by Linn Tesli
Birken hesitated and cupped one hand around the squirrel, lifting him up to sit in his palm. He bit the inside of his cheek and stared at the squirrel.
“She’s amazing. Her eyes reveal things that have happened in your life. She triggers your memories in such a way that you experience them all over again as if for the first time. Everine and Ayva have both been allowed sanctuary within the chasm. Now, what can you tell me about the mother?”
“Do you mean the mother who died or the one here in the chasm?”
Birken’s eyes widened.
Splitting the nut in two, Rhastoc sat back and folded his chubby feet underneath him to rest in Birken’s hand.
“Maybe you didn’t know?” Rhastoc asked. “The one you’ve travelled with is the child’s aunt, not the birth mother. She’s taken it upon herself to care for the girl as her own—quite impressive, really. She’s completely ordinary. No magic—a simple human following her maternal instincts. I’m surprised all of you made it here. Although, as I understand it, you nearly didn’t.” He chucked the pieces of shell to the ground and flicked the nut into his mouth.
“She saved my life. Twice.” Birken untied a small brown pouch from his belt and handed it to Rhastoc. “This is what the wizard paid me, excluding what I used for provisions. I don’t want it. Tell him that and bring this to him.” He retrieved his pipe.
The squirrel lifted the straps of the pouch over his neck and jumped out of Birken’s hand to land on the ground.
“We’ll have eyes on you regardless, Earthling. You had best remember that the child’s safety is more important than all else. Even your beloved chasm—even yourself.”
Birken ground tobacco between his fingers and tucked it into his pipe. “I understand. And as long as you intend to keep them safe, we're on the same side.”
“Are you sure this is the path you wish to take? We won’t be able to protect you when things get ugly. It might mean risking your life for them again. And I’m afraid there will be more killing in store before this is all over.”
“I’m sure.”
“So be it.” The squirrel spun in a pirouette, then halted. “I’m going to let you in on a secret.” He lowered his voice. “Ayva is not the only magical child born this year. Safety for each of them is paramount.” With a flick of his tail, the squirrel bounded away from the lookout and disappeared from view.
Birken lit his pipe as he watched the squirrel go. He scratched his chin and puffed on the pipe for a while. Everine had lied to him. Though he didn't like it, he thought he understood. Besides, he had not been entirely truthful himself. It didn't change his commitment to her and the child. The vow he had given was unbreakable—no matter the consequences.
1
TENEBROUS
Chapter One, Book Two
Sixteen years later
- Miro -
Miro and Zadewi were camping on the outskirts of Catyan Forest, enjoying the cover of the maples and ginkgos. Zadewi folded her rainbow-colored wings behind Miro, shielding him from the wind. He leaned into the griffin’s soft, scarlet fur, inhaling the sweet scent of home emanating from her body. The moon smiled down on them as they dug into a meal of freshly-caught snake. The dry meat stuck between Miro’s teeth.
“You did good today,” Zadewi said.
Miro took a deep breath, connecting with the vibrating energy in the core of his body, and levitated a hair off the ground.
“Making those bones move through the air the way I wanted was difficult. I guess I’ll try again tomorrow.”
Zadewi licked her beak. “You need to be able to learn how to control your powers. We don’t want you to repeat your mistakes.” She raised her head and swallowed back her share of the food.
Miro definitely did not want to endanger anyone else. Floin’s freckled face was vivid in Miro’s mind. He had wanted to kiss Floin ever since the first time the boy had come by the stables. The smell of hay, clinging to Floin’s hair, still lingered in Miro’s nostrils at the thought of him. Touching his mouth with his fingertips, Miro recalled the sensation of Floin’s full lips against his own.
The memory had haunted him every day since the incident.
Like Miro, Floin had had fair skin, but he had been covered in freckles. His thick, red hair and joyful laughter were what had first drawn Miro to him. Red hair was common for Caradreans, but it was usually a dull color, bordering on orange. Floin’s, however, had been a fiery red. After a great deal of wooing on Miro’s part, Floin had finally agreed to accompany him for a late-night walk.
Floin’s laughter had compelled Miro. Their lips had met. It had started out soft, warm and very gentle. The kiss had deepened and grown wetter and more passionate. Miro had wanted more, and Floin had responded accordingly.
Floin’s body had trembled. Miro had thought it a sign of pleasure up until the moment Floin had gone still and collapsed in his arms.
Pulling away from Floin’s dead body, Miro had been appalled and should have felt scared, yet at the same time he had never felt more alive. He had been mortified at the sight of Floin, lifeless on the ground.
The surge of energy that had flowed through Miro had been strangely invigorating. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before. But there had been no time to mourn Floin’s death. The equerry had seen them leave the stables together, and no one would have believed Miro if he had told them the truth. Even if they had, it would still have meant his certain death.
Knowing he had no time to waste if he wanted to escape the gallows in Caradrea,
Zadewi had helped Miro flee his village that very night.
Miro’s stomach twisted. It had been a cruel way to discover his power. He still was not entirely sure what had happened during his first kiss. All he could conclude was that he must have literally, if unintentionally, sucked the life out of Floin. It scared him and left him determined to master his new skill. No matter how dreadful it was, the energy pulsated continuously through him, and it excited him.
In the weeks since their escape, Miro and Zadewi had lived on the plains. Throughout that time, Miro had practiced his newfound powers. Most Caradreans deemed their land an unfit place to travel. Traders usually stopped to do business in Cazib and the surrounding areas.
Furthermore, Lord Xyces had placed the Caradreans under curfew. However, the plains belonged to the Silverlings in essence, and the lord of Caradrea simply acted on their bidding.
So far, no one had come looking.
Miro took a swig from his waterskin. The plains were dry but, somehow, always windy. They were littered with bones—human and otherwise.
Miro thought they would be safe—as safe as one could get in Silverling territory, that is. He placed the waterskin back in the satchel on Zadewi’s saddle. She bounced to her feet, whipping her tail.
It happened too fast.
Zadewi heard the flapping wings of the hawks first and quickly warned Miro. He abandoned their food and climbed onto Zadewi’s back as the hawks with Silverling riders dove towards them. The band of hawks planted their feet on the ground.
Miro and Zadewi were pinned down. Beaks clutched onto Miro’s arms. Within another breath, hands grabbed at his feet, pulling him off Zadewi’s back.
Miro gagged as a filthy rag was forced into his mouth. Everything went pitch-black when a bag covered his head. Rope scorched his wrists as his arms were pulled together. Breathing became increasingly difficult, though a small hole in the bag allowed for the tiniest bit of air to reach him. He inhaled and exhaled sharply through his nose. The smell of wet soil and perspiration entered his nostrils.
The sound of rope falling to the ground and the flapping of familiar wings heartened him. A multitude of feet pummeled the ground. The clanking of armor and the whooshing of arrows followed. Loud voices pierced the air.
“Creos, the griff is getting away,” a muffled voice called through the clamor.
The wind increased as several hawks took to the sky.
“Imbeciles. Never mi
nd, you dolts. We’ve got what we came for,” someone else said.
Zadewi squawked loudly in the distance. Miro choked back the oncoming sobs. I’m so sorry, Zad.
Physical pain replaced the emotional turmoil. Strong arms heaved Miro to his feet, hurling him across the back of a hawk. The stiff feathers scraped against his stomach. The sensation was nothing like the soft fur of a griffin. Additional ropes were tied around his waist, and the pain turned to numbness as the hawk bounded into the sky.
Miro didn’t understand why they had come after him, though the memory of a Silverling riding on an enslaved black unicorn gnawed at the back of his mind. The Silverlings did nothing to uphold human laws unless required by the king. The Zila’r-nath would never go to such lengths merely because of the death of a common Caradrean boy. It made absolutely no sense that the king would care about what had happened to Floin. Tears welled forth in Miro’s eyes. What had he done?
Miro gulped as the hawk sped forward. His breathing grew labored, and he finally gave up, letting his eyes fall shut.
His body twitched as they alighted again. He had no sense of how far they had flown. Though faint, the air tasted familiar. A hint of ash had crept into the freshness of the usual crisp scents of grass and warm sand.
Someone untied Miro from the hawk, flung him over their shoulder, and threw him down onto a rough surface. The heat from flames licked close to his skin, and the smell of stew wafted through the air. The bag on his head was lifted above his nose, and the gag in his mouth was removed. A warm breeze brushed against his lips.
“Open.” The voice was as cold as the mid-winter skies.
Miro cringed. “Who are you?” he asked, his teeth chattering despite the warm air. There was a long silence, before the answer came.
“I am Creos, Captain of the Zila’r-nath. Now, open.”
Miro swallowed hard. Creos was the second most dangerous individual in all of Aradria. Yet, he was offering Miro food from his own hands. No one had ever referred to this Silverling as kind. Creos must have had good reasons for keeping him alive, or else Miro would be dead already.
“What exactly is going on? I’m a simple boy from Cazib. Hardly worth an acorn to the Hea—king of Aradria.”
Everyone knew the Silverlings were under the Heartless King’s command, though it was bold of Miro to speak of it so freely. The Silverlings liked to believe that they belonged to no man, Elf, or otherwise.
Creos spat at his feet. “Not your concern, one way or the other. You want to eat or not? This is my only offer of food until next time we make camp.”
Miro hesitated. He wanted to turn it down. There was no telling who’d had their sticky fingers in the food. Whatever he was in for, however, he would need the energy. He opened his mouth wide to receive a spoonful. The stew was bland, but the meat replenished his strength. He received several more spoonfuls, after which his stomach felt satisfied.
Creos got to his feet.
“How come you’re the one who fed me?” Miro blurted. “Why not have one of your halfwits do the job?”
There was a sound of gravel being ground underfoot. A pair of dry hands clasped Miro’s neck, and a strong scent of sulphur invaded his nostrils. His face pulled tight from the chill of Creos’s breath.
“I trust only myself, and right now I hardly even think I can do that,” Creos hissed.
Miro gasped for air. The raw fingers clasped around his neck loosened before Creos released his grip fully and pulled the bag back down to rest on Miro’s shoulders.
Despite this, Miro was invigorated by the meal. He did not know why the king wanted him, but he had no desire to go to Êvina to find out.
He struggled to find a weak spot in the knots that tied his feet and hands together, but he found none. Frustrated, he flexed his hands, and his fingers flicked against the pebbles that lay everywhere on the rugged ground. He felt the energy building in his chest.
Miro chuckled quietly, waving his fingers in small circles behind his back. His energy diminished slightly as he spent it loosening the rope that bound his wrists together. The restraints finally fell off.
Miro wanted to escape right then, but reason prevailed. It was safer to wait until his captors had gone to sleep.
No doubt a guard would be posted at all hours. Still, the night watch should be preoccupied with protecting the camp from intruders, rather than watching the boy already tied up within the camp.
As time crept away, Miro dozed off. A gust of wind woke him up to a chorus of loud snores. He removed the bag from his head, and reached for the ropes around his feet. They were bound too tightly, however, and he needed to save what energy he had for as long as possible.
Miro blinked against the night. A few torches made for better visibility. The ground in front of him was littered with Silverlings, but there were only a couple of the vile Devlings behind him. Their unicorn banners fluttered among the white tents. To Miro’s left, a guard lay on his stomach, and his back lifted and fell in a steady rhythm. On the guard’s waist sat a knife, held in place by a leather belt and the throw on which he was lying. It was Miro’s best chance for escape.
Quick and easy does it, he thought.
He dragged himself forward on his elbows. His right hand closed around the hilt of the knife before he pulled it free with one swift movement. The Silverling stirred as Miro cut through the ropes.
A dull pain shot through Miro’s stomach just as he finished. The Silverling had kicked him. The Silverling’s eyes opened at the impact, staring directly at Miro.
The ropes fell to the ground, and Miro filled his lungs with air. He stood, took to his heels, and ran. The Silverling wasted only a couple of seconds pulling himself together before he leaped forward, grabbing Miro’s shirt with both hands. Miro was pulled backward, but in an instant, the hold on him had disappeared.
He turned around. The Silverling was on his knees, blood spurting from his stomach. A young boy Miro’s age ran toward him, bow in hand.
An arrow protruded from the Silverling’s abdomen, and he cried out in fury. The other Silverlings begun to stir.
“Shoot! Not ideal,” the strange boy muttered. He dashed past Miro with quick strides. “We’d better run, Gusty.”
Miro rushed after him. “Zadewi,” he called. Chances were she had followed him and was somewhere nearby. Rocks and pebbles cut at the soles of his bare feet as he ran. The grass thinned with every step that carried them away.
He attuned his eyes to the darkness as best he could and looked up. A towering mountain rose to the south. The shape of it was not to be mistaken for anywhere else—they were headed straight toward griffin Peak. He knew it well because Zadewi had told him stories of the griffins and their glory days. Only sixteen years ago, the magnificent creatures had still named this mountain their home. The few surviving griffins had since fled in every direction, seeking refuge where they could find it.
Zadewi had come to Miro’s family at an early age, found behind his childhood home beside her dying mother, who had been mortally wounded by a Zila’r-nath blade. Miro was only a baby himself at the time, but they had been inseparable ever since. Meanwhile, griffin Peak had become a watchtower for the eyes of Êvina. Miro and Zadewi had always avoided the place. Yet here he was, running straight toward it, following the lead of some stranger.
The odd boy in front of him was light-footed, though his tanned body looked muscular and strong. He wore no shirt. Gusts of wind tore at Miro’s hair as he stared up at the mountain pass in front of them. A loud squawk claimed his attention as Zadewi swooped down overhead.
Shrieks from hawks filled the night, and loud commands from the Silverlings to give chase thundered behind them. Miro did not turn. He ran three more steps, bent his knees, and jumped for Zadewi, letting the wind carry him where he wanted to go. Catching her by her left shoulder, he pulled himself on top of her back.
“Easy on the feathers,” Zadewi complained. “What of the boy?” she asked, gesturing with her beak at th
e stranger, who was still speeding toward the mountain pass.
Not sure it was the right move, Miro conceded.
“He saved my life.”
She huffed, angling her wings. “Well then, seems we have to repay the favor, no?” Zadewi dropped height and flew closer to the stranger below.
Miro shouted at the boy to slow down. “Take my hand,” he urged, tilting his body toward him. The boy nodded once and leaped forward to grab Miro’s welcoming arm. Miro pulled the boy onto Zadewi’s back without slowing her flight. The griffin turned her beak to the sky as soon as the boys were settled, Miro in front and the boy behind him.
A sense of dread clutched Miro’s chest. Zadewi wasn’t banking away from the peak, but moving straight for the top plateau.
“Sorry, Zad. It’s not like we’re in some sort of deep, perilous trouble or anything, but we don’t need more trouble.” He shook his head in protest. When Zadewi did not respond, he stroked her neck and continued more softly. “We need to turn, Zad.”
She ignored him and followed the spine of the mountain toward the sky. As she reached the previous home of her kin, she paused to hover.
Zadewi stayed, transfixed by the hawks resting within her rightful home. The sight clearly tore at her heart and Miro felt her anguish as if it was his own. Light shone from the barracks that had been built on the plateau on top of the mountain’s peak. A multitude of Silverlings rushed out of caves, quickly filling the stone floor and hurriedly putting on their armor as they ran. griffin Peak provided the perfect nest and training grounds for the Silverling and Vulkan hawk alliance, even if it did not belong to them.
“Zad, I know. Nothing we can do about it now.”
She didn’t budge.
