by Kara Jaynes
As we walked, I noticed the crowds beginning to thin. I thought it was my imagination at first, but the further we walked, the fewer people filled the streets. I turned an inquiring look at Fyrsil.
He nodded. “I noticed it too,” he said. “I think this city may have some kind of curfew. Strange.”
Fyrsil stopped in front of a square-shaped stone building. It looked the same to me as any of the other structures, if a little bigger.
“Why did we stop here?” I asked. He pointed at the sign hanging above the entrance. A black serpent coiled around a bared sword.
“Some kind of inn.” Fyrsil frowned at the sign.
The words were written in a language I didn’t understand. “I’m going to venture a guess and say it’s the ‘snake-coiled-around-a-sword’ inn.”
He rolled his eyes and I smiled, feeling a little of the pressure around my heart lift. We entered the inn together.
Several patrons were seated at tables or standing in groups, but some pushed past us, heading back outside.
Fyrsil made for the bar, me trailing after him like a lost shadow.
The innkeeper was a slim, pretty woman, who looked to be about Fyrsil’s age. Her chocolate brown hair was done in several little braids that went all the way down to her waist. She smiled at Fyrsil. “Looks like you’ve made it just in time for curfew.” She tilted her head to the side, considering him. “By the dragon, you look a lot like the king, stranger. Are you royalty?”
“Just a northern nomad passing through, I’m afraid.” Fyrsil winked at her, his smile disarming. His gaze wandered over the woman’s body, an eyebrow arched. “My sister and I are in need of a room, with a window, if you have it.”
The woman’s smile wavered a little when she saw me, clearly disappointed, but she plastered the smile back in place quickly. “Certainly.”
She led us up a staircase and down a long hallway before showing us our room. It was enormous, with two four-poster beds with canopies, thick rugs, and fine artwork on the walls. There was even a bookshelf, filled to capacity. I would have been thrilled in any other situation. As it was, I tapped my foot impatiently until the innkeeper left with a wink and a smile for Fyrsil. I then faced the outcast king, a glower on my face.
“I’m your sister?” I spat. “What happened to the original plan?”
“Jealous?” Fyrsil smirked at me. “You should have taken my offer back at Sen Altare, sweetheart.”
“I’m not jealous.” Sure as fire, he was more obnoxious than Bran on a bad day. “Why call me your sister? And why are we here anyway? We need to find Dahlia.”
Fyrsil sauntered over to the bookshelf, selecting a purple dyed, leather bound book. He flicked through the pages, bored. “To answer your first question, I thought the innkeeper pretty, and decided I better keep my options open. Hard to do that when you’re ‘married,’ right?”
“I don’t think you’d let that stop you,” I barked. “You had a boatload of wives back in Sen Altare.” I paused, a thought coming to me. “What happened to them anyway?”
Fyrsil’s mouth twisted in distaste. “Most of them weren’t willing to come with me, but two of them did. You saw one of them. Elenor. She served the hot drinks before the Twyli attacked my camp.”
I frowned, conjuring up the woman’s face in my memory. She’d been young and thin, with a shy smile. “Do you have any children?”
“Not many.” Fyrsil closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. “They stayed with their mothers in Sen Altare. Elenor and Saisin did not bear me any children.”
He pierced me with a blue-eyed stare. “And to answer your earlier question, we’re here because I suspected a curfew might be occurring, so I thought we’d duck in here for the moment. The last thing we want to do is attract attention.”
“You want to wait until morning?” That sounded even riskier.
The brigand rolled his eyes. “No, I want to wait until the vast majority of Twyli are in bed. Then we’ll make our escape.”
My brow furrowed. “How are we going to do that? Won’t the innkeeper see us?”
Fyrsil shook his head, still smiling. He walked over to one of the beds and flung himself into it, fully dressed and with his boots on. He wiggled his feet at me. “Care to pull these off? My feet are tired.”
I shook my head. “Not a chance. And why did the innkeeper ask you that funny question about royalty?”
Fyrsil sighed and laid his head on the pillows. “No idea. Wake me up in a couple of hours.”
“You’re sleeping?” I stared at him, aghast.
“I’m tired. I spent a good deal of energy bringing that wind along, remember? Two hours, Adaryn. Not before.”
I sighed with irritation, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly ten. I grabbed a few books and sat by the window, hoping to pass the time, but every time I tried to focus on the words, my mind conjured up images of Aaric and Dahlia. It was going to be a long two hours.
19
Aaric
Aaric threw the blankets off himself in agitation. He kept drifting off, but his dreams were unsettling—deep fog that obscured his vision, and a voice calling to him. He didn’t understand it. He’d had the dream every night for days.
Aaric grunted irritably, scowling at nothing. He had tried to take first watch, but Zero ignored him when he suggested he sleep, taking Fyrsil’s command to keep Aaric safe a little too seriously. Aaric could try and go after Adaryn, but knew there wasn’t any sense in that as he didn’t have the first clue where to start searching or how to get past the gates. No, there was only one thing he could do. He went outside, grabbing his rucksack as he went. Zero, sitting on the ground outside his tent, looked up at him in surprise.
“You can come with me, or you can stay here,” Aaric said, lighting a torch he pulled from his pack, “But this could be the only time I’m on a volcano and I’m going to make the most of it.”
It started to snow lightly. He set off on foot, making sure he didn’t go too far from camp. Zero, after a moment, padded after him silently. The brigand made Aaric a little nervous. He’d seen the outlaw in action, and knew he was a skilled fighter—more skilled than Aaric, anyway—and he didn’t want to have to cross swords with him. Zero made no aggressive moves however, and it wasn’t long before Aaric forgot about him.
The volcanic rock was black, pitted, and rough to the touch. When he put his palm flat against the porous surface though, he was disappointed to find that he couldn’t feel any heat emanating from it. Those Twyli had ripped it away with their magic.
“Here.” Lighting a torch, Aaric handed it off to Zero, who took it silently. Aaric yanked a knife from his pack and kneeling down, began to chip away at the rock. It would dull his blade, but what did that matter? There were plenty of knives to be found on the other side of the Dragon’s Tail Mountains, but no volcanoes, and if he were to ever go back, he wanted to make sure he had evidence. He smiled to himself, humming softly as he chipped at the rock. He scooped up some of the rock dust and pieces, and shoved them in his pocket.
He rubbed his hands with excitement and grinned at Zero. “Isn’t this exciting? A real volcano! I read about them in a children’s book my father gave to me when I was young, but I never suspected they might actually be real.”
He motioned the brigand to follow him, and they started walking along the crater’s edge. Aaric looked down at the city, miles below. He hoped Adaryn was safe. If Fyrsil let anything happen to her . . .
He walked up to a jagged rock that was taller than he was. He peered at it with narrowed eyes in the wavering light of the torch that Zero still held for him. It was nice, having an assistant. He briefly wondered if he could convince Adaryn to be his assistant in his studies. Probably not. She wasn’t nearly patient enough.
A clatter of rock sounded behind them. Zero and Aaric whirled around as one, the brigand unsheathing his sword in the same movement.
Nothing. Aaric peered into the gloom. Between the blackness of
the rock and the falling snow, he couldn’t see a thing past Zero’s torch. He and the brigand waited a minute, than another. Zero walked a short way from where they’d come, head tilted slightly, listening. Still nothing.
Aaric turned back to the rock and yelled in alarm as the ground buckled and shifted beneath him. He tried to keep his footing but stumbled, falling to his knees. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Zero crouched several feet away, trying to make his way back to him. He wasn’t making much headway with the ground quaking as it was. Aaric turned, hoping to make his way back to camp, when the ground split open under his feet and he fell into darkness.
20
Adaryn
Two hours. I put my book down. It was filled with legends of dragons, and claims of how they had been the powers that shaped this world. I wasn’t sure how much stock I put in those tales, but it was interesting to note that some legends of the Twyli were similar to stories of the nomads.
I stood, walked over to Fyrsil, and nudged him in the shoulder. “Wake up.”
The outlaw sat up with a loud snort, blinking at me. “I thought I said two hours, woman. Not ten minutes.”
I pointed at the clock and he peered at it with red-rimmed eyes. “Oh. Well then. Time to make our escape.”
“How are we going to do that?” I asked. He had yet to tell me.
In response, the tall man walked over to the window and pushed it open, letting a chill wind blow in. It was snowing again. I looked at the folded gliders we’d brought in. “I don’t think those will fit through the window unfolded.”
“We’re not using gliders.” He walked back to the bed, stripping the sheets off, and began tying the corners together. I watched him somewhat dubiously.
“You plan to climb out the window using that?” A more alarming thought occurred to me. “You plan to have me climb out the window using that?”
“I’m one hundred percent confident in my sheet-tying skills,” Fyrsil replied, pulling another knot tight. “Trust me, I’m a professional. I’ve been doing this since I was a boy.”
“Escaping from your mother?” I smiled, envisioning a child-sized Fyrsil scrambling out of the top window of a leaning building in the Tyrko Ruins.
“Yes.” Fyrsil had bound all the sheets and blankets of his bed together and moved to the second bed. “My mom stuck me in timeout, once, for snitching another brigand’s silver. I tied every last scrap of clothing in my room together to make a rope and escaped before she knew what happened.”
He chuckled, recalling the memory. “Course, I received quite the spanking when I went back home that night. Didn’t stop me from escaping again though. Once you get that first taste of freedom . . .”
“Always a free spirit,” I finished. I understood what he meant. Freedom was in a magic users blood.
“That’s right.” Fyrsil had tied all the sheets and blankets together to make one long rope. Tying it off on the bedpost closest to the window, he threw the rest of it out the window, leaning out to see how far it went. “Perfect.” He looked at me. “Which one of us goes first?”
“You,” I insisted. “If your knots are as good as you say they are, then you shouldn’t have a problem.”
Fyrsil rolled his eyes and gripped the makeshift rope, lifting one leg over the ledge. My heart skipped a beat when he put his other leg over the ledge, but even fully supporting himself with the line of bed sheets, it held. His hair blew in his face and he released the rope with one hand to push the strands out of his face.
I reached out and grabbed his hand. “You’re going to fall to your death!” I hissed. “Be careful!”
“I didn’t realize you cared,” he snorted. Slowly, he began lowering himself, hand after hand, until he reached the end of the rope, then released it to drop to the ground only a couple of feet below. His pale face looked up at me. “Your turn. Hand the gliders down and put out the candle before you come out.”
Picking up the gliders, I leaned out of the window, lowering one down and then the other. I blew out the candle, swathing our room in darkness. I walked to the window and reached down, grabbing the rope. My jaw hurt, I was clenching it so hard. I gripped the sheets with my other hand and slowly let myself out the window. For one long, panicked moment, my feet dangled in thin air. I frantically kicked my feet out, and my boots made contact with the side of the inn with a thump.
“Hush, you’re going to wake the entire inn.” Fyrsil clicked his tongue impatiently.
Hand after hand, I lowered myself with painstaking slowness. My arms began to ache with the strain. I looked down, which was a horrible mistake. I was still several feet above ground. “I think I’m going to fall,” I squeaked.
“Keep going, Adaryn, you’re almost there,” Fyrsil’s voice sounded from below me. “And this is just my opinion, but your petticoats look very fancy for a traveling nomad, you know.”
“Fyrsil!” I breathed through clenched teeth. “If I ever get out of this, I’m going to—” My arms gave out and I fell. I didn’t have time to even scream before strong arms caught me, saving me a cracked skull—or worse. The outcast king held me for a moment while I tried to slow my breathing. I almost died from this fool plan of sheets and windows!
“You fit quite nicely in my arms.” Fyrsil’s breath tickled my ear. “Why don’t we forget this whole business of lost children and Aaric and run away together? You are quite fetching.”
I pushed myself away from him and he set me down. “Quite messing around,” I glowered at him. “Let’s get back to finding the girl.”
Fyrsil sighed. “So boring. All right then, let’s do this.” He set off down a side street, walking quickly. His strides were so long I had to run, lifting my skirts to keep pace.
The city was completely deserted, not a soul to be seen. The snow was a light layer on the black stone streets. The lamps still glowed, but the blue light was now muted.
Fyrsil walked the sure, swift steps of someone who knew where he was going. He never hesitated at crosswalks, and never stopped to gain his bearings. Strange for a man who’d never been in the city before. I mentioned it.
He glanced at me, disgusted, before replying, “Can’t you feel it, Adaryn?”
I frowned at him, puzzled, but then I felt it too. I hadn’t noticed it, desensitized by the constant flow of magic. There was a deeper thread of magic underneath it all. A stronger, darker magic. It confused me. How could magic be dark? ‘Dark’ wasn’t even the right word for it, but I couldn’t think of anything better to describe it. There was something wrong with the enchantment. But it was strong. The magic throbbed, like a giant heartbeat, caressing my senses, and now that I was focused on it, I was able to tell the direction from which it came. I was now able to stride along confidently beside the brigand.
We almost had a few run-ins with the night guard, but we were able to hear them marching in formation before they saw us, giving us plenty of time to turn down another street. We had to move quickly though. Fyrsil pointed out that with our tracks looking fresh, if anyone noticed them they’d be on our trail.
The source of the dark, pulsating magic led us to an impossibly tall, massive spire of black rock, the dark gates closed tight. Several guards stood outside of it, clad in black armor, holding long dark spears that glinted in the blue light of the lamps. The fortress. Dahlia, if she were still alive, would be in there.
“Let’s circle around,” Fyrsil murmured. We did so, making sure not to make any noise. Guards marched around the perimeter.
“Ready?” Fyrsil stood tense, his glider at the ready.
“Are you sure you can do this?” I asked. We would be taking the gliders on an updraft created by Fyrsil’s magic, without the aid of starting at a higher vantage point. I licked my lips, nervous.
Fyrsil shook his head. “We don’t have a choice. I will need your strength once we’re up there though. We will almost certainly need to fight, and I won’t be able to do it alone.”
“Not a problem.” I thought of the yo
ung child, and my lips pulled back in a silent snarl. I would do whatever it took to free Dahlia.
I felt the magic swell from Fyrsil, and a wild gust of wind whipped up, causing our gliders to fly up and forward. My contraption shook and shuddered and I hoped it would hold out long enough for us to escape from here.
The windows that lined the stone walls indicated the start of a new floor, and the higher we flew, the stronger the dark magic grew. I risked a glance over at Fyrsil flying next to me, but it was too dark to see his face clearly. My hands hurt from the cold and from gripping the glider’s handle so tightly, but then I felt the brigand’s magic ebb and fade, and we began descending toward an outside landing.
I was able to land a little more gracefully this time. I stumbled and ran a few steps to regain my balance, but I didn’t fall.
I turned to face Fyrsil, looking at him by the light of torches set in sconces. He looked exhausted. Dark circles shadowed his eyes but his mouth was a firm line of determination. When I asked him if he needed to rest, he shook his head. “Let’s get this over with,” he growled and stalked over to the door that would lead us indoors, leaving our gliders in the shadow of the landing.
21
Adaryn
We ran through the fortress, making our way upstairs. If I had closed my eyes, I would have been able to pinpoint the exact location of the dark magic. We met a few guards on the way, but together Fyrsil and I were able to take them out before they could sound the alarm.
We ran up a long, circular flight of stairs, and found ourselves standing in front of a wooden door. It was etched with runes that glowed, some kind of protective barrier magic. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to open it. Fyrsil, however, studied the runes intently. Summoning the magic, he deftly wove it, and pricking each rune, made them fade away into the worn wood. He turned to me. “I’m getting tired, Adaryn. This next battle is going to be yours.”
I nodded. I could handle that. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped inside.
