Descendant (Secrets of the Makai)

by Kerr, Toni

  "But, by now the blood must be incredibly diluted—I certainly can't tell by looking at you, so I'm not sure how Gwenna would have known. She might have been wrong. Or senile. So, for now, I'll just assume it means nothing and train you as I would any other student."

  Tristan nodded, semi-speechless.

  "It's not impossible. There are people who think anyone like us has faerie blood in their history. Who's to say if that's true or not?"

  Somehow, the faerie blood theory made the dragon theory even more ridiculous. "I'm sorry about Gwenna. I don't think there was anything I could have done to save her."

  "She may have overstepped her bounds—being you could have died by your own hand that night. But destiny continues, no matter who dies in its process." Gram patted his knee and smiled. "You can choose to remain here and discover your mind. Or let it lie dormant, as perhaps your fate might have preferred. You must also be aware there's always a catch to any sort of power. It can do funny things to a person. And not funny 'ha ha'. You'll be inexplicably drawn toward certain behaviors. Your entire thinking process will be forced to adapt. Your life will be affected and the changes are irreversible. I won't decide for you."

  Tristan couldn't walk away unknowing. And he had the emerald to consider.

  "If leaving the island is your only concern, I'll simply take you wherever you'd like to go. Right now. But don't you dare think you can go after that emerald by yourself."

  Tristan considered the offer. Where would he go? No one had ever offered to help him and he already knew he couldn't survive in a populated city. "I need to learn this, and not just for the emerald."

  "Even though it may be difficult and painful?"

  He thought about his hand; the pressure was certainly tolerable. He nodded.

  "Once we've begun, there's no going back. Ever. Your life will never be the same."

  "I get it." How bad could it be? It was this, or go crazy. "I really want to do this."

  Gram stood before him with a heavy sigh, changing her friendly tone and demeanor to something more official. "I shall work with you mentally, through the pain in your hand, until the sun goes down. You will have only this evening to yourself. At dawn, we begin again. I will come to you either when I feel you can no longer continue, or when you are ready for the next step.

  "While you work on shielding my attacks, go about your daily business, play with those cards, do whatever you wish. If you'd like, you may use the bow and arrows kept behind the cliff house, but do not shoot any of the animals. The arrows are for target practice only; there's a mound of hay on the far side of the lake you can use. This exercise is not to get good with the bow, but to focus your mind on a target. Work on focusing your aim. Any questions?"

  Tristan shook his head, unable to think of anything brilliant to ask.

  Gram smiled and re-hung the shawl around her shoulders. "Don't worry, you'll figure it all out soon enough." She turned toward the forest. "Follow in my footsteps."

  Tristan followed, massaging the ache in his hand until they arrived at the lake.

  "Your pain threshold has nothing to do with focusing your mind. Ignoring me only indicates I should do something less tolerant. Don't let your mind sit idly by while I attack it like this. Use it. Force your mind to work for you."

  Tristan stared dumbly as the woman walked toward the village, leaving him to head back to the cliff house on his own.

  The ache in his hand worsened.

  25

  - THE CARETAKER -

  "FOCUS. FOCUS." Tristan repeated the mantra as he headed back to the cliff house.

  He caught a fish for dinner, giving the first to the falcon, with his right hand cramping in a tight fist. Why couldn't she pick his left hand?

  He gave her a little credit though, glaring across the lake at the beach where the rock cottage should be. He'd have given up a long time ago if the pain hadn't been such a constant reminder.

  The fish sat in the sink while he massaged his hand hard enough to make bruises, unable to straighten his fingers. What did she tell him about a shield? He tried defining the purpose, picturing its use against a sword, and draped his quilt over his head and shoulders for something to feel physically. He pictured brightly colored cartoon daggers shooting through the door and window space, aiming for his hand, making them bounce off the quilt and ricochet off walls.

  The muscles in his hand relaxed as he chuckled at the silliness, just before it cramped up again.

  "I did it!" He cradled his arm, throwing the quilt aside, then quickly picked it up to recreate the pain-free sensation.

  Thrilled beyond reason, successful only with the aid of his quilt, and only by staying absolutely still, Tristan remained seated at the table. Moving or standing caused throbbing pain. How could he keep this up?

  He stared at the fire, managing about twenty minutes before his mind wandered, or something distracted him. Then, without doing anything specific, his hand relaxed. He flexed his fingers and stood. Was it a fluke? He tossed the quilt to the hammock and added wood to the fire, then cleaned his fish as fast as possible, rushing outside to throw the guts over the cliff.

  Inhaling the spectacular air, crisp with the scent of pine, he took a moment to be thankful, letting the tension in his shoulders ease. Wispy clouds of brilliant colors streaked across the sky, like a painting for his eyes only.

  That's when it hit, thoroughly destroying the thrill of achievement.

  "Sundown."

  Gram said she would work with him only until the sun went down, and this was to be his last night to himself. What does that mean? Tristan leaned against the wall along the ledge and closed his eyes with the depressing weight of comprehension. How can I focus on a shield for the rest of my life? He wondered how long it would take to become left-handed and dragged himself inside, dreading sunrise.

  Morning went a little better than expected. He could walk in small circles with the quilt gripped firmly around his head. Confident in times of success, reversing directions became the goal, usually ending with a reminder to himself that he couldn't handle distractions. At least I can walk, he thought, devastated by the lack of progress.

  Tristan gave in and hiked to the lake for food, tripping on rocks and roots with the quilt dragging behind him, losing his attained focus only once. His shoulders began to relax. Pain lanced through his wrist while hooking a worm on a hook, but he managed use of the reel to catch a fish for the falcon, then one for himself.

  Hiking back up the mountain in a self-induced fog, he thought of nothing but the weight of the quilt. At the cliff house, he discovered his shield held without the quilt—after working up the nerve to take it off and shake the dirt from its edges.

  He prepared the fish, built a fire, ate, and washed dishes with no difficulties. When he prepared to shuffle the cards, his right hand seized up, as if dunked in hot oil. He shot to his feet and clutched it to his chest, tempted to drop to the floor and curl into a ball.

  "Freakin' old bat!" Sorry, Tristan added, in case she could hear him from wherever she was. Maybe he could walk really far and be out of hearing range. Smiling at the thought, he took a breath to refocus.

  The fact that he couldn't curse someone in the privacy of his own head was motivation enough. By the end of the day, he could hook a worm, walk up and down the trail without tripping, look at the horizon for planes or boats, and get through an entire game of solitaire without pain.

  Activity became the key and lying down to sleep proved to be the last hurdle. Pain extended beyond his elbow and into his shoulder, making it difficult to think about anything else, let alone keeping a shield strong enough to block it. He woke twice during the night, but by morning, the pain ceased.

  The Wicked Witch of the West stopped torturing me?

  Tristan apologized profusely, unsure whether she'd hear him or not, and tried to explain her method of madness was completely understandable, creating a circle of apologies and derogatory name-calling.

  Restless, h
e remembered the bow and arrows and squeezed between the rock-face of the mountain and the wall of the cliff house, using a stick to sweep away the spider webs. He spotted a cabinet built on the backside of the little cabin.

  The hinges crumbled and door nearly crushed his toes when it fell. He leaned it against the rocks and examined the bow. It was almost as tall as he was and a stiff leather pouch of arrows hung from a rusted nail next to it. He brushed away cobwebs with a clump of pine needles and strung the twine, holding his breath as the bow creaked in protest, threatening to snap in half.

  With the quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder, he carried the bow down to the lake, then kept to the right to find the target area. He soon entered a grassy field of wild flowers and spotted the large mound of dried hay covered by a decaying canvas.

  A trio of large rocks near the center of the clearing seemed like the right place to stand—he climbed up and took a few shots. It seemed simple enough, but none of the arrows traveled in a straight line. As for distance, nothing landed anywhere near the target.

  "How embarrassing," Tristan said, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. The falcon perched in a nearby tree, observing all, as usual. "Yeah, well, I'd like to see you do it better."

  Tristan notched in the last arrow and concentrated to prove himself worthy in front of the falcon. In the same instant, his whole chest and right arm burned with pain. He fell from the rock, dropping the bow, and rolled to his back, squeezing his eyes shut until the shield kicked in. The pain left as quickly as it came and he could breathe again.

  The falcon made a strange purring sound and ruffled his feathers, seeming to get comfortable for a longer stay.

  "What's she trying to do, kill me?" Anger boiled in his stomach. He snatched the bow and realigned the arrow. A chill shivered down his spine. The arrow hit the target, just before pain shot through his arm again. His knees buckled, but the pain left before he lost balance.

  With his jaw clenched, he circled the clearing and settled his nerves, gathering all the arrows from the tall grass, determined not to give in or be angry. Especially since he'd hit the target. Back on the rock, he shot an arrow a solid thirty feet beyond the target, piercing a tree. The next veered off to the other side, into another tree.

  "So much for aim." The final arrow hit closer to the center of the mound and he exhaled a happy sigh of relief.

  No way could he climb the trees to reach the stuck arrows, but he located the rest and got back into position. Closing one eye, he took aim. A shadow in the forest caught his attention the same moment the bow released. An elk?

  "Hey!"

  A blur dropped from a branch, toppling in front of the elk, which leapt over the shrubs to get away.

  A girl? Tristan sucked in a lungful of air, half terrified by the thought of shooting a person, half amazed to see such acrobatic beauty.

  "What are you trying to do, kill everything in sight?" she asked.

  His eyes darted from one slender arm to the other, then down her bare legs as she seemed to glide toward him. No blood, thank goodness. He swallowed the panic clogging his throat and tried to make sense of her angry words. But her deep brown eyes distracted him, drawing a flood of personal thoughts he'd be embarrassed to share. He took a few steps back, determined to put more space between. Could she hear his thoughts like Gram?

  She adjusted a leather bag crossing over her chest and took aim with the arrow, throwing it like a spear and missing him by a foot. Tristan leapt back another step and wondered what he'd missed. Clearly, she could have hit him if she'd wanted to.

  "You think you own the whole island now?" She seemed to fly up the tree that held one of the arrows, yanked it out with one hand, and stuffed something greenish from her bag into the hole with the other.

  His eyes widened as his mouth fell open. How on Earth did she manage the climb so easily? She must have been gripping the trunk with the sheer strength in her legs to have both hands available like that.

  "You think just because she's teaching you, you can do whatever you want...."

  She dropped at least twelve feet, landing with hardly a sound, and headed for the tree with the second arrow. Her long hair flowed back from her face like sheets of silk.

  "Think you're so great, better than the rest of us." She repeated the same procedure and dropped to face him, holding the two arrows in her fist.

  Tristan shut his mouth, unable to recall any of her words. "Did you catch that arrow, in midair? While flipping? From a tree?" No matter how he replayed the event, it didn't seem physically possible.

  He watched her approach, taking another slight step back. She was astonishing. And scary. And highly unpredictable.

  "Give me the rest," she demanded, stopping a few feet in front of him. She seized the remaining arrows from his hand in one swift motion, then plucked the one she'd thrown at him from the ground. "You're pathetic."

  Tristan watched her disappear into the trees with all his arrows, his mouth gradually hanging open again. She had to be the most astounding thing he'd ever witnessed in his life.

  26

  - PLOTTING REVENGE -

  DORIAN IGNORED GRAM at the clothesline and stormed into the shop. She dumped her bag on the workspace, riffled through all the drawers and slammed them shut.

  Gram glided in with the basket of clean silk pouches in one hand and soap making molds in the other. "In the dish drainer, love."

  Dorian glared, even though she'd meant to clean the knife herself. She retrieved it from the drainer and set to work, avoiding eye contact with Gram.

  "Your methodology makes no sense to me," Gram said, sitting in her rocker with a fresh cup of tea. "Granted, I can't deny you get better results than I ever did." She leaned back and shut her eyes.

  Dorian paused. "Maybe you should go lay down while you can? I can handle things here."

  "You usually aren't so harsh with the poor plants. Is that for Flynn?"

  Dorian nodded, mashing fresh stock and bits of dried stems into a glass bowl, before adding a few drops from each of the vials.

  "Is that honeyberry?"

  "I thought it might help if Flynn was, you know, feeling old. Besides," Dorian shrugged, "she volunteered. I know what you'll say, but this came from Arcadia. She's very well-mannered and promises not to disturb anyone else involved in the mixture." Of course, she'd made that promise before he got here. Dorian narrowed her eyes and kept stirring. "Don't you think maybe Flynn's just depressed?" Dorian added. "He probably needs a vacation or something."

  "That's not for us to decide. You shouldn't give a person something so addictive. It could be dangerous."

  "Everything's addictive and it's not like I added enough to make him go crazy or anything."

  "I know, sweetheart." Gram continued rocking at a peaceful pace, a distant smile playing with her wrinkles. "I guess I miss being the one who makes the decisions, and the work."

  "You still can, you know." Dorian dreaded conversations about Gram's career coming to an end, with herself taking over the business.

  "Oh, my beloved. You've exceeded my teachings in every possible way. You are the finest student I have ever had the pleasure of teaching." Gram's smile grew wider. "Even though there are plenty of times I'd rather throw you, along with those puppy dog eyes of yours, right out the window with the dishwater."

  "Cut it out, Gram." Dorian tried not to laugh. "You'd hurt your back and then I'd have to medicate you. I don't think you've ever even been a patient, let alone a good one."

  "Good. Now tell me why you're so upset."

  Dorian scowled at Gram's way of getting to the heart of things, turning remorseful when she realized the plants on the workspace were complaining about their treatment. "It's," she hesitated. "It's that Sabbatini guy."

  "You've already proven there's nothing wrong with the plants. I'm sure it's just something he did wrong: his knife, his technique. The list is practically endless. If he comes here again, we'll just tell him to bring a testing samp
le, or perhaps you could simply make whatever he's after. I'm sure your results would be better than his anyway. Just put the entire matter out of your head."

  "Fine," Dorian shouted, slamming the knife on the counter. "It's not Sabbatini at all, it's that Tristan! He's shooting arrows at everything except the target! Two of the aspens took shots, and Wesley almost got hit! Thank heavens I stopped him in time, but I'm sure he would have gone on doing the same thing if I hadn't taken the arrows."

  "Now, Dorian." Gram's smirk made Dorian's blood rage. "He'll be a little dangerous until he figures things out, but you did the same thing when you were learning. Besides, Wesley ought to have known better than to be behind the target while it was in use."

  "Wesley was nearly killed! Tristan didn't even apologize."

  "I'll bet you didn't give him a chance."

  "You demanded I not interfere! And now you're sticking up for him?" Dorian covered the mixture in the bowl with a damp towel and wiped the knife clean. "Someone needs to make him leave." She put the knife away and headed for the door.

  "Be nice, sweetheart," Gram called after her. "And don't let your work sit for too long."

  Dorian stomped barefoot along one of Oliver's trails, which she seemed to use more often since most of the trees were still shying away from her. They'd get out of her way entirely if they could. Not Ardon though, the Solstice Tree. He would never turn on her, being the closest thing she had to a best friend. She gazed up into his branches, marveling at his wealth of knowledge. He could remember every detail from his ancestral background, from generation to generation.

  She climbed to the highest limbs towering over all the trees in the area, and settled into the crook of his embrace. "Can you believe the silly Aspens were glad to help? Like they saved him from having to go find the darn arrows in the brush or something."