by Kara Jaynes
Aaric snorted. “You forget I was a Denali on the other side of the Dragon’s Tail. I know what it’s like to be hated, simply for who I am.” He studied Kenroc out of the corner of his eye. Kenroc looked . . . sadder than he had. Older. More weary. “I’m not an Oppressor anymore, Kenroc.” Aaric spoke softly, his voice almost a whisper.
Kenroc frowned at him. “I know that, Aaric.”
Aaric shook his head, feeling suddenly nervous. He still wasn’t used to this. “I’m . . . I’m a magic user, too.”
Kenroc sneered at him. “Don’t joke about it, boy, it’s not funny.”
Aaric held out a hand, palm upward. He took a deep breath, fumbling for the magic within him. It stirred to life and concentrating, he formed a small blue flame. It flickered fitfully on his palm, like a stiff breeze could instantly blow it away. He was strong, very strong in the magic—he could feel it—but controlling it was still difficult.
Kenroc stared at it like he would a bush viper. “Shades alive, Aaric,” he breathed. “What happened? How? When?”
Aaric recounted his journey with Adaryn, and his encounter with the dragon, leaving out the details of his trials.
Kenroc was silent for a long time, mulling over Aaric’s tale. “The dragon,” he said at last, wonder in his voice. “He’s in the nomad legends, of course, but I never thought I’d actually talk to someone who’d actually met him.”
“You believe me then?”
“You’re an Oppressor that wields magic, Aaric,” Kenroc said. “That shouldn’t be possible.” He rubbed his chin. At last he said, “That would be like Adaryn sticking her neck out for those weaker than her. She wouldn’t refuse them aid.” He sighed. “She shouldn’t. And I shouldn’t either. Bran was right. I knew he was, but I didn’t have the courage to help my enemy.” He smiled at Aaric. “We will go. We will return and help the children of Ruis.”
“Thank you,” Aaric said. “I don’t think Ruis will forget this, Kenroc.” He stood. “Begin preparations tomorrow. We must return with all haste.” He hoped it would be enough. Time continued to flow, and he needed to get to Ruis before the Twyli did.
28
Grace
“Father!” Grace rushed over to where Bran and Fyrsil stood lowering the magistrate from his horse. Lord Flores’ face was ashen pale, his eyes closed. “What happened?” He couldn’t die, He couldn’t.
“He needs rest,” Fyrsil said, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. “He suffered a chest wound, and it will take some time to fully heal.”
Grace clutched Bran’s arm. “What happened, Bran?”
“Donell and Eletha happened,” Bran replied. He yawned, rubbing his eyes. They felt like they had sand in them. “Your father shot Eletha in the shoulder, but the Twyli woman retaliated.”
“That was a decent shot he made.” Fyrsil watched as a cluster of servants hurried outside at their return, taking the magistrate inside. “That Twyli woman is as good as dead, either from blood loss or infection.”
Grace released Bran’s arm and followed the servants up to her father’s bedchambers.
After undressing him and finding no wound to attend to, Lord Flores was put in his bed. Grace sat by him, holding one of his hands in hers. She hoped he would be all right. He had to be. What if he didn’t pull through? Grace couldn’t imagine a life without Father there.
“Grace.” Her father’s eyes fluttered open, and his fingers tightened briefly around hers. “Gracie.” His voice was hoarse.
“What is it, Father?”
“The other magistrates . . . haven’t been happy working with the nomads.” His eyes kept closing and reopening, as if his eyelids were too heavy to lift. “Until I am better, find Jack Welling and give him this.” He feebly pulled a heavy ring from his finger, pressing it into Grace’s palm. “He will know what to do.”
“Are the magistrates going to give us trouble?” Grace asked anxiously.
Father nodded and coughed, wincing with pain. “They don’t approve of the nomad’s meddling in our affairs. I’m head magistrate, so they’ve gone along with my plan thus far, but now—” His hand clamped down on hers convulsively when he coughed, his body shuddering with pain. “I’m weak, Gracie.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “If they decide I’m not fit to lead . . . You must convince Jack to stand in as head magistrate until I can walk again. Hurry, before the other magistrates act.”
“I will.” Grace nodded. She took the ring and slipped it onto her thumb. It was still too big, but she wouldn’t have it for long. “I will leave tonight.”
Lord Flores’ eyelids fluttered; exhaustion overwhelming him. “Be brave, Grace. I won’t be able to protect you.” His eyes closed. “You and Bran . . . are very much alike. Strong. You will make each other happy.”
Grace blinked away the tears of gratitude that built on her lashes. She’d never hoped that her father would come so close to accepting Bran. “Thank you, Father.” Leaning forward, she kissed him on the head. “Sleep. I will take care of everything.”
29
Adaryn
“Who are we going to see again?” I asked, following Grace as she walked up to a particularly large, gloomy looking house. The brick was dark and dirty, the fence surrounding it black forbidding iron.
“Jack Welling,” Grace said, and rang the bell at the gate. “A magistrate. He’s the newest member. When Kingsley died, there was a vacant position for a new magistrate. Jack Welling was chosen.”
A servant came to let us in, and we soon found ourselves inside the house, in the entry.
I had left Dahlia with Lady Flores. I was initially hesitant to do so, but when the older woman had seen the child, my fears were quickly put to rest. The women of the Flores family doted on the child. It was safer than dragging her all over the city.
“Why didn’t you bring Bran?” I asked in a hushed whisper. My voice echoed in the large room.
Grace glanced at me, clearly amused. “I brought you in the event I needed protection from a Twyli attack. I didn’t bring Bran because this situation requires . . . a more delicate hand than that of a male. Bran might’ve bungled everything with his temper and pride.”
I nodded. Fair enough.
A few minutes later, we were admitted to Lord Welling’s study. The room brought tears to my eyes, which I hastily wiped away. It reminded me of Aaric’s old study. Books, scrolls, and manuscripts covered every available space in the room. A thin man sat at the desk, his brow furrowed in concentration as he read a book, seemingly oblivious to our presence. It wasn’t until the servant announced our presence and left that the man looked up at us, his eyes looking owlish behind large spectacles.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking confused.
“Yes, Lord Welling.” Grace stepped forward and reached over the desk, handing the man a ring. “My father wanted me to give you this.”
Jack stared at the ring in his hand, silent.
“It’s the head magistrate’s ring,” Grace said doubtfully, watching the man. “My father had a terrible accident, and with Ruis as fragile as it is, has asked you to step in and govern in his place until he can recover.”
The man was quiet. The silence stretched to the point where I was beginning to think he was a few cards short of a deck when he spoke. “Why me?” His spectacles slipped down his nose and he absently pushed them back. “I’m the newest magistrate, and the youngest. I don’t understand—”
“I don’t either,” Grace interrupted hurriedly. “But he trusts you. He wants you to continue to work with the nomads, and to do what you can to keep Ruis safe.”
Lord Welling laughed, his young face flushed with amusement. “Ah. I see why he asked me then.” He continued, noting the look of confusion on our faces, “I don’t hold to the old ways of Ruis. All people are the same to me.” He looked at me, his dark eyes alert. “I’ve wondered how the nomads feel, working with us.”
“I’ll protect any child, regardless of their race,” I responded, and the man nodded.
“Exactly my sentiments.” He laughed, looking sheepish as he spoke to Grace again. “None of the other magistrates feel that way though, with the exception of Lord Flores. They aren’t going to be very pleased that I’ve been chosen to work in your father’s place.”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” Grace insisted. “This will ensure the other magistrates don’t have time to act on my father’s temporary weakness.” She pulled some papers from her handbag and handed them to the man. “Here are the plans for the city’s defenses that my father made. Please look them over, and do what you can to keep the city safe.”
“I will, Miss . . . Grace, was it?” Lord Welling—I very much wanted to call him Jack, it definitely suited him—nodded to us before settling back in his seat, looking at the notes Grace had given him. He’d already seemed to have forgotten us, and we left shortly thereafter.
30
Aaric
“Kenroc,” Aaric yelled above the thunder of hooves. “Have you ever heard of magic called merging?” They were riding at a gallop north toward Ruis. About two hundred nomad warriors rode with them; the rest of the clan was returning as well, but more slowly, including Adaryn’s two younger brothers. It took more time to move tents and supplies.
They were close, a couple of weeks at the most, and Aaric would be able to see the city.
Kenroc frowned, pondering the question. “No, I haven’t,” he said. “What is it?”
“Something the dragon mentioned to me,” Aaric replied. “And I read about it in a book. It’s where two magic users combine their essence, making them immensely powerful.” He frowned as he considered it again. “I don’t know how that’s even possible,” he admitted at last.
Kenroc was silent for a moment as their company rode, scanning the surrounding countryside before speaking again. “I wouldn’t know how it works, but it makes me think of my wife.”
Aaric’s ears perked up. Kenroc almost never spoke of his late wife. “She had her magic and I had mine,” the nomad continued. “We were equally matched in enchantment, but whenever we faced a problem in life that was too great for one of us to bear alone, somehow, together, we were always able to overcome the trial.” He smiled. “It wasn’t ‘merging,’ in your sense of the word, just working together. We were stronger, when our spirits and minds had the same purpose.”
Aaric frowned, thinking on Kenroc’s words.
Together. One purpose.
He smiled. He’d fit the pieces together. That’s how it works.
Now for the application. He just needed to make sure he reached Adaryn in time.
31
Adaryn
I stood on the ramparts with Bran, Fyrsil, and Lord Welling, looking east, the vast plains spread before us. Twinkling in the twilight, yet far away, were the campfires of the massive Twyli army.
“So many,” Lord Welling murmured, his brow furrowed. “And they’re all magic users?”
No one answered. No one had to. These were the Twyli.
“I’ll stop them.” Bran spoke, a fierce light in his eye. “I’ll defend this city and everyone in it.”
Fyrsil shook his head. “What makes you think you can stop them, boy?”
“I have the sky jewel,” Bran replied with a frown at the brigand king. “I’m unstoppable.”
“Up to this point.” Fyrsil snorted. “Hydari and Myyre will rip you to shreds. The sky jewel won’t help you. Not with this.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Bran rolled his eyes. “But I’m not afraid.”
“You should be.”
“Enough,” I broke in. “Arguing won’t help anything.” I peered at the twinkling lights, chewing my lower lip pensively. “Fyrsil, the Twyli woman who’s teamed up with Donell. You’re sure she’s a rogue?”
“Absolutely.” The once-king nodded. “It was no secret among the Twyli that only royalty was allowed to extract essence. My guess is she was sent to scout ahead for them, and turned against them once she realized she could strengthen her own power, perhaps to rival their own.”
“I was stronger than her,” Bran said, his eyes worried as he studied the scene before us. “I could sense it. I was stronger than Donell, too. But . . .” He trailed off for a moment before continuing. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to defeat all four. If they were to join forces—”
“They won’t,” Fyrsil interrupted. “If Eletha survived the gun wound, she may return. But that she hasn’t shown herself since we’ve attacked means she’s dead, recovering, or she’s decided to pursue other options.”
“How can you be sure she won’t join with the twins?” I asked.
“I know a thing or two of royalty.” Fyrsil smirked at me, a dark eyebrow arched. “We don’t share our power easily.”
“We must focus on the army,” Lord Welling said. He stood a short way from us. While the temporary head magistrate definitely tolerated the presence of magic users, he still wasn’t at ease with us. Or perhaps he sensed Fyrsil’s contempt for him. “Perhaps if my men and I were to find a way to harass them, it might slow them down . . .”
“You’d die.” Fyrsil’s mood seemed to darken with every passing minute. He shot a withering glance in the direction of the magistrate. “They’re too strong for you.”
“Perhaps you’d volunteer yourself?” Lord Welling’s tone was mild, but a tightening around his eyes said he was feeling otherwise.
“I’d last longer than you.” Fyrsil glared at him. “You’re a weak Denali.”
The magistrate’s face darkened and he opened his mouth to respond, but Bran cut in. “I will attack the army,” he said. “Alone.” He spoke to Lord Welling, ignoring the brigand king. That Bran held a magistrate in Ruis in higher esteem than a fellow magic user spoke volumes about how much things had changed. “It should be a fairly simple matter of manipulating the elements to make their progression slower.” He wouldn’t look at me, which meant Bran was going to try something stupid. I remembered he always did this when growing up. Foolish man.
“I’m going with you,” I said, causing Bran’s head to whip around, his eyes locking with mine.
“I won’t let you,” he retorted. “It’s too dangerous.”
“You don’t have a choice,” I shot back. “You’re going to need someone to back you up in case something goes wrong.”
“I’ll take Fyrsil,” Bran replied. “Better if he sticks his neck out.”
Fyrsil shook his head. “If you’re going to be pulling on enough magic to destroy an army, I don’t want to be anywhere near you.” He turned, looking down at the city. “And I’ll be needed here. A pity that none of you know how to heal with magic. That is what Ruis will need.” He stifled a yawn, and began to walk toward the stairs that would take him down the ramparts. “I’m going to get some rest. I advise you all to do the same. We’re going to get precious little of it soon.”
“Can we trust him?” Bran asked, watching the brigand king saunter away.
“I . . . think so,” I replied. I thought about the Twyli king and Fyrsil’s resemblance to him. I thought I knew why Fyrsil was helping us thus far, but for how long? Could we really trust him? I wanted to believe so. I bit my lip, remembering Fyrsil’s past. He’d lied and cheated. He wasn’t all good, but then, he wasn’t all bad either. He’d saved my life on more than one occasion, and he’d saved Grace and Lord Flores too. "Just be careful," I added. "He wants the Twyli leaders gone, but he also wants the sky jewel."
Bran nodded in agreement.
Talk turned to the topic of city defense. I left soon after, not having anything to add to that, and as I lay in my bed, Dahlia's breath deep with slumber, I thought of my father. Where was he? Bran said he'd gone south with the clan. I could still go after him, but he had left long ago enough that even if I were to find him, we couldn't hope to return to the city in time. That and I wasn't completely sure I would be able to convince him to aid Oppressors.
I missed him.
32
Donell
Donell no longer tried to stop the tears that streamed down his face. Eletha was dying. The gun wound she’d received had become infected, and neither he, nor anyone in his clan, had the healing ability needed to mend it. Healing powers were very rare among the nomads.
Making herbal poultices, he’d worked tirelessly to treat and change her bandages, but it didn’t matter. Day by agonizing day, Eletha grew weaker, her life force slowly slipping away. It’d been over a week since they were ambushed by Bran, and it was overwhelmingly clear the woman wasn’t going to make it.
Her skin was hot and clammy to the touch, her mind coming in and out of fever dreams. The wound site was a bleeding mass of broken bone and tissue, the skin discolored, the infection spreading. Donell didn’t know what else to do, but keep treating it, and hope for a miracle.
They shared a special bond; he’d never felt this way about anyone. Even now, he could feel the pull of her magic. It beckoned to him.
Sitting by her side, Donell anxiously took her hand when Eletha opened her eyes, looking up at him. They were still yellow, so beautiful.
“I’m dying,” she said. It wasn’t a question. Her voice was so quiet, Donell had to lean closer to hear it. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “At the hands of a Denali.” Anger tinged her voice. “Will you do something for me, Donell?”
“Anything.” He would. He would do anything for her.
“Avenge me.” She held his gaze in her own. “I had a dream that I would rule this land, all lands, eventually, and that dream has been destroyed by a Denali.” Her breath was becoming more shallow; death was near. “If I cannot rule, than at least other Twyli will. The Denali will not win. Topple the walls of Ruis, Donell. Raze Ruis to the ground.”
“I promise, Eletha. I promise.” Donell pressed his lips to hers as the life force of Eletha left her body.