toward—
No. We’re here to have fun. I’m not going to ruin that with bad memories.
Over half the lysters had already gone outside to start practicing. Nora was waiting for Krey and Zeisha. But it wouldn’t hurt to get a little head start, right?
She walked as quietly as she could, stopping just behind Krey. Dropping to a crouch, she catalyzed a little bit of fuel, forming cold, perfect snow in her throat. She opened her mouth and blew it on Krey’s neck.
He yelped—complete with an adolescent-sounding voice crack—and leapt to his feet, pivoting to face her. “You suck,” he said.
“Ooh, such an amazing insult.”
In a flash, his hand came up, stopped in front of her neck, and sent out a cascade of tiny ice balls. Some bounced off her neck and onto the floor. Others slid into her shirt, tracing frigid, wet lines down her warm skin. Her squeal seemed to bounce off every surface in the big room.
Krey’s uproarious laughter was interrupted when two vines grabbed his hands and pulled them behind his back. He swayed, nearly falling, and turned wide eyes on Zeisha, who’d sneaked up behind him. She gave him a big, sweet smile.
Nora snorted with laughter. “Well done.” She draped an arm around Zeisha’s shoulders and led her outside.
Krey followed, shouting, “Get these things off me!”
In the last couple of weeks, the trogs’ reactions to the so-called new-city folk had varied. Nora and her friends had gradually gained Eira’s trust. A few trogs, like Zeisha’s friend Kebi, had reached out in genuine friendship. Many, however, were wary or outright hostile.
But as the lysters—trog and new-city folk alike—trained together, something changed. Nora, Krey, and Zeisha set the tone with their impromptu ice-vine fight. When they joined the others outside, they brought along an atmosphere of fun.
Streams of fire vaporized ice balls in mid-flight. Krey, the only feather eater, gave people daring rides that made them scream—some in fear and others in glee. Soil lysters like Isla softened and hardened dirt with precise timing, locking people’s feet and ankles in the ground. Zeisha and other plant lysters kept their vines away from necks, instead tying people up or tripping them. Stone lysters sent clouds of tiny rocks into other lysters’ hands, interrupting their magic. The whole time, there was plenty of laughter—and enough scrapes, bruises, and mild burns to keep the two blood lysters busy.
The trogs had good reason to be leery of the newcomers. During the battle two weeks ago, the mind-controlled militia had killed several members of the Star Clan. Since then, Nora had been relieved every time she’d seen trogs displaying any trust in their new neighbors.
Today’s magical training was further shifting the dynamic between both groups. There was a lot of talent on this street. The eyes of magic eaters from both Deroga and Cellerin slowly filled with respect. People started asking for, and giving, advice. At one point, Nora saw a trog holding a militia member’s hand, explaining his magical method.
Lysters gradually ran out of fuel. They left the street in groups containing trogs and new-city folk, their laughter ringing in the air long after their magic disappeared.
The Seer: 4
Sarza lay on a dirty rooftop, waiting for stragglers in the street below to leave so she could stand and stretch.
She had to admit, the training she’d felt urged to watch was impressive. Some of those magic eaters . . . wow. How had trogs gotten so good at throwing vines and making fire?
One of the magic eaters was the straight-haired teenager Sarza had seen riding a dragon in an earlier vision. Despite her age, she’d led the training.
Then again, that girl hadn’t been the only young magic eater in the street. A large percentage had looked like they were around Sarza’s age. Had trogs given birth to a bunch of extra-talented babies nearly two decades ago? Or did they somehow recruit a bunch of crazy, young magic eaters to help them fight the king?
Now that was an interesting possibility.
Sarza rubbed her eyes. She’d gotten up before the sun to lie on this cold rooftop. When she saw a male feather eater flying low over the street, she’d crammed herself between two metal cubes that were bolted to the roof. They probably covered some sort of preday machinery. Then she’d covered herself in a blanket she’d brought, to make it less likely that the flyer would spot her. All wrapped up, she was a little too cozy. If she wasn’t careful, she’d fall asleep right—
A brief sense of brain pressure alerted her to an incoming vision. She closed her eyes, and it began.
She was far above Deroga, watching Cellerinian soldiers advance on the city. It was dark, but she could see everything in perfect, grayscale detail. The army had grown. Its ranks appeared organized. Most of the soldiers didn’t wear coats, and trees boasted plenty of fronds and leaves. Springtime.
Sarza’s view changed, zooming in on trig territory, where residents moved through the dark streets quickly and with purpose. She soaked in every detail: archers ascended to the tops of tall buildings, teenagers with knives hid in shadowed areas, magic eaters fueled up and entered abandoned buildings. They were preparing for guerilla warfare.
Her focus shifted to a group of mostly kids and old people. In her mind, she followed them into a building. They navigated to a room that had a hole in the floor. One by one, they climbed down a ladder into an underground tunnel. They jogged a hundred mets or so, then ascended a ladder into another building. After climbing many flights of stairs, they huddled together in a big, windowless room, the elderly folks comforting the kids.
The vision continued, showing her more hiding places for civilians and combatants alike. At last, Sarza returned to awareness, every detail stamped on her brain.
She’d been considering leaving the city soon to meet with her contact in the suburbs. But she didn’t want to go until she was sure she had some truly impressive information, enough for the army’s officers to give her a ridi
culous promotion and a life-changing pay raise. This is that kind of information. I’ll tell them I’ve been watching the trogs do battle drills, and that’s how I have so many details. That’s plausible.
She couldn’t leave the city until dark. Hell, she probably shouldn’t even leave this rooftop until then. Might as well make the best of it and plan out what she’d tell her contact. Sarza opened her mouth, ready to practice her story in a soft whisper.
Her teeth snapped shut, clenching so tightly, she couldn’t have pried them apart with a metal bar.
No! She tried to speak through her clenched teeth, but she couldn’t get out any words about what she’d seen. All she managed to force out were several hissed curse words.
She stopped trying, knowing her efforts would be fruitless. She’d experienced this type of prophecy plenty of times. As a kid, she’d called them super-secret visions. A few years back, she’d taken off the super part. It sounded dumb. But calling the prophecies secret visions didn’t make them any less annoying.
She was incapable of speaking a secret vision out loud. If she wanted to get it off her chest by talking to herself, she was out of luck. She’d tried journaling, but her hand cramped, not allowing her to write.
Now, after so many years, she finally had a vision worth sharing—and it was a secret vision? What was the point of seeing the future if she couldn’t do anything about it?
Sarza let out a long sigh. Again, she closed her eyes, trying to block out conversations on the street below. Maybe if she was lucky, she’d have another vision up here—one she could actually use.
Or maybe she’d just take a nap.
The Vine Eater (The Magic Eaters Trilogy Book 2) Page 10