by Kara Jaynes
Aaric turned and sprinted toward the baying dogs, unsheathing a broad-bladed knife he’d stolen from the master’s house. It wouldn’t be long now. He’d be dead soon.
There. He saw one of the master’s hired men. The man was taller than Aaric and held a long whip. He was the one who’d watched slave women too much. Aaric leapt at him with a snarl. Grace would be free.
The men and dogs disappeared in a swirl of fog, and Aaric yelled in surprise as he fell on his hands and knees, the blade falling away from him in a clatter.
“Adaryn,” he choked. “I love Adaryn!” He remembered. “This isn’t real.”
You have proven yourself to be kind, the voice spoke. Aaric stood and turned in a slow circle, trying to find its source, but the voice seemed to be everywhere. You were willing to sacrifice your life to save another. You pass the second trial.
“Wait,” Aaric called out. “Tell me these are visions. That they aren’t real.”
The voice was silent for a moment. They are shadows and whispers of what could be, and what may be. What is, and what was.
“So Grace wasn’t real.” That was a relief. Another thought occurred to him. “I can’t die here then.”
Don’t be so sure. Something ominous and dark was behind the fog. Aaric could feel it. Be careful, little one. Stay true to your convictions, or you could lose everything.
“What do you mean?” Aaric asked, but then the fog rolled over him and darkness reigned.
7
Donell
Taking a deep breath, Donell entered the city. He hunched his shoulders, trying to avoid contact with the Oppressors, but it was impossible. He involuntarily flinched every time someone in the crowd brushed by him. The press of people was stifling. He needed to hurry. This was the night he would prove himself.
He stayed in the lower parts of the city, keeping to the alleyways and slums. He kept himself hooded and cloaked. It was spring, but it still felt like winter, and most passersby wore coats and cloaks, warding off the chill.
Darkness was approaching, and the Night Watch would patrol the streets soon. Donell chewed his lower lip. Was Eletha all right?
“You’re late.” Eletha’s breath tickled his ear. Donell turned to face her. The young woman was wearing all black, her trousers pleasingly form-fitting. “We need to strike quickly and withdraw. I was seen the last time I came here.”
“Who saw you?” Donell asked. He shortened his stride to match hers so she didn’t have to run.
“I don’t know. A young woman. She knew I was the one taking Ruis’ children.” She smirked. “I took care of her.”
Donell nodded. The Oppressor woman undoubtedly deserved no less. “Why bring me?”
“Because you’re my mate now.” Eletha spoke matter-of-factly. “You must be as strong as me if we are to both rule this land.”
“Okay.” Donell’s gaze roved over the people around him before settling on a young girl. Her clothing was ragged and worn, her face pinched and thin. She crouched near a trash bin, her arms wrapped around her bony frame for warmth. He pointed. “Her.”
Eletha arched a blonde eyebrow at him. “She’s a stringy little thing. Her essence won’t be as strong as a healthy child.” She tapped her chin with a finger. “Still, she’s easy pickings. You may not even have to force her to come. Here—” She rummaged in her pack and pulled out a thick slice of bread. She handed it to him with a wink. “See if she’ll come willingly.”
Donell walked across the cobblestone street until he stood before the child. The girl shrank away from him, looking up with large, dark brown eyes. Her hair was filthy and hung in greasy strands about her shoulders.
“Here.” Donell held out the bread, practically shoving it in her face when she didn’t move. “Take it. You look famished.”
The girl hesitated only a moment longer before reaching up and taking the bread with frail little hands. She crammed the bread into her mouth, eating at an alarming rate.
Donell stared at her. She looked like she would die from either cold or starvation at any moment. He’d thought all Oppressors were rich, living off the hard work of the nomads. This little girl told a different story.
He shook his head. She was an Oppressor. That was all that mattered. Glancing over his shoulder, Donell saw Eletha nod her head encouragingly. He turned back to the girl. She’d eaten the last morsel of bread and was watching him curiously. He knelt down to her level. “Would you like to come with me?” he asked. “I have lots of food.”
The child nodded, smiling shyly. Donell grimaced thinking about what he was going to do to her. Maybe this Oppressor is different.
“You hesitate, dear one.” Eletha spoke, and Donell sighed, feeling her magic envelop him. She was right. She’d told him about the extraction of essence, and if he was going to defeat Bran, he needed to do this. He stood and reached out a hand to the little girl. “Come.”
The child stood, her tiny hand dwarfed by his. It was too easy.
8
Aaric
Devastation. Desolation. Death.
Aaric turned in a slow circle, trying to get a grip on his rising panic. So much death.
Bodies lay strewn everywhere, blood staining the snow and dirt. Rovers. Nomads, Aaric reminded himself. They were all dead. Every one of them. Why?
He began to walk, trying not to look. An old man there, a mother here, her arms still curved protectively around her dead child. Cut down like animals.
“Senseless,” he muttered, shoulders hunched. “Why?”
He walked past an older man laying in a heap to his left. Aaric couldn’t see his face very well, but there was something familiar about the slain nomad. Who did he remind him of?
He quickened his step, trying to keep his gaze averted. He had to get away from here. He needed to get away. If he hurried, he wouldn’t find her. If he left, she would be all right. She wouldn’t be here. She would—
There. Apart from all the others lay a solitary figure, a broken, quiet figure. Empty. Lifeless. A woman.
Adaryn.
“No!” Aaric sprinted over to the figure, dropping to the dirty snow beside the woman. “No!” Gently he rolled her over, cradling her in his arms, desperately trying to ignore the dried blood that stained the front of her blouse. Despair washed over him like a wave. Not Adaryn. Not his love, his wife. His everything. “Adaryn.” Tears leaked from his eyes as he hugged her to him. Why? “Why?”
“Because of what she was, Mr. Wright,” a familiar voice drawled. “Filthy barbarians have no place in this world. They rejected slavery, and now they must pay the price.”
Hairs prickled on the back of his neck. Aaric looked up to see a tall man standing several feet away from him. His dark, graying hair was pulled back in a sleek tail, his eyes a piercing green.
Kingsley.
“No.” Aaric gently lay Adaryn down and stood over her frame protectively. “You’re dead, Kingsley.”
Kingsley laughed, clearly amused. “Do I look dead?” His eyes glinted. “Your wife got what she deserved.” His smile deepened. “Fierce little thing.”
With a roar, Aaric launched himself at the Oppressor, hands outstretched.
The magistrate disappeared in a swirl of fog. Aaric landed in a crouch, spinning in a circle to get his bearings. He had to find him. He must. He needed a weapon.
The fog parted with a swirl, and Aaric frowned at a sword lying on the cold, hard ground. He snatched it up and walked through the fog, hatred seeping into him. He would hunt Kingsley down. He’d hunt him down and kill him. Vengeance would be his.
9
Aaric
Time passed . . . or did it? Aaric didn’t notice. He felt an inextricable pull to the west. He knew he’d find Kingsley there. Putting one foot in front of the other, he stalked forward, one single purpose burning in his mind. He would kill Kingsley.
The landscape remained unchanged; a flat barren plain of stone and snow. Fog seemed to press in on his peripheral vision, but whenever h
e turned to look, it wasn’t there.
Adaryn. Grief cut through him like a knife. What had her final moments been like? Why hadn’t he been there? He should have been there.
After days of walking—or had it been minutes? He couldn’t tell—the rocky plain gave way to . . . nothing. The ground ended in a cliff, the darkness beyond it impenetrable. A wind sprang up, racing in the direction of the blackness.
Aaric blinked, and suddenly Kingsley was there, standing at the very edge of the cliff. Head thrown back, he faced away from Aaric, his arms held out to either side, the wind whipping his hair.
Aaric took a step toward him and the magistrate turned, smiling.
“Now is your chance, Mr. Wright.” The magistrate spoke almost conversationally, but there was a light in his eye that Aaric knew too well. The man was trying to bait him. “You could easily cut me down, or push me. But you won’t. You’re too soft. Too weak. A coward.”
Aaric laughed mirthlessly. Was the magistrate so blind? “This is it, Kingsley. You’re a dead man.”
“Am I?” Kingsley tilted his head to the side. “You have but a moment to make your choice, Aaric. Choose wisely.”
Aaric steeled himself, walking forward. He’d killed before and hated it. This time, though, this was different. Aaric longed to plunge cold hard steel into the man’s heart. To make him pay for taking Adaryn. For breaking Aaric’s heart. Destroying Aaric’s happiness. He lifted his sword.
“Daddy!”
Aaric turned. To his left, a little girl clung precariously to the ledge, feet dangling midair. Her hands began to slip, scrabbling at the gravelly surface of the edge of the cliff. Her blonde hair was so pale it was almost white, her blue eyes filled with panic.
Dahlia.
“This is your chance, Aaric!” Kingsley called. “You won’t get another shot at ending me.” He laughed.
Aaric hesitated and Dahlia’s arms wavered. Her little fingers frantically dug into the ground. “Daddy, please!”
Aaric’s sword fell to the ground with a dull clang as he threw himself forward, grabbing the child’s hands with his own. With a heave, he pulled her to safety. Dahlia was safe. Alive.
Crouched on the ledge, he wrapped his arms around her, rocking her. “It’s going to be okay.” He buried his face in her little shoulder. She was all right. He tasted salt; when had he started crying? “I love you. Daddy’s here, Dahlia.”
A swirl of cold fog enveloped him as Dahlia and Kingsley disappeared. Aaric’s memories came crashing back and he sobbed with relief. Adaryn was alive.
Your love is stronger than your hate, the voice spoke. When given the choice between vengeance and love, you chose love. You pass the third trial.
With a roar, the fog blew away leaving Aaric in a forest. The air was warm, and soft sunlight trickled through the leaves. “Where am I?” Aaric frowned. “Will you show yourself, Voice?”
Behind you. The voice sounded amused.
Clamping down on his sudden apprehension, Aaric turned around slowly.
At first he saw nothing but trees. But then something in the forest shadows moved, something huge.
It stepped into the sunlight. A massive creature, with a long, sinewy neck and shimmering blue scales. Leathery wings stretched out to either side of the great body. It came forward, walking on four legs, talons extending from each paw. It regarded Aaric with sad, solemn golden eyes.
Aaric was looking at a dragon.
10
Donell
The girl’s face was white, her eyes wide with terror. Donell had secured her to a large slab of stone, her arms and legs bound. Despite her efforts, the rope held. The girl looked at him, tears streaking down her filthy face. “Please let me go. Please!”
“They all say that.” Eletha spoke calmly. She stood several feet away and motioned Donell to join her. When he did so, she lifted her arms, fingers outstretched to the child. “Copy me, Donell.” Her gaze was locked on the struggling child. “We will share the essence of this one so you’ll know what to do next time.”
The magic swelled from the slim woman. Donell followed, calling the magic. The enchantment roared to life, a dull yellow light emanating from Eletha’s hands. Donell studied it. He could see that she had simply summoned light, but it wasn’t the right color. He did the same thing, a pale blue glow washing over his fingers. Eletha nodded encouragingly. “The color will change with time. Don’t worry.”
Taking a deep breath, Eletha’s arms stiffened and the magic changed. Donell frowned, trying to copy her. The light from Eletha’s hands separated into strings of light and shot forward, entering the child’s chest. The girl gave an ear-piercing shriek, thrashing and jerking, but the rope held firm. Donell hesitated.
“Don’t show weakness now,” Eletha snarled at him. Her eyes caught the magic, glowing with an unearthly light. “Remember she’s a Denali. An Oppressor!”
Donell frowned. She was right. Ignoring the child’s sobs, he wove his light into strands, shooting them through the girl’s chest. His eyes widened. There was something there, in the child’s heart. It felt like magic, only . . . different.
“It’s the essence.” Eletha grinned. “It will make us strong. Tie your strands around it and pull. Understand?”
Donell nodded. His throat felt dry. He had to do this. He had to. The Oppressors deserved nothing less. He thought of his sister, Ember. He was doing this for her, for her memory. She would do the same, wouldn’t she?
“Now!” Eletha jerked the strands, snapping them back toward her and Donell copied her. He gasped as the magic roared back into him, nearly knocking him off his feet.
The child’s screams stopped, her body going slack. Donell peered at her. “Is she . . . dead?”
“Yes.” Eletha shrugged. “She’s just a Denali. No matter.” She watched him. “Can you feel it? The magic?”
Donell could. Releasing the strands, it now lay dormant inside of him, but he could feel it. It was . . . darker somehow. But stronger. Much stronger.
Eletha stood on her tiptoes, her lips brushing his. “Your revenge on Ruis has already begun.”
11
Aaric
Aaric stared up at the huge beast, its blue scales shimmering in the half-light. It returned his gaze, its golden eyes unblinking.
Not ‘it,’ little one. The dragon spoke to his mind. ‘He.’ The dragon snuffled, and tendrils of smoke rose from his nostrils.
Aaric nodded. Now that he considered it, the voice that spoke to his mind was unmistakably male.
You have proven yourself to be ready, the dragon said. Return to Ruis, Denali. Protect the people of that city and the rest of Omniah. Purge the Twyli of their perversion of the twisted magic.
Aaric nodded. “I would like to, but I need to return to Twyarinoth, dragon.”
The nomad woman is safe, Aaric. As is the Denali child. For now. But hurry. You must be there when Adaryn faces the Twyli. You will find her before the gates of Ruis. She will need your strength.
“You really believe I can do this?” Aaric couldn’t keep the skepticism from his voice. “I’m just an inventor. A scholar.”
You passed the trials, did you not? The dragon’s voice sounded pleased. Your mind is keen. So keen I had difficulty suppressing your memories. I was right about you. I wasn’t going to release more magic after what happened to the country of Omniah, but you will be the exception. The need is too great.
Aaric swallowed, involuntarily stepping back. A shiver ran down his back as he recalled a memory that seemed a lifetime ago. He and Adaryn sat at his small table. He’d told her he didn’t know how her magic worked and he didn’t want to. Heaven save him.
Never forget. You are strong. Adaryn is strong. Each of you has your weaknesses, but together, you are an unstoppable force for good. An unbreakable force. Merge your essence and you will not be defeated.
The dragon lifted one huge paw, fingered talons as long as Aaric’s arm. He touched a claw, feather-light, to Aaric’s chest. Aar
ic staggered, feeling something flicker to life inside his body. It pulsated like a second heartbeat. The dragon lifted his paw and Aaric fell to the earth, clutching at his chest. Something stirred in him, eager for release. His face twisted in pain. He couldn’t hold on.
Let go, Aaric. It needs to be free.
With a cry, Aaric lifted his arms upward. Blue fire exploded from his hands, white-hot in its intensity, arching upward, dissipating right before making contact with the forest canopy.
Shaking like a leaf in the wind, Aaric rose to his feet, staring at his hands. “What . . . happened?”
You are one of them now, Aaric. You are Twyli.
12
Hydari
“How much longer, brother?” The Twyli army had set up camp for the night. Myyre sat in front of an enormous vanity, idly inspecting her nails. Hydari sat cross-legged on the floor, examining a map of Ruis. Being the prince of the Twyli, he gave the orders, and his generals would carry out those orders. He needed to be informed of any potential weakness his enemy portrayed. Their tent was massive, more than twice the size of any other in the camp, but that was to be expected, being royalty.
“I’m tired of travel,” his sister continued. “It’s been weeks. Months, really.” She picked up a brush and begin running its bristles through her hair. Hydari stared transfixed at her, the strands of long dark brown hair glistening in the lamplight. Mesmerizing.
“Are you listening?” She turned to glower at him, her lower lip sticking out petulantly.
“Yes.” He smiled at her. “You’re tired of traveling. See? I’m listening.” He continued, “We are getting close, Myyre. Don’t lose sight of our goal merely because you’re feeling impatient.”
Myyre nodded, still brushing her hair. “You’re right. We have so much to gain. A whole world.” She paused in her brushing, her face becoming thoughtful. “A pity we had to kill our father though. Mother would have been quite upset.”