Opal of Light: An epic dragon fantasy (The Keeper Chronicles Book 1)

by Norma Hinkens

  Akolom’s eyes darkened as he tossed the spade aside. “Foolish boy! He knows nothing of war and the seeds of destruction it sows in the hearts of men. What will you do when you find him?”

  “My duty. I will compel him to surrender to the Protectors. If he is no longer a fugitive, he is not a threat to Efyllsseum, and the king will have no reason to kill him.” She furrowed her brow. “Naturally, he will not be allowed to return to the Conservatory, but perhaps at the behest of the mentors he will be permitted to labor in the fields rather than waste away in a dungeon.”

  Akolom studied her for a few moments, rubbing his chin thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger. “Not all hearts can be tamed. If Samten will not agree to turn himself in, you must leave him to fare for himself. You cannot risk your own future in Efyllsseum, and as your mentor, I must advise you against a reckless course of action that could jeopardize your citizenship and turn you into a fugitive also.”

  “I will take your words under advisement.” Orlla jutted out her chin. “But my intent to pursue Samten remains unaltered.” She hesitated. “I need you to tell Daglin and Khor that I am testing the runes holding the pass. That will buy me a few hours before they begin to ask questions.”

  Akolom gave a resigned sigh, his eyes a murky mixture of pity and reproof. “If you don’t return, I will be powerless to prevent the Protectors from reporting your disappearance to the king.”

  Orlla inhaled a deep breath. “I understand the consequences of my decision. And the consequences of your decision to help me. You are risking your reputation and future at the Conservatory, and I don’t take that lightly. Thank you, Akolom.”

  “I fear I may only be helping you seal your own fate,” he replied, laying Abe in the hole he had dug.

  “I made the decision to go after Samten. Remember that, no matter what happens.” Orlla picked up a handful of dirt and threw it over the falcon in a customary salute to the fallen.

  Akolom made no reply. He covered his feathered companion with dirt and then patted the grave down and scattered some leaves and pine cones over it before swinging the spade over his shoulder. “We should leave before they come looking for us.”

  Back at the cabin, Akolom returned the spade to the workshop while Orlla retrieved her bow and quiver. She fastened the quiver around her waist and swung her bow over her shoulder before heading to the dell where the horses grazed. Her mare whinnied softly on her approach.

  “Aren’t you going to take any supplies with you?” Akolom asked, joining her.

  She shook her head. “That will only alert the Protectors’ suspicions that I’ll be gone longer than a few hours.” Her mouth curled into a roguish smile. “Don’t worry, the meat on the mainland agrees with me. I was born here, after all.”

  Akolom fidgeted with the fastening on his cloak. “If war breaks out, you could be cut off by advancing troops. You may not be able to double back to the safety of the mountains.”

  Orlla mounted her horse and pulled the reins to turn it in the direction of the trail. “In that case, I will avail of my Macobite roots and hide among the villagers. Take no thought for my safety. It won’t take me long to track down Samten if he is on foot.”

  Before Akolom could talk her out of it, she dug her heels into her horse’s flanks and took off at a trot heading north on the trail that led out of the Angladior mountains.

  As she rode, her thoughts gravitated to Samten’s plight. Equipped with no coin, no sack, no supplies, no steed—and likely no cloak if he had escaped from prison and fled directly across the straits—he would not survive long in these bitter temperatures on his own. And if bandits or other unscrupulous sorts that traveled the roads fell upon him, he might not even make it through the night.

  Concern for her father plagued her too—she couldn’t begin to imagine how he would cope now that both of his children had been abruptly ripped from his life. Akolom’s sister, Grizel, would try to reassure him, but the presence of a stranger in the house might only unnerve him more in his fragile mental state.

  Despair crept through her brain like iron tendrils squeezing into every crevice until her head ached. Nothing was as it should be. All her life, she had looked forward to serving Efyllsseum as a Keeper, but the pride she had once felt in her calling was marred by mounting doubts.

  During his annual address to the kingdom on the last day of the year, King Ferghell always made a point of speaking about peace, love, and honor, but all this time he had been secretly seeding jealousy and enmity between his own Protectors and Keepers. Orlla, along with the rest of Efyllsseum’s inhabitants, had been taught that their boundaries separated the unblemished islanders from the corrupt mainlanders. But the truth was not as comfortable a proposition.

  Closing her mouth against the dust that billowed up from her horse’s hooves, she urged the mare on faster. She needed to get out of the mountains ahead of Samten so that she could intercept him before he snuck into one of the Macobite villages and landed himself in more trouble. He would be forced to steal to feed himself, and she wasn’t prepared to see him arrested and hanged as a thief for a paltry sweet roll or a handful of moldy carrots. If she went as far as the edge of the tree line, she could take cover near the main road until she spotted him trying to leave the forest. A combination of veiling runes over the trail would be enough to disorient him and hem him in until she could persuade him to accompany her back to the outpost. Akolom wouldn’t approve of her depleting the power of the Opal of Light for personal purposes, a direct violation of the Keeper code, but she would worry about that later once her brother was safe.

  Engrossed in fine tuning her plans, she didn’t notice a flock of wild turkeys pecking in the undergrowth until they suddenly flew up and over her, flapping their wings noisily. Her mare slowed her stride and reared up, stumbling over a fallen log.

  Orlla yelped as she lost the reins and shot sideways, barely missing a granite boulder half-submerged in the understory. She hit the dirt with a loud thud, wincing as a fiery pain ignited in her hip. Arrows from the quiver in her saddlebag scattered across the trail. Before she could struggle to her feet, her spooked horse galloped off with her bow and what remained of her arrows.

  Groaning, Orlla gave the mossy log an exasperated kick, sending a frightened field mouse scurrying for cover elsewhere.

  “Wretched dolts!” she fumed, more angry with herself than with the turkeys, as she ferreted around in the undergrowth and retrieved her arrows one-by-one. Her hip throbbed where she had landed on it, but there was no time to waste feeling sorry for herself. She had to find her horse before it covered too much ground. Without it, she might never catch up with Samten.

  With a disgruntled sigh, she began thrashing her way through the brush and back on the trail. She kept up a steady pace for some time, following the horse’s tracks, until, to her dismay, she sensed the border of runes in front of her. Her chilled skin prickled. Her horse had breached the runes.

  Steeling herself for the possibility that she might encounter villagers or soldiers on the other side of the invisible shield, she crept forward, sticking to the cover of the trees as she stepped through the runes.

  Her breath rushed from her lungs when she contemplated the significance of the moment. She was only seven years of age the last time she set foot on Macobite soil—the day her adoptive father had rescued her. She peered around curiously, taking in the shriveled tree trunks, sickly-looking saplings, and patchy ground cover. Even the wildlife sounded plaintive here, the wood warblers not as melodic or confident in their song, the crickets’ chirping thin and woeful. Beyond the reach of the Opal of Light an ashen specter of gloom hung over the land.

  Islanders believed the darkness that enveloped the mainland had seeped into the mainlanders’ hearts. But Orlla wasn’t so sure. Snippets of memories from her early childhood were foggy, but she didn’t recall the villagers in Dorsching where she had grown up being particularly black-hearted or evil. On the other hand, the Pegonians who had car
ried off her mother, had shown no mercy. Maybe light and darkness existed everywhere, simply taking the shapes of the hearts they resided in.

  Despite the nagging pain in her hip, Orlla pushed on along the trail, determined to find her horse before it reached the road where a passing merchant or farmer might take possession of it. After another long stretch of tromping through the forest, the murmur of male voices drifted toward her. She melted behind a tree and listened intently, trying to pick up what they were saying. A horse nickered in the background. Orlla stiffened against the scaly bark. Could that be her runaway mare? Gingerly, she crept through the brush in the direction of the voices until she could make them out. Two bearded men dressed in homespun sat in front of a small campfire, sipping from tin mugs, while a rabbit cooked on a spit. She exhaled a thready breath. At least they weren’t soldiers. A short distance behind then she spotted three horses—one of them with her saddlebags attached and her bow jutting out.

  Orlla pressed her back against a tree trunk as she weighed her options. The men would be underway as soon as they finished their meal. She would need to act quickly, but silently. After watching them for a few more minutes to make sure they were settled in around the fire, she retraced her steps and began to skirt a wide path to the far side of the campfire where the horses grazed.

  The two men remained oblivious to her movements, their attention firmly fixed on their forthcoming meal as they clutched their mugs, warming their hands. As she drew closer, one of the horses lifted its head and regarded Orlla with a detached look. She waited until it resumed grazing, and then took another few steps. Her heart pounded furiously. The men were seated with their backs to her, but if she snapped a branch, or the horses snorted in alarm, she would be discovered. She couldn’t afford to fail. Samten needed her, and she needed her mare in order to find him.

  Slipping around a thickset tree trunk, she stiffened at the sound of a soft bird call directly behind her. The hairs in her ear tingled as hot breath brushed the back of her neck. She spun halfway before a calloused hand closed over her mouth, dragging her backward into the brush.

  Chapter 6

  Orlla twisted her head to see a young man with tousled blond curls falling into slate-blue eyes put a finger to his lips. Silently, he maneuvered her further away from the two bearded men seated at the campfire. Orlla briefly considered trying to break free, but decided against expending her energy until the odds were in her favor. If she struggled now, she would only succeed in alerting the men by the fire, and then she’d potentially have three captors to contend with. Gritting her teeth, she focused her thoughts instead on how she would escape once she was far enough away that the other men wouldn’t hear the ruckus.

  Her lip quivered, partly from fear, partly from cold. What did this man want with her? It was apparent she had nothing worth stealing, no purse or horse in sight. Flexing her fists, she readied herself to fight. She’d tear his eyes out before she’d let him defile her. She was no Protector, but even Keepers were trained in weaponry and self-defense.

  “I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth,” the man said, in a surprisingly genial tone for a ruffian. “Should you elect to scream, we’ll be captured and killed—skinned alive if we’re really unlucky. In case you weren’t aware, those men are Pegonian soldiers masquerading as Macobites. Think carefully before you do anything we might both truly lament. Nod your head if you understand.” He quirked a grin. “I have been told I have a farmer’s tongue thick as a pig’s belly, so I won’t be offended if I need to repeat myself.”

  Orlla gave a somber nod, never taking her eyes off the man. Her pulse drummed in her ears. She had no intention of screaming, only running from this lunatic who appeared to find himself highly entertaining. What was he doing prowling around out here anyway?

  He studied her for a moment or two. Something in her expression must have unnerved him, because he whipped out a deadly-looking dagger and twisted it to and fro, watching the blade glint. “Don’t try and run, because I’ll have this in your back before you’re a stone’s throw away.”

  Orlla chewed on her bottom lip and nodded again, weighing up her adversary. Maybe it would be better to wait and hear what he had to say before she made a move. Even a lunatic could use a knife to kill his quarry.

  He flicked another meaningful glance at the tip of his blade and then narrowed his startling blue eyes at her. “Now, let’s forego any more needless chatter of bloodshed and get down to business. What did you do with my satchel?”

  Orlla crinkled up her eyes and stared uncomprehendingly at him. “What are you talking about? I’ve never seen you before in my—”

  She sucked in a breath when cold steel pressed up against her throat. The man moved faster than the wind.

  “Don’t take me for a peasant fool just because you managed to whip my satchel out from under me while I slept.” His lips curled into an impudent smile. “Bet you stole a kiss too.”

  Orlla cut him a scathing glare even as her cheeks heated at the memory of his hot breath on the back of her neck. “I didn’t steal your stupid satchel and I wouldn’t clap my lips to your filthy mouth if you paid me in silver!”

  “Keep your voice down! If the Pegonians get wind of silver, they will be on us in half a heartbeat.” He released the dagger and took a step backward, a mock grimace on his face. “You know what they say when a lady doth protest. What is a gentleman to think? Those Pegonian soldiers didn’t steal my satchel—I checked their saddlebags. Coincidentally, I caught you on the verge of robbing them, so naturally I concluded it wasn’t your first time dabbling in a life of crime.”

  Orlla shook her head. “You’ve got it all wrong. A flock of wild turkeys spooked my mare and she bolted—those men found her, or she may have found their horses. I am simply trying to retrieve my property.” She pulled out one of her arrows from under her cloak. “These arrows scattered when my horse stumbled—they match the ones in the quiver in the saddlebag.”

  The man took one and turned it over in his fingers examining it carefully. His brow furrowed. “I’ve never seen such exquisite feathers before—what kind of bird is this?”

  Orlla wet her lips, already ruing her hasty decision to show him the arrows. If she told him the feathers came from an Archipelago swan, it would only raise more questions. “I’m not sure,” she said, nonchalantly. “I bartered with a traveling merchant for them. I’m a fletcher by trade—a good one. No arrows fly truer than mine.”

  “A fletcher!” One bemused eyebrow twitched upward. “Have you no husband?”

  Orlla cut him a hard glare. “Have you no wife that you must capture a woman?”

  A disquieted look crossed the man’s face like some off-kilter chord had sounded. After a beat of silence he said softly. “The plague took her from me last spring.” He traced a finger thoughtfully over the feathers one more time and held out the arrow to Orlla.

  She snatched it from his hand, abashed and furious all at once. “My condolences for your loss. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to get my horse back before those Pegonian miscreants leave with it.”

  The man shrugged. “It would seem I need to get back on the trail and track down whoever stole my satchel full of daggers. He is likely halfway to the road by now, intent on selling them at the first opportunity. The satchel itself is worth something, a fine leather piece carved by my father.”

  Orlla winced, wrestling with an uncomfortable thought. A cold, hungry, and desperate Samten might have taken the man’s satchel. After all, he had to be somewhere in the vicinity, and he had little choice but to beg or steal to survive. Orlla scrutinized the man as he scanned his surroundings, cataloguing what little she knew about him. He was a skilled tracker—he had caught her unawares, despite her extensive Keeper training—and he was armed and crazed to boot. If she let him go after Samten, he might end up killing him. She couldn’t risk him finding Samten before she did. There was nothing else for it, but to join him in the hunt, vexing as he was.

&nb
sp; “Fare well,” he said, tilting his chin at her.

  Orlla smoothed down her cloak, her gaze colliding with his crushing blue eyes. “Perhaps we can be of assistance to each other. If you are willing to help me retrieve my horse from these Pegonians, you may ride with me to the highway. It will prove easier than trying to track down a thief on foot.”

  The man kicked a pinecone at his feet, his lips twitching into a teasing smile. “That mare better belong to you. In these parts, folks hang for thieving horses.” He held out a hand to her. “I’m Erdhan.”

  Orlla grasped it firmly, sucking in a tiny breath at the tingle that ran up her arm when his warm fingers closed over hers. “Orlla. Well met.”

  “Where do you hail from?”

  She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “A Macobite village up north, barely a smattering of huts—most have never heard of it. And you?”

  “Wilefur, largest town in the south, a day’s journey from here. I trade in knives—smith them myself.” He cut her a wicked wink. “And I juggle and throw them too for a modest sum should your insignificant village up north ever have need of my services at a local fair.” He ran a hand through his tousled curls. “I had sold most of my wares today before my satchel was stolen. Still, the thief got away with a couple of well-crafted pieces, and a fine pair of woolen socks knit by my mother, which is why I’m motivated to get my hands on him.” He grinned brazenly. “Or her.”

  Orlla swallowed back her apprehension. A knife handler. That explained the dagger at her throat. She had little doubt Erdhan could wield his knives as well as he forged them, which made him a dangerous man to rob. She would have to make doubly certain she led him away from Samten once she found his trail. Despite her brother’s grandiose dreams of becoming a soldier, he had neither skills nor experience beyond his training at the Conservatory, and he would most certainly come off the worst if Erdhan took him on.