Now, that same eight-paneled oak door waited ahead, beckoning him. He shook his head, muttering, “I am madder than a goose taking a nap in a fire.”
Suddenly, the familiar crackling and crinkling of someone using the Strands filled his chest and the air around him. While it was common to feel weaving inside the walls of the Academy, the Strands being used stunned Nundle. His eyes opened wide. “Bless the gods.”
The sparkling white of Air was clear and familiar, but the thick, throbbing, black Strands rushing through the walls, past him, and into the preceptor’s office were new. He had never before sensed them. Ever. “It can’t be.”
Nundle was astounded. The ebony Strands of Void were as clear to him as the gold of Will. He spun in place, gaping at the air in the hall, watching the inky black Strands whip past him.
Few ever showed proficiency with Void. The Academy at Hollow, where Void was taught, was the smallest and least attended of all of the schools. Often, they did not even have the requisite nine acolytes in a semester to teach a lone class there. Most students simply skipped the semester there. Nundle had considered not going, scheduling things so it was the last remaining Academy on his list.
A wide, joyous smile spread over Nundle’s lips. He, Nundle Babblebrook, was one of only a handful of mages who could touch five types of Strands. He almost giggled with excitement.
Suddenly, the Strands stopped flying past him. He sensed that the Weave—whatever its purpose—was complete. Moments later, the sensation of the Strands disappeared altogether.
Nundle looked up and down the hallway. It was empty. He was almost disappointed; he wanted to share his good fortune with someone. Not that anyone would have cared. “Well, I’m certainly going to Hollow now.”
With a renewed sense of confidence, he hurried down the remaining dozen paces to Preceptor Myrr’s door. He was about to knock when he halted, his fist hovering inches from the wood.
It was time for eveningmeal, meaning most everyone would be in the dining hall. Everyone but Preceptor Myrr. Nundle had not seen the saeljul attend a meal there yet, which meant the odds were high that the preceptor was responsible for the Strands of Void, something the saeljul had never mentioned. In fact, it would seem he had purposely concealed it. On day one of the class, Preceptor Myrr had listed his proficiency with the Strands: Water, Will, Air, and Soul.
The great oaken door stood before Nundle, taunting him. Taking a deep breath, he rapped his knuckles against the wood and waited. There was a bronze knocker affixed to the door, but he was too short to reach it.
After a long period of silence, he knocked again, harder this time. The crack of bone on wood echoed down the empty hallway.
He waited again, expecting a command to open the door. Or at least one telling him to leave. However, there was nothing but silence.
With a frown, he mumbled, “You can’t ignore me.”
He reached up, pulled the latched handle, and pushed the door open a crack. The heady scent of peppery, spicy incense drifted from within. “Preceptor Myrr, sir?”
Silence.
He pushed open the door slowly, peeking inside. The office was empty.
Confused, Nundle opened the door and stepped into the office. With all three windows shuttered, the room was darker than the hallway. A dozen candles burned unattended on tall, bronze candelabras.
Frowning, Nundle murmured, “Now that’s just reckless.”
Having read enough on Strand theory, he guessed Preceptor Myrr had crafted a port. It certainly explained the Void and Air Strands and the fact that his teacher was not here. He was about to turn and leave when his gaze fell on the shelves of books built into the wall behind the Preceptor’s desk.
“Ooh! Books!”
Curiosity overrode good judgment. Nundle strode across the crimson rug and stepped around the desk, his gaze running over the rows of colorful volumes.
Sliding the heavy desk chair closer to the shelves, he climbed atop the seat and studied the bottom row. The leather-bound covers were different shades of browns, blacks, and grays, while the canvas books were a mix of bright blues, reds, and greens. Titles were stamped or embossed on the spines with gold, silver, or black lettering. The books so enthralled Nundle that he forgot he was standing in Preceptor Myrr’s office, uninvited and alone.
One book grabbed his attention, Amamene’s Study of Will, a brown leather-bound volume by an author he had never read. As he reached his hand toward it, a faint, colorless crackling rustled inside of him. His heart leapt into his throat.
Spinning around, he expected the see the preceptor standing there and ready to deal with him harshly for the intrusion.
The office was still empty.
Closing his eyes, Nundle muttered, “Oh, thank the gods.”
After taking a quick, steadying breath, he opened his eyes and focused on the sensation of magic. They were ebony Strands of Void, but much fainter than before.
Eyeing the open door, he quietly called, “Hello?”
There was no response.
Confused, he muttered, “Where is that coming from?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of movement on the desk. Other than a few books and some sheets of parchment spread in a haphazard fan shape, it appeared empty. Curious, he hopped off the chair and scooted to the desk. Standing on his toes, he peered over the edge. Reaching out, he slid the top parchment to the side and froze.
Handwriting was appearing on one of the sheets as though by an invisible hand, the script rushed and agitated. Apparently, the invisible hand was in a rush.
“Well, that’s a nifty trick.”
It occurred to him that he was in a rather untenable situation. Should Preceptor Myrr return from wherever he had gone and found Nundle rummaging through his belongings, he would not be happy. “I should go.”
He was about to replace the top parchment when a particular phrase in the message’s text made him stop. Eyes narrowing, Nundle slid the scrawled-upon parchment from those on top of it and read from the beginning. He reached the last word a moment or two after the writing stopped.
Heart thudding, he re-read the entire message again.
“Not possible…”
Staring at the parchment, he wondered if he had actually fallen asleep in his room earlier. Perhaps this was a dream. Reaching to a burning candle on the desk, he stuck his right index finger over the flame.
“Ouch!”
Whipping his hand back, he shook his finger in the air. This was no dream.
He looked back to the parchment, shaking his head. The words did not make sense. The preceptor was an impatient soul and an awful teacher, but Nundle could not believe he would involve himself in something as insidious as this message implied.
He stood there a moment, considering what to do, what he could do. Deciding this was more trouble than it was worth, he shook his head and muttered, “Forget you ever saw this, Nundle.”
He slid the parchment back in its original place and scurried around the desk. Halfway across the plush rug, he stopped. He knew he could never forget what he had read.
Turning slowly, he stared back to the desk. If the words on the parchment were true, he could not ignore it. Against his better judgment, he hurried back to the desk, pulled the parchment free, and read the message a third time. Shutting his eyes, he folded the parchment and jammed it in the pocket of his cloak.
“Gods…what am I doing?”
Scampering from the office, he quickly and quietly shut the door behind him and rushed down the hall, heading back to his room. He had to pack. His semester at the Academy at Immylla was finished.
Chapter 19: Brother
The unseasonably cool weather had lasted for only a day, leaving the three Isaac siblings and the hillman to travel overland in the typical summer heat. For three long, arduous days, the party moved east, hiking up and down countless hills while still avoiding the Southern Road. The shade of the oak and ash trees provided some relief from the burning
sun, but it was negligible.
Every day, the group used the same walking order. Broedi led, followed by Kenders, then Jak, with Nikalys at the end of their short column. When the hillman had insisted on the sequence, no one had argued. Personally, Jak thought it unwise to argue with a giant Shapechanger mage.
Broedi had proven himself a useful if near-silent traveling companion, rarely saying more than a few words a day. He did stare, however, focusing most of his attention on Nikalys and Kenders. Occasionally, Jak caught the large man studying him as well.
Every evening when they stopped for the day, Broedi would tell them to set up camp, leave for a short while, and then return with enough rabbit and quail for them all to eat their fill. Jak was tiring of hillsage-roasted rabbit and quail, but the alternative—eating nothing—was less appealing.
As of yet, Jak had not chanced talking to his brother and sister about what had truly happened in those final, confusing moments with their parents in Yellow Mud. The only time he ever had alone with his siblings was the short time each evening when Broedi hunted. Nikalys and Kenders had quietly pressed him, but he put their questions off, afraid to speak freely in front of Broedi. Jak did not trust the hillman. Something about him did not ring true.
This evening, however, Jak needed to take the chance. Smithshill was less than a day away and he needed to persuade Nikalys and Kenders to alter their plans. Jak had no interest whatsoever striding into the Office of the Constables with a magical necklace around his neck.
He had tried to order them not to go last night, claiming he was the head of the family now, but Nikalys had rolled his eyes and Kenders had laughed aloud before outright dismissing Jak’s demand. She was determined to seek justice for Yellow Mud. Jak respected his sister’s resolve, but she was making decisions based on incomplete information.
Jak reached up, scratched his still-wispy beard, and glanced back through the trees at the orange sky. Mu’s orb had already set. Frowning, Jak stared ahead, waiting for when Broedi would halt them. The past two nights, they had already been making camp by now. Tonight, though, Broedi seemed intent on continuing.
It was some time later when the large hillman held up his hand, saying in his deep baritone voice, “We stop now.”
Jak scanned the area. They stood amidst a cluster of small trees where the ground looked slightly less rocky than the rest of the forest. A small spring bubbled up fresh, clear water, filling a small pool and feeding a creek that trickled down the hillside. Broedi had chosen a good site for camp.
Kenders began looking for fallen deadwood to build a fire while Nikalys went to wash the grime from his face and hands in the creek. None of them had had a proper bath since before the tragedy. Jak sniffed his dirty clothes and wrinkled his nose. He reeked.
Uneasy and apprehensive, Jak meandered about the camp, waiting for Broedi to leave. He made a show of stretching his sore muscles and mentioning how hungry he was. After the third time he mentioned his appetite, Nikalys—squatting by the spring and filling the waterskins—stared up at him. “Are you feeling alright?”
Stopping his pacing, he looked to Nikalys. “Pardon?”
“I asked if you were alright.”
Jak silently chastised himself. He was acting like a guilty child who had stolen a tart from the kitchen. “I’m just hungry. And sore. You know, from all the walking today.”
Broedi—who had been drinking from the pool—glanced up and stared, his gaze reserved for Jak alone.
Nikalys said, “If you’re so tired, stop walking around. Sit. Rest.”
Nodding, Jak said, “You’re right.” He did not sit down.
Broedi bent over, took another long drink of water from the spring, and then stood, wiping the leftover drops from his chin. His gaze settled on Jak again and stayed there. Jak did his best to appear calm. After a few moments, Broedi turned to Kenders.
“Please make the fire, uora. I will be back shortly.”
Kenders nodded, and Broedi moved off to the north side of the clearing, giving Jak one last interested look before he left. Jak smiled wide and offered an overly friendly wave.
“Good hunting, Broedi.”
As soon as the hillman stepped into the cover of the trees, Jak turned his hand on himself, smacked his forehead lightly, and muttered, “Idiot.”
After counting to twenty—slowly—he scurried over to where Kenders had set up the logs. She was crouched by the unlit wood and dry brush with a firestick in her hand. Jak scanned the trees around them again, making sure that he did not see or hear Broedi.
In a hushed whisper, he said, “Nikalys! Come here.”
In the midst of refilling the waterskins, Nikalys looked up at his brother’s call. “Why?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Can it wait a bit?”
Kenders struck the firestick against the rough lid. The tip flared bright and sent a sharp, hissing puff of air through the clearing, startling Jak.
Trying to calm his nerves, Jak stared back to his brother and, “No, it can’t. I need to talk before Broedi gets back.”
Looking up, Kenders asked, “Is this about home?” The dry, shredded kindling under the thicker logs was already beginning to catch.
Jak nodded quickly. “There are some things you need to know before you go marching into Smithshill.”
Nikalys and Kenders glanced at one another. After a moment, Nikalys placed the waterskin he had been filling on the ground, stood, and walked over, stopping to stand next to Kenders. Crossing his arms, he peered at his brother. “Go on.”
Not wanting to waste any time, Jak reached into the neck of his shirt and pulled out the silver teardrop necklace he had kept hidden since finding them. Kenders gasped the moment she saw it. “Mother’s necklace.”
Nikalys reached out a hand as if to touch it, but stopped short. He stood that way for a moment before dropping his arm to his side and asking, “Does this mean you…that you found their…?” He trailed off and looked to Jak, unable to finish his question.
Realizing what they must think, Jak said, “No, no…gods, no! Mother gave this to me—”
He stopped. He needed to tell the story from the beginning.
“Just listen. And no questions. I want to get this done before Broedi gets back.”
He relayed the story of his last moments with their parents, his time in the barrel, and his escape from the tree. When he revealed how he had used their mother’s necklace to find them, both Nikalys and Kenders remained oddly silent. Considering what the necklace was and that their mother had possessed it, they should have been upset or at least surprised.
Nikalys stared at the silver pendant and asked, “Can I see it?”
Jak removed the leather cord and pendant from his neck and gave it to his brother.
Nikalys turned the silver teardrop over in his hands, examining it. “Are you sure this is magic?”
Jak nodded. “Oh, it’s magic. Think, Nik. How else did I find you? The forest is too blasted big for me to just trip over you.”
“How’d you say it works?”
“Close your eyes and picture the person you want to find.”
Shrugging, Nikalys said, “Sounds simple enough.” Pointing to one side of the campsite, he instructed, “Jak, over there.” He indicated the trunk of an old oak on the other side. “Kenders, there.”
Understanding what Nikalys wanted to do, Jak hurried to where Nikalys had pointed. Turning around, he saw that Kenders had not moved and was staring at Nikalys. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Perhaps not,” conceded Nikalys. “But we need to know what we are dealing with. We can’t go marching into the Constables’ office with this around one of our necks if it’s magic, can we?”
Jak was glad his brother saw things the way he did.
Kenders gave a reluctant sigh, turned, and moved to stand beside her oak tree. The trio stood twenty-five paces from one another, the fledgling campfire burning in the center of the siblings’ trian
gle.
Nikalys closed his eyes, wrapped his hand around the silver teardrop pendant, and stood still for a few moments. With his eyes still shut tight, he murmured, “I think it’s broken.”
Jak was surprised. “What? Why?”
Opening his eyes, Nikalys looked at his brother. “I thought of you and nothing happened.”
Confused, Jak nodded to their sister. “Try Kenders.”
Nikalys glanced at her and nodded. Closing his eyes, he grasped the pendant. A moment later, he yelped and dropped the necklace to the dirt. Taking a step back, he stared at the silver pendant. “What in the Nine Hells was that?”
Jak stared at the talisman, thoroughly bewildered. “So it worked that time?”
Nikalys’ gaze remained locked on the pendant. Nodding, he muttered, “Oh, yeah. It worked.”
Frowning, Jak asked, “Why’d it work with her but not me?”
The three of them eyed the necklace in silence. After a few moments, Kenders spoke, her voice uncharacteristically timid.
“Toss it here, Nik. I’d like to try.”
Nikalys peered at her, his forehead furrowed. “Are you sure?”
Kenders gave a quick nod. “Just this once.”
Nikalys hesitated before retrieving the necklace from the ground. After brushing the dirt from the silver, he lobbed it to his sister. Kenders caught it, held it in her open palm, and stared at it, her expression a nervous once. Jak was surprised. Kenders was the fearless, impetuous one of the family.
After another moment’s hesitation, Kenders wrapped her palm around the talisman and closed her eyes. Jak expected some sort of reaction from her, similar to Nikalys’ start and shout. Instead, her anxious expression slowly melted away, morphing into one of curiosity, confusion, and wonderment.
Kenders opened her eyes and hand to stare at the necklace. “It only works on me and Nik. I thought of Jak and…nothing. But with Nik, I felt a sense of calmness come over me. And I could hear the bell, too.” She lifted her gaze, looked between them, and said, “Out of curiosity, I thought of Broedi and—” she paused, peered back to the necklace, letting a few golden curls fall before face “—there was nothing.”
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 17