Shock of Fate: A Young Adult Fantasy Adventure (Anchoress Series Book 1)

by D. L. Armillei

  Van shoved Jorie back and said to the man behind the door, “I have a word for you—how about excrement head!”

  Paley giggled again.

  “That’s two words,” blue eyes said, chuckling. He swung open the door. “Times are dark. A sense of humor goes a long way.” He stood aside as they entered. “The name’s Noam.” He had a stocky build, a balding head, ruddy cheeks, and a bulbous nose. “Only fun people are allowed into the Troll’s Foot. I guess I can make an exception for friends of Roguey, though!” He guffawed at his own joke. “C’mon, c’mon. Follow me.”

  They entered the dimly lit room supposedly under renovation; however, cobwebs hung everywhere. Two scruffy men, with a good view of the door, quietly sat in the corner, playing cards on top of a barrel.

  Van hesitated as Noam led them into a broom closet and then through a hidden door in the back wall. Her palms got sweaty as they descended a narrow flight of stairs, then another, and another. With each flight, the walls felt more oppressive, crushing her chest until she had to fight for each breath. She was acutely aware of how to get out and the distance to the exit. When she thought they could go no deeper underground, the sound of a rowdy crowd drifted up the stairway.

  Noam led them through a thick wooden door painted with a severed troll’s foot.

  Van winced at the repulsive logo and followed the others into the tavern. She felt overcome by the ambience of the establishment. One word came to mind: speakeasy.

  Although the dress and the design didn’t match the Earth World’s 1920s, this was definitely where the oppressed secretly came to flaunt their resistance to the current rule. The place was roaring. A band played fiddles, bongos, and fifes. Patrons danced everywhere. Full mugs and good cheer were the spirit of the night.

  “Enjoy,” Noam said as he left, closing the door behind him.

  “Wow,” Paley said, wide-eyed. She disappeared into the wild crowd, pulling Brux along with her.

  Jorie glowered, as she watched Brux’s back vanish. “Try and stay focused, guys. Location of the Coin. Go.”

  “C’mon in,” slurred one of the partiers. “Don’ be shy.”

  “We love people who hate the Balish regime!” screeched a tipsy woman at the bar. Several people held their mugs high and cheered in solidarity.

  “Merry meet and merry part, bright the cheeks and warm the heart!” shouted a trio of sloppy men raising and clinking their mugs.

  The noisy drunkards and the windowless walls agitated Van’s fear of being in enclosed places. She felt light-headed and exhausted. Determined not to succumb, she moved farther into the steamy tavern.

  Elmot, too, seemed uncomfortable with the crowd and stayed close to Van. He navigated to an open space at the bar.

  Van scanned the crowd, looking for Brux and Paley, then scolded herself for caring about what they did.

  “Hey, folks,” the bartender said cheerfully. “The name’s Zane.” He didn’t appear much older than Van.

  “Two mugs of mead, please,” Elmot said.

  “You bet,” Zane replied.

  Van watched him pour, controlling her breath, trying to relax. She distracted herself from her anxiety by studying the details of the tavern.

  Someone had painted the upper borders of the wall with various phases of the moon. Behind the bar hung a huge oil painting of two smiling young women from another time. They stood arm in arm, wearing simple, yet elegant, toga-style dresses. Their wavy golden hair flowed long and free. One raised a gold goblet. The other wore a simple gold coin pendant necklace and stared out at Van with violet eyes—Amaryl, Van thought. The other woman was her sister, Zurial. Van’s attention returned to Amaryl’s necklace—the sooner she found the location of the Coin, the quicker they could leave the stuffy tavern.

  Zane slammed two foaming mugs down on the bar. “Two b-stips.”

  “Uh, oh.” Van patted her pockets, though she knew she had no money. She couldn’t put it on her family’s tab in this world. She glanced at Elmot, who had a deer-in-the-headlights look and shrugged.

  “Trey didn’t give me any money,” Elmot said. “I thought you had some.”

  “I’ll take a stip, pec—can even make change for a losc. Usually don’t take coins with the Balish stamp, though—just for the point of it—but if that’s all you got, it’ll do.” Zane chuckled.

  Van shook her head.

  “Down on your luck, eh?” Zane said. “Well, anyone who hates the Balish is a friend of mine. We can work somethin’ out. Tell you what—for a kiss, you get a mead. One kiss, one mead. Looks as though I’m lined up for two kisses.” He puckered.

  Van turned to Elmot and said, “Well? He wants a kiss. What are you waiting for?”

  Zane guffawed.

  It sounded like Noam’s laugh, and Van noticed his features appeared similar; no doubt, they were father and son.

  Zane good-naturedly took a kiss on the cheek from Elmot and a quick one on the lips from Van, then zipped off to sling more drinks. Every time he zoomed past Van, he said, “Let me know when you need another mead. I could use another kiss!”

  She smiled, and the next time he flew by, Van shouted, “I guess my luck would be better if I had some coins.”

  Zane stopped short. “Ho! Ho! You bet it would! You’ve an interest in coins, then?”

  Van turned on the flirt. “Oh, yeah!” She batted her eyelashes. “My mother used to collect coins.”

  “Oh, she was a numismatist?” Zane squinted at Van, then glanced at the portrait behind him of Amaryl and Zurial. “Who exactly was your mother?” he asked, staring at Van.

  “My mother’s dead,” Van stated. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “She didn’t leave you on purpose,” Zane said earnestly. “I’m sure she didn’t want to die.” Van fidgeted. No one had ever spoken to her about her mother’s death before.

  “The connections we have to our family, living or dead, make us who we are. If you don’t reconcile your feelings for her, your ancestral line will remain broken.” Zane shrugged, then grinned. “You look like Amaryl.” He tipped his head at the portrait.

  Van flipped her hair, hoping to keep him talking. “What’s she wearing around her neck?”

  Zane leaned in and said in a low voice, “That’s the Coin of Creation.”

  Van felt Elmot tense next to her, though she already knew Amaryl was wearing the Coin.

  “Oh! I’m fascinated by the Coin,” she said, giving Zane her best smile. “I would love to hear any stories you have about it—like, where it’s hidden.” She flipped her hair again. She had never tried so hard in her life.

  Elmot whispered in Van’s ear, “Take it easy, or he’ll think you’re having a seizure.”

  Merry patrons at the other end of the bar riotously called for Zane to refill their mugs. Zane screamed back at them. “Shut it, you fighorns! Can’t you tell I’m busy?” He leaned on the bar, closer to Van. “Now, where were we? Oh, yeah—the Coin.”

  It surprised Van when, instead of getting angry, the patrons roared and laughed. A man, half in the bag, hopped behind the bar and refilled their mugs. She guessed money was not an issue at the Troll’s Foot because wealthy Manikists secretly funded the tavern.

  “See them, over there?” Zane nodded toward several men in the crowd who looked as if they belonged to Robin Hood’s Merry Men. “Thieves from Cortica. Also after the Coin.”

  Van inwardly groaned and added them to the list.

  “They hate the Balish, which got them in. But they’re dirty scoundrels—the whole lot of ’em. Won’t tell ’em a thing. But—”

  “You’ll tell me,” Van said coquettishly. “For another kiss.”

  Zane’s wide grin puffed his cheeks.

  Van obliged, hoping Brux was watching.

  “I have it on good authority the Coin is hidden in a place called Yesod,” Zane said. “There, it lies deep in the Caves of Wolfenden.”

  The guy sitting on the barstool next to Van overheard the Wolfenden part and
started howling like a wolf. Others joined in, howling, as wolf calls echoed throughout the tavern.

  Zane rolled his eyes, but Van could tell he enjoyed every minute.

  “Go on,” she urged, thinking, Dangerous information flows freely in the Troll’s Foot.

  Zane’s brow furrowed. “Sounds simpler than it is. Yesod is the most dangerous, unsettled area of Fomalhaut. It’s loaded with roaming troll tribes. Even heard Tarcs are in the area—” Elmot gasped. “The warlords?”

  “Shhh,” Zane warned, and he waved them closer. “The Coin lies deep in the Caves of Wol—” His eyes darted to the patrons. “—in the caves. It’s guarded by the Elemental Loka and her wily tricks and traps. A monster roams the labyrinth of tunnels leading to the Coin, ready to destroy any trespassers.”

  Van’s mouth went dry. If Brux knew this, he would be even more of a basket case about Daisy.

  “You believe the heir exists?” Elmot asked.

  Zane’s head bobbed. “Oh, yeah.” He stared directly at Van. “The heir survived the Dark War, but her bloodline—it’s cursed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Day 9: 1:32 a.m., Living World

  The rowdy crowd called for refills. Zane turned and yelled, “Shut it, you meat sacks!” He smiled at Van and said, “I gotta take care of these animals. Stay put. I’ll be back.” He winked and was off.

  Van and Elmot zipped away to tell the others their news. They gathered the team and shared the information Van had “seduced” out of Zane.

  Van felt irked when Brux and Paley stole her thunder by adding that they not only found out about the Caves of Wolfenden but also how to get there, and it had nothing to do with following a map. To which Elmot took offense.

  “We have to pass through troll territory,” Paley said, as if she were an expert.

  “We need to bring gnome guides with us to navigate around the roaming troll tribes,” Brux explained. “Otherwise, we’ll never make it through alive.”

  “Let’s grab us some gnomes!” Trey announced.

  Jorie shook her head. “We’ll have to coax the gnomes into helping us. They have to come of their own free will. They’re not guide animals.”

  “How do we do that?” Van asked gloomily. It sounded like more work.

  “We have to gain the gnomes’ trust,” Jorie said. “We’ll need to bring their leader a gift. Did you find out what that should be?”

  “Nope,” Brux said.

  “I could give them a pair of my contact lenses,” Paley said brightly.

  Brux frowned. “Gnomes are earth creatures. They don’t value material possessions.”

  “What would they want, then?” Van exclaimed, stunned.

  Jorie clapped her hands. “Okay, guys, back to working the crowd.”

  Van turned to Elmot. “Let’s go talk to Zane again. He probably knows.” They weaved through the crowd back to the bar.

  “HO! There you are!” hollered Zane, holding an elegant gold goblet.

  Van sidled up to the bar, with Elmot close behind. “What’s that?”

  The drunk on next barstool leaned toward Van. “You mus’ be pretty special for Zaney to whip that out.”

  “It’s beautiful!” Elmot exclaimed.

  Zane held the goblet high. “This here’s one of the goblets used at Zurial and Manik’s wedding feast. The real deal! See.” Zane held the goblet up to the oil painting behind the bar. It was identical. “It’s a thousand years old. Amaryl commissioned five to be made in the likeness of Zurial’s favorite family heirloom—a gold chalice. One replicated for each person at the head table. Zurial toasted using the original gold chalice. Never let it out of her sight. Rumors say she was obsessed with it. But this isn’t Zurial’s gold chalice. It’s the replica used by Amaryl.” Zane lowered the chalice, leaned over the bar, and said to Van, “You seemed interested in the ancient royals and their things, so I thought you’d like to see it.”

  “Yes! I would!” Van said, gawking at the chalice. She didn’t feel comfortable touching something so revered and treasured.

  Zane held the chalice high and yelled, “Now, let’s get ripped!” Then he banged the chalice down on the bar, startling Van.

  He crouched below and came up holding a dusty bottle. “Nothin’ but the best goes into my precious here,” he said, winking.

  For a second, Van thought he meant that he would allow her to drink nothing but the best. Then she realized he meant the chalice, not her, and smiled to take the sting out of his words.

  Zane gleefully popped the cork and filled the chalice with an iridescent, bubbly drink.

  Regulars nearby heard the pop and cheered, causing others to gather around, including Jorie, Trey, Brux, and Paley.

  Zane stood on a stool behind the bar. “Take one sip and pass it on!”

  The crowd responded with hoots and shouts.

  He took a showy sip, then bent down and passed the chalice to Van.

  The instant Van’s fingers touched the chalice, she felt uneasy. The room shifted, people blurred. She brushed it off as anxiety and lifted the drink to her mouth. The chalice had barely touched her lips when she collapsed . . .

  She found herself at a celebration . . . with people dressed oddly . . . the women wore elaborate toga dresses; the men, loose-fitting tunics with cloaks. Masks hid their faces. It was the Masquerade Feast to celebrate the end of the Dark War. People all around her rejoiced.

  Her mind’s eye watched, as an unmasked, beautiful woman flowed through the colossal, yet simple, sandstone room. The architecture spoke of a different time, from her time. A thousand years ago. The woman was Amaryl.

  Van felt Amaryl. She was Amaryl. Yet she saw Amaryl as if peering through a dream. Amaryl showed Van a scene in her life, using Van’s language so she would understand.

  It was important that Van understand.

  This, the second night of her sister Zurial’s five-day wedding celebration, marked the truce between the Balish and Lodian tribes. Despite the joy of the occasion, Amaryl’s heart hung heavy with dread. She feared that the Balish could not be trusted, but her responsibility as the Anchoress Queen was to do what was best for her people. Amaryl felt pleased with her sister’s happiness and believed that Manik, despite being Balish, was a good man. So, the wedding of the Balish king to her little sister proceeded as planned.

  A sudden rush of love and delight overwhelmed Van, as Amaryl saw a male warrior enter the palace. He arrived dressed in the traditional celebratory costume of the warrior—a leather lappet, a hooded red cloak, and his representative animal headpiece. The unique eagle mask covering his face identified the man her husband. He headed straight for Amaryl.

  “My love,” Amaryl said in a soft whisper, afraid that if she spoke too loudly, she would awaken and the warrior would fade away, leaving her alone once again.

  The man, too overcome by seeing his love again, wordlessly grabbed Amaryl’s hand and led her through a side door into a lush garden.

  Outside, barely hidden by the trees and garden vines, he impatiently pushed Amaryl against the wall. The man reached to touch Amaryl’s necklace, a gold pentagram coin hanging off a simple gold chain.

  She grasped his hand and brought it to her lips instead. He smelled like earthy musk.

  Amaryl smiled tenderly and reached to remove his headpiece.

  The warrior grabbed her hands and shook his head no.

  “You can’t touch my necklace. I can’t touch your mask. I guess we’re even.” Her laugh echoed like wind chimes tinkling in a lazy summer’s breeze.

  Van felt the warrior’s strong, capable hands as they roamed Amaryl’s quivering body. Van trembled as the warrior touched every sacred part of Amaryl. Her heart savored every stolen moment.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this here,” Amaryl murmured. “We could be caught.”

  Neither could wait any longer.

  Amaryl grew warm from the closeness of their bodies . . . from the anticipation . . . a frantic intensity welled inside her, quen
ched only as the warrior took her with both passion and desperation.

  Van tried to turn away, to disconnect from the vision, but Amaryl held her there, forcing her to watch—and to feel.

  It was important she understand.

  Van understood just fine and considered it none of her business what Amaryl chose to do with her husband. The lush green trees and vines withered, as Van used all of her effort to pull out of the vision.

  Amaryl tugged at her, trying to keep Van grounded there. She showed Van one last image before the vision faded, of her removing the mask of her lover . . .

  Van jolted back to the present, but not before she had seen the warrior’s face.

  Her eyes snapped open. Brux’s face hovered over her, wild with worry. Why was it that every time she regained consciousness, she was on the floor with her head in Brux’s lap?

  “She’s waking up!” Paley said. Her glistening, electric blue eyes stared down at Van.

  Brux’s brow crinkled. “You’re all sweaty and flushed.”

  His comment made Van blush deeper. She sat up, a little too fast, making her lightheaded. She noticed they weren’t in the crowded tavern anymore.

  “We were so worried,” Elmot cooed, clucking around her like a mother hen.

  “You okay?” Jorie asked, concern echoed in her eyes—about Van’s weakness as a warrior and how she might have to compensate for it.

  “You’ll stop at nothing to get into Brux’s lap,” Paley quipped.

  Although it was a joke, Van swore she heard a subtle tone of resentment.

  While she lay unconscious, they had moved her upstairs to the room supposedly under renovation. The two sentinels still played cards in the corner, with the new addition of Noam.

  “Diamonfitz. Strong stuff,” said Noam, when Van caught his eye. “Don’t know what Zaney was thinkin’ giving that to you. It’s for heavy drinkers only. Though no one usually faints after one sip. That’s a first.”

  “It’s the damn Gemstones again!” Brux growled.

  “There’s nothing we can do about that now,” Jorie said.

  Brux stood face-to-face with Jorie. “Is there any way to fix this?”