by KB Anne
Scott is far from satisfied with Gallean’s answer. He aches deeply for someone he doesn’t even know. “You have to tell me more. You have to tell me how to find her.”
“She’ll come to you when she’s ready.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I hate waiting.”
Gallean stands up from the table and Scott follows him over to the courtyard. “The best thing you can do is train.”
I follow behind them. “That’s awfully convenient, don’t you think?”
He stops and looks at me, puzzled. “How do you mean?”
“You know who this ‘mystery’ person is”—I even use air quotes—“and you know where she is, and yet, you are unwilling to help Scott find her or tell him her name.”
Scott had already returned to the pull and push rhythm of Gallean’s dance, but he stops when he realizes what I’ve said to Gallean. “That’s who was here when we arrived. That’s who you were talking to. You kept me from her. The next day it was her outside the keep. That’s why you tried to send us away.”
Gallean begins to push and pull the energy. “Everything happens in time. I will not have three gods, who are woefully naive of their powers, mucking everything up because they reincarnated as impatient teenagers rather than thoughtful, contemplative gods.”
So Scott’s swan is a goddess. That’s news to me. I don’t remember Granda or Clarissa mentioning anything about her being a goddess.
“That’s not for you to decide,” Scott says. “You do not possess the power to make decisions for us. I need to know who she is.”
“In time you will.”
“I need to know now.”
“You need to train now.”
Scott glares at Gallean. He’s pissed. And annoyed. And exhausted. He wants to keep arguing with the wizard, but it’s far less satisfying than our fights. He’d get more information from one of the trees in the courtyard.
Rather than freaking out and allowing another natural disaster to erupt, he falls back into the rhythm of the dance.
I do too.
Maybe the wizard actually does know what he’s doing.
17
Two of Wands
Perhaps she shouldn’t have entered the portal, but it was too late to second guess herself or to turn back anyway. The portal disappeared as quickly as it had descended upon the valley in the Land of Shadows.
Caer knew where she was without even taking in her surroundings. Something about her “powers,” as Gallean had called them, allowed her to create portals to other dimensions. It was the second time she had done so. The first time she barely remembered. She had just discovered that Mathair Mhór and Nimblefoot had perished in the fire set by Balor’s men. One moment she’d been blinded with sadness and rage, hands wrapped tightly around her sword intending to attack his men. The next, she’d found herself in a foreign land, far from the smoldering remains of Mathair Mhór’s hut.
She guessed that, this time, the disappointment she’d felt after Gallean kicked her out, along with the exhilaration at killing the brute who’d tried to take her against her will, were enough of an onslaught of emotions to generate a portal. But could she call one at will? She didn’t know.
Out of a desire to test her skill, she concentrated on her cave in the Land of Shadows. The very one to which her first portal had taken her. She tried to rekindle the emotions she’d felt that day long ago when the smoke had crept up her nose and woken her. She’d never forget the fear and the knowing that Mathair Mhór was in grave danger. She had raced down the mountain but was too late. Only ashes remained of the hut, along with the charred skeletons of Mathair Mhór and Nimblefoot.
Tears sprung to her eyes. She swiped them away. She had cried enough these past few days. Enemies would only think her weak if they knew she wept for an old woman and a scruffy pony who had died so many years before. She closed her eyes against the tears and the memories.
Her vision was blurred when she finally opened them, but it wasn’t because of any portal. Her crying couldn’t be helped, yet her emotions still weren’t enough to warrant a portal. Or maybe it hadn’t appeared because she needed to complete the task she had come here to do.
As she stood on the shoreline over the lake, she pulled her invisibility around her. She studied the opposite shore and the rough outline of a castle with peaks and towers as familiar to her as the woods surrounding Mathair Mhór’s hut had once been.
In several of the windows, she could see the glow of a fireplace or candles glinting in the darkness. A light flickered in her old room. Had Balor taken up residency there in the hopes that the princess would eventually return? Or did he keep it lit, knowing that one day he’d catch his prize? Another light flickered in the window three floors above hers. Her father’s room. Her heart quickened in an excited flourish, only to seize up when she realized it could never be her father. She had witnessed Balor slice his throat.
The memories, still fresh following her breakthrough with Gallean, came rushing back to her. If Balor had indeed taken her father’s room, she’d find her way back into the tunnels and return the favor. For she didn’t plan to leave this realm until one of them was dead.
* * *
The moon rose in the sky as she watched the castle for movement. Aside from a few servants, the castle appeared empty. Impatience plagued her. She wanted to test the castle’s defenses and get inside. She didn’t know how much time it would take Balor’s sorcerer to discover she was there, so there was no time to delay. She easily climbed over the gate and hurried across the bridge to the main entrance, sticking to the shadows—a place she was very familiar with.
She peeked into the guards’ entrance and saw him slumped over at a table, sound asleep. She suspected there weren’t many who sought entrance to the castle now that Balor reigned, and she doubted enemies would dare use the guards’ entrance as their passage into the castle. Once through, she entered into the servants’ hallway.
All at once footsteps pounding on stone echoed down to her. Her heart raced at the prospect of being caught before she had even gotten started. She glanced wildly up and down the corridor. Though her invisibility ensured that she couldn’t be seen, the narrow passage left little room for any to pass without knocking into her. She flung her body flat against the wall. Her hands clung to the cold stone as she tried to calm her breath. Soon, three men covered in leather armor with swords and bows on their backs approached.
“That was a fine piece of tail you took this evening,” the one closest to her roared as he smacked the back of the man in the middle.
He grunted in reply.
“He’s just lucky I didn’t take her first,” the farthest one said.
The three cackled as they shuffled down the hall, boasting about their evening’s activities as they drew ever closer.
Caer doubted very much that they’d been sent to find her, but in their current drunken state they might just stumble upon her by accident.
Her nose tickled as they approached. They stank of sweat and rotten game. She pressed her body against the wall. Her fingers itched to draw her sword. She wanted nothing more than to end their lives, but their dead bodies would seal her fate.
The brute in the middle suddenly doubled over, clutching his stomach right in front of her. “Oi,” he moaned.
“What’s the matter? Can’t hold your ale?” The farthest laughed, whacking him on the back.
He groaned.
“I bet the trollop cursed his pulling prick. Would serve him right too. She was mine,” the one closest to her said, letting out a great guffaw while nearly tripping into her. She jerked to the right before he could make contact and stole down the hallway as quickly as her feet would take her. When she rounded the corner, she fell against the wall and sighed in relief. As the men’s voices became more and more distant, she knew she was safe—at least temporarily.
When she recognized where she was, a smile crept to her lips. It was happenstance that she’d wound up exactly wher
e she wanted to be. She glanced up and down the hallway to ensure she was alone before easing into her father’s royal throne room.
His throne still sat upon the dais, high above where his loyal subjects would have stood. At one time his men had flanked the throne, but they’d provided no protection on the night of Samhain. The night of his death. She assumed they had been slaughtered along with her father.
The King, a kind and generous man, had never turned away a guest seeking respite from the elements and an evening of entertainment. Bards praised his hospitality, and his power had grown with each enchanted tale. There were many who envied his position, but it was not until he allowed Balor, the giant one-eyed pirate, to enter the castle that his life was at risk.
She stared at the throne, imagining what it might be like to sit in it and rest her hands upon the intricately carved wood arms. Would she sense her father’s presence after all these years? Had his blood sunk deep into the grain, becoming part of the throne that marked him as leader of the kingdom even after his death? And if she sat upon it, would she be their queen?
She dared not linger. Though Balor did not seem to be at the castle, she didn’t want to risk getting caught. Her near encounter with his men left her shaken. She merely wanted to reacquaint herself with the hallways and hidden tunnels of the castle. The element of surprise was crucial if she wished to be successful when she attacked Balor at his most vulnerable.
She slipped into the royal washroom hidden in the back corner of the throne room. All but the King were forbidden from entering. Caer had never managed to sneak into it as a child, but now she suspected the method with which she would kill Balor lay beyond the entrance of it.
The first indication that something was amiss should have come when she saw the carving of the reptile on the door as she pushed into the stone, but she didn’t hesitate. Hesitation indicated weakness, and the mere suggestion of weakness while in Balor’s realm would mean her death. Or worse—her capture.
The stone floor of the washroom sloped downward to a spring that carried the royal waste far away from its source. A wooden stall enclosed what must house the royal privy. It was strange that the King would have a private stall within a washroom forbidden to everyone else, but she had never fully understood certain rules of the castle.
She pushed open the door and knew at once that it was a mistake. A figure, her head covered with coiled snakes, rose to meet her. Sensing Caer’s presence, the snakes began to writhe and hiss. Caer shut her eyes and jumped backward, slamming the door closed. Her heart raced as she remembered teachings from Mathair Mhór of an ancient goddess whose head was covered with snakes and who could turn people to stone. She didn’t remember what had become of the goddess, but perhaps she’d just found out.
Caer backed away from the stall. Her curiosity had almost gotten her killed. She’d have to be careful not to make the same mistake again.
Sometime between entering the stall and the snakes coming to life, the floor had shifted from stone to packed dirt. She turned to leave, sensing that the royal washroom was far more magical than it ought to be. A low snarl to her right caught her off guard. She twisted her body, her blade already in hand, ready to kill the beast who saw fit to attack her.
Dozens of sharp teeth flashed before her, clamping down on her leg.
She screamed, leaping away from the giant crocodile before it could take her entire leg with it. Its teeth had already managed to rip off a chunk of her calf.
“Owwww! You bastard!” she hissed through clenched teeth. The reptile replied by lunging again. This time Caer was ready. She swung her sword, slicing the beast’s head off as she jumped to the far side of the spring. She’d gained the upper ground without even planning on it. Good thing, too, because the washroom had transformed into a croc den in the midst of her fight. If she had remained on the side with the dead croc, she would have become dinner to an army of them.
She assessed her surroundings as the wizard had taught her during their short time together. She didn’t like what she saw. At least fifty feet of croc-infested royal washroom blocked her from even considering the door back to the throne room as her escape.
She quickly glanced down the spring’s dark tunnel, hoping to see a glimmer of light peeking back at the end of it. Her wish was short-lived. There was nothing but darkness. And the wall closest to her was impenetrable rock. It appeared that an early descendant had situated the royal privy at the source of the spring. The sewer tunnel was her only option.
Teeth gnashed against each other as the crocs advanced toward her. Jaws opened and closed, anticipating their next meal, but it was the rush of water that drew her attention back to the spring. What was once a slow trickle was quickly becoming a channel. She’d have to hurry or her only chance of safety would be cut off.
She drew in a breath and jumped before she could overthink her escape route. Water splashed around her as she landed in the now ankle-deep spring. She sprinted down the tunnel, running as if her life depended on it, which it did. Her calf throbbed where the croc had bitten her, but with the water now past her knees, she couldn’t stop and bandage it. Soon the crocs would be able to swim after her and finish what their dead comrade had started.
Caer sloshed down the tunnel, hanging onto the hope that the blackness swallowing her would make it more difficult for the crocs to find her. Although they could probably follow the scent of blood flowing from her leg, she wanted to remain hopeful.
She gripped her sword, ready for whatever beast might jump out ahead of her. She had only her sense of hearing to alert her to the dangers surrounding her.
The handle of the sword tingled in her palm and the sensation crept up her arm. She almost dropped the blade in surprise. After so many years in the Land of Shadows, she wasn’t used to the explosion of magic occurring in this realm.
The tingling became almost too painful to touch, but she dared not let the sword go. Soon a soft blue light began to emanate from the blade. The rough, hand-carved walls of the tunnel took shape around her as the light grew.
Now that she could see where she was going, she splashed through the water with greater speed. It was already to her thighs. Her muscles burned with the strain of moving through the high water, but her long hours of training had prepared them for this assault.
A loud splash echoed through the tunnel from behind. She was out of time. A huge wave knocked her forward, throwing her neck-deep into the water. The sword continued to glow from beneath the depths. Surge after surge smashed against her, trying to push her underwater. She fought to keep her head above it, but with the water level now almost to the ceiling, she soon had no choice but to swim.
A final surge knocked her off her feet and tossed her under the water. Her body jerked back and forth. Sensations shot down her arms and legs. Even her face twinged and pinched. Pain rocketed through her. Gripping her blade to her chest, she tried to swim, but her body refused to obey. Her vision blurred and shifted. The blade slid out from her hand and wrapped around her neck, changing into a silver necklace. Her face elongated into something beak-like. Her arms and legs folded into her body, and suddenly she was no longer getting knocked into the walls of the tunnel. She was swimming. What once were her boots were now webbed feet, jettisoning her through the tunnel.
The gnash and snap of crocodile teeth grew distant behind her. Whatever she had shifted into swam faster than a crocodile. Caer hadn’t even made the decision to swim. Her body had made it for her.
The walls of the tunnel closed in around her. She torpedoed through them in this new form. If she hadn’t shifted, she would never have made it through. She doubted the crocodiles would make it either.
The water dropped in temperature. Soon she blasted out of the tunnel into inky black open water. Her head—well, her beak—led her to the surface. She burst out of the water and flew through the air before landing gracefully on the surface of the lake. She released a sigh of relief at the faint outline of the castle. She had avoided ca
pture once again.
She paddled over to the shoreline. It was then that the full impact of what happened hit her. Her arms, now wings, were covered with white feathers along with the rest of her body.
“What did I change into? What am I?”
But the only response she received was the squawking of a large flock of swans that soon surrounded her.
And, by the way they bowed their heads, she suspected she was their queen.
18
Flown the Coop
It’s the middle of the night. My body craves sleep, but it is the last thing I want to do. I’m too terrified to cave in and close my eyes. The nightmares are getting worse. Alaric doesn’t cry out for me anymore. Instead, whenever Lizzie mentions my name to him, his lip curls into a snarl. My dreams have always had a layer of truth in every single of one of them, so the whole snarling lip thing doesn’t bode well for me. Unless, of course, Alaric is Elvis reincarnated. If the worst thing that could happen to us was getting all shook up, we’d be in great shape.
My crystal pendant from Clarissa warms against my chest along with the nightlock-imbued crystal. I added one the day Scott, Madigan, and I left to search for Alaric in the cavern. The day Scott and I fell through the portal. Thank goodness too, because if Alaric and I meet under a full moon, I don’t want my throat to tempt him. I didn’t grab a second one for Lizzie—I regret that decision now—but if there is any truth to my dreams, she might be beyond my reach.
The floor creaks outside my door. I jump out of bed. Gallean’s three layers of protection barriers are impenetrable, except, of course, if one is a reincarnated god, but maybe full gods can pass through them too. I pray to the other gods that Breas isn’t prowling outside my door. I am not in the mood to deal with him.
