by Chloe Hodge
“I know she’s alive. I know in my heart. It’s like we have a connection.” She thrusted her chin up. “It weakens day by day but it’s always present.”
Child, you mistake your powers. You have a strong heart and for that I admire you, little she-elf. The dragon whirled its tail around, the ribbon fluttering through the waters as the tip snaked to her throat and pulled on the necklace. But your connection comes from a different Magicka.
Ashalea took the chain and ran her hands over the smooth surface, ending on the simple black gem in the centre. “The Onyxonites,” she muttered as she studied its outlines. Then realisation dawned. “This links me to members of the clan?”
The dragon regarded her thoughtfully. Only to those with whom a bond has been made. There is a great power within that stone. It is loyal to the order and aids the wearer in protecting kin.
“But I am not of Onyxonite blood.”
If the dragon had eyebrows, they almost certainly would be raised. You of all people, Ashalea Kindaris, should know that family isn’t defined by birth. It seems the necklace would agree.
Her eyes widened. “You knew about my parents, too?”
The ribbon tail lifted to stroke her cheek. I know everything I need to.
She took a deep breath and nodded. “I know what I have to do.”
The dragon bared its teeth in an odd grin. Are you ready to sail the clouds once again?
Ashalea smiled, as triumphant as the roots of a seed climbing soil to see the sun. “Do you really have to ask?”
Portal Puzzles
“Raarrghh!” A myriad of books, scrolls and trinkets fell to the floor in one fell swoop and two faces shrivelled in alarm at the wizard’s wrath. Farah and Denavar snuck a glance at each other, laughter almost bubbling out in amusement. It wasn’t the first time this had happened today.
Wezlan nestled his face in his hands and sighed. “We have tried every formula I can think of and still we have no answers. We’re running out of precious time.”
Farah pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “Don’t lose hope, Wezlan. Braygon the Burnt was clever. He’s hidden the answers in there somewhere, probably in plain sight.”
The great tome sat on the desk, unhindered by its brethren, which Farah now stooped to collect from the floor. Wezlan glared at it with stormy eyes. “What am I missing?”
The candles burned low in the evening light and the Academy was all but silent in the east wing of the library. All students had since rushed off for dinner, lessons now finished for the day. The fire crackled cosily in the corner, oblivious to anything but keeping them warm.
Denavar placed a hand on Wezlan’s shoulder, the old man blinking at him blearily. “Why don’t you get some rest? You’ve been at it for a while and some sleep would do you good.”
Farah frowned as she heaped the miscellaneous items into a huge pile in the corner. “Yes. Off to bed with you, I think.”
Wezlan opened his mouth to retort, but she glared at him sternly. “No ifs or buts about it. We can’t have the leader of this Academy looking like he’s risen from the dead. Off you go.”
She steered him out the hallway, chattering the entire way, coddling him like an old man. Which he was, divine wizard or not. The pair had grown rather close in the last few weeks and she’d taken on the role of apprentice to the old man. Farah would run his errands and attend to the endless number of letters he received, and he would teach her spells and lessons in leadership.
Denavar smiled to himself and sunk into the leather chair. It was good to be in Renlock again. Since Wezlan had returned, the Academy was once again bustling with activity; a sense of purpose restored to the mages who lived and trained there.
The Academy’s best and brightest mages had been selected to run classes for their appropriate factions, and strict lesson plans were now in place to encourage growth in all students.
Denavar’s usual duties — teaching, running council meetings, organising new mages into factions and overseeing dignitary missions — had been put on hold while he sought to help Wezlan and Farah with the tome, and it made for a nice change of pace, however frustrating.
He pored over the texts for several hours, searching for hidden clues, identifying the ancient dialect with his newly discovered powers. After a time, the words became a blur, and he leaned back, fingers on his chin, considering recent discoveries.
Ashalea was a Guardian. She had discovered her true calling in the chamber on the Isle of Dread. Something awakened in her when she had studied the ancient texts, but she hadn’t been the only one to experience the feeling. Denavar had felt it too. When he looked upon the words, his Magicka had hummed to the surface, flashing like an explosion inside his mind. He had only partially lied to Wezlan. He could read the dialect, and it did seem familiar, but there was no way he could have seen it before. Renlock Academy had no books with Elvish script that ancient, and if it did, no one here would have understood it.
That led him to the only logical conclusion.
“I, Denavar Andaro, Moonglade elf and mage of Renlock Academy, am a Guardian.”
It would have been a shocking revelation to anyone else, and rightly so, but for some reason it had not surprised him, nor did it make him happy. He had never believed in destiny, nor did he lust for power, heroism, or a sense of belonging. He had found a home in Renlock, and a purpose in teaching the mages, but he had always been comfortable just living life day-by-day. Perhaps it was wrong not to reveal his newfound purpose to the others, but he knew how much it had meant to Ashalea to discover the truth about herself. It was a jarring moment of self-discovery, and it was meant for her and her alone. He would tell the others in time.
Denavar had always been ambitious. As a young boy he’d shown great promise with his Magicka skills. So much so, that his parents sent him to Renlock Academy for further training. Little did he know he’d end up teaching.
He was twelve when he started his studies, and on the first day he’d been greeted at the door by a human boy around the same age. Finnicus Jerrin. He had a mane of red hair and bright green eyes that would catch anyone off guard. The pair became thick as thieves. Trouble sought them out wherever they went, and they were the least favoured apprentices in school.
Three years passed. They grew up, turned fifteen and everything became a competition. Muscles, Magicka, girls, it was all the same. Their reckless habits turned to training and being the best. They went from the worst students to the most promising, and before long they were teaching the tutors new tricks. The other students respected them, some children even feared them, for all the rumours that flew around the school.
Finnicus with his fiery mane and short temper, Denavar with his icy blue eyes and calculating stare. If anyone dared cross them, they’d know about it. A black eye here and there, disposed upon their ‘trouble’ was quickly inexplainable after a few flicked coins to a passer-by. The tutors never suspected.
They both climbed the ranks fast as could be, always side by side. Then one day they were presented the opportunity to embark on a diplomatic mission to Maynesgate. They’d glanced at each other, eyebrows raised, elbows jostling, a sly grin on their faces, and a few days later, two slack jaws were hanging open, eyes gaping at the sight of the city.
“Have you been here before?” Denavar had asked.
Finnicus snorted. “Almost all humans have been to Maynesgate once or twice. Full of ‘sewer rats and swindlers’ my dad used to say. And girls,” he winked.
Denavar rolled his eyes. “I bet they don’t come cheap.”
“Depends who’s asking, and where you look.” He pointed. “See the different tiers? The higher they go, the heavier the price. The finer establishments have girls from all over. Exotic bronzed beauties from Shadowvale, elvish goddesses, even dwarves. They’re more… solid… but hey, some guys are into that.”
“And you will pay with what coin?”
The clever fox produced a wily grin. “Let’s just say my sleig
ht of hand might prove useful in the gambling houses.”
“Finnicus, even I’ve heard of what happens to tourists who get caught counting cards. It’s not worth the trouble. Besides, if the Academy finds out what you’re up to you’ll be disbarred from practicing.”
Finnicus pouted. “Oh, Denavar, you’re no fun. I didn’t expect you to come. You’ve gotten so prude these days, aiming for top apprentice and all.”
Denavar’s cheeks flared. “I am not a prude! What’s wrong with being ambitious, Finnicus? Better than treating life as one big joke.”
Finnicus slammed the door to the crude room they were lodging in and marched to the window. “I might be talented with Magicka, Denavar, but not all of us get off so easy in life.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re an elf! Strength, speed, intelligence, Magicka, just bloody breathing, it all comes easy to you!”
“Don’t you dare. Don’t blame your shortcomings on me. I train hard and I work hard for what I’ve got. You’d do well to remember that.”
Finnicus narrowed his eyes and swore. “I’m going out. If the mages turn up, I’ll know who ratted me out.”
He strode across the room, swung open the door and let it rock on the hinges wildly. Denavar swept a hand through his hair. Damn that man!
It wasn’t unusual to have fights like these. They usually made up for it in less than a few hours. Finnicus really did have a bad temper. The best thing to do was let him cool his head, but tonight Denavar wasn’t so sure. Gambling, drinking and whoring in a city like this? Irrationality got you in trouble. Recklessness got you killed.
He sighed. His cheeks still simmered, and he was hungry. Perhaps in an hour he’d search for his friend.
They were staying in one of the lesser known areas of the town. Certainly not the most hospitable, and not the safest for traversing at night. Denavar stuck to the shadows, avoiding men drunk on ale and women scantily clad on corners. He needn’t look far. An establishment called the Lucky Lion boasted three floors, its windows well-lit and the building very much occupied.
Denavar searched the tables inside. Men whooped over their winnings and snatched at young women. It was not a place to talk of finer things. He searched the building top to bottom. Nothing. About to turn on his heel, a cry rang out amongst the clamour. No one else looked up from their activities, but no one else was elvish. With a pang of irritation, Denavar realised his friend might have spoken some truths earlier. Not that he’d tell Finnicus that.
He raced out the back door and into an alleyway one street over, approaching from the darkness. A soft splutter broke the silence and a shock of red came into focus. His heart halted in his lungs. He’d recognise that mane anywhere.
“Finnicus!” He was at his friend’s side in an instant, clutching his hand with hysterical urgency. Blood dribbled from the boy’s mouth; a stab wound in his chest. The blade had punctured his lung.
“Denavar.” The words could barely form. Finnicus struggled to talk, the blood bubbling in his throat, so sickening it made Denavar want to gag. “Denavar,” he tried again. “Caught… counting. Stole… money.”
“Don’t talk. I’ll try to heal you. Just let me try to heal you.”
Finnicus’ eyes rolled back in his head and he clutched at Denavar’s arm. He shook his head slightly and tried to grin. “Always… getting into… trouble.” His eyes glazed over, and a last breath huffed out his chest.
Denavar cradled his friend’s head on his lap. The tears flowed, and he howled in rage. That was the first death he’d ever feel on his conscience.
◆◆◆
“Thinking of Finnicus again?” Farah’s voice snapped Denavar back to reality.
He eyed her off in shock. He must have dozed off because he hadn’t heard her approach. That, and she always had the uncanny ability to know what he was thinking. Clever fox.
“I miss him too, Denavar,” she said as she perched on the desk. “I think of my brother often. I know he’d be proud of us both. Since he… passed… you’ve worked so hard to become a mage, and you helped me get there too. We both earned the right to be where we are. Without guilt.” She placed a hand on his, if only for a second.
Denavar found it unnerving. When Finnicus had passed, he’d turned to Farah to console her, make sure she was okay. He’d come to see her as a little sister, but her subtleties were more flirtatious than not these days. And she was pretty, though strange. But her flaming red hair and piercing blue eyes were a painful reminder of her brother. A reminder he didn’t want to have too often.
Then there was Ashalea. She captivated him from the moment he saw her across the room at the Windarion feast. She had laughed so freely that night, forgetting everything else in her life for just a moment. He remembered her silver hair marking her from the crowd; the way it bounced as she danced rather clumsily with the common people.
She was utterly unique to any woman he’d ever met. The way she carried herself, the fierceness in the way she fought, the sadness in her eyes, the witty humour and high-spirited character. Then there was the long silver hair, the smoothness of her skin. She was gorgeous, and she didn’t even know it. He imagined her now. The soft pink lips, the shape of her body, those damnably beautiful eyes he could get lost in. She brought all his senses to life and ignited feelings he never knew he had.
Denavar glanced at Farah and realised his cheeks had reddened. He stretched his arms out casually and yawned, and he noticed her unmasked appreciation for the exposed muscles on his arms. “It’s late. You should get some rest, Farah. It will be another long day tomorrow.”
“Speak for yourself,” she retorted, glancing at the tome. “I’m too frustrated to sleep. The secrets of this book are too tempting. I want to find what it’s hiding.”
Something she said earlier echoed in Denavar’s brain. ‘He’s hidden the answers in there somewhere, probably in plain sight’. He couldn’t fathom why but the sentence replayed over and over, her words repeating in his mind until it was maddening.
He raked a hand through his hair in frustration. They all wanted to know the secrets of Braygon the Burnt more than anything. Especially after what happened on the Isle of Dread. Especially after the souls they had lost to the Onyx Ocean.
We owe it to those who have fallen.
He peered at the tome again, assessing it with those calculating eyes. He hesitated on the start of each sentence, reading the lines repeatedly, and realisation smacked him in the face.
Denavar glanced at Farah, back to the tome and back to Farah again.
“Holy Gods. It’s a code!” He stood up excitedly.
“What? What do you mean?”
“The spell. It’s encrypted in a code! You read the first letter of each sentence and keep going until it forms the whole message. This is it! The answer to the spell!”
Farah bumped him out of the way, peering at the tome sceptically. Her eyes widened as she realised, he was right. “Denavar, you’re a genius!” She leaned on her toes and kissed his cheek.
He was too excited to care. Finally, some headway. He turned to the clever fox, a sly grin on his face.
“Wake Wezlan, we’ve got work to do.”
Assembly of Assassins
All hell broke loose as unfurling wings blocked out the sun and a mighty roar pierced the stillness of wooded trees, causing birds to fly off in a panic. A ribbon tail fluttered in the sky like a flag in the wind, and Ashalea vaulted off the back of the great dragon, graciously dropping down from one tree limb to another until she was surrounded by armed forces of black garbed men and women.
The dragon chortled. I miss putting on a show. Good luck young Guardian! May you find what you’re looking for. He circled the woods once more and blasted into white clouds with a final whip of his tail.
The assassins forgot themselves, eyes ogling at the dragon with bewilderment. But despite their surprise, many weapons pointed at her.
“Hold!” Ashalea called with raised hands.
“The dragon and I mean you no harm. I come in peace and to have words with Lord Silvaren. I have news of his daughter.”
They greeted her with silence, so she reached a hand under her tunic. The blades drew closer, several silver tips pressed firmly against her throat. Ashalea raised her hands again, “easy now. I’m going to pull something slowly from my tunic.”
With one hand still in the air, she slowly pulled the necklace from her chest and held it out for all to see. “I am Ashalea Kindaris, last of the royal line of the Moonglade Meadows elves and the next Guardian of the Grove.” She tried to raise her chin and straighten her back in what she hoped was a haughty pose. “I demand to speak to your leader.”
“And he shall receive her.” The Onyxonites parted to reveal a man in his late forties. He was dressed in simple black pants and a sleeveless shirt, his olive skin gleaming with sweat. Dark almond eyes scanned her face and lips curved into a familiar smug smile from behind a cropped black beard. A strong jawline and brows set his face, finished with a slightly too big nose.
The resemblance was uncanny. This was none other than Shara’s father, lord of the Onyxonites. Ashalea dipped her head respectfully. “My lord. We have urgent matters to discuss.”
He raised a brow, eyes darting to her necklace with curiosity. “Straight to the point. Good. We waste no time on niceties here.” He waved his hand, and the guards lowered their weapons. “Come.”
She followed him up a trail and surveyed her surroundings for the first time. Huts were dotted around the area, filled with blacksmiths, armouries, council chambers, mapmakers, potion makers and the like. Stone walls lined the encampment and spiked pits lay on the inner square to protect against shadows in the night. Guards patrolled, not a lazy man or woman in sight. It was a village designed with simplicity and efficiency in mind. If war called, they would be ready.
Further up the trail, huts clustered together in levels of stone. Many doors were open, revealing quaint homes filled with soft rugs and tapestries, and women walking around with little to cover them.