Killian’s fingers twitched, palms warming with his urge to lash out. But he staid his hand. Harold’s words had sparked a new idea. He clung to it, fleshing it out as quickly as he could before he voiced it into being. “What about the son the King wants dead?”
No one spoke. For a moment, no one moved. A look passed between Xalen and Harold. Then George approached, breaking the quiet only when he stood at Killian’s side. “Are you suggesting we hand the Onyx Vial over to your brother?”
He searched Killian’s eyes intently.
“Tell him my—our—father wants it. The man just tried to kill him. If carrying the Vial to Ruekridge means destroying what my father wants, Hunter will agree. I know him.”
“Never met him,” Harold countered.
“Yes, and I still want to,” Killian reasoned. “I’m risking something as important to me as the Vial is to you.”
George frowned, his green eyes saturated with deep emerald color. “We don’t know what race he—”
“Tierendar.”
Killian startled at Xalen’s words. Killian had only learned of Hunter’s race the previous night, fortunate enough to catch his brother mentioning it in a conversation with the fire-haired girl and a boy with round features and blue eyes. “How do you know that?”
Xalen broke away from his stance and rounded the desk with purpose. “So you’ve learned his race as well. Through your dreams?” It was hardly a question. He knew the answer.
“Yes.”
Xalen grabbed a poorly-carved statue sitting on his desk and slid it to the left. Something clicked and clunked behind Killian.
He turned to see that a painting of the mythical Citrine Dragon—its scales golden yellow in the rays of the setting sun—had lowered from its place on the wall to reveal a miniature cavern—a tiny Bolengard carved in the stone. Dragonflies flitted about inside, some clinging to the little towers like lizards on the perpetually barren branches of Kaktos trees. A small cage sat on the ledge that overlooked mini-Bolengard.
“When I learned your brother’s name, I sent word to the Ionian Shadow Council. Their reply arrived this morning.” Xalen grabbed a small roll of paper lying near the cage and handed it to Harold. “The moment his name registered in their database, they sent me the report.”
Harold put off a crackling energy as he read, clearly unsatisfied by the news.
“This Orenate reaction has run down the sand in our hourglass.” Xalen’s russet eyes met Killian’s, unsmiling. “We’re out of time. And if what you say is true—”
“It is.”
“—we’re also out of options.”
“Including his,” Harold cut in, waving the paper at Killian.
He turned to Harold, frustration eating away at his restraint. “I understand why you don’t trust me with the Vial, but you need someone to carry it into Ruekridge. You have three Tierens at your disposal. I’m out. You’ll be dead before you get there. That leaves Hunter.”
“He’s right,” George said.
“Boy could be anywhere,” Harold protested.
“That Aria girl—”
“Ariana,” George corrected.
Killian waved him off. “Yes. Her. My brother knows her. I have seen through him in my sleep. That's why I recognized her in the desert. Narrow down the location with what we give you, and then it should be nothing to track him down once we get there.”
“We?” Harold arched a brow.
“Yes.”
Xalen shook his head. “You aren’t going.”
Killian drew taut. All that talk of trust, and Xalen was going back on his word? “You promised me Ruekridge.”
“I did.”
“And my brother.”
“Yes. But you aren’t going near that Vial.”
Killian’s skin flushed with heat. “So take me to Ruekridge and I’ll wait for him there.”
“You are not a Shadow.” Xalen thumped is fist on his desk for emphasis. “We cannot allow you access to Ruekridge without indisputable evidence of your loyalty.”
Unacceptable. “You can’t keep me in Bolengard forever.”
“Citizens wouldn’t want to,” Harold remarked.
Killian gripped his mother’s necklace tighter, ignoring the pain of the metal piercing his skin. “Take me to Ruekridge.”
“You're proving yourself inflexible beyond our tolerance, Killian Fyrenn,” Xalen said.
He’d lost the reins. They’d gotten control and he had to get it back. “I left everything I know behind because of your promise,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me, and I've not lied once to any of you. Am I not proving myself just fine?”
“Killian.”
He wasn’t going to let them say no. He was too close now. “Take me to Ruekridge,” he insisted. “Tell Hunter he has family waiting there. That's all he wants. I know. I feel what he feels in those dreams. He will do whatever you ask of him. Just give him hope. And give me your trust.”
Xalen’s brows encroached on his eyes as he considered.
Killian held his breath and waited.
“George.” Xalen snapped into action. “Find Master Hallowell, get him to work faster. Harold. Prepare the Vial for transport. Killian. Stay here. I believe we have a solution that suits everyone involved."
Chapter 21
Sprawled on the big cream colored chair in the center of the sitting room, Hunter lifted Masters of the Unusual off his lap and considered it with dismal interest. He’d rather play a game of Kings, but no one else was in the mood to join him.
They were all lounging on the furniture around him. Perry snored so heavily that his curly golden bangs shifted on his forehead with each breath. Dilyn was concentrating deeply on a complicated etâmic practice tool involving water. Finn was nose deep in Grant and William’s old school schedules, constantly disturbing them from naps that stood no chance of being successful with his long-winded opinions and barrage of obscure questions.
Tehya was curled in the arms of a plush leather chair, reading a thick book. Strands of her ruby-brown hair fell across her face, hiding her beautiful green eyes.
He lifted the book to block his view before she caught him staring and reluctantly gave in to reading the thing.
He stuck his thumbnail against the little ribbon marking the spot, slid his thumb between the pages, and opened the book to: The Guardian of the Mustang, A Rarity Among the Rare.
Mustangs. Again. He shook his head. Tehya had seemed so sure that there was more to his connection with the horses, after the incident in the Pass, and again with the hairs during his first lesson. Her father suspected something too, though he said he didn't know much, and was hesitant to give Hunter false information. And now the Council wanted to apprentice him to some cowboy with a knack for calming wild horses instead of giving him the tools he needed to survive in this world? He had to survive. To find out the truth about his parents, and maybe, given the right skills, save them from whatever it was that kept them from returning for him. Of course, there was the thing about his dreams. What did they mean? Why had he had that necklace with him in every dream, only to see it on Falken Fyrenn's wife in a picture? Why? Was she his mother? Was the baby in that picture him? It was terrible to think it. He couldn't ask anyone this. They would think he was crazy. Or worse, they'd think he was the prince, just as the Huntsmen had in the Pass. And then where would he be?
He sighed and stared at the words, tempted to shut the book and shove the thing under the chair. But he had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go, and he needed to stop dwelling on all of these questions. So he started reading.
Even as a boy, I knew I was different. I could do things the other Eerden boys couldn’t do. Strange things. I could see through trees, for example. Not like a window, mind you, but like a telescope.
It wasn’t until my fourteenth Nameday that my Faa told me the story about the Reading of my mark.
When I was born, our family was too poor to afford
a Master Markings Reader. So they’d paid an apprentice to do the tests. The girl was so freshly into her apprenticeship that when she told my Faa that she read a combination of races, neither she nor my Faa took it seriously. They decided it was best to call me Eerden, based on the family line, and then see what happened after my Marking Day.
As it turned out, the apprentice read me correctly. I was not Eerden, as I always believed, but Tierendar. The race of Earth and Air.
There had not been a Tierendar in the Nine for over fifty years before I came along. I checked the records.
That was a lot for me to handle. Suddenly, the paths of my future had changed. I was scared. I worried that I’d become some subject of study, kept in a cage and monitored daily. I was having no part in that. So I ran away from home.
Was I thinking clearly? No. Was what I did a smart decision? Probably not. But it changed my life.
I headed south. No plan at all. Not a good strategy for a runaway.
With all that time alone to think, it was hardly a day before I decided to go back.
And wouldn’t you know, halfway along a log bridge I’d crossed many times in my life, I tripped. Fell into the water and smacked my head against a rock.
I should have drowned. Maybe I did. But I woke—on the wrong side of the bank and ten straights downriver—with a great, white stallion standing over me.
A Mustang.
I didn’t know how or why, but I knew he was there to help me. I knew he had brought me to shore. It was a feeling so deep inside me it couldn’t be wrong.
Hunter sat a little straighter, pulled the book a little closer to his face. He remembered the feeling he’d gotten when he'd calmed the Mustang in Rockwood Pass. It'd been similar to this. He’d known, somehow, that the Mustang wanted to meet him. Maybe that wasn’t the right word.
I hadn’t had much formal training. So when I reached up and touched that stallion’s nose, I didn’t realize my abilities had awakened. Not until I lifted my hand from his face.
There, in vivid blue, was my handprint, as clear as a break in an endless sea of clouds.
Naturally, my curiosity got the best of me. I got up, put both my hands on his neck, and glided them across his entire side. Then I did it again. And again. Before long, not an inch of white was left on his body. The Mustang was entirely blue.
A thunderous pounding shattered the quiet air. Hunter dropped the book, startled.
The others, too, had jolted in their seats.
“What was that?” Perry slurred, dragging himself out of sleep.
They all looked at the ceiling. It was coming from an upper floor.
“Is someone knocking?” Tehya suggested.
There was something rhythmic about it.
“They’re doing it a lot harder than they need to, if that’s what it is,” Finn noted.
William hopped off his couch and wove his way to the door. The pounding stopped as soon as he opened it.
He peered upward, where the stairs climbed like ivy to the studio’s outer door. Then he quickly shut himself back inside.
“It was knocking,” he said, his bright green eyes hooded in annoyance.
“Remind me to thank them,” Perry grumbled, laying his arm over his face to cover his eyes. “They'd've knocked any quieter and I would’ve been stuck in that incredible dream I was having.”
Tehya snickered, catching Hunter’s eye as he grinned. His smile quickly lost its footing, and it wavered into ‘creepy leer’ territory. Panic sent him searching for a distraction, and landed on his book. He broke eye contact and ducked down to grab it.
When he sat up again she was still looking at him. He waved the little book and let out a wimpy chuckle. “Dropped this,” he mumbled. “I’m gonna…” He couldn’t get the book open fast enough. His eyes darted between her and the pages. Another uncomfortable chuckle. Then, finally, the right page. “Here we are,” he said, adopting a terrible British accent in the process. His face flushed with warmth, and he turned his eyes to the book.
Now…
Why had he just busted out that accent?
…forty…
He could not have made more of a fool of himself.
…this…
Was she still looking at him?
…Mustang…
Those eyes. They were quicksand.
…closest…
That mouth.
…power…
The way her hair just begged him to run his hands through it.
…understood…
This sentence made no sense.
He forced himself to read the first line closely.
Now, more than forty years later, this Mustang is my closest friend.
Wow. Great focus, Hunter.
He pushed thoughts of Tehya away and re-started.
Now, more than forty years later, this Mustang is my closest friend. I brought out a power that lain dormant within him, and he understood the gift he’d been given.
You see, the soul of a Mustang is imbued with the elemental essence, just as ours is. But unlike us, they cannot bring forth their own etâme. Meaning that their soul-signature—the Mustang race mark, as it were—cannot appear. Without the soul-signature, their etâme goes untapped, whereas our marks appear as a result of tapping into our etâme.
So the tapping-in must be done for them. By a Tierendar. Known also as a Soul Drawer, because the individual must draw—or, ‘pull’—the Mustang’s soul-signature to the surface.
Well that was interesting. But the problem of discovering the truth about his parents wouldn't be solved by this trick.
What, you may ask, does the soul-signature look like?
Color. Ranging the entire spectrum.
Before a Mustang is drawn, it will look like any other horse. Brown, black, white, chestnut. And so on. But beneath that lies the soul-signature, the true color of the horse. Once that color is fully drawn, the Mustang can wield etâme as effectively as the greatest Masters that ever walked these worlds.
The only difference is that a Mustang is connected to one part of an element, rather than the whole. Their range is limited, but the depth of their power is incredible.
Rillet, for example, the Mustang from my childhood, can control the movement of water. Even before he could use his particular etâme, he could sense the currents, and that gave him the ability to maneuver me to safety.
He wondered what color, what etâme, hid beneath the black hair of the Mustang from Rockwood Pass. The poor beast had just wanted him to free its soul, and he had no idea. He felt a little guilty for not helping it.
It may seem strange, at first, that I know what Rillet did that day. No, he cannot speak to me. But any strong bond between human and animal can create a connection of understanding, despite the barriers of language.
I can hear him, and he me, by way of our etâme. He understands the meaning behind the words I speak. I am able to let him know—even experience—what I’m feeling and thinking, and he is able to reciprocate.
“Hunter.”
He looked up, more out of surprise to hear his name called with Bardoc’s voice than the fact that his name had been called.
The Instructor stood in the elbow of the L-shaped stairs, the ceiling obscuring the top of his head from view. He wore the same green overcoat he’d worn during their lesson, buttoned tight from his neck to his trim waist, grey pants peeking through the open bottom half. “I need to see you upstairs.”
“Uh… right now?”
“Yes.”
Hunter looked around, silently searching out an explanation from one of his friends for why he was being singled out. But they seemed baffled also. “Oh… kay…” He stood and set the book on his seat.
Tehya watched her father, concern etched in her features. “Are you feeling well, Father?” she asked.
His smile looked forced, as usual, but it seemed to appease Tehya. “Quite, my leaf.”
She smiled back, her shoulders dropping their tension. “You look s
lightly pale,” she said, teasingly. “Perhaps you should venture into the sunlight sometime before Winter.”
He gave her a wink, then waved Hunter up. “Quickly, please.”
Hunter obliged, and followed him upstairs, pausing at the corner landing long enough to catch a glimpse of the others’ curious stares.
It wasn’t until Bardoc led him into the studio that his confusion shifted to concern.
Backed by the multitude of bottles packed in the floor-to-ceiling shelves, three tall-back chairs huddled in the center of the room. In the chair facing Hunter was a man both vaguely familiar and fiercely intimidating.
His eyes were emeralds flooded in mud. His short, peppery hair said clearly: military. His skin was as worn as old leather, and tan. But the age that showed in his features was starkly contrasted by his muscular build and his capable hands. This was not a retired man. He was here on a mission. And the white-handled dagger he twirled, tip-down on the chair-arm, said he was not to be trifled with.
Bardoc nudged Hunter in the back.
Suddenly aware of his hands clamped to the doorframe, Hunter un-froze and descended the steps, his throat knotted.
The dagger stopped twirling. The man stood, blade in hand, and didn’t move to meet Hunter as he approached. When they stood a foot apart, he addressed him.
“Hunter.” His voice was rough, deep. He could make a fortune back home reading the parts of villains in animated movies.
“Uh… Yes. Hi… um… sir.”
Bardoc appeared beside him. He did seem a little paler than usual. “Hunter, this is Master Harold Stratton. An emissary from the Council.”
The Council? Why would they send someone here? Had they gotten hold of the cowboy? Was he never going to see Ruekridge, even for a moment?
“He comes from Helede, another of the Nine Worlds.”
His thoughts faltered.
“You’re Tierendar,” Harold said.
Hunter nodded.
“Sit."
He and Bardoc each planted in a chair at once. It seemed Hunter was not the only one intimidated.
The Onyx Vial (Shadows of The Nine Book 1) Page 22