The Chronicles of William Wilde Boxset 1

by Davis Ashura

  From here they planned on journeying to Hawaii and from there, to Arylyn. While the saha’asras in West Virginia and Arizona could have taken them directly home, none of them knew if any necrosed still waited near those two locations. Thus, this more circuitous route. They’d caught a flight from Cincinnati to St. Paul, Minnesota, and from there, they’d traveled along an anchor line to Mexico.

  “You realize the authorities are going to believe we had something to do with William and Jake’s disappearance,” said Mr. Karllson.

  “At this point, that’s the least of our concerns,” Mr. Zeus said, “and frankly, I don’t care.”

  Jason snorted. “Besides, good luck serving us a warrant on Arylyn.”

  “What do you think happened to them?” Daniel asked.

  “Serena and her father.” Jason’s lips curled into a snarl. “They’re mahavans. They have to be. It’s the only thing that makes sense. We found a nomasra in their house after they disappeared at the same time as William and Jake.”

  “It was a pretty old nomasra, though,” Daniel noted. “And dead. They might have found it in a flea market for all we know.”

  “And they just happened to vanish at the same time as William and Jake?” Mr. Zeus asked sardonically. “Not likely, especially since we already believe Serena had something of asra to her. This merely proves who she truly was.”

  “We should have listened to Elaina,” Jason said with a sour grimace.

  “The witch from Sand?” Mrs. Karllson asked.

  Jason noticed Lien’s mouth twitch and the twinkle in her eyes. “Don’t say it,” he warned her.

  “What?” Lien asked in an injured tone.

  “You were going to say Elaina is a Sand witch,” Jason told her. “Ha, ha. Good one. Very original.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Lien said, maintaining a hurt tone. “I was going to say—”

  “Not now,” Jason snapped, frustration making him irritable. “I’m not in the mood for jokes. We should have listened to Elaina. She said Landon was alive, and he is. She also said Serena had asra. We thought it meant she was a witch, but she meant Serena is an asrasin, a mahavan from Sinskrill.

  “She’s not a mahavan,” Mrs. Karllson said. Upon noticing Jason’s confusion, she elaborated. “Yes, she’s from Sinskrill, but she’s not a mahavan. More likely, she’s a bishan, someone still in training, tasked with delivering William to their island. Only then will she achieve the title of mahavan.”

  “And we gave her, not one, but two raha’asras,” Daniel said bitterly.

  “A disaster,” Mr. Karllson agreed.

  “All is not lost,” Mr. Zeus said. “Whoever disabled William’s nomasra didn’t do as complete a job as they should have.”

  “You can still sense it?” Mr. Karllson asked in his deep rumble.

  “Roughly,” Mr. Zeus said. “But it’s an intermittent signal. It comes and goes. I can’t get a distinct location. I only get a vague sense of direction.”

  “Then how does the nomasra help us?” Daniel asked.

  “I know where William has gone,” Mr. Zeus said. “He was traveling steadily west at the normal speed of a car on the interstate. Then, in an instant, he moved thousands of miles away, far east and north of us.”

  Jason started. He glanced at the others and saw similar surprise on their faces.

  “After all these centuries, we might be able to discover the location of Sinskrill,” Mrs. Karllson said in a hushed tone.

  “It’s supposed to be an island like Arylyn,” Lien said excitedly, “but somewhere north, somewhere cold.”

  Mr. Zeus nodded. “We’ve always suspected it to be the case, and William’s rapid movement in that direction proves it.”

  “But without knowing the key to Sinskrill’s anchor line,” Daniel began, “how can we get there and save him?”

  “There are ways to travel to an island other than by an anchor line. An asrasin who knows the correct location can always get there by boat.” Mr. Zeus’ face grew grim. “And I promise you this: once I learn Sinskrill’s location, nothing will stop me from bringing William home.”

  Sinskrill

  * * *

  William shivered when an icy breeze blew too hard. The frost-scented wind bit hard, slicing through his winter coat. It gusted, and he leaned forward to prevent being toppled over.

  “Son of a bitch, it’s cold,” Jake muttered.

  William didn’t bothering responding. Dejection kept him quiet. He didn’t even care to look around at the legendary island of Sinskrill. Its dismal charms had long since worn off, within minutes of their arrival.

  Rays of sunshine had briefly split the dreary overcast when they first arrived and reflected off a large lake that seemed to fall away into the ocean. However, minutes later the gloomy clouds had shuttered away the golden light, casting the sky in a gloom William hoped might be temporary but suspected might be permanent. This said nothing of the unavoidable wind that insisted on gusting from all directions.

  “Let’s go,” Dalton said. “The Servitor is expecting us.”

  “Who’s the Servitor?” William asked.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” Dalton replied.

  They marched along a crooked, stone-paved road leading to the eastern shore of the lake. Humped hills surrounded the water on all sides, and the trail traversed a serpentine course through them.

  William had little time to take in the sights, though. Dalton and Mr. Paradiso—he still wasn’t sure which of them was in charge—kept them traveling fast. When they exited a gorge bounded by two rounded rises, a wide valley containing a series of fallow fields opened out before them. Upon the hillsides, a herd of cattle munched on grass.

  As their small troop approached the farmland, William made out a motley assortment of people working the land. They wore heavy, tan clothing and fur hats as they leaned into shovels and hoes, digging into the hard ground. Another group of men and women, similarly dressed except for a mohawk-shaped plume of green feathers bifurcating their leather caps, seemed to be overseers. The workers gave their group a cursory once over before resuming their work.

  “Is this him?” one of the overseers—a man—called out to Dalton.

  “It’s them.”

  “Them?” Puzzlement filled the man’s features, followed an instant later by an understanding grin. “The Servitor will be pleased.”

  “We are all pleased,” Mr. Paradiso said. “It was my bishan who discovered them and helped me bring them in.” He gestured to the other mahavans who had aided in the capture. “Dalton’s band was helpful, as well.”

  “Lord Shet be praised for your success,” said the overseer, dipping his head in respect.

  “His glory returns,” Mr. Paradiso intoned before giving Dalton an indication to move on.

  Their road gradually shifted southwest before eventually turning directly south.

  There, a village hove into view, clean and well maintained, with large, stone-walled buildings lining the stone-paved streets. Children darted about, playing some sort of game, while a few lean dogs, their ribs showing, wandered about.

  Despite the outwardly settled character to the village, William sensed a despondency to the place.

  “It looks like shit,” Jake noted.

  “This is Village White Sun, your new home,” Mr. Paradiso announced. “You’ll see more of it later, but for now, come. The Servitor awaits.”

  After the long walk to the saha’asra in Banff followed by this hike up and down a series of hills, William’s legs burned. He panted, ready to take a rest, but Mr. Paradiso wouldn’t allow it.

  He led them to a palace standing atop a rocky cliff and overlooking a bay whose indigo waters were mottled with whitecaps. The structure rose like something from a fairytale, with peaked turrets built of white stone. A set of stairs led from the village to the castle but forked halfway up. One side continued onward and upward and the other side headed down to the water, where a handful of fishing boats had been hauled on
to the beach where their crews worked on their catch.

  Mr. Paradiso allowed them no time to linger. He pressed on, and they soon arrived at the palace. A wide gate split a curtain-wall that embraced the entire structure and its grounds. Guards armed with pikes and swords nodded acknowledgement as they passed beneath the raised portcullis.

  From there they entered the courtyard, and William noted servants rushing about, easily identifiable by their clothes. They wore the same tan outfits and hats as the workers in the fields. The focus of the space, though, was taken up by the presence of a man at the far end of the courtyard. He sat upon an ornate chair and wore simple, dark clothing, a thin, gold circlet, and a fur-lined cloak. None of it did anything to soften his thickset features, his spade-like jaw and beetling brow, or lessen the force of his aura. Several people stood near him, some obviously guards. Others, William guessed, must be mahavans, based on their well-dressed, officious demeanors.

  “Kneel,” Serena ordered.

  Jake didn’t do so quickly enough for her liking, and she kicked his legs out from under him.

  “Two when I expected one,” the man in the chair said, his voice deep, powerful, and commanding.

  “Yes, my lord,” Mr. Paradiso replied, also kneeling. “We were most fortunate.”

  “Rise and explain,” the man ordered.

  “Not you,” Serena hissed when William made to stand.

  He grimaced at her but remained kneeling. Her lips tightened at his defiance, but she did nothing, and he smiled inside. Good. Ticking her off might become his new hobby on this crappy island.

  “William Wilde is a natural-born raha’asra,” Mr. Paradiso began. “Quite powerful, as you can sense, and somehow, his blood entered this other, a former normal by the name of Jake Ridley. That transference changed this otherwise unremarkable boy into a potential. And now that he has entered a saha’asra, his lorethasra has come to life. He, too, is a raha’asra.”

  The man in the chair smiled. “Well done.”

  “Thank you, my liege,” Mr. Paradiso said.

  “And based on this success, it’s self-evident that you must have done equally as well in the training of my daughter.”

  William’s head jerked to the man in the chair, this Servitor who obviously ruled Sinskrill. Serena was his daughter? Did that make her a princess? Then what did that make Mr. Paradiso?

  “It was my pleasure to instruct her as best I could,” Mr. Paradiso said. “I believe she has almost achieved mastery of her abilities.”

  “Almost?” The Servitor frowned.

  “It is your judgment to make, my liege.”

  The man in the chair dipped his head in acceptance of Mr. Paradiso’s words. “Is it true that our newest raha’asra was involved in the killing of a necrosed?”

  “It is, my liege,” Serena replied, rising to her feet as well.

  The Servitor cracked a smile. “Excellent. Strong, fearless, and powerful. He will serve us well.”

  Serena bowed before stepping aside.

  William found himself the focus of the Servitor’s attention. Serena’s gaze could often be intense, but it was nothing compared to this man’s regard. His interest burned like the sun.

  “I am the Servitor, the Liege of Sinskrill, as decreed by our Lord, Holy Shet.”

  “His glory returns,” the others in the courtyard intoned.

  “You did not come here of your own volition, and I don’t care,” the Servitor said. “You will do as instructed, and you will learn your roles. Serve Sinskrill and prosper. Fail, and you will learn the true meaning of suffering.”

  William shivered, and it had nothing to do with the biting wind.

  THE SERVITOR

  Serena paced within her father’s study. Nervous butterflies flitted about her stomach, and she fought the urge to pace out her anxiety. Today her status would be rendered by the Servitor, the Loving Servant of Sinskrill, Lord Shet’s Voice, her father.

  Of course, he had yet to arrive—late as usual—and while Serena waited, she studied the room for changes. She noticed no obvious differences. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls and brimmed with heavy books, histories mostly, while a chocolate-colored leather couch faced the dormant fireplace. A heavy oak desk, dark with age and a surface stained with ink, crouched like an ogre before a bank of mullioned windows. A tall, elegant alabaster case stood next to it. Always locked, it held Shet’s Spear, and Serena knew better than to approach the mystical weapon. Only the Servitor could handle it.

  Serena stared out the windows, toward the upper and lower courtyards of the palace. In the distance, were Village White Sun, the Norwegian Sea, and the setting sun, now only a vague glow behind Sinskrill’s clouds. The view was incomparable since the Servitor’s office stood on the top floor of the palace directly adjacent to her father’s private quarters.

  Serena mentally chided herself. She had to break her childish habit of regarding the Servitor as her father. Like all children of Sinskrill, she had no true father. Not in the sense that those of the Far Abroad used the term.

  The Servitor’s servant, Selene Paradiso, interrupted her thoughts by popping in and lighting the fireplace. Serena’s sister, a scrawny, little girl of nine, would become a rare beauty when her bony features filled out. She and Serena shared the same dark brown eyes, dark hair, and dusky skin. They even shared the same parents, although Selene didn’t know it.

  “Will there be anything else, ma’am?” Selene asked, using the honorific accorded a bishan.

  Serena smiled warmly and knelt, intending to take her sister in her arms, but at that moment the Servitor entered the room. She quickly straightened.

  “Madam,” he said, striding into the room and his vision aimed at a sheaf of paper in his hands. He missed Serena’s loving smile toward Selene. “Her honorific is madam. She is a mahavan, as of this very moment.” The Servitor lifted his gaze to Serena. “We’ll hold the public ceremony later, but I’ve already drafted the orders.” He waved the papers in his hands.

  “Thank you, my liege,” Serena said, dropping a curtsey.

  “You earned it. Two raha’asras is a rare prize for a bishan’s pilgrimage.”

  “Yes, my liege,” Serena replied.

  “Why are you still here?” the Servitor asked Selene, who stood frozen with uncertainty.

  “I was waiting word from madam as to whether she required anything else, my liege.”

  “I require nothing at this time,” Serena answered, “but make sure my quarters are clean when I arrive.”

  “Yes, madam,” Selene replied with a curtsey. “I already laid out new bedding, and dusted the rooms from top to bottom.”

  “Leave us,” the Servitor commanded his youngest and only other child. He didn’t spare Selene any further notice as he turned to Serena. “The raha’asras you brought in—William Wilde and Jake Ridley—require instruction. We have no room for the slothful.”

  “When will you start their training?” Serena asked, hoping the guilt she felt for the plight of her once-friend didn’t show on her face.

  “I won’t. Only a raha’asra can train a raha’asra. I’ve sent for Fiona. She was at Village Bliss, cleansing their lorasra. The ley lines showed signs of corruption.”

  Serena mentally frowned. Fiona was an odd woman, brought from England more than sixty years ago at the same age as William and Jake currently were. From Serena’s earliest memories the old raha’asra had always struck her as someone to avoid. Her whip-like tongue could cut as painfully as a barbed arrow, and she continually railed against her status, somewhere between a mahavan and a Prime. Her arrogance should have long since been punished, but Fiona remained shielded by her importance to the entire island, and she knew it.

  “Couldn’t a Spiritualist have taken care of that?” Serena asked.

  “Yes, but a Spiritualist couldn’t have repaired the broken ley line. Only Fiona can.”

  “I see,” Serena replied. “And she went willingly?”

  “Of course,
” the Servitor replied, his eyes hard. “She knows better than to defy me.”

  He obviously had a means to force Fiona’s compliance, a useful lever Serena would dearly love to know. Information was currency on Sinskrill.

  “I expect her arrival tonight,” the Servitor continued.

  “Didn’t the troll, Travail Fine, help train Fiona?” Serena asked.

  The Servitor nodded.

  “Then won’t his help be required as well for William and Jake?”

  “I don’t trust Travail,” the Servitor answered. “Hopefully, Fiona will be up to the task.”

  “What if she isn’t?” Serena pressed. Even before the final word left her lips, she stifled a sharp inhalation of worry. One never challenged the Servitor. Serena held her breath.

  The Servitor’s thick beard rippled as his prognathic jaw clenched.

  Serena’s worry shifted to fear.

  “Then Travail will succeed where she fails,” the Servitor responded.

  Serena remembered to breathe and relief flooded her. Apparently, the Servitor had chosen to disregard her lapse in respect.

  “Now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity, you may leave,” he ordered. “The rest of the night is yours to do as you wish.”

  Serena bowed. “Yes, my liege,” she said, and exited his study.

  Downstairs, on the third floor in the family quarters, she ran into Isha. He’d trimmed his beard and changed out of his travel-stained clothes and into dark trousers and a ruby-red shirt.

  “How went the meeting?” he asked.

  “Well enough,” Serena replied with a grin. “I’ve been elevated.”

  Isha’s face broke into a pleased smile. “Excellent, and perhaps later on citizenship shall also be yours. Boldness will see us become a power here on Sinskrill.”

  “You already have allies chosen for us?” Serena asked.

  “Possibilities only,” Isha answered. The glint in his eyes gave away his pleasure, and he held up a cautioning finger when Serena made to ask more. “Say no further. The halls in the palace are not a safe place to discuss such matters. The Walkers hear all.”