Feeling the weight of the impossible task, Mara swallowed. “I wish I knew.”
***
Well past midnight, long after her friends had retired to their own beds, Mara paced around her room, unable to sleep for fear of what she’d see when she closed her eyes. If the dead already haunted her waking hours, she wasn’t ready to face her dreams.
After Isaac had checked on her, he’d gone to speak with his father and the council about the destruction of Stonehollow and seeking reparations against the Order for the loss. But were they more upset by the loss of a major agricultural resource, or the loss of their citizens? Regardless, it could take months before they made an actual decision.
Someone pounded on the door before they kicked it open, not even bothering to wait for an invitation. Mara screamed. Heart thudding, she formed an energy whip in her hands and pulled back, ready to strike at the intruder.
Ethan stepped inside, carrying enough scrolls in his arms to open his own library.
“Ethan?” She sagged, letting the energy vanish. “What are you doing here?”
“You were right!” He rushed over to her bed and dumped the scrolls over her blankets. He spun around to face her, waving his hands frantically. “All this time. But you were also wrong. It’s not just you. It’s the wrong language!”
“I swear if you came in here just to babble nonsense at me, I’m going to kick you right back out.”
He took a deep breath and rubbed his temples. “I’m not explaining this properly.”
“You think?”
“Let’s start from the beginning. This prophecy you’re so attached to. What does it actually say?”
“What? Why can’t you just look it up in your books?”
“Indulge me. What does it say?”
Mara rolled her eyes and recited, “The child of the black sun will rise and bring about the star’s demise.”
“Wrong! That’s what it says in the common tongue.” Ethan unrolled one of the scrolls and pointed to the unintelligible runes. “The Seer who had the vision lived at what’s now known as the Ghost Keep. She kept careful records of all her visions and prophecies, including this one, which was originally written in the forgotten language of Seralle.”
“What are you saying?” She frowned and took the scroll from his hand, pulling it closer for a better look.
“I’m saying that we’ve been reading a translation error. When I was in Stonehollow, I struggled with the idea of not paying for things like food or furniture. Remember the harvest festival? You told me that everything was shared equally—that some of the older generation never bothered to learn their numbers at all.”
“Right . . .”
“It made me think. What if that idea of equal distribution of resources, rendering numbers useless, has far deeper roots? What if it’s a tradition Stonehollow kept even after Seralle was usurped by Esterwyn? I found dozens of ancient texts in the library—some so old that I had to wear gloves just to handle them. And as I compared them to the translation key, one thing stood out above all—the language has no concept of numbers. It didn’t matter if there was a single item or many.”
“Is this supposed to clear things up for me? Because I still don’t understand.”
“Mara . . . the prophecy was written in a language that has no pluralization. Whoever translated it into the common tongue made a mistake. The prophecy doesn’t refer to a single dreg.”
Realization dawned on her. “It meant all of them.”
“Exactly!” His eyes sparkled as he said, “The children of the black sun will rise and bring about the star’s demise.”
Her head spun from the implications. This whole time, she’d thought she’d have to face the Order alone, but now? “Ethan . . . when did the Order create the Gifting ceremony? When did they first start making dregs?”
“After this prophecy was written,” he said.
Mara began to pace, thinking out loud as she walked. “So, by creating the dregs, the Order sealed their own destruction. Because if they had continued leaving Gifts to develop naturally in adolescence, there would have been no way to stop them. Instead, they just handed us the key.” An idea popped into her mind and she turned a speculative gaze on Ethan. “How much of the awakening elixir can you brew in the next week?”
“The Soperallias elixir? It depends on how many ingredients I have in stock. Why?”
“Because I get the feeling we’re going to need a lot of it.” She turned to him, a savage smile growing on her face, and pure vengeance shining through her eyes. White energy sprang unbidden to her hands and coiled around her arms.
“I’m going to create an army.”
Epilogue
Prince Silvano Miore’ leaned against the stone windowsill and watched the sun disappear over the sea as two servants dragged his father’s body from the throne room. He closed his eyes, inhaling the decadent smell of saltwater he’d been denied the past year. So much time, wasted, thanks to the Miestryri’s prejudices.
Now that he’d returned home, things were about to change.
Beginning with his father’s advisor.
Silvano turned and examined the blubbery man who was tied up and kneeling in the middle of the room. The gray doublet and leggings were an unfortunate choice, he decided, as they made the advisor resemble a whale calf caught in a fisherman’s net.
“Tell me, Lucan.” Silvano pushed away from the window and ambled over to his prisoner, his movements as smooth as his words. “After my untimely exile, how long did my father wait before releasing you from the dungeons? A month? A week? A day?”
Lucan pressed his lips shut and stared defiantly back at him.
“Oh, come now. You have nothing to say to me? You have a tongue that begs to reveal its secrets.”
“You can’t make me talk. I am loyal to the true Miestryri.”
“The one who is currently being dragged to the docks for his burial raft?” Silvano raised his sword, which still glistened with his father’s blood. He rested the tip against Lucan’s neck, allowing the threat to sink in. “We both know that you’re only loyal to yourself. Why prolong the inevitable when you can simply tell me what I need to know? Where is my sister, Arianna?”
“As I said, I am loyal to the true Miestryri.”
“How fortunate for you that you are kneeling before the Miestryri.”
“The true Miestryri.”
“Why Lucan, I’m surprised! I never expected that I would need to define a simple word for you. Then again, you always were a simple man. Allow me to clear up any misunderstanding. As the oldest child in my family, I was named heir. Now that my dearly beloved father has passed onto his next life, I am the Meistryri.”
“You are nothing but a disgraced kin-killer, not worthy to desecrate the ground your father walked on.” Lucan spat at his feet. Silvano’s lip curled as a globule of saliva ran down the side of his boot to pool on the floor.
“Then we are at an impasse. I find it curious that you defend the man who attempted to have me assassinated on multiple occasions, including poisoning my own Shield against me.” Silvano schooled his features carefully to hide his inner turmoil. More than anything, Mikkal’s betrayal had ruined him. “How is that any different than what I did?”
“Your father never sullied his own hands. He relied on those around him to carry out the unsavory jobs.”
“Having his own son and heir disposed of is a tad more than unsavory.”
“You spent your time partying and drinking instead of caring for your people like Arianna. You were a disgrace, and your father made the best decision for the future of Crystalmoor when he ordered your death. My only regret is that he was not successful.”
Silvano rolled his eyes—an annoying habit he’d learned from Mara. He’d known his reputation, however undeserved it might be, would be an issue when he returned to his homeland.
“How unfortunate that you feel this way, Lucan. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to refresh my memory? It ha
s been quite some time since I was involved in Crystalmoor’s politics, after all. What is the protocol for unhelpful prisoners who have committed treason? Wait, don’t tell me.” He tapped a long finger on his chin as he walked slowly around Lucan. “Is it the one where we lower you head-first into a shark tank until you miraculously grow talkative, or do we go straight for keelhauling?”
Lucan flinched, and it was no wonder. Keelhauling was a particularly gruesome way to die. But rather than recant as Silvano expected, he lifted his chin and stared him in the eyes. “It doesn’t matter what you do to me. I won’t betray her just for you to send her to her father.”
“Why Lucan, I’m offended. You believe I would harm Arianna? My own sister?”
“Why else would you be so desperate to find her?”
“For her support, obviously. Who knows what foul lies you’ve been breeding amongst the nobility while I was away.” Silvano leaned down until his nose almost brushed the adviser’s. What a foul situation that he needed to tolerate the insufferable clod at all. But it was only a matter of time before he found Arianna. And then he would personally throw Lucan from the cliffs. Silvano stood and straightened the buttons on his sleeves. “Very well, Lucan. Keep your secrets. They won’t be yours much longer.”
He strode from the room without a backward glance. Lucan’s accusation that he would harm his own sister had cut him to the core; however, his caution wasn’t entirely unwarranted. The adviser had found him standing over his father’s body, holding a blood-covered sword. And, as usual, he’d jumped to conclusions.
When Opal had given him a vague prophecy and a mission to reclaim his birthright, he hadn’t wanted to resort to violence. No matter the awful things his father had done, he was still his father. Silvano had arrived in Crystalmoor with hopes for reconciliation. Now that he was Gifted, he’d entertained fantasies of his father welcoming his prodigal son with outstretched arms.
Instead, his father had greeted him with an outstretched sword.
Silvano pressed a hand to his side where his father had cut him. The people wouldn’t believe he’d killed his father in self-defense. They would rebel, denouncing him as a kin-killer as swiftly as Lucan had, which was why he needed to find Arianna and explain the situation. With her support, the people would accept him as Miestryri.
Perhaps he should have waited, as Opal had instructed. If he had been patient and requested the help of the Warlord in another month’s time, maybe his father would still be alive. What he couldn’t figure out was why Opal had told him to ask the Warlord for help. They’d never met, and from what he’d heard, Bridgette was ruthless and more likely to gut him than offer aid. Regardless, how could he wait and petition the Warlord, the leader of another country for help? His people would never respect his rule. They would never be loyal.
That loyalty was something he needed to earn to become the leader his people needed.
As challenging as his exile had been, he’d learned invaluable lessons, including the dangers of blindly trusting in others. No matter how close he relied on someone—Tomar, Mikkal, Tova—they had all betrayed him for a price. And Mara . . . Mara was the most disturbing of all. While she hadn’t betrayed him, she had the power to do far worse damage.
He flinched at the memory of Mara at Order Headquarters. While Wynn and Halder ran, Silvano had hung back to make sure Mara would escape safely. What he’d seen had terrified him to his very core. The power she wielded was unnatural. Dangerous. When they’d first met, and she’d displayed glimpses of her abilities, Silvano had salivated over the ways he could use her potential. But now? Who knew what she could do if she ever chose to betray him.
Silvano walked outside to the terrace. Tomorrow, they would send his father off into the sea. Most of the city would attend to pay their respects and witness his coronation. If they shared the same prejudice as Lucan had, it might take some convincing to get them to follow him, and the last thing he needed was a country divided by loyalties.
He would give them a demonstration. Something so powerful it would leave his right to be the Miestryri Lei Miore’—the Master of the Sea—unquestioned.
MIESTRYRI
A DREG NOVELLA 2.5
BETHANY HOEFLICH
For Steel,
who insisted on having
a book of his own.
1
It was a good day for a funeral.
The waves were still. Quiet. As if the sea itself were holding its breath in homage to a legend. Even the sky had cleared of clouds, leaving no blemish on the cerulean expanse. The morning sun glistened on the gentle waves as they lapped the curving shore. A small crowd, wearing the traditional white mourning clothes of Crystalmoor, had gathered on the pale sands of East Rock to pay their respects to the fallen Miestryri. More still were picking their way down the perilous staircase that had been carved into the cliffside. For many of them, it would be their first and last chance to see the fallen Miestryri with their own eyes.
But no matter how pious and respectful they appeared, the funeral had not drawn them to the beach like lemmings tumbling over the cliff. Nor had the dozen priests, bedecked in splendid ombre robes that began as white at their shoulders and darkened to the deep, gray-blue of an angry sea at their ankles. On their heads, they wore woven crowns of seaweed, and around their necks, strings of sea glass and shells that rattled as they moved like waves on bare feet, sinking into the dance of death to honor the fallen. It was a spectacle that would draw even the most critical eye with wonder, yet no one bothered to watch. Every eye, every gaze, was rooted to the figure waiting in the shadows of the cliff.
The exiled prince—long presumed dead—had returned.
Shaking off the weight of the crowd’s speculative gaze as a horse shakes off the irritating sting of a fly, Prince Silvano Miore’ watched the procession with his heart in his throat as the priests of the sea god carried his father’s funeral raft past the sheer cliffs and down to the shoreline.
Any moment he expected to wake up and discover that this was nothing more than a nightmare.
Was it only yesterday that he had met with his father in the hopes of reconciling their differences? It felt like a lifetime ago. Instead of the touching reunion he’d hoped for, his father had greeted him with an outstretched sword. With no other choice, Silvano was forced to defend himself. He’d cut his own father down like a spindly tree in the forest.
But the people wouldn’t accept his explanation, even if he wished to give one. Even now, he heard their accusations—kin-killer. Their whispers followed him like feral dogs, nipping at his heels as he strode past the crowd. No matter what he said, they wouldn’t accept his defense. In their mind, he was the banished prince. A playboy turned murderer. Disgraced beyond redemption.
And so he stayed silent, accepting their scorn like the sting of a whip in penance. Maybe then it would ease his guilt.
They didn’t know that his own father had hired his Shield, Mikkal, to kill him after they crossed the border into Lingate—a task that Mikkal had failed, much to Silvano’s relief. He very much enjoyed keeping his head attached to his neck where it belonged. While the betrayal still ate away at his mind like acid, the lesson it had taught him was invaluable. He would never again trust blindly.
Muffled footsteps drew near, interrupting his musings. Silvano took a deep breath before turning toward the approaching guard. Dressed in the official uniform of the royal guard, Jax cut an imposing figure in his tailored gray tunic and linen breeches. Due to superstition, few of the Crystalmoor guard would dare wear iron, but Jax wore the chest plate and shoulder guards with pride. Or possibly insanity. Flaunting his disregard for tradition in front of the priests at a funeral wasn’t the wisest idea. His proud face was drawn in a frown, and his gaze traveled over the gathering crowd.
“Anything to report?” Silvano asked. Jax was one of his oldest friends, and it meant the world that he would support him without question, despite the rumors. And with a powerful Gifted at his back,
Silvano could breathe easier knowing that his position, while tenuous at best, would be defended to the last.
Jax dipped his head and whispered, “Our counts show strong opposition, sire.”
Silvano waved him off. “None of that formal nonsense. Speak freely.”
“The majority would support Arianna if she challenged your claim.” Jax winced and turned toward the sea, his eyes roving the crowd for a threat, whether real or perceived. “I see she’s not here.”
“No, she’s not.” His sister was the one person who would be an asset to his ascension, or a threat. She was smart, charming, and she had a deep-rooted interest in the people’s well-being. On top of that, she’d taken a keen interest in politics while Silvano had been out partying and womanizing.
A reputation he had earned only because people were too ignorant to see past their expectations.
Arianna’s absence chafed. Why wasn’t she here with the rest of the mourners? Their step-mother stood at the head of the procession, dressed in a white gown and veil, her arms wrapped around their half-sister, Lucinda. Even Lucan, his father’s adviser, had been retrieved from the dungeon so he could pay his respects. But not Arianna.
Silvano eyed Lucan with barely-concealed hatred. He wanted nothing more than to throw him from the cliffs.
“Sire,” Jax began, clearly reluctant to speak his thoughts, “we must consider the possibility that she’s plotting against you.”
“Enough. I will deal with my sister when she deigns to make an appearance. Tell me of the rest.”
“A few would prefer to follow Aravell’s lead and elect their own representatives. Only a handful will support your reign without question.”
“So, we’re in over our heads,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. He took a deep breath of the salty air, allowing it to cleanse him. “I’ve faced worse odds. I’ll admit, it hasn’t been quite the homecoming I’d imagined. Then again, what could I expect from a man who paid my own Shield to assassinate me.”
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