He can’t see into the Third Realm very well. When I was living with him and we tried, it was like looking through a heat wave that contained a dust storm. You can see shadows but nothing else, and hearing conversations is like listening to someone talk underwater. As you know, the gormons have black symbols and are invisible in the Second Realm.
Arcon paused before he answered. If it’s an easy kill, do it, but we can’t afford to go chasing about the island. We have to get to the Isle of the Dead Souls. Getting Bronwyn might take all the realmists and time we have. Sinjenasta cocked his head to the side and waited.
I’m not happy about this, but okay. Avruellen spoke with the voice she reserved for chastising people.
Whatever you want. Now excuse me while I throw up. Sinjenasta was glad Arcon broke the link before he had to listen to any more.
Can you watch me please, Blayke?
Blayke, who had re-sheathed his sword, nodded. “Do you need any help?”
No, but if I call you to the Second Realm, be ready to come.
“Okay.” Blayke tensed.
Sinjenasta lay on the deck and shut his luminous eyes. He sped through the dark tunnel to the Second Realm, the sea breeze on his face mimicking what he might have felt had his body been hurtling through the space between realms. He became his symbol. The thought to absorb power automatic, his symbol immediately pulsated as he drew power from the space around him, which was pregnant with energy. When he collected what he needed, he carried it back with his awareness, attached by familiarity—the energy knew him because he had touched it, and it obeyed.
Sinjenasta threw the power out, mentally intoning a recipe for heat. Far in front of the ship, he blanketed the air with warmth. Within a few minutes the colder air behind and above them rushed in to sink under the warmer air. Blayke’s ears popped as the air pressure changed and the wind increased, filling the sails to capacity and causing the two masts to creak. The ship leapt forward and ploughed through newly formed whitecaps. Salty spray spattered Blayke’s face.
“What happened?” Avruellen, wearing a hooded cloak, appeared to materialize out of nowhere.
Sinjenasta answered. I’ve given us a little help. It will only last about an hour because my reach wasn’t as far as I’d like. It will be just enough so we can hopefully land just after Morth.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Sinjenasta raised one furry eyebrow; the back and forth sweep of his tail warned her to curb her rebuke. Avruellen sniffed and returned to her room. Blayke noted the exchange and realized Sinjenasta must have a lot more power than he originally thought. No one stood up to a realmist like that and got away with it, especially not one of The Circle. As the ship fell and rose with the swell, Blayke gripped the railing and hoped the big cat really was on their side. We’re coming, Bronwyn. Hang on; we’re coming.
Chapter 19
Bronwyn woke to the slosh of water lapping against the hull. Shouts of, “Throw the rope,” and “Steady now,” filtered down to her prison. The ship had docked. She reached out with her mind and gently prodded the barrier blocking her from the Second Realm. There were no gaps, nothing to squeeze her awareness through. She despaired at being cut off from her power, but then she remembered her natural magic.
Quietly she rolled out of bed and crouched, placing her hands on the floor. She sent vibrations of awareness into the timber but found no rivers of power. Dead timber really was dead, it turned out.
The realmist also thought of her weapons for the first time. She hoped they hadn’t thrown away the sword and dagger Avruellen had given her. Feeling naked without them, she pretended she held her sword and practiced her forms in the cramped space, realizing how difficult it would be to fight in such confined quarters. Being told and experiencing it were two different things.
Hearing a key in the lock, Bronwyn turned to the door. When it opened, in barged a large woman, taller than Bronwyn, wearing a knee-length brown dress belted where her waist should have been, a dagger clutched in her masculine fingers. The light from the one porthole wasn’t particularly good, but Bronwyn was sure the woman had a shadow of a moustache above her sour mouth. “Git up, yer lazy cow.”
Corrille, who had woken when the door opened, jumped down and curtseyed.
“I’m sorry, madame.”
The woman turned malicious, beady eyes on Bronwyn. “Where are your manners, girl? Curtsey when a lady enters the room.”
Bronwyn coughed into her hand. “When is the lady getting here?”
As soon as she said it, she knew she should have kept her mouth shut.
For a large woman, she moved fast, pinning Bronwyn against the wall with the dagger pressing a white line across her throat. The woman spoke, her nose an inch from the realmist’s. Fish-scented breath struck Bronwyn’s face with every word. “Shut it. One more word from you, and I don’t care what my orders are: you’re dead.” She emphasized her words by adjusting the point of the blade and pricking Bronwyn’s skin, holding the knife up to her face to show her the fresh dewdrop of red. “Now, out!”
Corrille, who stood slack-jawed throughout Bronwyn’s ordeal, hurried to obey. Bronwyn followed her out, stumbling from a shove in the back. The realmist was so angry she wanted to cry. As soon as she was on land, she would see if the Talian magic worked.
But what to do about Corrille? Her friend seemed so scared that she might not run when the time came, and she couldn’t leave her, could she? Okay, don’t think about that now. Deal with it if it happens. When they reached the dock, Morth waited. “Ah, Mother. I see you’ve met Bronwyn.” The way he rolled the ‘r’ in her name almost made her laugh, which made her question her sanity. How can I possibly want to laugh at a time like this?
“Stop your talking and let’s go. It’s waiting.”
Bronwyn surveyed the island as they walked. If she did escape, where would she go? And was Sinjenasta on her trail? Maybe she would just have to wait and see where they were going. Avruellen’s constant reminder sounded in her head: be patient. If it was one thing she hated, it was waiting and being told to be patient.
The dock ended at a cobbled road, which rose gradually and disappeared behind the cliff in front of them. Instead of taking this road, Morth angled left and walked towards the base of a cliff where a narrow path wormed between boulders and twiggy bushes that would have looked dead if not for the brightest pink flowers Bronwyn had ever seen clinging to them.
Bronwyn didn’t have time to check if the Talian magic worked here, because all her concentration was needed for the climb. Several times Corrille slipped on loose stones and slid backwards into Bronwyn. Each time, Morth’s mother would yell, “Hurry up, clumsy! We haven’t got all day.”
After more than an hour, Bronwyn watched Morth disappear over the lip of the cliff. Corrille scrambled over, crying in relief, and as Bronwyn placed her feet on level ground once again, she froze. It was like she had walked face-first into a giant spiderweb. She wanted to brush at her skin, and adrenalin flooded her body. Bronwyn jumped when Morth’s mother prodded her, none too gently, from behind. “Keep going.”
Trying to ignore the disturbing sensation, Bronwyn, against all instinct, walked on but checked her hair for spiders, just in case. Not far from the top of the cliff, Morth turned left and travelled parallel with the coast. The closer they drew to their destination, the more jumpy Bronwyn became. It felt like spiders crawled over her body, hundreds of tiny, hairy feet prickling her skin, causing a surge of goose bumps to spring up, covering her arms and legs. She stopped.
Wherever they were going, Bronwyn knew once they got there, she would never leave. It was apparent no help was coming. It was time to help herself and do what Avruellen had trained her to do her whole life. If she got it wrong, well, at least she had tried. She burrowed her awareness into the ground and found what she was looking for: a thick stream of power just waiting to be tapped.
“Keep going.” Bronwyn’s least favorite person pushed her with a mea
ty fist.
“No.” Bronwyn turned to face the tyrant. “This is where I tell you what a horse’s ass you are and take my friend and leave.”
“Bronwyn, no, don’t! They’ll kill you.” Corrille and Morth stopped, while his mother readied her dagger, yet again, raising the tip to Bronwyn’s face.
Without taking her eyes off Morth’s mother, Bronwyn answered her friend, “Corrille, if we go wherever they’re taking us, that’s it. We’re dead.” To Morth’s mother, she said, “I hope whatever you’re getting paid is worth dying for.”
With fury in her eyes, the older woman grabbed Bronwyn’s arm and opened her mouth to deliver a threat, which Bronwyn cut off. Holding as much of the power as she could, she opened both palms outward, towards Morth’s mother. Staring into the depths of her depraved eyes, Bronwyn didn’t flinch as she released the ball of white-hot energy flowing through her veins.
Bronwyn had never released that amount of power at one time and the force caused her to stumble backwards—the woman’s grip on her arm ripped free. The realmist held her gaze and saw her face twist in pain and surprise as she felt the missile blast a hole right through her middle. The sizzling heat cauterized the wound: even after Morth’s mother lay dead on the scattered rocks and stubs of gray grasses, no blood stained the ground; however, scented tendrils of burnt flesh lingered.
Satisfied she was dead, Bronwyn, overcome with dizziness, fell to her knees.
“No!” Morth ran to his mother. He caressed her face and kissed her cheek. Crouching, he turned wild eyes on Bronwyn. “You!” Not bothering to stand up, he crawled to her and grabbed a fistful of her long, dark hair. Yanking it back so her throat was exposed, he pulled his own dagger from a sheath strapped to his ankle. Bronwyn recognized the intricate patterns and thought how ironic that she would be killed with the blade given with love by her aunt. She tried to reach for more power but couldn’t hold more than a trickle—maybe enough to sting him like a squeeto. Oh well, she thought as she directed it between his eyes. It was enough to surprise him, and he released her hair.
As soon as he let go, she brought the heel of her hand up and smashed him in the nose. Morth fell backwards, bleeding and drawing Second Realm power as he went. Bronwyn dragged herself to her feet and without looking back, shouted at Corrille to follow. Bronwyn forced her weak legs to move. She staggered past Morth, towards the cliff track. She heard crackling behind her and dropped flat to the ground. A bolt of lightning exploded a stunted tree three feet from where she lay, sparks showering the ground near her face.
“No!” Corrille screamed. Bronwyn rolled over to see Morth, energy radiating from his hands, gathering force.
“No one kills my mother and gets away with it.” He prepared to release the next lightning bolt, and Bronwyn wished Corrille was braver—her friend could have pushed him, hit him, anything to give them a chance, but she stood still, mouth open wide in horror. Bronwyn felt wisps of hair rise with static and fought the temptation to shut her eyes. She wanted to leave this world in a way that would make her aunt proud, not cowering like a rabbit.
“Stop!” Bronwyn recognized the voice, relief flooding her. “Put your hands down, Morth.” She looked up and saw her brother—he had come to save her! But then she panicked: what if Morth killed Blayke?
“Well, if it isn’t my former kidnappee.” Morth’s mouth twisted up at one corner. Disheveled hair and dirt-smudged pants made him look crazy and almost pathetic, but Blayke made no mistake; the power coursing through Morth’s body was lethal. Morth raised his arm, but Blayke was ready. He said not a word. Pupils dilating, he pushed away the nausea he felt at killing another person and freed the fingers of flame. Morth’s beard and hair combusted, followed by his skin, which smoked and blistered. His demise smelt worse than his mother’s. The onshore wind carried his haunting scream to nearby caves.
An answering shriek reached them as melting skin mixed with ash on the ground. Sinjenasta’s voice sounded in the realmists’ minds. That’s the gormon. We have to get out of here, now. Blayke, you get Bronwyn’s friend. I’ll help Bronwyn. Come on.
“Wait. My dagger.” Bronwyn ran past Blayke and threw herself at the mess on the ground, looking for the gleam of her weapon. Spying it, she swallowed down vomit and reached her fingers towards the dagger, shuddering when she touched the firming goo. She snatched it up and ran towards the cliff.
As they descended the steep slope, Bronwyn slid on her backside at times, thankful for the sturdy tufts of grass she grabbed to steady herself. “Where’s Avruellen?” Bronwyn asked Sinjenasta.
She’s with Arcon, minding the ship and making sure we have a clear getaway. We need to get to the Isle of the Dead Souls as fast as possible, and it wouldn’t do to lose our boat while we’re not looking.
Bronwyn swore as rocks and sharp fronds grazed and cut her palms. The trip down was quicker than the trip up, and it wasn’t long before they reached the ship, Arcon and Avruellen standing on the wharf, smiling in relief. Avruellen snatched Bronwyn in a hug. “Okay,” came Bronwyn’s muffled voice, “you can let go now.”
Avruellen reluctantly put her arms down and shooed Bronwyn towards the boat.
As she climbed aboard, Bronwyn looked back to check on Blayke and Corrille. He had his arm around her waist, helping her walk. She limped along and smiled up at him. What? She didn’t even get hurt. Give me a break. Bronwyn knew she shouldn’t be jealous, but Corrille was beginning to annoy her. Had she not learnt anything since she had been kidnapped? Wasn’t it Bronwyn who was almost disintegrated?
Bronwyn didn’t want to be confined again so stayed at the bow and watched the gray clouds gather in the distance. Avruellen stood quietly, reassuringly at her shoulder.
“Why didn’t the gormon attack us?” Bronwyn hugged herself, rubbing her arms.
“Until their skin grows thick enough, the sun burns them. Infants rarely go outside during the day. Although that one should be almost mature by now. Maybe it didn’t want to take on three realmists at once? What happened up there?”
“I killed Morth’s mother, and Blayke killed Morth. I used Talian magic.” Sinjenasta, who sat next to Bronwyn, leaned against her, his weight a calming touch.
“Talian magic. Where did you learn that?”
“At Vellonia. Arcese taught us. I burnt Morth’s mother through the middle with a really, really hot ball of white energy. It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective. She wasn’t very nice. It did take everything I had, though. I couldn’t draw any more power after that.”
“I see. If it’s anything like Second-Realm power, you have to build up your strength by using it. We’ll have practice sessions every afternoon. When we battle the gormons, you’ll need to be as strong as possible—there is no way one white-hot ball of anything will kill them all. Bronwyn?”
“Yes?”
“Look at me, please.” Avruellen waited for her to turn around. “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you about your parents. Sometimes we do what we think is best for the most people. Even when you were old enough, I was still scared to say anything because I thought you would hate me. I let my fear lead me to make a bad decision. I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”
Bronwyn was surprised into silence. Her aunt never, ever apologized for anything. “I forgive you. I’m still a bit angry, but I know why you did it. I just wish you didn’t have to.” She briefly squeezed Avruellen’s hand. “So, we’re off to The Isle of the Dead Souls, I hear. Sounds interesting.”
Avruellen returned her niece’s smile.
“I remember a time, not too long ago, when you didn’t want to go anywhere.”
“Who, me? No way. That must have been some other girl.”
As the crew lifted oars and hoisted sails, Bronwyn and Avruellen enjoyed a rare moment of peace. They had a small victory today. As Bronwyn looked over to Blayke, Corrille, and Arcon, she saw they were enjoying it too. She had quickly learnt you took what happiness you could get and didn’t dwell on the stuff you couldn’t change.
But she couldn’t help feeling left out as her best friend slipped her hand into Blayke’s. She was just starting to get to know her brother, but she had a feeling he would run out of time to spend with her now.
Don’t worry, Bronwyn. You have me. Sinjenasta broke her train of thought.
“Yes, I do, and I’m grateful.” Leaning down, she hugged the panther and sneezed. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Do you mind if I shave you? Then I’d be able to cuddle you without sneezing.”
What? I beg your pardon. No one shaves me. I refuse to go naked. What do you think this is? You women are never happy.
Bronwyn laughed. “Careful, Sinje. You’re starting to sound like a man.” Sinjenasta wanted to say something but thought she’d had enough shocks for one day. How could you tell the woman you loved that your relationship was based on lies? At least it wasn’t hard for a panther to hide its feelings. She would never have to know.
The crew pulled in the oars as the sails filled, driving them ahead. The realmists withdrew to the low-ceilinged stateroom to discuss strategies before Arcon became too sick to participate.
Avruellen still mistrusted Corrille, so she sent the girl to be entertained by the captain, who had many stories of wild sea crossings and escapes from pirates. Bronwyn was happy she had her family to herself again, and even though she knew it was wrong, she wondered if she would have been happier if Blayke had not saved her friend. What is wrong with you? She’s your best friend. Shaking her head free of such disloyal thoughts, she heard Arcon say, “The time is nearing when the gormons will arrive; we could have only a few days left. We can’t afford to make any mistakes. We need to find the ancient tome, read the relevant parts and activate the quartz. Any questions?” When no one answered, he grabbed the bucket that had become his constant companion. “If you’ll all excuse me, I’m going to bed.”
As soon as Arcon passed through the door, they heard him expunge the contents of his stomach, hopefully, into the bucket. “Why me?” Arcon moaned as he staggered down the dark passageway and shut himself in his room. He wasn’t sure what he dreaded more: being sick for five days or arriving at their destination. The time of action was upon them and he couldn’t believe he was spending most of it vomiting. Being a realmist had its perks indeed, he thought sarcastically as he bent over the bucket one more time.
A Time of Darkness (The Circle of Talia) Page 11
