“Not ‘who’—‘what.’ Trident is an organization, a band of rebels. Outlaws. They want to bring you together, all three of you. The triplets of the prophecy. After Elodie was taken—”
“Elodie?” The name flashed sudden fire through Tarlan’s thoughts. He had a sister! She had a name!
Sylva showed him the smile he was growing to like. “Yes. Her name is Elodie. As soon as she was kidnapped I raised the alarm and my father’s men gave chase. But the trail went cold at the bridge on the border between Ritherlee and Isur.” She lowered her eyes. “In that respect, I suppose he was telling the truth. We don’t know where she is.”
Tarlan glanced at the guards. They showed no sign of interest in their whispered conversation. All the same, he kept his voice pitched low.
“Why are you telling me all this?” he said. “I mean . . . thank you, but won’t your father be angry?”
Sylva blushed a deeper pink. “Elodie was happy here. We were happy together. Like sisters. We were sisters. After my brother Cedric went away to war, Elodie was all I had left. But you . . . you don’t belong here, Tarlan. You don’t want to be here, and you shouldn’t have to stay. Nobody should be kept against their will.”
They were nearing the top of the stairs. With a final smile, Sylva slipped away. Tarlan watched her pale dress swishing down a side passage and into shadow.
A sister, he thought. And a friend.
The guards ushered him into the room that wasn’t a room but a prison cell, and locked him away for the night.
• • •
Huge wings like golden clouds cast shadows over a land ablaze with fires. On the ground, people run screaming from the flames. Tarlan rides the clouds. He wants to call down to the people that everything is going to be all right, but someone has sewn his mouth shut.
“I cry!” cries a voice high above him.
He tries to look, but someone has wrapped chains around his neck. His whole body is in chains. He can’t move a muscle.
“I cry!” says the voice again. “I cry!”
Tarlan struggles against his bonds, desperate to break free from . . .
• • •
The dream dissolved. Tarlan lurched from his bed, wide awake, every muscle twitching. He tried to keep hold of the images he’d seen in his sleep—the flames, the golden clouds—but they fled his thoughts even as he tried to tighten his fingers on them.
One thing remained, however.
“I cry!”
Raucous, the voice drifted on the thin night air. Tarlan recognized it instantly.
“Theeta!”
He stumbled to the window and peered out. It was long past midnight, and most of the windows in the castle were dark. The air was cold. Moonlight edged the battlements with silver.
Three golden shadows flew in front of the moon.
“I’m here!” Tarlan cried in the secret tongue only the thorrods knew.
His heart swelled as the three thorrods flew down to the window. He’d been right all along. He had no place among humans. These were his true friends; this was his pack. And they’d come for him!
Theeta arrived first, beating her huge wings hard to maintain a steady hover just below the window. She looked up at Tarlan, her black eyes wide and glistening, soft cooing sounds spilling from her hooked beak. Behind her, Nasheen and Kitheen turned circles in silent and obvious joy. To Tarlan’s relief, Nasheen seemed to have recovered from her injury. In fact, he’d never seen the three birds so energized.
And he’d never been so pleased to see them.
Without thinking about what he was doing—and without even a glance back at the luxurious room where his sister had once slept, and that had been his prison cell—Tarlan climbed up onto the window ledge and jumped down onto Theeta’s back.
The yielding warmth of her feathers was a thousand times better than the expensive pillows he’d just been sleeping on.
“We go!” Theeta cried. “We go!”
“Yes,” said Tarlan, stroking the back of her neck. “Yes, but . . . there’s something I have to do first.”
• • •
The kitchen garden was empty, the gardeners long since retired for the night. A single guard lay slumped and snoring outside the door to the dungeon, an empty bottle by his side. Beside him lay three enormous dogs.
The three thorrods landed without making a sound. Tarlan slipped from Theeta’s back and told them in a hushed voice to wait for him.
“Be ready,” he said. “We may have to leave in a hurry.”
He tiptoed toward the door. As he approached, each of the three guard dogs raised its head in turn. They watched Tarlan for a moment, then stood with their hackles raised, growling menacingly.
“Please,” Tarlan whispered. “I’m not doing any harm. Let me past.”
The dogs looked confused. Their snarls turned to something resembling language, but it was crude and hard to understand. Walking slowly toward them, Tarlan kept up a stream of soothing words, wondering if living with humans robbed animals of their natural ability to communicate.
To his relief, the dogs backed away, allowing him to lift the keys from the guard’s belt and unlock the door. Taking a burning torch from a wall sconce, he made his way to the cells. Behind the bars, the children slept in silence. But they were not the reason he’d come.
He went straight to the wolf. The poor, starving creature was awake and alert, watching his every move.
“I hear you,” the wolf said in a growling, guttural tongue, as Tarlan fumbled through the keys on the ring, searching for one that might open the padlock securing the animal’s chain. “I am Graythorn.”
“I’m Tarlan.” He tried a likely-looking key and grinned when the lock snapped open. “And you, my friend, are free.”
The wolf stood on shaking legs and stretched. A shudder passed down his body. “Free to help you?” he said.
“I was hoping you were going to say that.”
Satisfied, Tarlan made his way back to the exit. Graythorn limped after him. At the end of the passage, he stopped, remembering what Sylva had said:
Nobody should be kept against their will.
Returning to the cells, he looked again at the sleeping children. They were prisoners, just as he had been. Just as Graythorn had been. They too deserved their freedom.
“Sorelle!” he called, making his way between the cells. “Sorelle Darrand!”
A small face rose into the light of the torch: a girl, rubbing her eyes in sleepy surprise.
“That’s me,” she said. Her voice trembled with fear.
“It’s all right,” said Tarlan. “I’m going to get you out.”
One by one, he unlocked the cells. By the time he’d finished, all the children were awake. They clustered around him, blinking and confused.
Tarlan made a quick head count. There were twelve of them. He cursed himself for not thinking this through. Twelve was surely too many.
“What’s happening?” said a young girl. Wide eyes stared at Tarlan from a dirt-smudged face. “Who’re you?”
“I’m scared of the dog,” said a small boy.
“He’s not a dog,” Tarlan whispered. “He’s a wolf. And he’s a friend. I’m a friend, and I’m going to get you out of here. But you have to be quiet. Now, do you know how to tiptoe?”
The children nodded mutely.
“All right. Now follow me. And not a sound.”
The minute the words left his mouth, the dungeon filled up with a dreadful screeching. Several of the children clapped their hands over their ears; others started to cry. The stiff hairs on the back of Graythorn’s neck stood up in a trembling ruff, and the wolf started to growl.
“Theeta!” said Tarlan.
“Who is Theeta?” said Graythorn.
“You’ll see!”
Abandoning all thought of secrecy, Tarlan plunged into the exit passage. “Graythorn!” he roared over his shoulder. “Round them up!”
Like a sheepdog, the wolf herded the chil
dren into a tight group, urging them along in pursuit of Tarlan. As they raced down the passage, the other thorrods added their cries to those of Theeta. The noise was shattering and immense. Tarlan knew that he alone could hear the words of warning within it, and could only imagine how terrifying it must sound to the children.
A dark shape blocked the exit: the guard, standing dazed and confused, his sword half-drawn.
“Who goes—?” he began.
Tarlan barreled into the man, sending him flying across the nearest vegetable patch. As he landed, the guard’s helmet slipped aside and his head banged hard on the stone flags of the pathway. His face went instantly slack.
The three guard dogs gathered around the unconscious man, tongues lolling and tails wagging. Tarlan thought they looked immensely stupid.
In the windows overlooking the enclosed kitchen garden, torches were flaring into life. Shocked faces peered down, wondering at the commotion. Ignoring them, Tarlan slowed down, allowing the children to catch up.
“Come on!” he shouted. “Hurry!”
The thorrods were waiting for them in the middle of the garden. The three giant birds were hopping anxiously on their clawed feet, screeching out their concern.
“It’s all right,” said Tarlan when he reached Theeta. He stroked her beak. “We’re here.”
“I don’t like the birds!” wailed a small voice.
Turning, Tarlan saw the children bunched several paces away. Graythorn prowled behind them, panting, his eyes fixed on Tarlan’s.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. This is my pack—friends, understand?”
“Scary birds!”
“Yes, they are,” said Tarlan with a grim smile. He picked out Lady Darrand’s daughter from the huddle. “Sorelle—are you brave enough to be the first?”
Just as he’d hoped she would, the little girl stepped forward defiantly, her young eyes alight with the same warrior spirit possessed by her mother.
“I’m not afraid!” she piped.
“Good girl!”
Tarlan hoisted her onto Theeta’s back, showing her how to bunch her hands into the thorrod’s neck feathers. At once, Theeta stopped screaming and twisted her head to brush the smooth upper surface of her beak against Sorelle’s arm. The little girl giggled.
“See?” said Tarlan. “Who’s next?”
Within moments, he’d lifted all the children onto the thorrods’ backs: two for Theeta, five each for Nasheen and Kitheen.
“Graythorn,” he said to his new friend. “Your turn.” But the wolf was ignoring him, his green eyes fixed on the garden gate. “Graythorn—come on!”
Now the wolf was growling. Stepping away from Theeta, Tarlan saw Lord Vicerin racing toward them from the outer yard. His long purple robes flowed behind him like a stream of ink in the night. His face was set with fury, and his sword was drawn.
Behind him ran an entire squad of castle guards.
“Stop this madness!” Vicerin shouted as he plunged into the garden. “Turn back now, and you’ll be forgiven!”
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Tarlan snapped back. “Unlike you! And you’ll pay for it, Vicerin. You’ll pay!”
Moving with surprising speed, Vicerin lunged at Tarlan, sword raised. “I’ll make you come to heel!”
Tarlan stepped back, but tripped on the edge of the path. He staggered, off balance.
Graythorn’s gray body flew through the moonlight, fur flashing momentarily silver. His jaws closed on Vicerin’s arm, stopping it dead. The wolf’s momentum carried both him and Vicerin to the ground.
Recovering himself, Tarlan sprang onto Theeta’s back.
“Graythorn!” he yelled. “Come on!”
The wolf was standing over the screaming Vicerin, shaking his head back and forth, his teeth locked in the lord’s forearm. Reluctantly he relaxed his hold and stepped back.
“But he has such a soft throat,” the wolf said sadly.
“There’s no time! Come, Graythorn! Now!”
The wolf jumped onto the waiting thorrod’s back, leaving the bleeding Vicerin whimpering on the ground. Tarlan threw one arm around Graythorn and the other around the two children.
“Theeta! Nasheen! Kitheen!” he roared. “We fly!”
As one, the three mighty birds opened their wings and beat them against the air. At the same moment, the guards burst into the garden, only to fall back coughing and spluttering as the air whipped up by the thorrods’ departure raised a whirlwind of dust and dirt.
Within two breaths they were above the castle wall, and still climbing. Tarlan peered down past Theeta’s head to see Lord Vicerin clambering to his feet, clutching his injured arm.
“You’re nothing!” The lord’s voice rose up, faint but distinct. “Without the jewel—you’re nothing at all!”
“I don’t need jewels,” Tarlan shouted back defiantly. “I don’t need anything but my pack!”
Theeta turned, and her great golden wing eclipsed Vicerin and the garden. Soon the entire castle was just a dark red speck in the moonlit landscape.
The rush of excitement slowly ebbed away. So did Tarlan’s defiance. The farther they flew from the castle, the more he felt empty inside. He told himself that losing Mirith’s jewel didn’t matter compared to his freedom.
It’s just a bit of stone, he told himself. Mirith had given him many more important gifts—she’d plucked him from the snows and saved his life, had shown him how to talk with the thorrods.
But it did matter. Somehow he felt that he had left a part of himself behind.
By the time they reached the village, dawn was painting the sky pale crimson. Tarlan directed the thorrods to circle in from the east. From the ground, their massive silhouettes would look spectacular against the sunrise.
“I think we’ve earned ourselves a grand entrance,” he said to Theeta, stroking her neck.
Lookouts stationed at the village perimeter quickly raised the alarm. Despite the early hour, the villagers poured out of their houses, weapons at the ready. Barely half of the buildings had survived intact, and the looks on their faces told Tarlan they would do anything to protect the rest.
When they saw it was the thorrods approaching, they dropped their pitchforks and scythes and raised a ragged cheer. The thorrods circled once before coming lightly to earth in the middle of the central square.
As Tarlan hopped down from Theeta’s back, Lady Darrand pushed her way through to the front of the joyous crowd. The instant she saw Sorelle, her stern warrior’s face crumpled and she burst into tears.
Tarlan’s chest swelled with pride as mother and daughter were reunited. Shouts of delight rang out as one child after another jumped down from their thorrod steeds and ran sobbing into their parents’ arms.
Carrying a beaming Sorelle in the crook of her arm, Lady Darrand strode up to Tarlan and kissed him firmly on the cheek.
“My soldiers saw them leave with you,” she said, “but could not help. I’m sorry. And now you have brought me the greatest gift.” Even in joy, her voice was fierce. “You are a wonder, thorrod rider.”
Something pushed past her legs: a small animal with blue-and-white-striped fur. Tarlan dropped to his knees and held out his arms.
“Filos! Come to me!” The little tigron bounded into his arms, purring madly. “Are you all right? How are you feeling?”
“Better now you are here,” Filos replied in her tigron tongue, rubbing her head against his chest. “I belong with you.”
“Your friend is as pleased to see you as I am,” said Lady Darrand, smiling down at them. “Tarlan—I thank you with all my heart for what you have done. I owe you more than anyone can repay. If ever a time comes when I can honor my debt, call on me.”
“I will,” said Tarlan.
Her gratitude—and Filos’s loyalty—warmed his heart, even as the rising sun warmed the back of his neck. Yet as he smiled back at Lady Darrand, a small voice in the back of his mind warned him not to get attached to these humans. He’d simply do
ne them a useful service and his involvement with their affairs was over.
Now it was time to leave.
CHAPTER 23
Gulph pressed his face against the bars, wishing for the hundredth time that he could find a space wide enough to squeeze through. His shackles hadn’t stopped him from making a complete tour of the cell, so he knew for certain no such space existed. But it didn’t stop him from hoping.
“What do you see?” said Captain Ossilius.
Despite the wretched state of his clothes, the former officer of the King’s Legion stood tall and proud. The morning sun, slicing through the prison bars, painted his filthy uniform with bright stripes. He scratched his unkempt beard and gave Gulph a wan smile.
It was Ossilius who’d saved him when he’d first been thrown in the cell. As Gulph had lain on the floor, with the leering prisoners crowding over him, Ossilius had pushed them aside. Despite his fall from grace, it seemed he could still command a certain respect; once the others realized Gulph was in his favor, they left him alone.
As soon as he’d made space around them, Ossilius astonished Gulph by dropping to his knees.
“Forgive me,” he said.
“Forgive you?” said Gulph. “For what?”
“For being taken in by Nynus and Magritt. I fear my loyalty to the crown blinded me. Now I have paid the price.”
Gulph had always thought Ossilius’s face was sad. Now the man looked distraught.
“We were all fooled,” Gulph said.
“And betrayed.”
“That too.” Gulph felt sympathy for this broken man. But what could he say that would help? “That’s why we’re better than them. Because we believed the world was a good place.”
Ossilius snorted. “And now we know the truth.”
Gulph took his shoulders. “Yes. We know we were right.”
“Do you think so? Let me tell you about this ‘good world.’ This ‘good world’ saw my only son taken from me and beaten nearly to death. They split the side of his face open. His crime? Defending another man from being stoned by the King’s Legion. That’s why I became a legionnaire myself: to try to change things from the inside. But nothing changes.”
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