Summer's Fall

by Carol E. Leever

  He winced, realizing that his careless words could have triggered the hex.

  Avarice glanced at the ceiling, then plopped down on the chair behind her desk with an exasperated sigh. "Honestly, Omen, why do you continually rise to Lilyth's bait?" she asked, agitated. "I told Lilyth to tell you I wished to speak with you — she made up all the rest for your benefit. And you fell for it like a three-year-old nogwirt . . . Indee is eight months pregnant. Do you really think she came here just so I could have words with her?"

  The wind taken from his sails for a second time since coming to the office, Omen looked down. His shoulders sagged. I am so stupid! "I see your point," he stammered out, feeling sheepish. "Sorry. What did you want then?"

  Avarice inclined her head, satisfied. "Another of Lilyth's little tricks," she scoffed. She turned her attention to Devastation who appeared increasingly delighted. Avarice twisted her wolf head guild master ring. "As it turns out, my son has been tasked by Indee'athra Set-Manasan to go into the Autumn Lands to rescue her kidnapped son King Khylar." She had slipped into her cold, business-like cadence.

  "How curious," Devastation remarked, raising one dark, upswept eyebrow. His lips twitched as if he found the idea amusing, but wasn't sure Avarice would tolerate a smirk.

  "Lucky for you," Avarice stated plainly, "you will be joining him. Are you agreeable?"

  Startled by his mother's declaration, Omen frowned. What good is he going to be?

  "Am I meant to be agreeable?" Devastation inquired.

  "Yes, you are," Avarice informed him.

  Devastation smiled broadly and placed one of his bejeweled hands over his heart, inclining his head. "I am honored to serve you, my lady," he replied, no trace of mockery or bitterness in his tone at all and yet said with perfect insincerity.

  Why would she put up with that?

  "Good choice." She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a flat, rectangular wooden box. "Have you introduced yourself to my son?" she asked Devastation while tapping the carved lid in a deliberate sequence.

  "Yes, and we've exchanged details of our lineage." His eyes twinkled mischievously. The sunlight glinted off the multicolored jewels in his ears.

  "Wait a minute!" Omen cut in, feeling he'd lost the thread of the conversation somewhere. "Why is he coming with me?" He's a foppish city boy!

  "Honestly, Omen." Avarice opened the box but did not remove its contents. "I'm sending a Machelli operative with you on your trip. Why else would I send him if not to spy on you? If you are too slow-witted to figure that out for yourself, I don't want to hear about it."

  Despite the fact that she was always unfailingly blunt with her children, Omen was taken aback by the harshness of her tone. He stared at her for several moments, neither of them saying a word. He broke first and glanced back at Devastation. He looks like an unarmed, overly pampered noble. "Why are you sending a spy?" Omen whined, hating every moment of this conversation.

  Avarice leaned back in her chair. "If you, my dearest catastrophe, had been kidnapped by mysterious Autumn Lords and taken forcibly into an alien land, do you imagine I would go and rescue you myself, or would I say, no, I can't be bothered, I think I'll force my friend's fifteen-year-old boy to do it for me?"

  Omen blinked, the thoughts connecting like a lock snapping shut. "Crows' toes! When you put it like that, it does seem a bit . . . strange . . . " his voice trailed off.

  "Telling you what?" Avarice prompted, looking impatient.

  He sighed. "That something else is going on here," he admitted. "Something that she didn't tell us."

  "Exactly," Avarice replied. "Which is why I'm sending Devastation." She turned to the young Machelli. "Dev, Omen is in charge of this little venture. You will do whatever he tells you. And you will report everything back to me in excruciating detail. And when things inevitably go horrifically wrong, you will do whatever you must to fix it. Understand?" She pried a small leather-bound book from the flat box and handed it across her desk to Dev.

  "Perfectly." Dev nodded, seeming unconcerned with the underlying threat. He took the book from Avarice, leafing through the pages. "Ah, I'm journaling. How fun."

  "Hey," Omen protested. "What makes you think it will all go horrifically wrong?"

  "You're fleeing across the Luminal Sea with an ancient leviathan hunting you," Avarice told him. "Assuming you survive that, you have to go into the Kharakhian wilderness. If things don't go horrifically wrong, then you've probably landed in the wrong country. Now get out of here, both of you. I have important matters to attend to." She shooed them both toward the door with a wave of her hand. "Oh, and Dev," she called after them. "Lose the make-up and the jewelry. I don't want some Kharakhian warlord mistaking you for a pretty girl and carrying you off. You're sailing to Kharakhan not Revival. Try not to make a spectacle of yourself."

  "But I'm so good at making spectacles." Dev looked genuinely disappointed.

  "Omen has a big, giant orange cat, a potty-mouthed kitten and a little brother who talks to the dead. They can create spectacles all by themselves," she insisted.

  Dev sighed dramatically and inclined his head in acquiescence. Then he followed Omen out the door.

  "So, is it true you have five parents?" Dev asked brightly, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "How exactly does that work?" The innuendo in his voice was unmistakable.

  Horrified, Omen looked back through the office door at his mother who glared at both of them. Omen quickly grabbed the door handle and pulled it shut.

  "Not the way you're thinking!" he protested, mortified that Dev had implied something unsavory in front of his mother. Why do people keep harping on that?

  "Oh, what a pity." Dev sighed, looking disappointed yet again. "Here I was hoping to hear all the juicy details."

  Grumbling, Omen glared at him. "So why did she pick you exactly?" he changed the subject.

  Dev shrugged blithely. "I'm extremely disobedient," he explained. "I imagine she thought you'd like that in a traveling companion."

  "Disobedient?" Omen asked, perking up at that. Disobedience was something he could work with. "So then you don't mean to spy on me?"

  Dev laughed. "Of course I intend to spy on you. She's paying me. I said disobedient, not foolish."

  "And the part about the ancient leviathan doesn't frighten you?" Omen challenged. He doesn't exactly look like the brave sort.

  Dev looked perplexed. "What's the worst that can happen? It eats us alive? I can think of worse ways of dying. I'm sure it will be loads of fun."

  Annoyed, Omen turned away from the Machelli. Feeling at odds with himself, he briefly wondered if it would be worthwhile to pay Lilyth back for her little trick. Maybe I'll steal her diary and read it on the trip. He laughed under his breath at the thought and headed in search of his brother and cats.

  Chapter 9: The Golden Voyage

  DEV

  Devastation Machelli leaned against one of the wooden posts lining the path that led down to the Melian docks. All around him, scores of dockworkers and wharfies hurried along, going about their morning business.

  The first rays of early sunlight fell on scores of tall ships moored in the port of Melia. Their bone-colored sails fluttered and snapped in balletic unison as a mild summer wind played across the water. The ancient pier sparkled like a kaleidoscope as laborers unloaded cargo from all over the world and filled cavernous holds with valuable Melian treasures. Merchants bustled from ship to ship like bees flitting over lavender fields. But despite the constant movement around the port, no ships set sail, all firmly anchored in the bay.

  They are still a little worried about the Widow Maker. Not as naive as I thought.

  Most of the Melian fishing fleet had remained in port as well. A few brave souls had ventured out for a predawn run, but none had gone beyond the protective ring of the bay. Their haul, small in comparison to most days, was all the more precious, and the lively bray of workers resounded through the upper and lower fish markets.

  Several workers tipp
ed their caps in greeting as they passed. Dev nodded back, bemused by the overt friendliness. Melians! They'd invite the thief who robbed them to stay for tea.

  The short time he'd spent in Melia had convinced Dev that the Sundragons had to be out of their minds for opening the border to outsiders. Sweet, innocent Melian souls.

  It was obvious to Dev that unscrupulous sailors from far away places like Kharakhan and Terizkand would easily take advantage of the overly trusting Melians — were it not for the enormous, terrifying dragons stationed in strategic places throughout the city.

  At least the Sundragons keep vigilant watch over their people.

  One such dragon waited upon the cliffs near the port to greet arrivals. Blinding sunlight glittered off the creature's golden scales, making the behemoth impossible to miss; nor could anyone discount his sword-like talons as he gripped the rocky perch.

  "Keep away from the dragons," Avarice had warned Dev when he'd first arrived in Melia. "They'll smell the Shilvagi in you immediately and know you for a Machelli. And lies won't fool them."

  Considering most words Dev uttered were lies, he imagined any number of interesting conversations he could potentially have with the dragons. Interesting conversations I don't need. He had no desire to speak to a dragon, interesting or otherwise. Where he'd come from, dragons were mindless, terrifying grotesques who devoured people; he wasn't quite ready to believe that somehow the Melian Sundragons were different.

  Civilized. Educated. Kind. Whatever faerie tales they've spread, I am not buying it. Dragons are predators, pure and simple.

  He'd been somewhat surprised when Avarice had summoned him from Terizkand the day before, sending a servant to lead him through the transfer portal in the Terizkandian royal palace. While Dev frequently found himself infiltrating the various parties and decadent gatherings of the Terizkandian upper class, he'd avoided the castle and the nobility. And now I'll be traveling with the Terizkandian crown prince. Lucky me.

  Avarice had always seemed fond of him, mostly he suspected because she'd recognized a kindred spirit — someone who had to fight and claw and cheat to survive. Unlike Avarice, Dev had attained no rank or pedigree, nor had he the parentage to place him among people of power. To the rest of the world, he was a nobody. And he preferred it that way.

  While Avarice had sketched out strict parameters for his involvement in this trip and the duties he was to perform, Dev didn't understand why she thought he would make a suitable companion for her son, Prince Omen Armand Locheden Daenoth, Prince of Lydon, Scion of the House Machelli, the House Deldano, and blood-child of the Elder God Cerioth, The Dark Heart.

  There is more to this than she's let on.

  Dev knew Avarice realized he was not the boy he appeared to be. His youthful countenance was the product of a curse and not age. Omen and his friends, however, would accept him as a peer — a fact Avarice was depending on.

  Just one of the boys with the whole wonderful world before us. He chuckled bitterly, wondering if Avarice's decision was a wild miscalculation or pure arrogant madness.

  Possibly both, he mused, nodding to yet another group of Melians who smiled happily at him as they went about their work. Considering they were attacked by ghastly monsters just the other day, they're remarkably cheerful.

  He glanced briefly down at the leather satchels resting by his feet. The bags contained supplies he felt would be needed in the weeks ahead. Inexplicably, not once had a single person eyed the bags with the intent to steal anything. Melians! My bow isn't even tied down. Some light-finger could sell it for a tidy sum at any weapons shop. The bow itself was a Terizkandian recurve that he'd won in a dice game from a Venedrine elf — and like most things owned by the elves it was of the finest make.

  A sudden commotion further down the street caught Dev's attention, and he spotted his quarry approaching from the direction of Daenoth Manor.

  Omen Daenoth was impossible to miss in a crowd, and not just because his constant companion was the giant orange cat trotting blithely beside him. It also wasn't just the windblown locks of his copper red hair, or his bizarre multicolored eyes — one Machelli silver, the other Deldano green — that set Omen apart. Though only fifteen, Omen towered over the men around him, his bloodline instantly clear to anyone who cared to look. Despite teasing Omen the day before, Dev knew more than he'd let on about the true nature of Omen's lineage and how the bloodlines of a dark god, some powerful elemental savage, and a Deldano healer had been bestowed upon the boy at his birth.

  He'll be remarkable one day. If he doesn't get himself brutally slaughtered first.

  Armed today, Omen wore two thin daggers strapped to either leg, and carried a large two-handed blade strapped to his back. Dev suspected lesser men would have difficulty wielding such a weapon. Kharakhian steel. Used to hunt trolls. Probably the only weapon he couldn't easily break. No doubt Omen had been trained his entire life in any number of deadly fighting styles. Neither Avarice nor 7 would have left his martial education to chance. If they've let their fifteen-year-old son wander freely in the world, he knows how to defend himself. At least Dev hoped he did. If he doesn't, this job is going to be much harder than I'd like to imagine.

  Half a dozen Daenoth servants rushed past Dev, all carrying parcels and packages to be loaded onto the ship ahead of the arriving passengers. Dev raised an eyebrow as they passed. Supplies for the cat? he wondered. I suppose the beastie does eat a great deal. Probably costs a fortune to keep a creature like that. Neither Omen nor the elvin boy with him was carrying traveling bags. Dev guessed the servants bore whatever belongings they might require. Hope the brats aren't too spoiled.

  Dev frowned as he took in the sight of the boy walking next to Omen: Kyr Daenoth, though Dev knew his true name to be Kyr De'Kyrel, last of the Venedrine Royal House, and blood-child of Cerioth as well, Omen's half brother, and from the stories he'd heard, a mystic. Dev's own history with the darker side of things left him leery of anyone who spoke with the dead — according to Avarice, Kahdess, the Language of the Dead, was in fact Kyr's native tongue.

  What powers the boy might possess, Dev did not know, and Avarice had made a point of informing him that Kyr was to be protected from any harm. How a child of the Elder God Cerioth had come to be cherished by Avarice Machelli was something Dev did not know; but looking at Kyr, Dev understood her concern. Kyr possessed none of his brother's strength or fortitude, his frail body delicate even by elvin standards. Though he had the grace and fine features of his Venedrine kin, with sun gold hair and large violet eyes, there was a leanness to his frame, a gauntness in his face that suggested long periods of starvation. The boy appeared to be no more than ten years of age, though his bloodline made it impossible to judge. Dev wondered at the wisdom of allowing Kyr to join them on this trip.

  Of course if he's the one who was hexed, I suppose there is no choice. Indee has to be a right harpy to curse such a child. I wonder if the crew of our ship knows he's a mystic and will likely draw the Widow Maker's interest?

  An erratic movement on the boy's shoulder caught Dev's attention, and he smiled faintly when he spotted the small orange shape half-hidden by Kyr's golden hair. Must be Tyrin. Dev had heard of both cats of course — but had yet to speak to either of them. He had to admit to a certain curiosity as he wondered how smart the creatures were.

  Omen paused suddenly and waved toward an approaching woman. The pretty blonde smiled and enthusiastically waved back. Curiously, while the Melians around them were nodding politely to Omen, most of them stopped and bowed respectfully toward the woman, despite her presenting a far plainer appearance than the foreign prince. Shalonie Tatharion, then. Hold Lord's daughter. He supposed the golden sword strapped to her leather belt was enough to mark her rank.

  That's quite a sword. Hope she can hang on to it.

  Shalonie's bearing was a combination of stuffy scholar and tomboy, her clothing — beige linen and sturdy cloth under a soft leather hooded cloak — was far more practical than the
colorful fashions of a Melian noblewoman. Her blond hair was bound into a thick braid woven tightly around her skull and secured with a soft piece of leather — but Dev suspected that unbound her locks would tumble past her waist in a fall of gold. When the girl spotted Omen and returned his greeting, her bright smile gave her an air of radiant beauty that more than made up for her unfashionable appearance. Avarice claims she's renowned for her intelligence. And from what I understand that dragon blade is the highest mark of favor known in this land. I wonder why she's joining us? And why the dragons are letting her?

  Shalonie fell into step beside Omen, greeting both cats and Kyr as they walked.

  Dev straightened as Omen spotted him, noting with some amusement that he seemed at first not to recognize him. Without the excessive jewelry, glittering face paint and colorful clothing expected in the Terizkandian Garden Courts, Dev supposed he looked more like one of the wild-born Machellis of Scaalia. More like one of Omen's younger cousins. Dev scooped up his own traveling bags, slinging the various straps over his shoulders, and waited — bow in hand — as Omen and Shalonie approached.

  Omen nodded to him, and then turned solicitously toward Shalonie, his Melian-bred manners apparent in his instinctive move to introduce the lady in his company. "Shalonie, may I present Devastation Machelli. He'll be . . . traveling with us."

  Dev caught the hesitation in Omen's words and couldn't help but smirk. "My lady." He bowed his head in greeting. "And by traveling he of course means spying. Please call me Dev."

  Omen glared at him, looking outraged by his words while Shalonie looked on amused.

  "I'm sorry," Dev apologized immediately, rather enjoying Omen's taciturn mood. "Was I supposed to lie about that? Avarice didn't mention it."

  "Generally when you're hired to spy on people you're expected to keep it a secret," Omen informed him, seeming annoyed.

  "Ah," Dev nodded. "I didn't see the point. Avarice told you what I was to do, and I've been led to believe that Lady Shalonie is quite clever. I have no doubt she'd figure me out immediately. It seemed rude to lie."