Up ahead, Brie and Esán forged the way in silence. He knew they talked—used telepathy. A stab of envy almost stopped him in his tracks. He shook himself and stepped over a bulging root.
“Ira?” A high, thin voice whispered in his mind.
He shot a startled glance left then right.
“Ira.”
A chill prickled over his scalp. He rubbed his head and squinted into the musky dusk of early evening.
“They think they’re better than you…”
He froze. “What the—”
“Ira, you have the gift—”
Desirol bumped into him. Anger burning like molten lava roared through his brain.
“Hit him, Ira!”
He swung around and threw a punch. It plowed into the RewFaaran’s shoulder and sent him stumbling backward. Almost before he hit the ground, Desirol was on his feet. His fist caught Ira on the chin. The crack of contact—the jerk of his head, the snap of his neck—filled him with rage.
“Again, Ira! Hit him again.”
He lunged forward. Knuckles clipped Desirol’s nose.
Brie reached for his arm. “Ira, stop.”
He shook her hand off and spun around. Esán and Torgin stepped between him and Desirol. Hatred infused the RewFaaran’s bloodied face.
The voice in Ira’s head went quiet. Anger fled like air from a busted balloon. What just happened? He sank to the ground, head in hands. When he looked up, four pairs of eyes stared into his.
Brie knelt beside him. “Ira?”
He grasped her hand. “Someone was in my head, Brielle. Someone said my name. Someone—” He clutched a handful of hair. His eyes rounded in shock. He looked up at Esán. “Was it Nissasa?”
Esán’s face was deathly pale. “We’re under attack, and I don’t think Nissasa has that kind of power.”
Ira’s stomach lurched. “If not Nissasa, than who?”
The question quivered with dread.
Roween Rattori watched her son’s shifted form breach the garden wall and land in a tall tree at the home of the Dreelas TheLise. To say she was disappointed at her son’s behavior was an understatement. She was, however, smart enough to know she was partially to blame. She wanted to control him. She wanted his success to be hers. Taking a moment to organize her thoughts, she sent a telepathic message telling him to stay hidden, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and walked briskly down the stairs.
It was late afternoon. The household was quiet. TheLise had gone for a ride. Roween shuddered. How I hate horses. I’m so glad she chose to go alone. Tissent, one of the women Lorsedi had selected to accompany them from RewFaar to DerTah, had excused herself after mid-turning meal. Roween had been left to her own devices. A grim smile curled her lips. Plotting and planning was easier on one’s own.
A footman opened the front door and bowed her through. Men in menial positions— she gave him an arrogant smile—exactly where they belong —and crossed the courtyard to the garden. Nissasa awaited her beneath the tree where his bearded vulture form had landed. He looked pale and harried. A haunted look made his icy eyes less cool than usual.
“Mother.” He kissed her on both cheeks and stepped back.
She surveyed his rumpled appearance and pursed already thin lips into a line of discontent. “Why are you here and not at the desert border where you belong? The future Largeen Joram of RewFaar does not abandon his troops.” She snatched his hand and studied his palm. “Now we are in a mess, aren’t we? Do you know who branded you?”
“The MasTer.” His voice shook.
“And how did The MasTer discover you had the Oracle Stone?”
“I don’t know, MaMa.”
“Tell me what you have been doing with it.”
Hesitant words grew more confident as he laid out what he had done. When he told of Wolloh’s death, pride brought the color back to his cheeks. The discovery of who guarded Evolsefil made his blue eyes glow. By the end of his recital, he was no longer a wimpy boy with a hurt hand. He watched her eagerly, almost panting for her approval.
Roween listened with a growing sense of dismay and level of anger that surprised her. “You used the crystal, you fool. Not only that, but you may have destroyed connections that might be impossible to reweave. How do you expect to control the Inner Universe if you destroy the crystal web? No wonder The MasTer found you. No wonder the Mocendi are after you.” She paced away from him, her long skirts swishing around her ankles. At the edge of a small pond, she stopped, and glowered at the glassy surface. Damage control . She whipped around and marched back to her son.
“You have the crystal with you?”
He hesitated.
“Don’t lie to me, Nissasa.”
He withdrew a black pouch from beneath his long kcalo. “Its here.”
“Give it to me.” She held out her hand.
Icy blue eyes returned her cold stare. Mistrust lingered in their depths. “If I give it to you, I am powerless.”
“Give it to me now or leave and don’t ever insinuate yourself into my presence again.”
Nissasa stared. Astonishment, a touch of fear, and then determination exchanged places on his mobile features. “You would refuse to see me, your only son, if I refuse to give you the crystal?”
“My son is not a weak-kneed, sniveling little coward. The man before me is. You tell my son that I cannot abide cowards and never to present himself in that light again. Tell him that he is responsible for making Lorsedi Telisnoe sorry he ever passed him over for Largeen Joram—not for proving he was right to do so. Tell him until that time, his mother wants nothing to do with him. Take the crystal and go. Remember every time it is used, it is a beacon to its whereabouts.”
Pivoting on her heels, she marched back the way she had come. The gate clicked shut. The front door opened. The same smiling idiot bowed her into the house. She climbed the stairs, stepped into her suite, balled her shawl into a wad, and pitched it across the room. Emotion engulfed her. And how she hated it. Emotions . Something she rarely allowed herself to feel. Like a small girl, she flung herself on the bed and buried her head in a pillow and pummeled it with angry fists. When her temper had abated, she rose, straightened the eiderdown, and walked to the mirror over the bureau.
For some time, she observed the woman observing her. What do you see, lady in the mirror? Dark hair streaked with gray stuck out around her head in total disarray—close-set dull blue eyes, a nose too narrow to be pretty, a mouth too thin to be anything but stern. Taller than most woman, long limbed, and lean, she recalled her despised nickname as a child—Stork . Needless to say, it had not been her choice. Quick, habitual movements reordered her hair. Soon it lay smooth against her head, center parted and drawn back in a tight bun. With a frown, she noted the two pink splotches on her cheekbones—a sure sign of her emotional outburst.
She gave the mirror an accusatory grimace, arranged her face into its usual expression of haughty disdain, and wandered into her sitting room. Sinking onto an elegantly embroidered chair, she clasped her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. What on RewFaar were you thinking, Nissasa Rattori? And what are you thinking now?
Nissasa massaged the brand on his hand and frowned. My mother just called me a coward . A part of him, the small boy inside—the one who had been delicate and sensitive—wanted to cry out, ‘but I love you.’ The young boy who had been berated for emotions like loving or caring or feeling sad for another wanted to run away and never return. The ruthless, self-important man he had become wanted to slap her aging face, to see her cry, to make her sorry for every time she had made him feel small or stupid. He tucked the pouch under his kcalo. I’ll show you what kind of a coward I am.
He had flown all night and most of the morning. Hunger gnawed at his belly. Fatigue as deep as the Trinugian Sea threatened to drown him. “Da’am you, MaMa.”
He changed shape and lifted into flight. Nestled between two rolling hills not far from the Dreelas’ home, he discovered a small hamlet. Choosing a she
ltered spot near the outskirts, he landed, assumed his Human form, and scanned the landscape. A sign a short distance along the road read, Esccery Inn. An arrow pointed down a winding lane. After a short walk, he arrived in front of a quaint, well appointed establishment. Early evening had begun to invade the area. Warm lights glowed in the windows. A uniformed servant bowed and held the front door open.
Nissasa marched through into a small but charming reception area. The man behind the desk greeted him with a look of astonishment. Nissasa glanced down. Ahhh . He was dressed in desert wear in the middle of Trinuge, a province famous for its luscious rain forests and picturesque seaside towns. Removing his kcalo, he draped it over his arm and approached the desk. The man’s expression changed to suspicion laced with veiled interest. Nissasa imagined that he had never in his narrow little life seen a RewFaaran uniform.
“I need food and a room for the night.” He withdrew a money purse from his pocket and tipped a RewFaar silver coin onto the desk.
The man picked it, flipped it over, and handed it back. “I need real money, sir.” His demeanor was polite—careful.
Nissasa pulled a gold coin embossed with the symbol of the House of Telisnoe from the purse. “I am newly arrived, early for a visit with the Dreelas. Will this cover my needs?”
The man studied the coin and smiled. “It will. May I send someone for your luggage?”
“It has been sent ahead.”
“And your horse?”
Nissasa’s cool eyes, grew cooler. “I arrived by unconventional means.”
The man smiled a conspiratorial smile. “A DiMensioner.”
Ignoring his statement, Nissasa sighed. “I’m tired. Please show me to my room and have food sent up as soon as possible.”
The man swiveled a registry toward him and held out a pen.
After a minuscule delay, Nissasa scrawled a semblance of his name.
A small bell rang and a young woman appeared.
“Show this gentleman to guest suite number one.” He stood. “Name’s Quipe. Please let me know if you require anything further.”
Nissasa gave the man a tepid smile and strode after the young woman. Once in the hall, he allowed his gaze to wander the youthful curves of her body. I wonder what the game rules are between men and women in Trinuge? After the past few turnings, a bedmate would be a pleasant thing.
As though aware of his scrutiny, she hurried to a door labeled Suite One and handed him a key. “This is your suite, sir. Enjoy your stay.”
The temptation to ask her to join him remained unspoken as she lowered her gaze, slipped around him, and walked briskly down the hall.
While he awaited the arrival of his meal, he pondered his mother’s behavior. Thinking about her reaction to his accomplishments stoked the embers of his anger. A knock at the door made him put it on hold. He waited until the young server had departed, then pulled out a chair and sat down. Food and sleep. Then I return to the desert, and the battle I will win.
“You are already losing the war, Nissasa Rattori.”
The telepathic message brought him to his feet. His mental shields slammed into place. Who in Sedah was that?
13
Master’s Reach
Myrrh & Thera
A lmiralyn accepted Zugo’s offer of help. Learning to conduct himself with circumspection and to make mature decisions would only help him to become the adult he had the potential of being. Although he possessed none of the talents that would lend themselves to DiMensionery, he was quick, intelligent, and brave. She reassured herself as she crossed the Reading Room.
I need someone monitoring the fountain. I can’t be everywhere at once. Zugo will do a good job. His journal is detailed and well organized. He knew, with no sign from me, not to approach the fountain when the eyes were searching. And I trust him to let me know immediately if something important appears. She hesitated and glanced back at Veersuni. He’ll be fine. I gave him a golden citrine crystal from his home caverns. It’s programmed to shield him from sight. He promised to wear it whenever he is in the sanctuary.
Setting aside her uncertainty, she jogged down the stairs to the Research Library and headed for the section where she had last seen Wilith Whalen. She found him hunched over a parchment, surrounded by piles of books and scrolls. Elae sat next to him, her expression serious and her attention concentrated.
Almiralyn cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”
Both jumped. Wilith frowned, rubbed his forehead, and marked the place in the book he had been referencing. “Almiralyn—so sorry. I believe we got lost in the text.” He stood and stretched. “I could use a short respite to clear my head.”
Almiralyn nodded. “Let’s adjourn to the Reading Room.”
Elae pushed her chair back. “A break and food would be nice. I’ll fix something and meet you there.”
“Please ask one of the other priestesses to prepare the food, Elae. I’d like a full report. You might have seen something Wilith missed.”
She nodded and vanished down the corridor of glass cases.
Wilith tapped the parchment he had rolled out on the table. “Elae found this. I think it is important, but there are things that neither of us understand.”
Almiralyn slid into Elae’s vacant seat and bent over a scroll written in three different languages. Her heartbeat quickened, then slowed. She frowned, struggled to translate a passage in an ancient text, skipped it, and moved on to the next. “This says the Mocendi originated on the rim planet of TreBlaya in the sun cycles prior to the Time of StyLacca when the surface of the planet was destroyed. They were sacerdotal individuals who lived simple, reclusive lives. At some point, they gathered together and formed a sect that began the exploration and study of the mystical arts. It was rumored that the Mocendi Sect was instrumental in the destruction that took place on TreBlaya.” She paused. “There’s a passage that I can’t translate. I wish Corvus were here. His training in languages is far greater than mine.”
Wilith opened the book he had been referencing when she arrived and flipped back several pages. “It says here that about fifty sun cycles ago, the sect reappeared as the Mocendi League, full blown and invigorated by the Arts of DiMensionery. The leader is called The MasTer. The title alone engenders fear across the Inner Universe. There is no mention of who he is or where he came from, although it is suggested that he is merciless and cruel beyond imagination.”
Elae had joined them as he finished. “Our meal is ready.” She glanced at the parchment. “Other than this scroll, I found only one reference to The MasTer, Almiralyn. He is said to have the Red Eye of Death. The text says: ‘If you make eye contact, death is a long and painful process that begins forthwith.’”
Almiralyn felt a chill of dread. “I must speak with Zugo. I’ll join you in the Reading Room.”
Hurrying between the glass cases, she hoped her young DeoNyte had not succumbed to the curiosity for which he was so well known. A sideways glance, showed her reflection racing beside her, anxiety in every step, fear in the deep blue of her eyes.
From the entrance to Tinpaca Mondago’s tent the emerald Pentharian Stee observed his comrade’s approach. Sun bounced off carnelian scales as Jeet zigzagged between tents and glinted on the gold and silver earrings that marked his success in battle. On his chest he bore the tattoos of his birth clan and the initiations that had prepared him for adulthood. He was tall and muscular with a myriad of finger-thick braids that brushed his waist as he walked. Yellow eyes flecked with orange to match his scales—a rarity amongst his kind—remained focused on his destination.
Around him, RewFaaran soldiers cast curious glances his direction. Apparently unaware that Pentharian had exceptional hearing, some whispered comments to fellow soldiers. Jeet ignored them.
Stee turned to the Tinpaca. “Jeet has returned from DerTah.” He stepped back and motioned his comrade inside.
Mondago stood. “Welcome, Jeet. I hope you have good news.”
They were soon seated around
the table. Jeet presented a concise report: Nissasa continued to be absent from the desert; Dahe Terah had not yet returned; Mondago was to ready a select number of men for portal travel; and finally, Allynae and Stebben would lower the border shields in exactly one chronometer circle Myrrhinian time. Mondago made note.
Jeet continued, “I will scout the DerTahan end of the gateway and return to give the ‘go.’ With luck, the battle for the portal will net your men control.”
Mondago had already selected Grantese Tesilend to lead a group of ten men. At his command, they departed for Demrach Gateway. Stee and Jeet shifted to their vulture form and flew ahead. The Tinpaca and a small contingent of soldiers remained at camp to guard prisoners and to maintain the security of Tropal Gateway, the portal into the The Borderlands.
Stee and Jeet landed to confer with their comrade Yuin near the portal. In Pentharian form, they spoke together in the low, guttural language of their kind. When they had finished explaining the fast developing situation to Yuin, Stee once again shifted and took flight. Within a short time, he arrived in the clearing surrounding Nemttachenn Tower. Materializing once again as Pentharian, he strode to the entrance and stared into the dim interior. Paisley and CheeTrann bent over a chess board made him smile. The Sentinel looked up. His booming baritone reverberated throughout the tower.
“Ah. It is the Pentharian Stee. You have news?”
Paisley grinned. “Hey, Stee. What’s happenin’?”
“Tinpaca Mondago asked me to inform you that an offensive is about to begin.” When he had presented the details, he glanced down at the chess board. “I do not know this game, only what it is called.”
CheeTrann puffed up his chest. “It is a game of battle. One must understand strategy. I do this well.” He winked at Paisley.
The UnFolding Collection Three Page 13