Hand and Talon (World of Kyrni Book 1)

by Melonie Purcell

  “I like her,” Dane insisted. “Does you got a name?” he called out to the creature who leaped through the trees as they rode.

  “I don’t think she can talk in her earth form,” Krea said. She had to agree with Dane, though; she liked the sheema, too. “Do faeries have names?” she asked Sorin.

  He shrugged. “Some do, I suppose. Faeries aren’t like us. They don’t build houses and plow fields. They live in nature; they are a part of nature. Take that sheema out of her forest, and she will die. She must have the Essence from the dirt and trees to live. That’s why the Nayli harbors so many of the fae. This forest is thick with the Essence. I know you can both feel it. So can the fae, and it’s what they must have to live.”

  Dane leaned forward and whispered, “So do that mean she got a name or she don’t got a name?”

  “I have no idea,” Krea whispered back. “Maybe we should give her a name.”

  “Aye. We could call her Mossy, ’cause she’s colored like the moss.”

  Krea twisted in the saddle to stare at Dane. She had been hoping he was joking, but his expression told her that he was completely serious. “Mossy?”

  Dane glared back. “Well, I don’t hear you saying nothing better.”

  “She’s not always green,” Krea argued.

  “Then what name does you think?”

  Krea thought for a moment. “How about Shyla?”

  “That’s a girl name!”

  “She’s a girl.”

  “No, she ain’t,” Dane countered. “She’s a faerie, and I don’t think faeries ought to be having no girl names.”

  “Maybe we should figure out what her real name is.”

  “Aye. Could you try talking to her like you does to the horses?”

  She hadn’t thought of that. What if she could? She couldn’t meld with Sorin, but the sheema seemed as much an animal as a person. “What if something bad happens? What if I scare her away?”

  “Well, you don’t know,” Dane said. “Could be it ain’t gonna work, but could be just as much that you can talk to her. All you can do is try it.”

  “You sound like the mage.”

  “Maybe that’s ’cause it was the mage what said it first.”

  Krea jumped on the opening. “What else did the mage say?”

  “Is you gonna try it or not?” It was time to give it up. She had been trying since Ryth to get him to talk, but he was guarding his secret as carefully as he guarded the burl.

  “Aye,” she mumbled. “But if she runs off, don’t start yelling at me.”

  “Just try it.”

  Krea elbowed him as best she could from the saddle and closed her eyes to focus. She didn’t worry about Caldir. As always, he was a horse-length behind Drindoc, following a narrow game trail through the lush eternity of green. She felt the horses' minds right away and carefully avoided contact. Instead, she reached out further. The forest pulsed with life. It brushed across her mind and made her think of walking through a wheat field and letting the heads run through her fingers. She pushed at one presence, then another, until finally she felt what she was sure had to be the curious energy of the sheema.

  Dane poked her hard in the side. “You did it! Do you see her? She’s looking at you. She was jumping along, then she just stopped and is looking at you like she is saying something. Did she say something?”

  Krea wanted to choke him. “I don’t know if she said anything, because you stuck your fingers in my ribs right when I was starting to meld.”

  “Oh.”

  She closed her eyes and tried again. This time, she knew what she was looking for. She sought out the excited energy, and in no time had focused in on the sheema.

  She tried to send it a word thought, but like with the horses, the sheema didn’t seem to understand. So, she tried the usual route and sent an idea. Conveying the concept of a name was more difficult than she anticipated. It took several tries before she finally managed it. She thought about herself and thought the word Krea to the sheema. Then she thought about Sorin and his name. She projected Dane similarly, focusing on a mental picture of the sheema. The feeling of excitement dampened, and the sheema hummed in her mind.

  Krea opened her eyes. The faerie was perched on a branch and trilling from deep inside her chest. Just when Krea was ready to give up the meld, the sheema answered. Krea’s mind turned to a memory of Dane standing with his clothes slung over his arm, and the sheema thought the word Dane to her. Then she saw a picture of Sorin standing with his arm outstretched. A feeling of challenge and rivalry filled her mind, and the word Sorin popped in as if it had been spoken.

  Krea’s image flashed into her mind, and it took a second for Krea to realize she was looking at herself. She didn’t see herself very often, and the vision in her mind did not reflect what she had seen. This memory belonged to the sheema, and in it, Krea was gaunt with sallow skin that rippled sporadically like a horse shaking off flies. The name Krea filled her thoughts.

  Finally, an image of the sheema crept in. She was covered with sparkling light that twinkled even in her mind. The word Cricket rang out as clearly as if the sheema had just yelled it from the tree.

  After another flash of memories that were not hers, the melding ended and Krea shook her head to get her bearings again. Dane had been suspiciously quiet through the whole experience. “Her name is Cricket,” she finally told him.

  “Cricket? That ain’t no kind of name for a faerie. You sure that’s what she’s called?”

  Krea nodded. “Absolutely sure.” She twisted in the saddle again to face him. “Do I look sick?” she asked.

  Dane scowled at her. “What kind a thing to say is that? No, you don’t look sick. You has stinky breath, but you ain’t got nothing wrong with you.”

  Krea was too unnerved to comment. She just turned back around and wondered why the faerie, why Cricket, had remembered her in such a disturbing way.

  ###

  They pressed forward with surprising speed. Even though the forest was thick, the ground was reasonably flat, and the day of rest had given the horses a second wind. Sorin was coming to life as well. The deeper into the Nayli they went, the more buoyant Sorin’s mood became until at times it bordered on jovial.

  Even though, by Krea’s calculations, they had been traveling for a little over two weeks, she could already see the forbidding peaks of the Morkeen Mountains rising up in the distance. On the rare occasions when their ragged lines poked out through the cloud cover, she would thank the goddess that Shaylith did not lie on the other side of them.

  In contrast to Sorin’s brightened mood, the sky took on a permanent gloom. When clouds, mist, and rain did not blanket the sky, the thick canopy of the forest pushed away the blue with leafy green and brown fingers. And the tension between Dane and Sorin matched the stormy weather. At times, the two would ride the entire day, barely speaking a word to each other, locked in a battle of wills. Dane wanted Sorin to teach him magic. Sorin wanted Dane to learn discipline first. Neither was willing to budge.

  Krea pulled her cloak on long before nightfall to block out the chilly mist that hung in the air, ever thankful of the extra lining that she had not ordered. When Sorin called a halt near an outcropping of rocks, all Krea could think about was the warm fire that he would soon have burning.

  The large boulders formed the foundation for a rough shelter constructed of fallen branches and strategically placed logs. The shelter hadn't been used in a while. Limbs lay crossways and in piles along its edge, but as Krea watched Sorin wedge the branches back in place, she realized that the shelter had been standing for many years. As she thought about it, she realized that many of their stops had been the same way. Fire pits already in place. Areas cleared for bedrolls. Ropes hanging from trees for suspending their food supply. Dry logs buried beneath brush.

  The mist turned to a slow drizzle as they dismounted, and Krea pulled her hood up over her head to ward off the worst of it. The thick air smelled of dirt and decay and wet hors
es.

  Krea and Dane fell into their familiar pattern without prompting. She pulled the tack off the horses and stowed their belongings to keep them dry and bug free while Dane collected wood for the fire and logs to sit on when they were available. Sorin set magical traps, checked for Dane’s pulks, and made sure the horses were safely off to graze and sleep. The entire process was completed in silence.

  Once she had safely stashed their belongings, Krea stepped back out into the rain to find the sheema. Cricket had been following them since the meadow. At first Sorin wanted no part of the faerie creature, but since Cricket brought them rabbits and squirrels every night for dinner, the two had struck a tentative truce.

  Instead of the sheema, Krea found Dane crouched down behind a boulder staring intently at a small pile of rocks, rain drizzling off his cloak. “You shouldn't be doing that,” she warned, whistling again for Cricket.

  “It ain't your worry what I do. Go away.”

  “Why won't you just do what Sorin says? It makes sense. Learn to grow something instead of always trying to tear things down.”

  Dane's face turned red, and one of the small rocks jumped. That was the only time he could make the rocks do his will. He had to be angry. She didn't know anything about magic, but she knew Sorin was right. Magic controlled by anger was magic out of control.

  “Sorin don't know everything. He won’t teach me ’cause he’s scared, that’s all.”

  Krea whistled again. The sheema was likely out hunting. “He won’t teach you because you won’t listen.” She pulled her cloak tighter and started to leave. Swimming in sand was easier than fighting with Dane.

  Krea sniffed the air and turned just in time to watch the sheema drop two dead squirrels out of a tree. She blurred into her earth form and leaped into Krea’s arms, trilling before she even landed.

  The faerie folded her ears back and whipped her tail around Krea’s waist. Water streamed from her coat, but she didn’t seem to notice. Krea was rubbing the back of her neck when Cricket’s ears popped up. She gave a little shake and leaped back into a tree. Without looking, Krea knew it would be Sorin. The two had made a truce, but they were far from friends.

  True to her guess, Cricket no sooner wrapped her tail around a branch than Sorin came slipping around the corner.

  Dane scrambled to look busy, but Sorin knew what he was about in an instant. Without missing a step, he smacked Dane on the back of the head and stalked over to the dead squirrels. “I told you.” He snatched up the squirrels, giving Cricket a cursory nod before turning to Dane. “You learn my way, or you don’t learn.”

  Dane's face flushed red, and he balled his hands into fists. One of the rocks from the pile shot toward Sorin’s face. His fae-hand reached up with magical speed and snatched the stone an instant before it cracked against his skull.

  As if he were squishing a beetle between his fingers, Sorin closed his wooden hand around the stone and reduced it to sand. “As you can see, Dane,” he said, leaning down to peer directly into the boy’s eyes. “Magic born of anger will never do your bidding.” He poked Dane hard in the chest. “You will do its bidding instead.” Sorin took a step back. The rain made the wood of his hand dark and shiny, and even scarier than usual. “Now, get in out of the rain. I don't need either of you getting sick.”

  When Krea turned back around, Cricket was gone.

  Dinner was strained and quiet. The tension between Sorin and Dane made the little shelter feel even smaller. Krea was more than eager to climb into her bedroll, if only to have something to do besides watch Dane seethe. She tucked the dagger and money bag in as usual and made a spot on her cloak for Cricket. The sheema always came in after the fire went out. Out of habit, Krea reached out to check on the horses, and froze. “Sorin. Something’s out there.”

  He looked past her for a second. “I don't feel it.”

  When Krea pushed her thoughts toward the horses again, the strange presence was gone. “I'm telling you, something was out there.”

  “The horses aren't concerned. Don’t worry about it.”

  Easy for him to say. She followed the spiral pattern on her arm with her finger, tracing it over and over. Three more braids had joined the ones the mage had given her, and she decided she liked the way they felt. She was kyrni, and she liked it. With that thought, she let the rich scent of wet earth and the patter of the rain against the rocks finally lull her to sleep.

  It felt like a heartbeat later when Dane’s elbow in her chest brought her swimming back to consciousness. She shoved him off and was preparing to retaliate when the dark gray sheema flashed over to Sorin and jumped on his back. In an instant, Sorin was on his knees, his bedroll in a puddle beside him, his sword in his hand. “I’m going to kill her,” he announced, but before he could track down the blur of gray now hanging upside down from the low roof, a sharp clicking stopped them all. No one spoke.

  Without a word, Sorin pulled on his boots and tunic and started toward the makeshift door. The sheema was right beside him. “You two stay here.”

  Dane and Krea hurried to dress, then stared at each other, listening for any sound that might tell them what was happening. Krea felt for the horses, but they were gone. Dane finally broke what felt like an eternity of silence. “What does you think it is?”

  Krea shook her head. She reached out again. She strained to hear or feel anything that might answer her questions, but the silence lingered on. The only smell she could discern was smoke from their fire, and wet wood.

  Just when she was about to search for the horses again, Sorin's battle cry ripped through the forest. He yelled and grunted, and Krea knew he was fighting for his life.

  She looked over at Dane. His face was aspen white. His eyes huge. His burl clenched in his fist. “Should we go out there?” he asked.

  “I don't know.” Another yell and a crash made up her mind. “We helped before, right?” She didn't wait for Dane to answer. She unsheathed her knife and headed for the opening. Dane pulled her back. “Bring the dagger,” he said.

  “Why? What if it turns gold again and someone sees it?”

  “It don't care if someone sees it. Just bring it, and let it do what needs doing.”

  Krea paused, considered who she was talking to, and swapped her knife for the dagger. “What does it do?”

  Dane didn’t answer. He was already running toward the screams and howls.

  They slid down a small hill and burst into a huge meadow. Krea froze. Chaos rained down on the field. Sorin's sunballs exploded in the faint dawn light. Proth dove at him from every side. With his sunball in one hand and his sword in the other, he slashed and heaved, but the proth were relentless. Even in the dim light, she could see the blood dripping from his sword.

  She pushed through a patch of scrub oak and ran toward Sorin. Goddess knew what good she could do, but she had to try.

  “Krea!“ Dane screamed.

  Before she could stop, a ball of matted fur and leathery wings crashed into the ground not an arm’s length in front of her. Krea slid to a stop on the dewy, wet grass and scrambled backward, but she slipped and fell on her rear. The proth’s wings crumpled beneath it, and patches of something sickly yellow coated its pungent fur. It swung its hairless face around and stared. Before she thought to look away, orange eyes fixed on Krea. She was paralyzed. Its mangled wings creaked and snapped as it twisted itself back onto all fours and pushed forward. Somewhere behind her, she heard Dane yell. Something about a dagger. His meaning was lost. She couldn't see past the orange.

  The proth gave another mighty shove. Yellow drool dripped across its face as it bared its needlelike teeth. She gagged from the stench. Hands snatched her collar and tried dragging her away. From somewhere behind her, a soft whoosh whipped by. The proth rolled onto its side and screeched.

  Krea shook her head to clear the swirling orange fog. The proth thrashed and fought, and it took a second before Krea could make out the gray blur that ripped at its throat.

  Whether
the dagger moved on its own or in answer to her bidding, Krea couldn't tell. One second she watched Cricket whipping around the dying proth, the next moment the dagger was plunged hilt deep into its matted fur.

  A desperate screech ripped through the air. Krea tried to pull the dagger free, but it wouldn’t budge. After twisting and yanking, she finally shoved her foot against the proth and jerked again. Instead of sliding out, the dagger grew warm in her hands.

  Dingy iron turned to gleaming gold. Her hands started to shake. Krea tried to release the dagger, but she could no more pry her fingers from the hilt than she could pull her bones from her body. She and the dagger were one.

  As the proth’s shriek tore through the meadow, warm, vibrant energy coursed up her arms and splintered into every crevice of her body. She wanted to add her own cry to that of the proth’s, only hers was of pure pleasure as her body drank in the life force the dagger sucked from its victim.

  Slowly, the gold darkened to crimson red, and the dragon that twisted around the hilt flared as bright as any sunball. The black stones pulsed like living things. Finally, with a burst of blinding light, the dagger slid free of the dead faerie. Krea fell backward and landed with a hard thump. The gold dagger still throbbed in her hand.

  For a brief moment, the meadow was quiet. Krea looked up and surveyed the clearing as if she were perched in a tree, casually taking in the battle. At least ten more proth dotted the meadow; three were dead, not counting hers. The living ones stared at her. She stared back.

  Sorin’s birch gaze caught her attention, and she realized that even he stared, his sunball glowing in his fae-hand. He was tired. Sweat streamed down his temples and his chest heaved. He blinked. Krea looked away, and her heart flopped over in her chest as she realized she had looked the proth dead in the eye as well. Nothing had happened. She tested again, but saw only the giant orange globes. They no longer held power over her.

  Sorin moved first, launching his sunball at the nearest proth. His sword followed, and the monster joined its brothers in the grass. Sparkles of light were gathering again when the gray blur jumped on her chest. “Hurry! Mean nyshi need help. Come help mean nyshi. Hurry!“