The Onyx Vial (Shadows of The Nine Book 1)

by Lampley, Alexis

  "What about the Onyx Vial?" Solaine suggested after a moment, her eyes falling on Ariana.

  Maiza turned to Master Crowe. “Is it possible to have the information gathered by your department?”

  Ariana noticed a navy coat with shiny silver buttons, similar to Master VanDaren's, draped over the back of his chair. Clearly, he was an important Shadow official. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop for a moment. “I believe, considering your intended purpose for that information, it is within your access rights.”

  Maiza brightened. “Wonderful. How soon can we expect to have it?”

  Master Crowe tapped his temple. “It’s all in here.”

  Maiza eyed Asrea. “Will my daughter or her guest breach the rights?”

  A knot formed in Ariana's stomach.

  Master Crowe’s face took on a conspiratorial gleam. He leaned in and spoke softly in Maiza’s ear. Ariana caught only fragments. “…evidence … Dragon … remains … time … threat … with it … your daughter … regarding … no … witness … She … our side.”

  Anticipation rattled through the room, skittering over Ariana’s flesh and lodging itself in her chest.

  Maiza nodded. “I understand.” She turned to Ariana, her mouth set in a grim line.

  Ariana’s heart sank. So she wasn’t trusted to be part of the conversation after all. Sure, she had other things to deal with at the moment, but she would've liked to be included—to be a Shadow in more than just name—especially in a conversation with influential members regarding such a legendary mystery as the Onyx Vial.

  "You must promise me that what you hear in this conversation remains with you."

  Ariana gaped. "You mean I'm included?"

  Maiza smiled. "Why, yes, of course, Keemeone."

  She was suddenly light-headed, and honored. So this is what it felt like to be included.

  "Asrea, my love, would you be so kind as to retrieve my documents on this from the office?" The warmth in Maiza's voice stung. It had been too long since Ariana had heard that tone from her own mother.

  "The ones you showed me a few days ago?" Asrea asked.

  Maiza nodded and turned to Master Crowe. "Ramse. While my daughter searches, let us discuss what we know, by truth and speculation.”

  "The Onyx Vial was hidden by a member of the Fyrennian family more than two hundred years ago," Solaine said.

  “Truth,” said Madame LeMeureau. “An exile, I believe.”

  “That last bit’s speculation," Frumple countered.

  “If not an exile, then who—with the name Fyrenn—would relinquish the Onyx Vial?” LeMeureau replied.

  “Gunnar Fyrenn,” Frumple retorted.

  “Only after he’d used it,” LeMeureau fired back.

  Master Crowe cleared his throat. “Perhaps Solaine's suggestion, and Milton and Oriel’s addition, should remain within speculation."

  Milton humfphed.

  “On that note,” Crowe plowed on. “A confirmed truth: Contrary to popular theory, the Onyx Vial was not used in the Great Unraveling.”

  “Its contents were,” Maiza added.

  “That’s a truth?” Ariana wondered aloud.

  Maiza cocked a brow and smiled conspiratorially.

  “Truth.” Solaine continued. “It’s fatal to the touch.”

  “Ah, but it wasn’t always,” Crowe cut in.

  “Sure, when there were simultaneous elements in contact with it,” Solaine replied. “But that’s hardly possible now.”

  “Not entirely impossible, Solaine,” Maiza reminded her.

  "Point taken," Solaine acquiesced. "Though I wonder if the Tierens would ever risk testing themselves with it.”

  Ariana's cheeks warmed at the mention of her race. Were they saying someone like her could withstand the power of the Vial?

  “There are some,” Crowe quietly answered.

  "Certainly not my boys," Maiza said. "But, yes. There are some."

  So there were other Tierens in Bolengard besides the twins?

  “How many elements can withstand it?” Asrea asked, returning with a box in her hands.

  “Several of my documents have mentioned the possibility of two—in passing,” Maiza said, gesturing for Asrea to sit.

  Asrea placed the box in the middle of the table and sat.

  “I, for one, would not risk it, should I be blessed with the Tieren race,” LeMeureau announced.

  “Nor I,” said Frumple, who reached into the box and picked out a stack of pages.

  “You would have nothing to fear, should you change your minds,” Crowe told them. “Our intelligence confirms that one need only two races to survive contact.”

  “Contact.” Solaine clasped her hands and set them in her lap. “But what of prolonged exposure? Certainly there would be ill effects.”

  “From what we have gathered, prolonged physical contact with the Vial—such as carrying it in a pocket or by hand—will not harm a Tieren for ten, maybe fifteen days. After such time, the individual will become rapidly, violently ill. Their bodies will shut down. In contrast, a Tieren can remain in close vicinity of the Vial for nearly an entire season. Unfortunately, all others at the same distance will last just a week.”

  “So you wouldn’t expect to find it anywhere near a town, wherever it is,” Asrea said.

  “Not without some kind of protection. A stone like Orenate, perhaps," Crowe answered.

  “Speculation,” Asrea added. “King Fyrenn is searching for it, but it’s too well hidden.”

  Master Crowe put his weight on his elbows. “That’s actually a truth.”

  Asrea sat back, and whispered to Ariana, “I knew it.”

  “Of course you did, Asrea,” Maiza chided. “Your father has been spying in the compound for the last fifteen years. And you, I’m sorry to say, may have inherited his propensity for sticking your ears in places they don’t belong.”

  The entire table chuckled. Ariana turned her attention to the pages Frumple was scattering over the table. Did those two ever argue?

  If only my father was alive. Things would be different.

  “Then it shouldn’t come as a surprise,” Asrea began, with a sly smile, “that I also know that the drinker of the Vial’s contents becoming immortal is a truth.”

  Ariana's hand hovered over the page she'd reached for.

  Everyone else's eyes were as wide as Scales.

  Crowe frowned. “That is very recent intelligence. How did you come upon such information?”

  Asrea tipped back in her chair, grinning, as if what she said had not made every jaw in the room drop to the tabletop. She shrugged. “I may or may not have eavesdropped on a Stratton. Or two.”

  Maiza shook her head. “Asrea Taviani Dae. I should've known.”

  "It disturbs me to hear that you've managed to glean information like that from our two best operatives," Master Crowe said. Then his serious demeanor shifted to something like pride. “You’ll be a member of the Dragon Order yet, Asrea.”

  Maiza’s easy features hardened. Her lips thinned to a tight line and the color in her rich brown cheeks faded. Ariana looked at Asrea, prepared to see her humbled by her mother’s response. But Asrea just flashed a toothy smile.

  Ariana glanced at Maiza again. Her expression was filled once more with her usual vague delight. For a blink, Ariana wondered if she herself had projected that response upon Asrea’s mother.

  Annoyed at herself, Ariana scooped up the pages and flipped through them absently, not taking in any of the words.

  “So if King Fyrenn ever finds the Onyx Vial, he’ll be unstoppable,” Solaine stated.

  “Yes.”

  Ariana flipped a page and froze. There was a picture on it. A little line drawing at the bottom right-hand corner. The caption read: This 300-year-old illustration, a family heirloom until it was donated to a private collector in 765, may be the only visual record of the legendary Onyx Vial.

  She peered closer at the inked sketch and bit down hard to keep from gasping.
It was almost identical to the drawing in Hunter’s documents. The only difference was that the vial in Hunter’s was shaded to an Onyx black, while this illustration had a few diagonal lines of shading over the white body of the vial.

  Actually, the lines were too well spaced to be shading. They were almost like the strips of silver on the handle of that broken—

  She stopped breathing.

  The pieces fell into place so forcefully, the world compressed around her.

  It wasn’t a dagger at all.

  Heedless of the group and their continued discussion, Ariana fished Hunter’s documents out of her boot and folded them flat on her lap. She held the images next to each other under the table, studying their likenesses.

  One black, one white. Both with bottoms that tapered to a rounded point. Both with intricately detailed stoppers that flowed over onto the vial itself, like a lid.

  With a fingernail, Ariana drew the crossguard and the broken blade over the stopper on the white, inked vial. She leaned back, letting the light catch the indentations, and a chill ran up her spine.

  It was the hilt from the armoire.

  The Onyx Vial was disguised as a dagger. And it was currently sitting on a shelf in the Strattons’ front room.

  Chapter 20

  Harold charged through the thick wooden double doors at the top of the twentieth stairway. Killian followed him into the office as closely as he dared, George on his heels.

  “Big problem,” Harold announced.

  Xalen Dae, stood behind a desk, in the arched opening of the balcony, like a dark specter framed by the city’s red-gold light. Bolengard stretched out behind him, the tops of the tallest buildings falling short of his lofty perch.

  It was hard for Killian to match this man to that of the beaten and tortured spy whose words had changed his life. But they were one in the same.

  His eyes, reddish-brown like the surface of Helede, locked on Killian. His hands worked patiently at the top button of his navy cloak, the Fyydor race mark shining clear and pale as the moon against his dark skin. “Prince Fyrenn.” His voice was deeper, slower, more assured than it had been as he begged for his life on the floor of that rank, rotten cell in the Compound.

  Killian pulled his shoulder blades together and lifted his chin. “Xalen Dae.”

  The button loosed, freeing Xalen’s high collar from his neck, revealing a newly formed scar—a reminder of the blade Killian had pressed there not so long ago, when his father had assigned Xalen's execution as Killian's final trial.

  Killian squeezed the necklace he carried in his fist. The pendant’s sharp corners bit into his skin, mixing his blood with what remained of his mother’s. He winced.

  Xalen watched him carefully. “My presence upsets you.”

  His mother’s lifeless eyes. The look on her face when she'd defiantly confessed her part in freeing Xalen and the subsequent coverup. The sound of her screams echoing through the great hall as the life burned out of her. Killian drew in a steadying breath. “No.”

  Xalen turned his attention to George and Harold, who stood, arms clasped behind their backs, with twin looks of impatience.

  “Xalen…” Whatever else Harold said was spoken in his expression.

  Xalen acknowledged Harold with the slightest nod, then turned back to Killian, gesturing at the Strattons. “My men have risked their lives on your behalf. Something I know goes against everything they stand for.”

  Killian shifted his weight, stifling agitation.

  "It seems that you've gained their trust.” He brushed his fingers over the scar on his neck. “Mine you've had since you dropped that blade.”

  Killian's gut twisted with the memory.

  Xalen refocused. “What you hear within this office will remain with the four of us and no one else,” he said. “Do not betray our trust, Killian.”

  The title-drop stung. But he let the emotion roll off of him. He was not the leader here. In the eyes of these men, his father was not King.

  “I've seen what trouble you caused in the Royal Compound,” Xalen continued. “You fared better there than you will here, should you cross us.”

  A veiled but deadly threat.

  Killian inclined his head in assent.

  “Now. What big problem?” Xalen asked the Strattons.

  “The Orenate,” George answered. He tucked a loose strand of his steel grey hair behind his ear. “It’s gone.”

  Xalen’s eyes widened.

  “Disintegrated,” Harold explained.

  George nodded. "The Vial is completely exposed."

  Though he’d seen the Onyx Vial with his own eyes that very day, Killian felt a trill of wonder at the mention of it.

  “In five days?”

  “Everything we know about the Orenate indicates a breakdown rate one hundred times slower than this,” George continued. “Something has changed. Affected it.”

  “What?”

  “Could be anything.”

  Xalen’s strong jaw worked back and forth. “How long do we have?”

  Killian frowned. How long until what?

  Harold cleared his throat. “Twenty days.”

  “For a Tieren,” George added.

  Silence.

  Xalen ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, his eyes on the floor. “The rest of us die within a week.”

  Now he understood. They were trying to determine how long they had before the Vial’s powers seeped into its surroundings, turning the air toxic. But something in what they said was off. “Where did you get this information?”

  The three men eyed him like wolves guarding their territory.

  “Because it’s inaccurate,” he elaborated.

  Xalen narrowed his eyes. “In what way?”

  Killian stood tall, puffing out his chest. He could hear the scoff in Xalen’s tone and he didn’t appreciate it. Especially from the man who owed him his life. “The races of Tieren connected to air can last for twenty days in the presence of the Onyx Vial. But the others will become violently ill within ten.”

  Every muscle in Harold’s body tensed.

  Xalen’s ruddy-brown eyes grew red like heated coal. “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely.” He’d spent too many hours poring over those documents in his father’s chambers not to remember the details.

  Xalen rubbed his palms together, gathering static between them, his expression weary. “Harold and my sons are the only other Tierens in Bolengard besides you, Killian. None of them are connected to air. You would outlive us all, if it stays here.”

  Killian quickly calculated their options for survival. It didn’t look promising. Not unless they did what they were all trying to avoid doing: handing the Vial over to him.

  “That leaves us seven days, at best, to get the Vial all the way there,” George murmured.

  Xalen started to pace. “The Ionians will have the Orenate ready…”

  Ionians? “Wait. Why take it to Ionia at all?” There was obviously Orenate in Helede. It would be far easier and faster to get to.

  Harold’s moldy brown eyes locked on Killian.

  “Because,” Xalen spoke through the hand he covered his mouth with, “thanks to your father, Bolengard doesn’t have the resources or the capability to destroy the Vial on our own. And after this problem with the Orenate dissolving, we can't guarantee a trip that long will yield us stone that will do its job and suppress the Vial's etâme.”

  So they were going to destroy it.

  George added. “Finding a way could take…”

  “Years,” Harold finished.

  Xalen nodded solemnly. “Which we don’t have.”

  George rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands while the other two lost themselves in thought. “We may not have enough days just to get the Vial safely out of here,” he muttered. He let his arms drop. “There are so many factors in play. How fast Master Hallowell can work on the book. Where we’ll arrive. How far that point is from Ruekridge…”


  “I hear you’ve acquired an excellent resource for that intelligence,” Xalen noted.

  George’s expression hardened. He stared out at the city. “Ariana has become a liability,” he said, sounding defeated. “She’s not to be given any information regarding the portal book until we get the Vial out of Bolengard.”

  “If we get it out,” Xalen amended.

  An idea ignited in Killian’s mind and he said the thing no one dared say. “If you get it out, let me take it. I’m Tierenvar. That buys us twenty days."

  His eyes like a hunting falcon, Harold stalked toward Killian. “Convenient,” he growled.

  Killian planted his feet and leaned into Harold’s charge, the threat of the man’s mood like hands circling his neck. “What is?” he challenged.

  Harold halted, their faces so close together that Killian could smell the charred meat that lingered on Harold’s breath.

  “All of it.” Harold’s brown eyes blackened. “You. The Vial. The timing.”

  They glared at each other as Killian processed what Harold implied. Fire itched under his skin. “You think I planned this, old man?” he snapped. “I’m trying to help.”

  “Yourself.”

  “Harold.” Xalen’s deep voice reverberated around the stone walls of the office.

  Neither Killian nor Harold acknowledged him. Static built in the space between them. But Killian couldn’t tell who caused it. He feared it might be himself.

  As much as he wanted to throw fire at Harold’s face, two thoughts rang loudest in his mind: first, fighting any one of these men would not engender trust. And second, Harold was more than capable of taking Killian on. A fight would not end well on either count.

  Slowly, steadily, he backed himself down, soothing the prickle of etâme in his palms as Xalen spoke.

  “Killian’s race is a turn of fortune,” he said, his tone commanding. “Convenient? Yes. But rarely are we afforded the luxury of convenience. So let us not squander it.”

  Had Harold but the power to kill with a look.

  Killian took a step away, initiating a silent agreement of peace.

  “Xalen,” Harold's voice shuddered with barely controlled rage. His glare never wavered from Killian’s face. “I would rather see Bolengard decimated than hand the Onyx Vial over to the son of the King.”