She shakes her head. “Not in the traditional sense.”
I furrow my brows as I look up at her. “What does that mean?”
She sighs. “You’ve proven that you can heal external wounds, but I still question your ability to heal internal injuries.”
I look at the fawn, then back at Estelle. “How do you know it has internal injuries?”
“The more time you spend as an active Caldari, the more you pick up on injuries that are of the natural world, and what injuries are of the magickal world.”
I shift my attention back to the fragile animal. “The discoloration?” I whisper.
“Yes,” Estelle answers. Her voice is soft, gentle.
I suddenly feel a rush of anger overcome me. “A Caldari didn’t do this, right?”
Estelle shakes her head. “It was Tymond’s Savant.”
I can’t help but grit my teeth. “Were they here?”
“It looks like it.”
Without another word, I place my hands on the fawn’s side. The animal seems nervous, almost frightened, but it doesn’t move. Large black eyes stare at me, pleading to end the pain. I close my eyes and focus, once again trying to latch onto the pure tethers buried deep within me. I find some and reach for them, desperately, but they pull away, like a spider retreating to its web, at a moment’s notice.
I open my eyes. To my dismay, there is no soft white glow. The fawn whimpers. I try again. Deeper and deeper I go until I’m surrounded by darkness. There is no light, nothing pure to latch onto. I must have used everything I had with Juniper.
I open my eyes again and remove my non-glowing hands from the fawn.
“What’s wrong?” Estelle asks.
I don’t want to say it aloud, but I know I have to. My eyes meet hers. “I’m not strong enough yet.”
RYDAN HELSTROM
EACH DAY SINCE Xerin’s visit, Rydan has to remind himself not to jump to conclusions when he sees Gladys. Secretly, he hopes and prays for Gladys to morph into the crimson-eyed man, but as of yet, no such luck. It feels as though time is ticking by ever so slowly, and each day without news is like another nail in Elvira’s coffin.
His thoughts flit briefly to Arden. After Xerin had mentioned he knew of Arden’s whereabouts, a flurry of emotions had come over him. The first was anger, for how she’d behaved during the Soames’s mission. The second was betrayal, for when he’d woken up to find that she’d fled with their heads—his only proof to show Tymond they’d actually been decapitated—and left him all alone. And the third was relief, for he now knew that she was okay.
Rydan bangs his head against the stone wall, his hands sliding along the damp, mossy floor. If he doesn’t see Xerin today, he’s almost certain he’ll go insane. He’d left on a whim and hadn’t thought to leave a semblance of a plan for Rydan. There’s no sense of comfort, no inkling of security. Leaving his fate up to the Caldari?
What a foolish move.
Someone enters the dungeon. Even in the dim lighting, he can tell it’s not Gladys. This shadow is much wider and much taller. Another large figure, of similar stature, appears behind the first. Rydan gulps as the figures approach him. Their methodical footsteps, perfectly in sync, are enough to cause serious panic. He scoots further back into his cell, knowing full well that they’re coming for him, albeit he doesn’t know the reason why.
“Rydan Helstrom?” a gruff voice asks.
He stays silent, hoping that maybe they’ll take him for dead, or better yet, previously removed by another guard.
“Rydan Helstrom!” the guard repeats, louder this time.
It crosses his mind not to respond for a second time, but he thinks better of it. He pushes himself to his feet and scurries to the front of the cell. He winces as his chapped, calloused hands close around the icy bars. It stings.
He can clearly see the guards’ faces now. One has steel gray eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a long brown beard that covers half of his face. The other is clean-shaven and has sharp, angular features. His hazel eyes bore into Rydan’s.
“You’re coming with us,” the bearded one says.
For a moment, Rydan considers saying Xerin’s name out loud. This could be him, plus one of his other Caldari, who have come to break him out of the dungeon; but something stops him. That look in their eyes . . . no, they’re not Caldari.
They’re Tymond’s guards.
The bearded man unlocks the cell while the other readies the shackles. Rydan takes a sharp breath when the metal hits his wrists, but it doesn’t stop there. The guard secures a chain around his waist, then moves down to his feet, where he locks more restraints into place. The metal is heavy on his skin. How do they expect me to walk with these things on?
The bearded guard leads the way and the other walks behind him, pushing him every so often for not moving fast enough. The stairs are the most brutal. It takes every ounce of effort for him to pull his legs up onto each steep step. When they finally make it to the top, Rydan is sure he’s going to collapse, but the guard places his arms underneath his shoulders and holds him upright.
He eyes a canteen hanging off the front guard’s belt. “Water,” he says, his voice hoarse.
The guards exchange a look, but the one supporting most of Rydan’s weight says, “Just give it to him. It’ll make this a lot easier.”
The other guard obliges and unscrews the cap to the water. He holds it just above Rydan’s mouth and begins to pour until the water comes out in a steady stream. It splashes around his mouth as he tries to get every last drop and, before he knows it, the stream stops and the guard is replacing the canteen back onto his belt.
“Thank you,” Rydan whispers.
“Now come on, you’re going to be late.”
Rydan looks over his shoulder to face the guard, suddenly feeling fully alert. “Late for what?”
The guard gives him a crooked smile. “Didn’t you hear? Your trial’s been moved up.”
DARIUS TYMOND
TODAY IS THE day Clive is to return with his findings. After his meetings with Landon, Benson, and Julian earlier this week, Darius is anything but hopeful. Bad news seems to travel in threes, but his guess as to what Clive will bring back, if anything, is beyond comprehension. He’d sent Landon, Benson, and Julian to their chambers, not wanting to delegate yet another mission until his fourth Savant member returns.
It’s well into the evening when a light knock sounds from behind the Great Room doors. Darius straightens before yelling, “Come in!”
Never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d ever be happy to see Clive Ridley; but as the door opens wider, his glee—and the promise of everything he’d imagined in his head—fades. Clive is alone.
Which means he didn’t find Arden.
Darius breathes in through his nose, hoping to appear calm and collected even though he is anything but. “Sir Ridley,” Darius says with a nod of his head.
“My King,” Clive responds with a polite bow. “I have good news, and I’m afraid I have bad news as well.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Darius mutters under his breath.
Clive takes a step forward and puts a hand to his ear. “My apologies, I didn’t quite catch that.”
Darius waves a hand dismissively in the air. “Commence with the bad news.”
Clive removes his fur hat as he approaches the throne. “The bad news is that I didn’t find the girl.”
Darius sighs, even though this is exactly what he’d expected. “And the good news?”
“I think I have a better idea as to where the Caldari are stationed.”
At this, Darius straightens up and leans forward. “Oh? Can you expand upon that?”
Clive wrings the hat in his hands. He looks nervous, anxious even, and it’s a first for Darius to witness. “You see, My King, after searching for days for Arden without any promising leads, I decided I would leave a sort of trap. I found a fawn in the Thering Forest and poisoned it with
occinum.”
Darius sits back in his seat. Occinum. It had been a while since he’d heard the term. One of the older Savant members had created a concoction of poisonous herbs and spices, then laced it with a magickal compound. Depending how much a person, or animal, was given, the effects could be immediate or drawn out for days.
Darius nods. “Continue.”
“I left the fawn there for a few days and upon my return, checked its vitals.” He clears his throat, but doesn’t continue.
“And?” Darius presses.
He hesitates before saying, “And someone tried to heal its internal injuries . . . using illusié.”
Darius can feel his palms start to sweat. He licks his lips as he digests the information. “Who in the Caldari has healing powers?”
Clive gives him a wicked grin. “To my knowledge, My King, none of them.”
Darius rubs his chin as he processes the information. “I was hoping they wouldn’t find her yet.” Thoughts continue to swarm his mind as he taps his fingers together in front of his face. He brings them to the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, looses a breath, then looks directly at Clive. “But it has to be her.”
Clive holds his gaze. “How should we proceed, Your Majesty?”
Darius lowers his hands into his lap. “Round up the rest of the Savant,” he declares. “We have a lot of work to do.”
CERYLIA JARETH
CERYLIA STANDS IN waiting just outside Opal’s bedchambers. The suspense is killing her, but she has to remind herself to be patient. Opal promised she would call her in when the time is right, but it feels as though she’s been waiting for centuries. If only Opal could speed up time and fast-forward through it all—now wouldn’t that be something?
As if on cue, the door creaks open. Cerylia steps back as the girl’s head pops out.
“We’re ready,” she whispers. She ushers the queen into the room and closes the door quickly behind her. “This way.”
When Cerylia turns around, she almost loses her footing. Blood-red eyes meet hers. She opens her mouth to speak, but not so much as a gasp comes out.
Opal comes to the rescue. “Queen Cerylia Jareth, this is Xerin Grey, the most senior member of the Caldari.”
Xerin doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod, doesn’t bow. He stands completely still and maintains unwavering eye contact.
Even though they’ve only just met, Cerylia senses that this is a power play. He wants to see her off her game, caught off-guard. She straightens up and takes a step forward, then, with the utmost confidence, extends her hand out and says, “It’s nice to meet you, Xerin.”
She’s somewhat surprised when he returns the gesture, his firm grip meeting hers. “The pleasure is all mine, Your Greatness.”
Cerylia lets go and allows her arm to float gracefully back to her side. “So, you’re the most senior member of the Caldari? I never would have guessed.”
A hint of a smile touches his lips. “Just one of the many perks of being illusié.”
“I see,” Cerylia remarks, returning the smile. “Has Opal filled you in?” The mood in the room shifts, and she fears that she’s disrupted whatever positive energy was present before she’d arrived.
But Xerin’s words slice right through the tension. “She didn’t have to.”
Cerylia furrows her brows as she looks back and forth between him and Opal. “What does he mean?”
Opal opens her mouth to respond, but Xerin beats her to it. “I already knew. About Aldreda. Your husband.”
The words crash down on her like sleet during a torrential blizzard. “You . . . knew?” Waves of anger churn deep within her and she fears if she doesn’t leave the room now, she may unleash whatever wrath is growing inside of her. Her face tenses as her lips purse into a scowl. “Tell me how.”
Xerin doesn’t flinch at her harsh tone. “I’m the most senior member of the Caldari, remember? I see everything. I hear everything. I know everything.”
His response angers her even more. Before she can think another thought, Cerylia is flinging herself at Xerin, hands balled into fists, mouth open in an ear-piercing shriek.
Xerin catches her by the wrists and pushes against her. He doesn’t move, no matter how hard she tries. She shoves him, trying to get his back against the wall, but he’s like a statue, strong and sturdy. Indestructible.
And then, something unspeakable happens. As she’s seething and glaring into those crimson eyes, the color shifts, and suddenly she’s staring into familiar hazel eyes with a ring of bright gold illuminated around the pupils. Cerylia’s breath catches as she takes in the rest of the features. The elongated nose, the slightly puffy cheeks, the thin lips. The deep brown hair fastened into a low ponytail.
Her husband.
Impossible.
“Dane?” The word comes out as little more than a whisper.
“All is well, my love,” Dane murmurs. “You can let go.”
Tears prick Cerylia’s eyes. “I can’t. Not after what they—what she—did to you.”
“You will only find happiness when you learn to let go.”
“I can’t,” she says, her eyes welling with tears. “Please come back to me.”
He shakes his head. “It’s too late for that. Let go.”
And then, as suddenly as he arrived, Dane disappears. Beautiful hazel eyes are replaced by crimson colored irises.
Cerylia frees the tension in her arms along with the rest of her body. Her muscles go slack. Xerin must sense this because he immediately releases her wrists. She drops to the floor and begins to hyperventilate. Her head falls into her hands.
“What did you do?” Opal yells as she rushes to the queen’s side.
Xerin’s hands are still halfway lifted in the air. He looks at them as if they’ve just committed a heinous crime. “I . . . I—”
“What did you do?!” Opal shouts again, louder this time.
“I morphed into her late husband,” Xerin stutters. “I wasn’t even trying to—”
“Well, nice going,” Opal snaps. “You’ve made her hysterical.”
Sobs erupt and fill the room. Opal sits there with the queen, running her hands through her hair, rocking her back and forth—doing anything that might be soothing.
Xerin stays standing in the same spot, motionless. He’s quiet for a few minutes before asking, “What can I do?”
At this, Cerylia finally raises her head to look at him. Another tear falls from her eye.
“Get out,” she hisses. “Now.”
BRAXTON HORNSBY
BRAXTON SITS BY a crackling fire, flipping through a book Felix recommended he read. The majority of the pages are filled with mind strengthening exercises, but the only thing that really needs strengthening, in his opinion, is his sleep schedule. Ever since running away from the inn, sleep hasn’t come easy. Hanslow’s cries for help fill his nightmares every night and consume his thoughts every waking hour. There’s no getting away from it.
Having had enough, he slams the book shut and sets it on the wobbly wooden table next to him. He links the tops of his feet underneath the footrest and drags it a couple of inches closer, then sinks into the worn leather chair. Between the heat from the fire and the scent of pine trees just outside his window, it’s the first time he’s been able to clear his head. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.
It doesn’t take long for the feeling of serenity to pass. The door swings open, and in comes an irate Xerin. He begins stomping around the cabin, muttering profanities left and right about something indecipherable.
Braxton runs a hand through his rich platinum hair. “Impeccable timing. I was just about to get some shuteye.”
“You can sleep when you’re dead,” Xerin barks. He motions for him to stand.
Braxton groans and pushes the footrest away from the chair. “One day soon, I will get a good night’s rest in Orihia. Even if the lords condemn me, it will happen.”
X
erin ignores him. “I just left Sardoria.”
“Sardoria? Why were you there?”
Xerin shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, raking his hands through his hair. “We have to go back. I need you to do something for me.”
“Right now?” Braxton points to the window. “It’s pitch black out there! And you want to cross the Great Ocean and then trek all the way to Sardoria? That’ll take days!”
Xerin raises an eyebrow. “No it won’t. How do you think I got here so fast?”
Braxton shrugs his shoulders, too flabbergasted to speak.
Xerin morphs into a falcon to prove his point.
“Right, right,” Braxton says as he waves his hand in the air. “The only problem is, I can’t morph into anything.”
A sly grin stretches across Xerin’s face. “Who says you have to?”
Braxton squints as the wind whips against his face. He readjusts his grip on the scaly ridges of the creature’s back, hoping that he doesn’t fly off—or worse, get bucked off—into the cloudy abyss. Xerin, who’s now in dragon form, roars, making Braxton hold on just a little more tightly. It’s a good thing he does because the dragon nosedives but to where, Braxton can’t tell.
He screams as they plummet toward the ground, then stops when they start to even out again. His heart pounds in his chest like a beating drum, and he can’t tell if this is actually how dragons fly, or if dragon-Xerin is doing it on purpose. His gut tells him it’s the latter.
It doesn’t take long for them to land on stable ground. Even though they’re surrounded by darkness, Braxton deliberately tumbles off the dragon, landing with a thud on the ground. He shields his eyes as a soft yellow glow illuminates around the creature. Within seconds, Xerin stands before him, buck-naked.
Braxton shields his eyes again, this time out of respect.
“Clothes,” Xerin demands.
Braxton removes the pack and rifles through it, pulling out the trousers, tunic, and boots they’d packed earlier. He tosses them to his companion, making sure to keep his eyes lowered.
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