Beck looked down at his father and laughed. “I have been taller than you for over two years now, father,” he responded, hugging him tightly. “Besides, the only thing I am in danger of dying from at The Bluffs is boredom.”
“Just be careful,” Jaimes admonished softly. “There are dangers everywhere, Beck, and you should be more mindful of that. Do not think that you are indestructible.”
“I will be careful,” he assured his father and smiled inwardly at the concern. An only child, Beck had always been very close to his parents. He knew that both still had family members living in Iserlohn, but he had never met them. Beck’s extended family had always been his friends and neighbors in Parsis. There was Jorge Owen, the blacksmith, who taught him how to ride a horse. Jakob Martyn, the grocer, spent many afternoons with Beck teaching him how to hunt and fish. Of course, there was also Master Martyn’s son, Ben, who taught him how to filch a pint of ale from the back of his father’s store, and pretty Katrin Allendale who gave Beck his first, if awkward, kiss.
But above all, there were his best friends Kiernan, Rogan and Airron who, Beck knew, taught him more about friendship, love, and laughter than any family in Iserlohn ever could have.
Father and son said a final farewell, and Beck began the half league trek to his house to see what little sleep he could manage before he had to report to the Academy before dawn. As he walked the well-used path with the lake on one side and the thick Grayan Forest bordering the other, he thought about leaving behind the only home he had ever known. Even though it was only for two years, he knew there would be change in those years. He was grateful that Airron and Rogan would be with him, but he was unhappy to be leaving Kiernan. He thought about what she said earlier and wished he could do something about the situation. He would miss the time they spent together, along with Rogan and Airron, exploring the dark interior of the forest, swimming at the lake, or camping in the nearby hills.
For some reason, he had always been the unspoken leader of the group. He guessed it was due to his determined nature and the inherent strength that evolved out of his dominant magic. Like him, Airron was born in Pyraan. His parents, Jeni and Joshe Falewir, were both Elven magic shifters and had lived in Parsis all their lives. As was the case with all Elves, they bore the purple eyes and silver hair distinctive to their race. The Falewirs were the last Elven shifters to live in Pyraan, the common belief that the spark of magic had bred out of the Elves and that, as a people, they were not strong with magic.
Rogan and Kiernan were both born to non-magical parents and did not arrive in Pyraan until after their abilities began showing at young ages. Rogan was abandoned in Pyraan at the very young age of six. Nobody knew who his parents were or why they left him behind. The Dwarf believed that his parents must have been alarmed by his magic developing at so early an age and did only what the laws of the land demanded they do—they brought him to Pyraan to be exiled with other shifters. Rogan often confided his hope that his parents’ actions were motivated by love and that someday they would be reunited. For his friend’s sake, Beck hoped he was right.
Kiernan, on the other hand, was the cherished daughter of Maximus Everard, leader of people and ruler of a kingdom. He was the King of Men. By his own rule, King Maximus had no choice but to send his daughter to exile when she was twelve years old and her shifting was exposed. Over the years, the King visited Kiernan as often as he was able, but his onerous duties in Iserlohn made it very difficult for him to get away.
Both Kiernan and Rogan lived in the dormitories at the Academy that housed children separated from their non-magical parents.
Hurrying down the path and lost in his ruminations, Beck was caught completely off guard when he was hit from behind with such tremendous force that he went sprawling face first into the dirt for the fourth time that day.
Adrenaline pounded through him in a torrent as he sprang to his feet and whirled around to meet his attacker in a low crouch. Fingertips splayed and crackling with the magic he instinctively summoned to his aid, the ground began to rumble at his feet, churning in a rolling boil. Dust rose all about as he called forth a ball of earth and the mass erupted from the ground in front of him and began rotating in the air. Thinking of the deadly black wolves that prowled the Grayan Forest, Beck peered along the roadway, ready to unleash the deadly missile at whatever delivered the blow to his back.
He tensed as a large shadow slowly emerged from the trees on the side of the road and eyed him intently.
Even in the dark, Beck recognized those eyes.
They were Kiernan’s eyes.
Sighing with relief, he reluctantly let the magic go and the ball of earth fell apart and sank to the ground, the tremors subsiding as quickly as if Beck took a boiling kettle abruptly from the flame. Because of the ferocity of his reaction to the perceived threat, he still looked around warily, not yet convinced he was safe.
It was Kiernan’s snow-white Draca Cat.
“Bajan!” Beck called shakily. The cat moved silently to his side and gave him a nudge that almost sent him to the ground for a fifth time. Smiling, he reached out to pet the massive Draca whose head came up to his chest.
The Draca Cats lived somewhere in the Puu Rainforest of Haventhal in the magically hidden city of Callyn-Rhe. Extremely intelligent and fierce fighters, Dracas were said to have been used in battle by the Mages of long ago. According to his lessons at the Academy, the Dracas of today were solitary creatures that preferred to remain invisible to the other races of Massa. Most people believed the cats to be more figment of overactive imagination rather than made of real flesh and blood. This belief was reinforced by the inability of people to reach the mythical Callyn-Rhe. Travelers caught up in the magical shield surrounding the city were inexplicably turned around and forced onto paths designed to carry them further away no matter how many attempts made to reach the city.
Bajan made a susurrus noise of satisfaction in response to Beck’s touch. Another Draca would never let a human stroke their head in this way. As a primordial and magical race, they were very proud and considered themselves quite superior to others. Physically large and imposing, a Draca Cat had the body of a cat, sleek and muscular, but with the long sharp talons and spiked tail of a dragon. Both were extremely deadly weapons to an adversary.
Stroking the cat, Beck realized how much he would miss him, too, when he left for The Bluffs. Bajan was as much a part of the group as his other three friends. When people were not present, Bajan often joined in on their activities, communicating to them through Kiernan. With his dignified personality, however, he did not always approve of their exploits and was eager to let them know it with a disdainful click of his tongue here or a head toss there.
“Bajan, can you please tell Kiernan to meet me at the lake after the tests tomorrow? I want to tell her good-bye.” The cat nodded very slightly and lowered his head as his eyes turned black, the telltale sign that he was linked with Kiernan. After a few unmoving moments, Bajan shut his eyes and when they reopened, they were green again.
“Thank you, my friend,” he said. “I will miss you. Take care of Kiernan for me, will you?”
Again, the cat nodded regally and then slipped away as silently as he appeared.
Beck turned and headed back down the road toward his house, wishing only that he make it home without falling face first into the dirt again this day.
Chapter 3
THE HOUSE OF RAVENER
Adrian Ravener gazed out of the thick paned window of the study in his Keep in Nordik, the only named city in the unnamed land north of Massa.
It was raining outside as it did most days in this dark land. A cold, damp and dreary rain. His powerful conjuring over the centuries had slowly stripped the island of all life and vitality, the plants and animals destroyed to the verge of extinction. And, with his black hair, black robes and black demeanor, Adrian Ravener was the personification of the land he inhabited. He knew he was not a handsome man with his mean smile and thin cruel li
ps, but his pallid face, even at three hundred and twenty six years old, was unlined and his body hard and strong.
He sat pensively in a chair behind his desk with one leg thrown casually over the arm, the index finger of his left hand idly tracing a circle around the rim of the wine glass he was holding with the right. A Cyman slave girl sat at his feet holding a wine decanter on a tray, head bent meekly and her hair falling forward, covering her face.
“It is almost over!” he hissed suddenly, slamming a fist on the desk. The slave girl flinched, almost spilling the tray.
“Patience, my brother,” drawled a voice from the doorway.
Adrian turned his head to see his sister stroll arrogantly into his study. Avalon had the same shoulder-length black hair as he, and her physical appearance was just as untouched by the years. The alabaster skin, however, was much more complimentary on her than on him, he freely admitted. Combined with her almond eyes and high cheekbones, she was a strikingly beautiful woman.
“Has the seer had another vision, Avalon?” he demanded impatiently.
“Yes,” Avalon replied as she stopped before his desk. She held up a hand as he was about to interrupt. “Even so, it changes nothing. The plan is still intact. Your army has been created and your ships built. Now is the time to reclaim what was so unfairly stolen from us.”
“I did not ask for your opinion, I asked you a question. What did the seer say?”
Instead of answering, she turned from him and walked to the window just as a flash of lightning streaked out of the dark, boiling clouds beyond the paned glass. “You know, Adrian, when you are back in power in Massa, I caution you to take much better care of the Old World than you have this land.”
Adrian slammed his fist on the desk again and stood abruptly, sending the chair toppling back. The slave girl scrambled backwards to get out of his way. “I asked you about the seer, sister, and when I ask you a question, you had better answer!”
Avalon’s expression was cold as she slowly turned from the window. Then, she stalked over to his side and slapped him across the face. Hard. “Don’t you dare think you can talk to me that way, Adrian,” she snarled through clenched teeth. “I am not one of your slaves. Do you hear me?”
She did not raise her voice, but the menace it contained was unmistakable.
Adrian’s face mottled with rage. “You push too far, Avalon!”
For a long dangerous moment, brother and sister glared at each other. Finally, Avalon sighed and reached up to touch his reddened cheek. “Do not expect me to apologize for something that was necessary, Adrian. You must keep your composure! All we have hoped for and dreamed about is within reach! We must keep our goal in mind at all times. Agreed?”
Adrian took his time replying, pushing down his fury, barely able to bite back the spell that would burn her to a crisp where she stood. He could do it easily and with no more remorse than crushing an insect under his thumb, but now was not the time to take on his sister. She still figured quite heavily into his plans. Nodding slightly with a tight smile on his face that lifted only one side of his mouth, he said, “Agreed, now tell me what the seer has prophesized.” That was all she was going to get. If she wanted more, that spell was still eager to be unleashed and, well, plans could be changed.
Seemingly satisfied, Avalon nodded and turned to the slave girl. “Miah, pour me some wine.” As Miah hurried to comply with her request, Avalon said, “The seer’s vision in its entirety is, ‘In the year that the star grows weak in the world, the ravens begin their flight, Ancient skills long since dead, Resurrect in the morning light, Beware the four Savitars, who are light to the dark, But fear the Shadow more, who is death to the dark, Beware the star, when it shines so bright, But fear the star more, in the eternal night’.”
Adrian stroked his chin as he considered the seer’s words. “Childish in its simplicity, really. Obviously, we are the ravens and now is the time for our return to the Old World.”
Avalon accepted a glass of wine from Miah. “Yes, and I think we can also safely assume that Galen is the star and that he is dying.”
A genuine smile lit up his face. “I believe that to be so as well, and it is about bloody time that old fool died. He has been wrecking havoc on this world for far too long.”
“That he has.” Avalon sipped her wine and sat down. “I am curious as to why the prophecy mentions the word Savitars. If you will remember, the Massans named Galen and his Mages as Savitars in the war, but they are all long dead. Why would the prophecy mention them now?”
Adrian frowned. “Are you sure that is the word the seer used?”
“Yes, I am.”
He shrugged. “In any case, we should keep the seer close to us as we travel south in the event she has any more revelations. We need answers sooner rather than later. Dying or not, I do not intend a reunion with my former mentor without a full arsenal at my disposal.”
“What about the resurrection of ancient skills? Do you know what that means?” she questioned.
Adrian blinked, surprised she ferreted out the importance of the passage. “I have my theories,” he said cryptically, “but as yet am unwilling to discuss them until I learn more.” Ignoring her raised eyebrow, he continued. “I will be meeting with Lucin later this evening and will discuss with him our desire that the seer’s quarters are next to ours. We should be ready to sail in two days’ time.”
Also surprisingly, she simply nodded and stood. Maybe her question was only innocent curiosity?
Avalon turned to the slave. “Oh, Miah, dear, run along and tell your brother, Titus, to meet me in my chambers. I will be in need of his…,” she cleared her throat in feigned modesty, “…services this evening.” As Avalon started away, she unabashedly dropped her black robe revealing her nakedness. The air shimmered around her as she sinuously bodyshifted into a Cyman girl and turned to wink at Miah before closing the door behind her.
Adrian shuddered in abhorrence. The Cyman beasts repulsed him, and he did not know how his sister could inhabit their body for even a moment. He turned to the young girl, swung his arm back and punched her as hard as he could in the face. Miah yelped and fell to one knee. “You heard her, you filthy cow, now move!”
The slave girl stood to leave, and Adrian glared at her in disgust as she straightened to her full six foot, seven inch height. She wore a rough homespun tunic over her muscular frame that fell just below her knees. Keeping her head bowed, she backed her way toward the door and said in a deep voice that belied her young age, “Yes, Master.”
When she finally raised her head, her hair parted revealing her Cyman heritage—one big, brown eye dead in the center of her forehead.
It was still dark in the small bedroom, and it felt like he had just closed his eyes when a hand nudged his shoulder and shook him awake.
“Beck, it’s time to go.”
It was Rogan.
The Dwarf was standing next to his bed dressed in a dark cloak with the hood up, his face in shadows. Beneath the cloak, Beck saw that he was wearing a tunic belted at the waist from which hung a large sheathed dagger.
“You expecting a war?” asked Beck, looking up wearily and using his palms to rub his tired eyes.
“As a matter of fact,” he muttered, “I am—with Commander Dismore. Did you see the way he was looking at us? I have a feeling that the next two years are going to be tougher than we thought.”
Beck sat up and swung his legs to the floor in one swift motion. “So, tell me, what did you think of what my father said last night?”
Rogan slipped off his hood and sat down on one of the chairs in Beck’s room. “About the debt?” he asked.
Beck nodded.
“Odd really. Of course, we already learned about the Mage War, but I am now feeling more pride at being a shifter.” Rogan fingered the tattoo on his neck. “Because of my abilities, this mark makes me a protector of the realm,” he declared commandingly, standing up to slide his dagger from its sheath and put it through a variety o
f thrusts and parries with an imaginary foe.
Beck snorted a laugh. “That’s funny because Kiernan feels the exact opposite. She feels that the athame represents a chain around her neck.”
Rogan just shrugged and sat back down.
“I wonder if Adrian Ravener is still alive.” Beck mused aloud. It stood to reason that if Galen Starr was alive then their enemy could be as well. Maybe the Legion tours were not such a waste of time after all.
Already dressed in black trousers and a white shirt that laced at the front, Beck began stuffing items he would need for his trip into his backpack. When the room suddenly filled with light, he glanced over at Rogan who was lazily juggling three small fireballs.
“You’re not supposed to be using magic,” he said dryly, slinging the backpack over his shoulder. He was waiting for Rogan’s retort when there was a soft knock on his door and the fireballs vanished.
“Beck? Are you awake?”
It was his mother.
“Yes. Come in.”
Constance Atlan stepped into the room, clutching the sides of her dressing gown in one hand and a brown package in the other. Petite with short brown hair, his mother’s typical ready smile was absent and her brow was furrowed. Turning her head sharply to the side, she peered into the newly created shadow left by the disappearing fireballs.
“Rogan Radek,” she said sternly. “You would not happen to be making fire in my house again, would you?”
Rogan jumped clumsily to his feet, “Uh, well….” he stammered.
Beck grinned as his mother attempted a forbidding look on her face and stalked over to the young fireshifter. “Do I need to put you over my knee to teach you right from wrong, young man?”
Island Shifters: Book 01 - An Oath of the Blood Page 3
