A grave and a tombstone.
Eliza managed to brush away everything, leaving the tombstone bare, engraved with a flourish of words that, for some reason, didn’t surprise her.
Elizabeth Kindall, born unknown
Death unknown, born of Fae Blood and Witch Blood, mixed
Necromancer
She swallowed thickly. The words tumbled through her head over and over again until one thing stood out.
Run.
Eliza got up and started running again before the darkness could finally catch her.
Awaking with a start, Eliza sucked in a cooling breath, relishing in the cold air that filled her lungs and eased the racing of her heart. Her heated cheeks slowly cooled, and the panic she had felt in her dream slowly drifted away.
It was a dream. Nothing else.
Then why did it feel like more?
For weeks, Eliza had the sense that she wasn’t remembering something important. For weeks, she had been having all kinds of dreams, but she always awoke remembering nothing. It pained her knowing it had something to do with the past she didn’t have access to.
The dream stuck with her tonight; the creeping darkness, her own grave. Although she felt nothing in the dream, she certainly felt it now. Panic, pain, and fear.
Eliza struggled out of her sleeping wrap and paused at the sound of voices. Although low, she could make out what they were saying.
“This isn’t safe,” Celia started, voice wavering. “I do not think we should continue with this mission.”
Eliza could only imagine Thorne shaking his head. “We don’t have much of a choice. Not now. There is too much at stake.”
“I am not ready to risk anyone’s lives.”
“We follow Eliza’s lead,” Thorne snapped, quickly lowering his voice as he continued, “if she goes ahead with this, then we need to be there for her. Her life is on the line. The life of her family. Everything she’s ever known.”
“She will only get herself killed. Just like Isolde.”
The two were silent for a moment. Thorne must have responded because Celia snapped, “She was my sister, Brandon. I loved her before you did. Remember that.”
Eliza sat back and wrapped her blanket tightly around herself, the chill of the night finally sinking into her bones. Isolde. Thorne’s ex, the girl he had loved. He’d said she was dead, but never how.
She will only get herself killed. What had happened to Isolde? And how was she connected to Eliza?
Thorne and Celia’s voices faded. They’d stopped talking. Maybe they’d heard Eliza. She didn’t care. Between the two of them, they were keeping more secrets than the Dark Master himself. Who were they really? Since she’d met him, Eliza had always known there was something different about Commander Brandon Thorne. But the secret meetings, his unforthcoming stories about his past, and his connections with Amitel and Celia…
And Celia… Eliza knew absolutely nothing about this woman, but that didn’t stop her from feeling like she knew her somehow. Knew both of them, without really knowing them at all. Eliza couldn’t explain the feeling, but her mind had tugged at some image, some memory that didn’t quite belong in her own head. Like it was someone else’s memory, and they had merely shoved it into Eliza’s mind for safekeeping.
Eliza rubbed at her eyes and laid back down. When am I going to get answers?
27
GHOST STORIES
“Aye, the stories are true!” the old sailor cackled, tipping his head back. Watered-down ale dripped from his cracked lips and he wiped it away with a weathered hand, smudging it across his silver beard. But he didn’t care; the pause for effect strengthened the ghost story he was about to delve into.
I hate boats. I hate fish. And I hate ghost stories. Never. Again, Eliza thought miserably.
“We’ve been stuck here two days,” Eliza muttered, sitting back against rotting wood. She was almost tempted to try the ale that had been shoved into her hands, but she refrained. One look from Dorin gave her enough information about the stinking beverage that sloshed in her hands. “We should already be at Beewold.”
Celia nodded; arms crossed over her chest. “What is taking so long?”
“A storm is coming from the north,” a fisherman interrupted, ale dripping from his chin. Eliza winced. “It be holding us ‘ere until we can make dry land. And there is no wind for us to sail.”
“I can make wind,” Eliza replied, rolling her eyes. Dorin spared a smile in her direction.
The storyteller rapped his knuckles against the hard wood of one of the tables, gathering the attention of the crew once again. He stroked his wiry beard with one hand, while the other clutched a bottle of rum. His eyes searched the cabin, meeting the gaze of every present crew member, along with Thorne’s, Celia’s, Dorin’s, and Eliza’s. His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than anyone else, and it sent a shiver down her spine.
In Cadira, there were no boundaries. Back in New Orleans, magic had its limits—and its prices—and many of those who knew how to harness it from Cadira were either powerful and banished or were sworn to protect both worlds. Because of that lack of boundary, anything in Cadira was possible. That was what made the stories more dangerous.
Eliza banished the thoughts from her mind. Any other day of the week, she realised, ghost stories wouldn’t scare her. But something about being in Cadira made her stomach twist at the possibilities.
The sailors quietened; their drunken voices now slurred as they listened to the storyteller. “Aye, we be travelling down the Gyles Channel in a day, and most sailors know the legends that follow that stretch o’water.” Whispers erupted.
He ignored the crew, slamming his wooden mug down onto the table several times to direct their attention back to him. Their whispers died, and soon they could only hear the rattle of their cargo, the rumble of thunder, the crash of the waves against their hull.
“Yes, there are many legends of the channel, but I’ll tell ya’ there are more than meets the eye. The locals that live above the cliff have their own version of what happens in the depths of the ocean. They have their own tales about the Wailing Woman who inhabits the caves dug into the cliff face.” Silence followed his words, thick and filled with awaiting tension. The silence stretched until Eliza could only hear the thud, thud of her heart.
“Not long before her untimely death, a lone bride went to the cliff. She was dressed in nothing but her undergarments after being stood up on her weddin’ day. And there, she sang a haunting tune, her voice carrying on the northerly winds. It distracted the sailors below and they crashed into the rocks, their ships sinking. And there she stood, an omen of death.
“As she came to notice their deaths, she seemed to glow with glee. She was no longer in pain, watching others come upon it. But it still wasn’t enough to mend her broken heart or warm her lonely soul.
“In the midst of the destruction, her groom came upon her, and took her in his arms. He whispered sweet nothings in her ear while she continued to sing her haunting tune. But before he could continue his devilish works, she changed her song, luring him to his death. She soon followed, still singing, heard by all the townsfolk.” Silence.
Something thudded above their heads, and Eliza jumped. She almost chided herself with her foolishness. That was just a story. Hell, they have the same ones back in America! All around the world they do! This was just one of them. But from the looks of everyone else, they seemed to believe it—even Thorne and Dorin. The difference between here and America is the fact that here, the stories and legends are often true.
“Of course, some think she was actually a siren, or a demon, or a Goddess in disguise.” As the crew clapped, Eliza’s eyes drooped, and the thought of her uncomfortable hammock had her yearning for her own bed back in New Orleans. Or even the campsite at their last port.
Rising from her seat, Eliza nodded at her host and gathered her cloak. She walked onto the deck and let out a deep sigh, ignoring the rotting fish smell, enjoyin
g the fresh breeze that came of the ocean. Both moons were out, one full while the other waned. They were bright, illuminating the night sky and the dark ocean. Stars twinkled against the wisps of clouds covering the darkness like a curtain. On the horizon, Eliza could faintly see the Tower of Oranth, a deserted outpost on an equally deserted island. And farther, the kingdom of Laziroth.
“What’s wrong?”
Eliza turned to Thorne, who stood beside her, his features shrouded in shadows. His deep eyes were cast out to sea, never staying on the same point. He pursed his lips, knuckles white where they held on to the edge. Feet firmly planted, he seemed as strong as a tree, reliable, dependant, trustworthy. The way he stood almost felt like an opening for Eliza to spill her dark secrets, to tell him about her strange dreams and admit her necromancy.
But she remembered the secrets he’d held onto. They hadn’t spoken about it since the port, but Eliza wanted to know more about the Ecix. Part of her feared asking because of the response she might get.
Deep down, she had a feeling he already knew about her necromancy and didn’t care. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Her fear was irrational, but she knew if she said something now it might push him away.
Eliza mimicked Thorne and pushed against the railing. “Nothing, just tired. Exhausted, really.”
Thorne nodded absentmindedly. He didn’t say anything for a while, content to just stand there and watch the waves and the reflection of the moons over the dark water. Every once in a while, the fin of a siren could be seen, diving through the currents, their chilling laughs spreading through the night.
Then everything was silent, the only constant being Thorne’s warmth as it seeped into Eliza’s arms. They stood there, staring out into the endless ocean, neither talking nor making any move to leave. Peaceful, even.
Eliza shivered. From the corner of her eye, she met the gold eyes of the raven. Shock speared through her as the bird took flight, heading in the direction of the Gyles Chanel.
She wanted to smile, but she couldn’t ignore the unease that welled in her stomach.
~
She stood over the cliff, white dress shredded and bloody. Her hair billowed in the wind, wet with blood. Everything that had happened before that moment was a blur, foggy. There was a fleeting memory, but she was unable to grasp it before it fell away.
She shook her head, matted hair clinging to the sides of her face. Her nails dug into the palms of her hands as she clenched them, feeling the stubs of her nails bite into soft skin.
A thick layer of clouds covered the sky, blanketing the stars and moons. The ocean below her crashed heavily against the cliffside, the waves the only sound penetrating the uncommon silence.
“Ecix…” a voice whispered. She spun around, moving away from the cliff. She knew that name but couldn’t remember where. “Ecix… I will come for you…”
“No!” she screamed into the darkness, heart pounding in her chest. Behind her, there was more blood. It trailed like a path to her own destruction.
“Ecix…”
The voice seemed to come from all directions, saying the name over and over again. Sometimes from above, other times from amongst the waves, but the voice was always there, always taunting. It called out again.
“Eliza!”
Sputtering awake, Eliza stumbled from her hammock. She could still feel her dream around her, feel it pulling at her consciousness. But she fought it back and willed her heartbeat to steady in her chest.
“Are you alright?” Celia asked, gently resting her hand on Eliza’s shoulder.
Eliza nodded warily. “I think so. It was just… a bad dream.”
The other woman’s brows furrowed. “Are you sure? Sometimes, dreams can be interpreted as warnings.”
“It was just a dream, don’t worry.” Eliza didn’t want to think of her nightmare as anything more, especially not when it was beginning to fade away, any trace of it being locked away into the recesses of her mind. “Are we any closer to the port?” she asked, running a hand through her tangled hair.
Celia nodded. “Brandon went and spoke with the Captain once the sails gathered wind. We will be in Port Beewold by midday tomorrow.”
28
PORT OF DARKNESS
Port Beewold was not impressive, nor was it big. A section of taverns and inns surrounded the docks, along with a small market in the centre. Surrounding that were stores and some housing, though there was nothing flashy about any of it.
Squinting against the sun, Eliza rolled her sleeves up, suddenly aware of the hot wind that rolled in from the north where Mesah lay.
In the northern sectors of Cadira, the days were short and hot—the sun pale and harsh even through winter—while the nights were long and frigid. It usually made one wish that they had the sun as a blanket. Dorin had informed them there was no in between, sadly, in the valley of the dead.
“Some say the slave encampments brought on the droughts and the endless nights and the scorching days,” Dorin said as he handed Eliza one of her bags while shouldering the other with a smile. “Others say the King of the Gods, Thrinarv, God of War and Wisdom, punished the lands for the enslavement of his children—the Brithien people, the Elves.”
Eliza swallowed. The elves were also said to be ancestors of the Blood Witches.
“And the lesser of the few,” Thorne continued, forcing Eliza, Dorin, and Celia away from the boat, “believe there is something else in Mesah that keeps it that way, something far more powerful, far more destructive, than one would ever know.”
They descended onto the dock and into the middle of a less-than-busy marketplace.
“Those who think this are either thought to be crazy, radical, or meddling in the darkest arts, foreshadowing some horrible fate that will be the end of Cadira. It’s these people that have been hanged for their outrageous statements,” Dorin finished. “But no one has ever known the truth.”
A shiver ran down Eliza’s spine. I will, she promised. I’ll find out the truth.
~
Eliza watched from her perch at the window as Celia disappeared into a crowd of fishermen and dockworkers. They had a day before they would journey to the dry plains of northern Cadira, towards the Mesah desert and its main city, Dorin’s home.
She closed her eyes for a moment before turning back to her companions. Dorin studied a map silently at a table pushed against the far wall, his back hunched over the paper. His sandy hair flopped over his forehead as he searched the page, for what, Eliza wasn’t sure.
Thorne, however, seemed content on sharpening and polishing his sword. The raven-headed pommel stared at her from the bed.
Both men had secrets, were hiding what they knew about her, or about the mission, and Eliza was tired of it. She normally wouldn’t care, but the secrets were piling up, becoming overwhelming. She just needed to find out why they were hiding things from her.
Finally, Eliza gathered her courage and stood. “Look, I get that you both have your own crap to deal with,” she said, heart racing, “but you’re both keeping things from me.” Her eyes flickered to Thorne, who looked up from his sword. “You’re keeping information from me that might actually help me, and I need to know why.”
Gathering her cloak, Eliza strode to the door and flung it open. “If either of you want to talk, I’ll be downstairs in the tavern.”
Eliza didn’t wait for either of them to respond before slamming the door behind her.
With most men out working the docks, or preparing to sail south through the channel, not many filled the inn’s pub. Those who did looked perpetually drunk. Anyone else either worked there or needed reprieve from the harsh sun.
Eliza sunk onto a bench in the farthest corner away from the windows or doors, where she could sit in peace. It seemed more like sulking if she thought about it long enough. Which she certainly did not want to do.
What she wanted was for Thorne or Dorin to talk to her. She knew Thorne found it hard to express his f
eelings, especially with all that he had lost, but after the Brotherhood, she wasn’t sure what she believed anymore.
“You want anything?” one of the barmaids asked. Her dark painted lips twisted in a frown, thin brows rising.
Eliza bit her lip before nodding. “Just a wine.” Like she’d drink it, though. She couldn’t help but feel bad for just… sitting there and not doing anything.
The barmaid shrugged and left, disappearing behind the bar before returning with a wooden chalice, filled with a dark red liquid. The bitter smell hit Eliza full force as she stared down into the cup. The smell was strong enough she could already taste it.
As footsteps approached, Eliza expected to look up and see the barmaid and her unimpressed glare again, but to her surprise, Dorin stood beside the table. He didn’t smile as she met his stare. Instead, his eyes glistened with guilt.
He sighed. “I’m sorry, Eliza.” Hesitantly, he pulled out the seat across from her and sat. “I honestly didn’t realise how much this would affect you.”
“I don’t understand why you kept it a secret,” she said. “Why not tell me you knew Amitel? And I know there’s more you’re keeping from me.”
“I know.” Dorin sucked in a breath. “I met Amitel a couple of years ago in Mesah. I was a kid, and my mother needed the money. So, I followed him around, did what he told me to.” He trailed off and stared down at his clasped hands.
Eliza didn’t say a word and waited.
“Amitel saved my life,” Dorin whispered. “He saved my mother’s life. When he came to me and asked me to be his eyes and ears inside the palace, and to look out for you, I couldn’t say no.” Dorin looked up from his hands, and their eyes met. “I didn’t say anything right away because it wasn’t my place. I didn’t want to go against Amitel. But when I started to learn more about you, I realised I had to say something, because…”
The Lost Prince of Cadira (Shadowland Saga Book 1) Page 26
