Savant & Feral (Digital Boxed Set): Books 1 and 2 of the Epic Luminether Fantasy Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  He slapped the back of his head against the bars. Then he did it again, almost hurting himself.

  “Please!” Ara said. “Be careful. I am sorry that I cannot be of assistance, but you must not harm yourself, Oscar.”

  Her concern made him feel better, even if she wasn’t a real person. Amazing, though, how lifelike they had made her. Oscar rubbed the back of his head and sighed.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Just don’t give up. I believe in you.”

  Oscar blew air through his lips and looked around his cell, searching for an idea. “Okay. There must be other ways you can help. What can you tell me about Orglots? Do they have any natural weaknesses?”

  Ara’s joyful smile returned. “I have a wealth of information regarding that topic, Oscar.”

  She made a revolving motion with her index finger. The screen flipped sideways, erasing Ara’s face and lining up rows of colorful squares instead.

  “Cooooool,” Oscar said.

  They were thumbnail images of videos devoted to Orglot culture, history, and biology. Oscar tapped one, and the thumbnail expanded to fill the screen. The video was a historical documentary about Orglot mating habits, narrated by a male voice that boomed inside Oscar’s cell. Alarmed, he tapped back to the previous screen.

  When his breathing finally calmed down, he tried another angle.

  “What about Theus? Can you show me what you have on it?”

  “Of course,” came the disembodied voice in the background. “Here you are, Oscar. The flat thumbnails are two-dimensional videos. The shadowed ones are three-dimensional holograms.”

  “Amazing.”

  His fingers hovered over the rows of thumbnails. There were so many to choose from, but it wasn’t a good idea to start a video right now, not when his captors could return at any moment. Oscar settled for good old conversation instead.

  “Ara, how many Orglots live in this cave system, and what are the chances they could attack Theus and cause significant damage?”

  Ara’s face appeared once more, cupped in his palm like a tiny angel. She had pursed her lips and was tapping her chin pensively while the calculations ran their course.

  “Ah.” she said, jabbing her finger through the air. “Ready. There are five hundred and twenty-seven Orglots within range of my sensors. My estimates tell me that, using only brute physical force and standard Orglot fighting tactics, it would take a thousand times that number to overwhelm Theus.”

  Oscar sat back to let the numbers sink in. Ideas—half-formed, nonsensical, even crazy ones—bounced inside his brain. One in particular held fast, though it may have been the craziest idea of all.

  “Ara,” he said, “can you show me what Theus has for military defenses?”

  “Yes, coming right up.”

  If his idea worked, it would make history.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” she asked.

  Her face had disappeared again, replaced by a three-dimensional model of Theus. Oscar stared down in wonder at the sprawling city in his hand, so tiny that he felt he could crush it with a single squeeze.

  Forget the history books, he thought as he banged against the bars and called for his captors. I’m getting the hell out of these caves.

  CHAPTER 54

  T hey buried Lance in an unmarked grave, deep in the forest surrounding Jasparta.

  Smuggling his body out of the city had been a dangerous task, but Calista threatened to do it herself if no one else helped. Artemis, Athenara, and Tomin went along, mostly in silence. Without shovels, they had to dig the hole with their bare hands. Calista lost herself in the task. Hours went by, until her fingers were bloody and numb.

  “Any last words?” Artemis asked.

  Calista nodded. “He heard me. We’re done here.”

  She kissed her brother goodbye before they lowered him into the dirt. Once she was back in her alcove, she considered breaking down and sobbing. The urge was there, strangling her insides, but she held it in. Instead, she lit a candle and placed it on the floor next to her sleeping mat. Meartha’s words ran through her mind.

  Pain is my slave, not the other way around. When I understood that, I became free.

  “I’ll finish this,” Calista said as she stared into the writhing flame. “I’ll destroy them no matter what it takes. I promise.”

  Lance saluted her, a smile turning up one half of his mouth. It was that lopsided grin she had always teased him about. The memory brought tears to her eyes.

  Not yet. Don’t cry just yet…

  Clenching her teeth, Calista lowered her palm until the center touched the flame’s tip. The heat bit through the skin, and the scent of burning flesh filled her nose. Calista would have gagged had the pain not been so ferocious, so much like a nail being pounded through her hand.

  The following morning, Calista awoke beneath her blankets, bandages wrapped around her right hand. She must have passed out from the pain, because she had no memory of anyone dressing the wound. Whoever had done it had also left a note on the floor.

  Pack your things, it read. We leave tonight.

  It had been signed with a single letter.

  A.

  CHAPTER 55

  M ilo had to force himself not to run across campus.

  The book Keygrath had given him weighed at least twenty pounds. Carrying it in his backpack made him feel like he was transporting a priceless artifact stolen from a museum… or a bomb that could blow the place up.

  But he had committed no crime. Keygrath had personally checked the book out under Emmanuel’s name, which carried its own penalty. He had urged Milo to keep it a secret from everyone he knew. It was how Emmanuel wanted it—and who was Milo to question his uncle’s motives?

  He tried to hide his giddiness from the other train passengers. The book’s title was stamped in his mind, and he could see it as he stared through the windows at the sleepy lights of Theus Academy.

  A History and Journals of the Cyrens.

  Milo already knew bits and pieces of what he would find within. Cyrens had been the most powerful group of battlemages the realm had ever known, a sorcerers-only priesthood that had broken off from the Psi’Acular monks, the latter of whom detested the use of violent force.

  Cyrens were long extinct, and the archives in his uncle’s vault had held little information about their past or the methods they had used. Much of Cyren history had been erased by the priests of the Low Order, who had devoted more than a century to wiping them utterly from existence, if only to prevent others from following their path.

  That meant that Milo held in his possession one of the rarest books in Astros.

  HE RUSHED into his dorm room and found the light on, Sevarin wide-awake and doing one-finger push-ups on the floor between their beds.

  “Banks, where you been? Studying?”

  “I was at the library.”

  Sevarin flung himself up, pushing off with only one finger, and landed nimbly on two feet. “Geez. Don’t you ever take a break?”

  Milo tossed the backpack onto his bed and wiped sweat off his brow. Sevarin watched him, clearly suspicious.

  “You all right?”

  Milo nodded but had trouble meeting his friend’s gaze. “Yeah, yeah, fine,” he said breathlessly. “I just need to study this book I took from the library. I mean, checked out at the library. You know.”

  He was dangerously close to spilling his secret, if only to brag about the treasure he carried.

  “A book about low magic,” Sevarin said, obviously trying to be sympathetic. “Something you found that might, well… you know.” He motioned at his own left eye.

  “Exactly,” Milo said. “Maybe it’ll help me figure out what’s happening to me.”

  “Cool.” Sevarin shrugged as he made his way toward the closet. “I’m gonna change and get some sleep.”

  “You sure the light won’t bother you?” Milo asked.

  Sevarin waved away his concern. “Not at all. Just, uh, try
not to be so loud flipping those pages, Banks. I know how you get.”

  Milo grinned and pulled the book out of his bag, then covertly stashed it under his pillow. He waited for Sevarin to slip into his bed and face the wall, like he always did when he slept.

  Then, he began to read.

  HE HAD no idea when he finally fell asleep, but when he awoke, Milo found that he was somewhere else—in a cold, torchlit room with a low ceiling. The walls were made of stone blocks the color of charcoal. He was no longer in his bed but on a hard slab. When he tried to move, he realized that his ankles, wrists, and even his forehead had been tied down with straps.

  And he could see with both eyes. His left was no longer blind. The realization, however, was not a comforting one—all he could see now was a prison cell.

  Footsteps rose across the room. Milo couldn’t move his head to locate the source. Within seconds, dark figures appeared at the outskirts of his vision. They surrounded him, men wearing robes as dark as the walls. The hoods had been pulled up, and each priest wore a narrow, black blindfold. A light breeze accompanied their presence and seemed to be coming from their faces—from the empty holes where eyes should have been.

  Milo’s heart raced. The men spoke in a garbled language he couldn’t understand, the hushed whispers of priests conducting a ritual that no one outside these walls was supposed to know existed.

  A priest to his right lifted a copper kettle. It looked like the kind used to pour tea, only this one was much smaller and carried not tea, but something stronger, to be consumed or used in tiny doses. A tangy smell invaded Milo’s nose.

  Acid.

  Somehow, he knew it was acid.

  The man went to pour it into Milo eyes, and Milo shouted the only word he could think of.

  “No! No!”

  The priest stopped. He appeared to be frowning inside his hood. Another priest standing across from him uttered a few words to Milo, but he had no idea what the hooded man was saying. His tone sounded reassuring, as if he expected Milo to go along with this for his own good.

  The second priest pulled something out of his robe and held it up—a baton about a foot long, made of flawless steel. But it wasn’t just any steel; Milo recognized its color and the weird way it enhanced any light that bounced off its surface.

  It was Tiberian Steel.

  Bright blue energy grew in the man’s palm, infusing the baton and making it glow. With a loud snick, a blade unfurled from its hollow chamber, instantly straightening. Now the man held a sword, its blade about three feet long and razor-thin but unbreakable, coated in sizzling coils of electricity.

  A lumir.

  It was a type of sword only a Cyren could wield because only these blind sorcerers knew how to manipulate Tiberian Steel and infuse it with magic.

  The lumir rose out of the man’s hand, bobbing slightly. Then it flipped and aimed its glowing, crackling tip directly at Milo’s heart. It was going to stab him if he resisted.

  Milo clenched his teeth. Cold sweat dripped down the sides of his forehead. All the priests, except for the one holding the copper kettle, stepped back. Milo searched the man’s face for signs of mercy, for any sort of resistance to this barbaric ritual.

  “Please… help me.”

  The priest ignored him, speaking only to mutter incantations in that strange language. He brought the spout ever closer to Milo’s face, tipping it slightly as he went.

  Milo screamed.

  The lumir flew down to his side but didn’t stab him. Instead, it cut the straps binding his left wrist.

  Yes, Milo urged the weapon, able to command it somehow without speech. Help me. Help me get out of this.

  With a look of surprise, the priest stepped back, acid dripping from the kettle’s spout. Milo heard a sizzle next to his ear as the acid drop touched the slab.

  The lumir flew into Milo’s hand, and he swung it in a wide arc, slicing a gash across the man’s chest. The kettle dropped, spilling acid across the floor, and the priest fell right into the puddle. He screamed as the chemical burned through his robes.

  The blade flew out of Milo’s hand and hovered above him once more. Frantically, Milo urged it to cut away his straps again. He could do it with little more than a series of thoughts. All he had to do was imagine what he wanted the blade to do, and the weapon went right ahead and did it.

  Milo pushed himself off the slab and willed the lumir into his hand again. The remaining priests surrounded him. He put on his most vicious scowl, daring them to make a move. They held back, waiting for something.

  Finally, one stepped forward. Milo would have sent the lumir straight into his icy, black heart if only he hadn’t been so confused by the object in the man’s hands. The priest held a full-length mirror so tall he could rest the bottom against the floor. Edged with ornate, golden trim, it looked terribly heavy.

  Milo caught his own reflection staring back at him from the spotless glass, only he looked totally different. The fighter in the mirror was not a frightened teenager, but a man in a robe matching those of the priests. The face was Milo’s, but it was several years older, his cheekbones sharper and his hairline slightly receded. Stranger still, his reflection wore a blindfold, though Milo himself could see clearly.

  “Oh, no,” he said.

  The reflection in the mirror wasn’t just an older, more trained version of himself. It was a promise of a future in which Milo was to lose something already in scarce supply.

  His eyesight.

  The lumir took on a mind of its own and yanked itself out of his grasp. The priests went ahead and resumed their chants. Milo watched helplessly, frozen in place as the lumir leveled its blade with his eyes.

  His own weapon, turned against him.

  The breeze trapped in the chamber swirled and thickened. The priest holding the mirror stepped back, and the others did the same, pressing themselves to the walls, chanting ever more fiercely.

  Milo’s reflection held a lumir of its own. This older, wiser version of himself swung the weapon with the expertise of a trained samurai.

  Then he understood.

  “No! I’m not like you,” Milo said, backing away. “I don’t want to be like you.”

  Are you sure?

  It wasn’t a voice that had spoken aloud, but an urge he felt deep inside his own mind, where the most primal emotions lived.

  Would you give up such power?

  He wanted to say yes, to relinquish any future in which he had been forced to become this empty, violent shell of himself. He wanted to wake up and be far away from this place. But he also wanted to taste that power—the knowledge that would come from joining this cult and learning their mysterious ways.

  Which was it?

  The chamber darkened as, one by one, the torches flickered and died. They had been lit for a reason; not for the men in the room to be able to see—they had given up that privilege long ago—but for their prisoner to savor the light one last time before everything went dark for good.

  The last torch went out. In the split-second preceding darkness, Milo caught the flash of his own lumir shooting straight toward him, out of his control.

  And then he was screaming in pain.

  CHAPTER 56

  M ilo awoke in the dark.

  His hands dug into the softness of his mattress—soft as a cloud compared to the stone slab in the dream. The darkness frightened him. Was he blind? Had the nightmare been so intense that his eyesight was gone for good?

  He got out of bed, felt his way to the light switch, and flicked it on. Wincing at the sudden brightness, he nevertheless breathed a sigh of intoxicating relief. He was still blind in one eye, but at least his sight wasn’t totally gone.

  Sevarin was fast asleep beneath his blankets, face buried in his pillow.

  “Sevarin, wake up,” Milo said. “Come on, get up.”

  Sevarin jerked. “Wha…?”

  Milo ran over and shook him. “Get up. We gotta talk.”

  Sevarin made a tsk no
ise and rolled onto his back. Shielding his eyes from the overhead light, he frowned.

  “Banks, what are you freaking out about now? What time is it?”

  “It’s time to call our friends. I have an announcement to make.”

  Milo could barely contain himself. He was making all this up as he went along, still unsure what the dream had meant or what he was supposed to do about it. And yet, he had never felt more certain about a thing in his life.

  “Oh, this should be good,” Sevarin said, wrapping an arm around his face and sighing into it as Milo ran to swipe his Araband off his desk.

  “It all makes sense now,” Milo said.

  “What does? Wait…”

  Sevarin shot up. He sat staring at Milo. “Is this about Oscar? Do you know where he is? Or is it your bad eye? Is it better?”

  Milo ignored him as he tapped the crystal.

  “Call Emma,” he told the Araband, “and Lily, Barrel, Owen, and Gunner. Conference call with visuals. Am I forgetting anyone?”

  Sevarin could only blink at him in confusion. “All except Calista, Oscar, his dad, and your uncle. Why don’t you call them, too? Might as well give it a shot. Hell, call the Archon while you’re at it…”

  “Shut up,” Milo said.

  The calls went through. Emma was the first to pick up, her face puffy and her eyes red from sleep. The others followed—Lily, then Barrel, Gunner, and finally, a very annoyed Owen.

  “Banks, geez, what the heck? I was dreaming about this girl from my history class—”

  “Not now,” Emma snapped at him before turning her attention to Milo. “What’s wrong? Everything okay?”

  Sevarin had gotten out of bed and stood shirtless, obviously tense as he waited for Milo to speak.

  Milo set his Araband on the desk and turned to face his friends.

  “I had this weird dream,” he said, “and I think I know why I’m here, at Theus Academy. Maybe it’s the reason I’m blind in one eye.”

  He told them about the book Keygrath had given him. He described the dream, what had happened in that torchlit chamber, and how his own lumir had tried to blind him.