Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1)

by Olivia Majors

  Shade quickly backs up against the cliff’s edge, but there is no way for him to escape. No way he’ll be able to climb fast enough before the bastards reach the ledge and one, well aimed weapon becomes his doom.

  I step between him and the advancing shadows. Our eyes lock on one another. He blinks, startled by my sudden interference, as I lean in close and brush my hands up his chest – over the scar my kind gave him.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  I shove him off the cliff.

  I watch his body flail wildly as he falls through the air, nothing to slow or stop him from crashing into the waves beneath. For a brief moment, it isn’t Shade, but another boy falling through the air. A boy I couldn’t save.

  Not this time.

  I stretch both hands towards Shade’s increasingly vague form and wince at the painful pulse of power that shoots from my hands in his direction. The invisible chords of my power grasp him and, suddenly, become heavier. Harder. Sharper. As if his weight has become mine, and we are falling together. I grit my teeth against the pain as it spreads from my hands throughout my entire body. I dig my heels into the rock at my feet as it becomes harder to keep that power steady, but I don’t relinquish it.

  Not yet.

  The burden on the other side of my power becomes lighter. He’s hit the water – safely.

  I release him.

  A million prickles of ice numb my body as my power recedes.

  The Ebonian soldiers gape at me as I turn around, the wind whipping my hair wildly around my face. They flinch beneath my gaze, recognizing the features that their emperor and I share.

  Another shadowy form sails around the corner and comes to a swift halt, staring first at Roke’s lifeless body and then me. I recognize the straight, black hair flowing behind her.

  Trish doesn’t say anything. She merely motions for the Ebonians to pick up their fallen leader and carry him away. Before they do, she pulls the blade from his chest and stalks towards me. The soldiers leave us alone together and begin their trek back through the city. A few cast glances in my direction. A majority of them are shocked, but a choice few have rage dancing in their eyes. Those looks fill me with sudden guilt.

  I killed Roke as surely as if I’d thrown the blade myself. I should have known to check Shade for weapons. Should have known he wouldn’t attempt an escape without the means to defend himself.

  Trish stops in front of me. I struggle to keep my posture relaxed and my shoulders straight. But she still doesn’t say anything. She pries my fist open and places the blade, stained in Roke’s blood, against my palm.

  “You should have killed him,” she says quietly. Without another word, she turns and stomps after the disappearing squadron.

  I stare at the weapon in my hand – its blade stained with the cost of Shade’s life.

  It was worth it, I tell myself.

  I walk to the cliff’s edge and peer down. The fog blocks my view, but I know Shade is swimming safely towards the coastline.

  “I love you,” I whisper.

  I let the blade fall from my hands towards the sea – and the boy – beneath.

  Chapter XLV

  Trithar insisted I be at Roke’s funeral – despite the fact that I’d made every possible excuse to avoid it. Every excuse to hide behind my guilt and the lies wrapped around the entire ordeal.

  The Emperor had addressed a court of angry Darthans – a high class faction of Ebonians – and told the story he had created specifically for that moment. I had returned to my rooms to find the guards unconscious and my foreign lover gone. Knowing that he intended to escape, I had hunted him down and was in the act of securing him when Roke and his soldiers had stumbled upon us. The captive had killed Roke before I could stop him and, in my anger and shock, I’d shoved him off the cliff to his supposed death.

  To make matters worse, Trithar then had to explain that I was his heir. Trish, apparently a well-respected soldier, had backed up his story and several of Roke’s men – the four who’d so brutally attacked Shade and myself in the dungeons – begrudgingly confirmed her testimony.

  The remainder of Grag’s forces who’d stayed behind during the attack on Agron, were being called to the capitol for questioning. I knew, from the look in Trish’s eye when she’d told me, that “questioning” was an understatement.

  Trish arrives precisely at a quarter to midnight to escort me to the funeral pyre. She hasn’t said a word to me since the incident other than the information Trithar required her to convey. When she looks at me, I’m not sure what she’s thinking.

  We exit the palace onto a long, ornately designed patio stretching out the tip of the mountain beyond the Ebonian palace. It drops off to the sea below in majestic stone designs that resemble wings. Placed at the edge of that drop-off is a single stone slab. Roke’s body rests upon it.

  As we approach, I survey those who have gathered. Trithar stands at the foot of the slab, his head bowed. He looks up as I approach. On the other side of the slab, at the head of their commander, stands Roke’s legion. Twenty-three Ebonian men. All standing stiffly. All staring at me accusingly.

  And all holding Illathonian blades.

  I look at Trithar, a question in my gaze, but he makes no move to answer it. Instead, he motions for me to stand at his side. My curly hair is piled on top of my head in a strange, yet becoming, style but it does nothing to adjust the height difference between the emperor and I. However, despite my size, dressed in the same shimmering color of black as my birth father, and sharing the same remarkable features, I give the appearance of a powerful force.

  A powerful force that didn’t save the life of the commander in front of me.

  A powerful force that allowed his killer to escape.

  I look at Roke’s soldiers, but none of them will meet my gaze. They’ll never forgive me for it, and they sure as hell won’t forget.

  Trithar clears his throat, breaking the uncomfortable silence, and says, “Commander Roke died fulfilling his duties to Ebonia. His death will be remembered. His honor spoken about for ages to come.”

  One of the soldiers snorts contemptuously and dares to meet the Emperor’s gaze. “Spare us the pretty words. He’ll be forgotten. Like all of us are forgotten, Excellency.” He practically spits the last word, causing Trithar’s fist to convulse. The power balling in that fist tickles my spine.

  “He won’t.” My voice, sharp and commanding, cuts the violent tension like a knife. I breathe with relief as Trithar’s power recedes.

  The soldier sneers at me.

  “He won’t,” I repeat.

  The soldier glares. I refuse to look away as the grief and anger in those eyes shout silent accusations at me. I refuse to look away and deny that I am responsible for Roke’s death. I refuse to look away and hide the guilt and apology I offer him with my sincere gaze. Tears quickly pool in his eyes, and he looks away first. I release the breath I’ve been holding.

  Trithar says a few words in a language I don’t understand and steps away from the slab, gently pulling me with him. Roke’s soldiers surround the slab on all sides but the fourth one – the one facing the cliff and the sea beneath.

  A night breeze drifts over the patio, chilling my skin. The sleek black dress I’m wearing offers no protection against the cold. Slowly, Trithar slips his arm around my shoulders. I look at him, unsure if I should allow it, and see the same hesitation in the look he levels on me. I shrug and pretend to ignore it, returning my attention to Roke’s slab. The soldiers have unsheathed their Illathonian blades and they glow with dull, white light in the darkness.

  I flinch as they slowly angle the weapons downwards towards Roke’s body.

  “Ebonia has its own customs,” Trithar whispers to me, “and, though they may seem strange to you, they are the pillars of this empire. They are what hold it together. Roke was an Ebonian soldier – bound since birth. In death, he also belongs to Ebonia. We do not bury those who are bound to the empire. It is a great honor to die for E
bonia – to die and keep it strong.”

  But I don’t see any appreciation of that honor – of that strength – in the eyes of Roke’s soldiers as they step close to the slab. As they raise the Illathonian blades. As they plunge them downwards into their former commander’s body. Only tears and grief as they watch that body disintegrate beneath the dooming light and his ashes flutter over the edge of cliff to the sea beneath.

  This empire has gone to hell, Roke had said.

  I stare at my hand. At the small, angry pulse that emanates from it.

  I’m going to change that.

  Roke’s soldiers are the first to leave the patio. None of them so much as glance at their emperor, but they do look at me. The one I’d spoken to – promised that Roke would not be forgotten – stares at me longer than any of the rest. His fists ball up at his sides, but I’m unsure whether its from anger or grief. Perhaps both.

  Trish hastily excuses herself, casting another of her mysterious glances in my direction. It’s hard to tell what her feelings towards me are with that silver mask over her face.

  I look at the slab again. All that remains of the former commander is a silver mask resting against the smooth stone. Slowly – hesitantly – I approach and pick it up. It’s cold as death, but I refuse to let go of it.

  “Why?” I don’t really know what I’m requesting to be answered. There are too many questions swirling in my head. Too much pain tingling down my spine. The power I used to guide Shade to safety has left me weak and drained. The strain I put on it was too much. How long will it be before I can return it to normal? Before I have enough power to never strain it again?

  “Why?” I repeat, this time certain of the question I want answered. “Why the mask?”

  Trithar doesn’t approach me. “Monsters are not supposed to have faces. The moment a Crepuscular puts on the mask they are never to remove it again, for Ebonia’s sake. They are bound to the empire. The mask becomes their identity.”

  “That’s some real bullshit,” I snarl, turning to face him.

  He shrugs, ignoring the ferocity in my tone. “Perhaps, but it’s kept this empire alive. Were it not for those tales where do you think we’d be?”

  I stare at the mask, knowing the answer. Nowhere.

  “We wouldn’t exist,” Trithar says for me. “Perhaps you don’t know, since Kelba’s history books are somewhat one-sided, but before there was Kelba, there were other nations. Other races. What do you think happened to them? Where do you think the dragons went? Where do you think the powerful beings you worship as gods disappeared to?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “They were wiped from existence. Destroyed. Never spoken of again. Ebonia is alive today because we made ourselves into living nightmares. And would you like to know the irony behind Ilkanari ve se Stanos, the land you call the Wilds?”

  Slowly, I nod.

  “Were it not for the tales spreading about the Wilds in your homeland, where do you think they would be, as well?”

  Dead. Wiped from existence. Forgotten.

  Like so many other nations. So many other cultures. So many other powerful . . .

  “You said the beings we called our gods . . . what did you mean?”

  Trithar smirks. “Did you really believe they were gods, Kyla?”

  I never had. Not for one moment. But Gasan . . . The crypt of the gods he went in search of. His powers. Calaisar. How did any of that make sense?

  “Where do you think our powers came from, Kyla?” Trithar asks, using the force in the palm of his hand to take the mask from my grasp and hover it in midair. “We – you and I – are a gifted race. A gifted lineage. But we were not the only ones. There were other races – other unique beings. Some with the power to gift others with their supernatural abilities. Your gods – Freya, Gasan, Calaisar – were not really gods. But because of their gifts, mankind crafted them into that likeness. That image.”

  My entire world might as well have just been knocked out from underneath my feet. Just when I thought I had all the answers . . .

  Trithar offers me a half-smile and returns Roke’s mask to the slab. “There is much you have to learn. But, I’ve a feeling, you’ll be up to the task.”

  I curl my hands into fists, the new information spreading a tingle along my nerves. All those stories – all those tales about Kelba’s gods and history – and there’s still so much more to learn behind them. So many mysteries and unanswered questions.

  For some reason, it frightens me. Some unknown instinct warns me that those questions might be fatally answered.

  “Kyla . . .” Trithar’s hand grips mine. I flinch beneath it, and he lets go. “Are you alright?”

  “Y-yes.” I pull away, the night air chilling my body once again.

  Part of Trithar’s arm has taken on its second appearance – a foggy ethereal wisp that floats around the solidity of his human form.

  “How do you do that?” I ask.

  “It is part of me,” Trithar explains. “It is part of you too. We call it the ‘transformation’ and all Ebonian children are taught how to adopt their ethereal form when they reach eight years of age.” He looks at me, sympathy in his gaze. “It will be hard to master at your age, Kyla. Hard to learn the technique. Hard to develop the strength required to attempt it. But once you do . . . the effects it will have on you – on your powers – will be indescribable.”

  I take a deep breath, staring at my hand as I hold it up to the night. I concentrate on it, hard. Nothing happens. I try to search inside myself, pushing and prodding with the leftover claws of my power. Still nothing.

  Trithar smiles. “It takes Ebonian children a solid year to master it, daughter. Give it time. Patience and time.”

  I remember my short encounters with Avarick and Celeste. They had shown no signs of possessing unique gifts.

  “Our powers,” I say, “do all Ebonians have . . .”

  “No,” he cuts in quickly. “Only bloodline heirs to the throne of Ebonia possess abilities like ours. We hail from the Imperial faction. Those powers you have, Kyla, have been passed down from generation to generation. They are what give us the right to rule. Only an Ebonian with powers, with supernatural proof of their strength, has the right to rule”

  “But . . .” I stare at his arm, now returned to its original appearance, “. . . all Ebonians can . . . shift?”

  “Yes. It’s what makes us Ebonians. But, occasionally, an Ebonian will be unable to shift – to master that part of themselves,” he says. I don’t like the look in his eye as he says the words.

  “And what happens to those who cannot master it?”

  He is silent for a moment, and I know the answer before he speaks. “They are outcasts and either condemned to a life of solitude in the mountains or to the mines beneath the earth.”

  “And if I cannot shift? What will happen to me?”

  “You are an Imperial. You have the powers capable to rule this empire. Whether you can shift or not, won’t mean a damn thing. But you will shift, Kyla,” he says confidently. “I know you will.”

  I stare at my hands – hands that have begun shaking.

  “Are you afraid, Kyla?”

  “No,” I whisper. “I’m terrified.”

  He stares at me, understanding in his eyes. “Why are you terrified?”

  “Terrified that, once again, I won’t belong, I guess. That all I’ve done to reach this point – all I’ve given up – won’t matter in the end.” I regret the words the instant they leave my mouth. I thought I was done with wondering where I belong.

  “You don’t belong, Kyla,” Trithar says. I look at him, perplexed, and the kind understanding has not left his face. “You are something that doesn’t fit in this world. But that’s why you need to fight. You need to fight to make a place for yourself. And we both no damn well you’re capable of doing just that. Every day of your life in this empire will be a new battle. A new test. A new opportunity to prove yourself. You’re heir to an empire, Kyla of Darkness, but you
need to fight for it. You need to fight for your right to rule.”

  I stare at him, an intense feeling of power rising inside of me. “Alright,” I say,” but I’m warning you, I make a damn big mess when I fight.”

  He laughs, the sound as human and elegant as any man. “I’d expect nothing less from an Imperial heir.”

  We stand together, staring at the crashing waves beyond the patio ledge for a long time, before I finally look at him again. He doesn’t return my prying gaze, but his shoulders visibly tense, as if he knows what I’m about to ask.

  “Your Empress . . .”

  “Lilath,” he says. There is no emotion in the word. “You’re familiar with the custom of political matches in highborn matrimony, aren’t you, Kyla?”

  I stare at my right hand, forever scarred by the marriage I denied, and cover the mark with my hand. “Yes.”

  “My father sought out a powerful Darthan whose ability to create equally powerful armies was well-known. Lilath and I never met each other until the ceremony . . . needless to say our relationship was a scheduled one. I needed her because of the armies her father possessed and her ability to provide me with heirs . . . she needed me to be empress. Not the best circumstances to fall in love and I was young – too young – to put much effort into someone I despised from the moment we met. I had argued with my father until the very hour of the ceremony, even threatening to leave the empire.” He looks at me. “I was a fool in my young years, Kyla. A fool who, after four years of being confined to an empire and empress who didn’t offer me anything but misery, ran away. I ran from my duty . . . and you know the rest of the story.”

  I shift uncomfortably. “Mother . . . did she know about Empress Lilath?”

  “I told you that I told her everything.”

  “And she still . . .?” I shake my head, unable to contemplate the woman – the righteous, upright woman who raised me – capable of such a sin.

  “Your mother didn’t love Gavin when she was bound to him, you know,” Trithar says. He smiles at my shocked expression. “It’s true. It was as loveless a marriage as mine. But when he came back . . . your mother gave it another chance. For her son’s sake. I believe she loves him now.”