by L. L. MacRae
‘Malora won’t let me do otherwise,’ Apollo muttered.
‘So I do not believe you acted in spite. Selfishly, perhaps, but that’s hardly a crime. And you did complete your task in essence, if not to the letter. As you weren’t given all the facts at the time, and have lived peacefully and within the law of the Iron Crown for the past five years, I cannot blame you for that.’
Apollo couldn’t believe it. An Inquisitor with a mind of their own. With common sense. ‘You aren’t here to drag me back to the palace, then?’
Nadja shook her head. ‘If you are responsible for this, executing you will not help.’
Apollo dropped his gaze, not trusting himself to say anything that wouldn’t ruin the chance that was clearly being laid out in front of him.
‘But I will make sure you fix it.’
‘What?’
Nadja flicked her hair out of her eyes. ‘Torsten wants you dead. If I’m honest, it feels more like a personal grudge than any sense of honour or duty. Yes, the queen commands those guilty of high treason are to be executed, and Torsten will always carry out her orders.’ She paused and studied him. ‘But I see no benefit in that when you can fix things.’
‘Inquisitor?’
‘You know where the Citrine Key is. You know what must happen to it. You will complete the task given to you five years ago by feeding it to Paragos, and you will undo what you have caused. Malicious or not, people are dying, and I won’t stand for it when it can be solved.’
‘Do you have any idea what you’re asking?’
Nadja’s expression remained impassive.
Apollo could see she wasn’t giving him any way out of this. Honestly, the chance was more than he deserved. He dragged his hands down his face. ‘Fine.’
‘I’m not giving you a choice, Apollo. Whether you agree or not, this is what will happen. I’m going to make sure of it.’
He snorted. Nadja was definitely still an Inquisitor. ‘I’m a bit out of sorts, if you couldn’t tell.’ Apollo held up his bandaged arms. ‘Gonna be slow going.’
‘Slow going is better than no going. I’m happy to carry your belongings if needed.’
He shrugged. ‘What you see is what I have.’ He thought about Fenn and Selys, and their desire for the key, too. ‘As long as you get your answers, I don’t suppose you care if anyone comes with us?’
Nadja furrowed her eyebrows. ‘This is a matter that concerns the Iron Crown only. Who else would come?’
‘A couple of priests.’
‘Well…I can’t really stop them if it concerns their spirits.’
‘Good. They’re already outside, and I guess they’ll be as keen to leave as you are.’
Apollo had been happy to die in bed less than an hour ago.
Now, he would go to Foxmouth to find his own truth.
Nadja needed him for the key. So did Fenn and Selys. That gave him the advantage, and he wasn’t going anywhere without returning to Foxmouth first. At least if Mal and Ren were gone, he would be able to join them by throwing himself into the sea. And if that was where everything was going to end, he’d have priests there ready to perform burial rites.
He held onto the morbid thought tightly as he limped across the green in the centre of Westbrook. The grass underfoot was soft, with a few wild flowers dotted here and there. Fenn and Selys were already under the trees talking to an enormous griffin with glossy black feathers. It was easily as large as the brown and red-feathered one outside Eastbrook, and far larger than Olvalthar.
There was something familiar about it, but he wasn’t sure what. It could well be a result of encountering the creatures so recently, and the stress his body had been put under. Events and days were starting to blur together.
‘Apollo! I thought you’d be bed-ridden for a lot longer,’ Fenn said, his voice light. ‘Changed your mind about that key?’
Apollo had to hand it to Fenn, the lad was determined. ‘I couldn’t lay there and mope any longer.’ Every step was painful, but he’d endured worse.
‘Amsel and Hailathlyl have been waiting for you.’
The names meant nothing to him. ‘Who?’
Fenn bowed low, gesturing to the griffin. ‘I think you owe Hailathlyl some gratitude.’
The griffin pawed at the grass with one taloned foot. ‘You are husband to the daughter of the woman we are protecting. She sent us north when word reached us of the Myr’s strike.’
Apollo gaped at the griffin’s words, mind whirling to connect the dots. ‘The daughter of the woman…You work for Mal’s mother?’
The griffin fluttered her wings. ‘For now. We brought warnings of the Myr to Bragalia. Our brethren carried them to Porsenthia, too, although it does not look like our words were heeded.’ She turned her beady orange eyes to the sky, where black smoke lingered. ‘Perhaps if the Iron Crown took the Myr more seriously, fewer would have died. The scent of death lingers in the air here.’
Apollo winced at the griffin’s words. He glanced over his shoulder, where Inquisitor Nadja watched and waited, her arms folded across her chest. ‘You know about the attack on Foxmouth? Mal might…she was there when…and they…’ Apollo trailed off.
The griffin snapped her beak. ‘Yes. This is why we must fly there. But Amsel said to wait here and make sure you lived. We have been waiting days. We need to fly!’
‘Why wait? If Mal survived? If she’s injured, she’ll need your help! And sooner rather than later!’
‘Because Amsel wanted to give Malora the news you live.’
Apollo shook his head. Hailathlyl was giving him hope when he didn’t deserve it. And yet the griffin spoke with a certainty that rivalled any Inquisitor. ‘Will you fly me to Foxmouth?’
‘Of course.’ Hailathlyl stood up and opened her wings with a high-pitched cry. ‘Once Amsel returns, we can fly at once.’
‘Hold on a second,’ Fenn said, raising one hand. ‘Hailathlyl? You and Amsel are protecting Furyn and the rest of Fellwood?’
The griffin tilted her head. ‘You know this.’
‘And you’re going to help Furyn’s daughter? You mean…Calidra? But…But Apollo isn’t her husband?’
Apollo gulped. ‘Uhhh…I’m married to Malora. Calidra’s her sister.’
Fenn paled. ‘Oh no. Foxmouth. Foxmouth!’
‘You know Calidra?’ Apollo asked, stunned.
‘Yeah.’ Fenn turned to Selys. ‘Calidra. Jisyel! In Foxmouth!’
Selys tapped her chest and took several deep breaths. She didn’t look at Apollo. ‘I don’t know, Fenn. Neros fought the Myr outside Foxmouth. They might be okay…’
‘What about getting the key?’ Fenn asked.
‘I’m not going anywhere until I’ve seen Foxmouth. Until I’ve found…Mal and Ren.’ Apollo wasn’t budging on that. There was no chance. ‘If my wife and daughter are safe, we’ll talk about the key.’
‘But—’
‘Stop quarrelling. We have our orders. We will fly to Foxmouth,’ Hailathlyl cried, her voice sharp and painfully loud. She flapped her wings, sending gusts blasting in all directions.
At the griffin’s cry, an Olmese man approached them from the other side of the green. He was young, barely in his twenties, with a bright smile, and carried a heavy-looking sack over one shoulder. His smile faltered when he reached them. ‘Fenn? Selys? What are you two doing here?’
‘Amsel!’ Fenn bowed low like he had done to the griffin. ‘It’s been quite a journey since we left Fellwood.’
‘I can imagine.’ Amsel bowed back, then appraised Apollo as he rested the sack on the ground. Its contents jingled. ‘Apollo Tamlin? An honour to meet you, at last. I’m glad to see we reached you in time.’
‘What?’
Amsel patted Hailathlyl’s neck affectionately. ‘Rescued might be a better term for it. That Inquisitor was moments away from slitting your throat.’
Everything clicked into place. ‘You’re the one who swooped down! I thought…it was another.’
‘Do you k
now many griffins?’ Amsel laughed.
‘One. Olvalthar. Helped me esca—helped me earlier.’ Apollo swallowed down the word in case he accidentally offended Amsel and Hailathlyl. A brief flash of guilt stabbed through him. If Torsten hadn’t been lying, Olvalthar might well be dead somewhere in that patch of woodland.
Just another crime to add to his apparently regrowing list.
‘Looks like I’m heading to Foxmouth with an Inquisitor escort.’ He pointed over his shoulder. ‘She’s not someone you really want to argue with, so I’d hold your tongues if I were you.’
Amsel nodded, picked up the heavy sack and clambered up Hailathlyl’s harness, where he secured it into place behind the saddles. There was a raised wooden rail that looked like it would offer some security in flight, a far cry from his hasty journey with Olvalthar.
‘An Inquisitor with us will be a bonus.’ Amsel raised his hand to Nadja, waving her over. ‘If you’re ready? The Myr have moved quickly and we can’t afford to waste anymore time. Come. Climb up.’
Apollo laughed at the irony. The key had been the start of his freedom, and now it seemed to be locking him back into a prison.
Nadja reached them and paused beside Hailathlyl, staring at Fenn. ‘Wait…do I know you?’
Fenn stood his ground, chin raised defiantly. ‘Selys and I saw you on the mountain yesterday.’
‘No. Before that.’ Nadja shook her head.
Fenn scratched his nose, then his eyes widened in sudden realisation. ‘You were with Torsten at the tavern in Ballowtown.’
Apollo raised his eyebrows. ‘Fenn, you know this Inquisitor?’ Somehow that was stranger than he and Selys being reunited.
‘Ah yes. You were one of the lost souls. Didn’t Varlot stop Torsten from arresting you?’ Nadja narrowed her eyes. ‘Wait. You fell into the river!’
‘I did. With Jisyel. Are you going to try and arrest me again?’
Nadja pursed her lips. ‘I should have recognised you on the mountain, but I was too distracted…’
‘She’s off duty!’ Apollo gave her a broad smile. ‘Come on, I need a hand up. We can talk on the way.’
Amsel and Nadja helped Apollo up the heavy leather harness around the griffin, who was easily large enough to carry another couple of people if she needed to. It was no wonder the Olmese used griffins instead of horses for war. A fleet of those might be enough to keep the Myr at bay.
Hailathlyl lowered her head to make it easier for the group of five to get on board, snapping her beak in irritation only once, when Fenn accidentally pulled on her feathers instead of the handrail.
Nadja sat behind Apollo. Though she wore her armour, she’d eschewn her Inquisitors uniform, and the iron dagger that went with it. Nadja was, if nothing else, a woman of her word—which was more than could be said of Torsten.
Credit to her, she didn’t fight when told they were flying to Foxmouth first. She’d probably taken one look at Hailathlyl’s beak and talons, and decided it wasn’t worth the argument.
Apollo knew she was worried about Torsten. He wasn’t sure if he preferred the regularly flavoured bastard or the new, chaotic one. Either way, there was no chance the Master Inquisitor could do anything to him while he flew with a griffin.
He grabbed hold of the handrail, grateful Hailathlyl was far larger than Olvalthar, and took a deep breath. If this flight was anything like his previous one, it was going to get bumpy.
Fenn, blessed by a dragon spirit, was more of an enigma. He was desperate to find the Citrine Key, desperate to rid himself of the Myr’s touch. Selys was keen to travel with him, no doubt for her own spirit’s reasons. Nadja wanted the key to be destroyed.
They all had different reasons for chasing it, and he didn’t need to be a fortune teller to know it was going to end in chaos. Perhaps in blood.
Nadja was an adept fighter and negotiator, but up against two priests? He didn’t think she stood a chance. He pushed the thought from his mind. Their battles were not his concern.
Foxmouth was gone. But he prayed to whichever spirit would listen that Malora and Renys were not.
As Amsel guided Hailathlyl into the smoky air, apprehension settled in his gut. Streaks of black and grey whipped past his face as the griffin flew higher, and Westbrook faded to a dark smudge against a backdrop of stained green fields.
To the west, the Nethal Mountains rose from the ground—an eternal landmark that lined northern Porsenthia. To the east, the Lasseen Ocean swelled—a churning mass of water that rarely promised safe travel.
And beyond the ocean, he would face whichever vengeful spirits awaited him.
END
CONTINUED IN BOOK TWO:
THE SHADOW GATE
(COMING SPRING 2022)
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Epilogue
Torsten
Blood dribbled down Torsten’s arm in slow rivulets. His uniform was in tatters, just as bad a mess as it had been in the Battle of Marlrush. To be less than impeccable grated on him even more than events of the previous few days.
Nadja had left, and he was angrier about that than he’d realised.
‘You don’t need her. You don’t need anyone. You have me, brother.’
Torsten exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to calm himself.
Nestol was gone. The whole box had been stolen like a loaf of bread left unattended.
Apollo.
Torsten was furious with himself for allowing the thief to escape—twice. Sloppiness wasn’t something he tolerated from his Inquisitors, which made the entire sorry situation all the more infuriating. ‘He has a wife. He has a daughter. They will pay for him.’
By the time he’d managed to get back to the palace, Miroth had ceded control, chased away by Selys and Fenn’s wrathful spirits. That had been a shock.
Fenn had no tattoo, but his blessing couldn’t be denied. How the magic of the dragons and the magic of the Myr coincided, he had no idea. It all pointed to Fenn being a traitor not just to the Iron Crown, but to all of Tassar. Some abomination that couldn’t be allowed to live any longer.
And perhaps Fenn was just as responsible as Apollo for allowing the Myr to return.
He returned his attention to his spirit. ‘I know I have you. But Nadja and the others are helpful when you are…’ Torsten stopped himself before he said the word.
Miroth seethed. ‘Go on. Say it.’
‘When you are weak.’
Torsten knew what happened to Miroth wasn’t the spirit’s fault. Lakes and forests came and went over time, as did the spirits that were brought forth from the abundance of life energy in those places. Miroth hadn’t been a strong spirit to begin with, made worse by the salt poisoning the lake at Tonmouth and people moving away to live and work in Eastbrook. As life diminished in the area, so did Miroth’s strength. And it had always been difficult to get people to visit the shrine and offer the lake dragon their worship.
He felt Miroth’s shame and fury as much as he’d felt his own as a boy, when he’d been at the mercy of everyone else bigger and stronger than him.
The palace doctors saw to Torsten’s injuries with minimal fuss—cleaning his wounds and bandaging his arm. They warned him he was going to have a scar across his cheek from Apollo’s sword.
Once seen to, Torsten prowled the palace, making his way up to his own quarters in the east tower, which afforded a view of the roiling Lasseen Ocean. Letters had been left on his desk, updating him on the situation in Eastbrook while he’d been chasing down Apollo and the Myr-touched Fenn.
He hadn’t meant to allow Miroth control for so long, but the spirit had been incensed once the Myr had begun their attack, and Torsten hadn’t the strength to fight the dragon.
He’d only ever needed to call upon Miroth’s aid in emergencies before. This was the first time Miroth had forced his cont
rol upon Torsten outside of the shrine. It was as if sensing the Myr in Fenn had made the dragon spirit more volatile.
News from the Olmese who’d flown along the coast confirmed that Foxmouth was in ruins, utterly destroyed. Good. Perhaps Apollo’s family had been crushed under it.
Eastbrook had fared much better, and aside from a few chunks of stone missing, the palace itself hadn’t been damaged in the surprise Myrish attack. But the response had been twofold—Queen Surayo had declared the Myr were indeed a threat again after five years of peace. But she had her scapegoat, naming Apollo as the cause.
Secondly, she’d drafted in mages from across her empire to aid in thwarting the Myr once and for all.
There were to be no more peace talks. No more truce.
Queen Surayo was going to wipe them from the face of Tassar.
A hesitant knock on his door grabbed Torsten’s attention. He took off his tattered cloak and threw it over the back of his chair. ‘Yes?’
The door opened, admitting a short, balding herald in cream robes, a dragon insignia across his chest. ‘Master Inquisitor. I apologise for disturbing you so soon after your return. I’m sure you would prefer the time to recover and—’
‘Get on with it.’
The herald bowed low. ‘A man arrived just before dawn to see you. I thought the queen should know, but…I was reminded you wanted to see him if ever he returned.’
Torsten frowned. He hadn’t the faintest idea who the herald was talking about. ‘Where is he?’
In response, the herald bowed low and stepped aside.
The man who walked into the room took up the entire doorway. Tall, with broad shoulders and a thick, bearskin cloak, Varlot looked every bit the wild, ferocious fighter his reputation suggested. Even outside the heat of battle, the man was imposing.
‘Thank you. You may leave us.’ Torsten dismissed the herald. He stared at Varlot, emotions flying through him. Hate was near the top of the list. Surprise was a close second. Indignation, too. A pinch of fear.