The Dragon Writers Collection

by DragonWritersCollective

  Moira shook her head. “I do not think so. But even that was strange.”

  “How so?”

  “When she came into the cave, I sensed Morgraine’s presence, but I found it confusing.”

  “Why?”

  “Morgraine felt like a weaker vibration of the one I sensed when I guided Glendoque and his wife. Same but different. Less . . . earthy or . . . of the earth . . . if that makes any sense.”

  Ilythiiria wrinkled her brow. She needed to distract Moira from thinking about Euryale. “The daughter’s connection with earth is only through her mother, no?” asked Ilythiiria.

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “Then could it be she is more distanced from the earth now that her mother is gone?” Ilythiiria reached out and stroked the arm of Moira, whose face responded by smoothing the tension it had worn into Ilythiiria’s compartment.

  “Yes, that must be the case. She has not visited the pond much of late, at least not when I was with Niamh.” Moira’s face tightened again.

  “I am sorry, Moira. I know you are worried about Niamh. You know how she is, though. Niamh takes in strays the way you do. She is probably Guiding some lost soul.” She offered a comforting smile.

  “I hope so. Oh, speaking of Guiding lost souls. I forgot to tell you. The wife of Glendoque said you know her.”

  “I do not know her well.” Why did Euryale draw attention to me? What was she thinking?

  “Lyra sends her greetings nonetheless.”

  Ilythiiria smiled. Euryale followed my instructions. Maybe there is hope for her yet. “If you should see Lyra again, please return my regards.”

  “Of course,” replied Moira, shifting from one foot to another and then turning a quarter-circle to leave Ilythiiria’s compartment.

  “And speaking of Glendoque . . . as I remember, you aided him in finding a new home. Has he settled in?”

  Moira shrugged. “I assume he has if his shrewish wife has not yet insisted on a more lavish home.”

  Ilythiiria wanted to smack Euryale. She laughed softly. “Every pot has its cover, no?”

  Moira nodded and walked to the door. “Yes, it does. If you gain news of Niamh, please inform us at once. The Circle meets soon, and we must call her if she does not return before then.”

  “Is that not too risky?”

  “We do what we must to protect the Staves.”

  Ilythiiria nodded and patted Moira on the arm. “I am sure your friend will return with tales of wonder and not a clue as to why anyone has worried about her. She always comes home, Moira.”

  Moira nodded. “Thank you for your kind words.”

  When the golden-haired protector of Glendoque was gone, Ilythiiria locked her door and sat on her bed. Euryale was up to something. And she was dangerously close to exposing Ilythiiria’s role in her escape. “If Moira sensed you, she did so because you made yourself vulnerable. Why, Euryale? What held your attention so raptly you diverted focus from cloaking yourself?” she said aloud.

  Hearing the words spoken made their answer all the more instantly clear. “You probed her aura. You could not resist, could you?”

  Ilythiiria thought back to the first time she’d realized Euryale had been born with a talent nobody had expected. It had emerged without warning when Euryale’s womanhood began to blossom, but not in the normal way an exceptional talent might have, not in the arms of a servant lover or when a rival House Daughter challenged her with a slap. Rather, the young woman’s penchant for Aura Shifting slipped out without a physical catalyst.

  Ilythiiria had been collecting ingredients for a potion, and Euryale had been watching a procedure Ilythiiria didn’t particularly like, but which had to be done. To distract herself from the unpleasantness of it, Ilythiiria had focused on Euryale.

  ***

  Her charge’s eyes darted to the sharpened tip of the quill as Ilythiiria pierced the neck of a vole. Euryale’s gaze fluttered from the teacher to the screeching vole as Ilythiiria tapped her finger over the end of the quill and drew blood up into it. When it was filled, she emptied it into a bowl and repeated the procedure.

  “Wait,” Euryale said, her tone raspy with excitement.

  Ilythiiria stopped tapping her finger.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Does what hurt,” asked Ilythiiria.

  “To die.”

  Ilythiiria looked down at the vole. “I am told it feels like weak relief, but I do not know for sure. I have never died.” She had never lied to the girl.

  “Why are you killing it?” she asked more loudly.

  Ilythiiria felt the vole quiver and flop its body against her palm.

  “I need its blood.” Ilythiiria prodded Euryale’s aura with her own. It felt like curiosity, but not compassion. She had a growing concern about the whispers regarding Euryale’s proclivities. It was partly Euryale’s fault, in that her sharp tongue had gained her no kindnesses or patience from her other teachers. It was more than that, though. Some of the other Priestesses had treated her with indifference from the beginning. Ilythiiria had never understood why.

  Looking up from the vole to Ilythiiria, Euryale searched her mentor’s face. “Let me,” she said, taking the quill out of Ilythiiria’s hand.

  The Priestess watched in horror and amazement as her charge drew the blood from the pitiful vole so slowly it seemed she took it by drops. She soaked in every change in the vole’s demeanor and reactions, three times stopping in mid-draw to concentrate. And three times, the vole reacted—once stiffening, one time squirming, and finally going limp as it wailed a pleading squeak.

  The vole’s third reaction pushed Ilythiiria’s pity for the pathetic rodent to the edge of her tolerance. “Kill it now.”

  Euryale looked disappointed. She squeezed the vole’s neck and snapped it but held onto it and closed her eyes.

  “Stop that immediately!” Ilythiiria said.

  Euryale’s eyelids snapped open. Her eyes looked flat and lifeless.

  “Now!” screamed Ilythiiria, slapping Euryale’s hand so hard the limp vole flew out of it and thumped first against the wall and then the floor.

  ***

  Ilythiiria shuddered at the memory of the thud. She felt more certain than ever Euryale was up to something. It seemed a game to her. In the midst of not trying to save herself from the death sentence, she had probed someone’s aura in the Assembly hall. In toying with Ilythiiria through Moira, Euryale also had drawn Moira’s attention to a link between Ilythiiria and herself. But why? As she so frequently had felt while mentoring Euryale, Ilythiiria found herself overwhelmed with questions. If she had learned anything about her charge, it was that Euryale employed focus purposefully. What got her attention got all of her attention, but getting her attention meant being unique, useful, and challenging to the point of dangerous. Without those three characteristics, Euryale wouldn’t deign to expend energy on anything or anyone. With them, she would gamble her life for control. What could possibly motivate her to teeter purposely on the edge of disaster in the Assembly hall and with Moira? What did she expect to win when she mastered her game? As Niamh had so succinctly put it, “To what end?”

  The same sense of amazement and horror she’d felt watching Euryale with the bat settled over her, and she whispered, “Tell me you did not attempt to shift Moira’s aura.”

  ***

  A knock rattled Paidraigh Keenan’s office door. “Come in.” The door opened to a view of Private Lucas snapping to attention, his hand bolting to a salute. “At ease.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Lucas relaxed. “Commander Patrone, Sir. He wants you in his office.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Yes, Sir. Something about the squatters, Sir.”

  “Thank you, Private. Dismissed.”

  Memories of the day he’d seen the squatters haunted him all the way to Patrone’s cushy office at the other end of the garrison complex. The storm had sent his troops scurrying back to the garrison, and its deluges had provided the de
lay he needed to give the squatters a chance to escape. Paidraigh had taken his time returning to headquarters, sheltering the horses and soldiers in farmers’ stables twice along the way. None of the men had mentioned seeing the squatters scramble over the rocks at the edge of the woods. Hopefully, none had seen. If any had, he prayed they’d kept it to themselves. “Just a little good luck, Saints,” he whispered, grasping the amulet he wore under his shirt. He drew a long breath and knocked on the wooden door of his superior officer’s quarters.

  “Come in,” Patrone called out.

  The door swung open slowly, and Paidraigh slipped his lanky frame inside the Commander’s office, closing the door before he snapped to a salute. He kept his eyes forward, staring at the wall across the room. Mucking stalls had taught him not to look Patrone in the eye.

  “Do you have any further report on the squatters, Lieutenant?”

  “No, Sir. No incidents since the last report. Our troops destroyed the structures in the woods.”

  “I see,” replied Patrone. “So tell me, do you believe they planned to stay after all?” The Commander’s fingers clenched the quill.

  “It would appear so, Sir.”

  Commander Patrone eyed the parchment on his desk and smiled. “I agree, but there’s something that troubles me about that.”

  “What’s that, Sir?”

  “What troubles me,” Patrone said, “is that this group just evaporated. They wanted to settle, but they just ran away like vermin in torchlight? That is what you reported. Right, Lieutenant?”

  Paidraigh fought to stay at attention. “Something like that, Sir. I believe I said they scattered.”

  “Well, I’m not convinced they stayed scattered.” Patrone huffed with disgust as he crumpled the parchment in his fist. “We ran them out of Port Firth, and they settled in the woods. What makes you think they wouldn’t do the same again?”

  Paidraigh didn’t have an answer.

  “Go back tomorrow. They’re scavenging squatters. At the very least, they would’ve returned to salvage what they could. If they were smart, they took their belongings and left. If they returned and stayed, I want you to arrest them.”

  “There was nothing left to take, Sir. Almost all of the structures had burned completely before the storm began.”

  Patrone glared at the junior officer. “Did I ask you a question?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Then follow my order.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Keenan’s muscles cramped. He wanted to be out of the office, but he would be damned if he’d ask for permission to leave. Continuing to stare at the wall and hold the salute he’d maintained through their entire conversation, he gritted his teeth behind closed lips.

  “Is there something else?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Then get out.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Patrone gave a limp salute, quill in hand, eyes fixed on the crumpled parchment he clutched in his fist.

  As deftly as he had entered the office, Paidraigh slipped out. Patrone didn’t care if the squatters were in the woods. Nobody cared as long as they weren’t in Port Firth. He knew what Patrone wanted—slaves to sell at auction. Patrone would add them to the auction manifest, and everyone would assume they came with the transported slaves. Patrone would make a hefty profit; the town would be rid of the squatters; nobody would be the wiser . . . except Paidraigh.

  And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He would know. He, Paidraigh Keenan—supposed Enforcer who had smart-mouthed his way into a job mucking stalls and snapping salutes and appeasing Patrone while awaiting orders from higher up, a lot higher up—would know.

  Paidraigh let out a sigh before heading toward the barracks to organize the patrol. Slavers and those who aided them left a bad taste in his mouth. He would have to dance delicately to avoid getting stirred into their mix. He could keep the troops away from the rocky ledge where the woman in the brightly coloured dress had run if he kept them focused on scouring the charred woods for stragglers. That way, maybe nobody would pick up any scents or footprints to track. He truly hoped the strangers had found an escape route leading as far away as possible.

  At first light, the patrol set off for the woods. By noon, they arrived. As planned, Paidraigh steered them toward the place where the squatters had made the camp his troops had torn down and burned.

  “Lieutenant, over here!” one of the soldiers shouted.

  Paidraigh’s chest tightened. “What is it, Private Lucas?” he asked as he stepped into a shady clearing not far from the former camp.

  The soldier crouched, tracing his fingers in ash. “Somebody made a fire here.”

  “Is it fresh?”

  Lucas shrugged. “Dunno, but look. No footprints in it or around it. My guess is somebody built it since we were here, and they covered their tracks.”

  “Any other tracks?”

  “Just these. Looks like a wagon.” Lucas pointed to two distinct lines in the crushed leaves and then to hoof prints. “Not a big wagon. One horse.”

  Paidraigh’s gaze followed the lines. They headed away from the rocky ledge.

  “Sir? Want me to follow them?” the Private asked.

  When Paidraigh looked up, he saw a small group of soldiers had gathered near him and the Private. It was too late to make light of the finding. He nodded to the Private. “Let’s see where they go.” Stepping between the two lines, he added, “Behind me. Stay close.”

  The soldiers fell into a tight, arrowhead formation with Paidraigh at their point. They followed the lines deeper into the woods, swerving around trees and thickets. In some places, it looked like the wagon barely had squeezed between two trees.

  Paidraigh’s heart did a drum roll when he heard a twig crack. The soldiers behind him drew their swords.

  “No need to get antsy,” called the bass voice from behind the brightly painted wagon ahead of Paidraigh. “Just me, and I am unarmed.”

  “Come out where we can see you,” shouted Paidraigh, motioning to his men to stay put. He didn’t want a panicked soldier starting a skirmish any more than he wanted a dead soldier.

  The wagon rocked and groaned. From behind it stepped a curly-horned, bull-faced giant.

  Paidraigh took a step back and prepared to draw his own sword.

  The giant raised both of his hands. “I am unarmed.”

  “What are you doing here?” Paidraigh asked.

  “Passing through. I stopped last night to eat and sleep.” He nodded in the direction of the burned encampment. “Someone else was here before me, though.”

  “We saw that,” said Paidraigh.

  “I saw no sign of them when I got here last night. Are you looking for them? Because it looks like they left in a hurry and did not leave anything behind for others.”

  It was the second time the giant had mentioned he’d arrived the night before.

  “Others?” Private Lucas asked.

  The giant shrugged and grinned, his flat teeth filling the broad space between his lips. “Folks like me, who could use a hut for a night.” He pointed his thumb toward the wagon. “Not much room in there.”

  “I suppose you’ll be moving along now?” Paidraigh asked.

  “That was my plan.” The giant eyed the insignia on Paidraigh’s collar. “Lieutenant.”

  Paidraigh nodded. “Good. Turn your wagon around, and you can follow us to the road. We’ll point you in the right direction and let you get on your way.”

  “I appreciate your kindness.”

  “Back to the road! There’s nothing here.” Paidraigh yelled.

  The men turned around and began their casual march back the way they’d come. The giant climbed onto the wagon and brought it around to follow the soldiers. Private Lucas dropped back near Paidraigh.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Private Lucas?”

  “Why did we stop searching?”

  “Because our witness told us nobody was there. You heard him.”

  “Well, yes,
Sir, but how do you know he is telling the truth? What if he is one of them?”

  Paidraigh stopped and looked at Lucas. He wasn’t much more than a boy, and if his curiosity didn’t get him killed, he’d apply his bright mind and make something of himself. Paidraigh hated to discourage him. The officer put his hand on top of the boy’s shoulder and squeezed. “Good questions, Lucas. Do you remember seeing that fella when we came here the last time?”

  Lucas shook his head, his stringy hair shaking vigorously. “No, Sir.”

  “Do you think we would have missed someone his size?”

  Lucas looked back at the wagon and then shook his head, looking down. “No, Sir.”

  Paidraigh laughed and slapped Lucas on the back. “Not much of a chance he’s one of them. But it’s good to keep asking questions.”

  Private Lucas beamed. Paidraigh chuckled and wiped the sweat off his brow when he turned his head.

  When they reached the road, Paidraigh yelled, “Form up!” He waved to the giant and pointed toward the direction opposite of Port Firth. “Hold up over there!” As the soldiers formed a column two men wide facing the opposite way, Paidraigh walked to the front of the wagon.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Paidraigh leaned and looked at the column, mentally accounting for all the men before he spoke. He patted the side of the wagon seat and looked up at the giant. “Tell the lady in the bright-coloured gown I like her wagon,” he said quietly. He turned and walked toward the column, shouting, “You gunna stand there all day? Move it!”

  The column rippled like a caterpillar, sole-worn boots thudding on the dusty road.

  From the wagon seat came a belly laugh, and then the wagon groaned and toddled away.

  The windows of Patrone’s office were dark when Paidraigh and his troops arrived at the garrison. Good. He’ll be cranky enough as it is without me rousting him out of bed. Paidraigh took off his boots and the belt that held his sword and plopped into his desk chair, propping his feet on the desk.

  Paidraigh had just closed his eyes when the stone framing the fireplace shook, and the hardened mud between the stones cracked. He swung his feet off the desk and jumped to his feet as the robed woman squeezed out of the rocks.