Lights of Aurora (The Stone Legacy Series Book 3)

by Theresa Dalayne

  “Until when?”

  She drew in a deep breath, readying herself to be socially presentable. “Never.”

  Zanya pushed open the door and walked outside.

  Two olive-skinned teenage boys were throwing gusts of wind at each other in horseplay. They were windbenders, no doubt. They wore clothing that seemed to have come from the Middle East rather than Central America.

  A woman with long blonde hair that fell straight and sleek down her back lingered beside the railing, playing with a flame between her fingers. She glanced up at Zanya, her eyes flickering like the flame she’d conjured out of thin air.

  Her mother stood from the love seat and smiled. “Zanya. These are my friends.” She pointed to the two boys. “Ahmed and Yousef are twin windbenders from the East.” The boys dropped their hands, and the unnatural breezes suddenly died.

  The tall one with darker hair rested his hand on his chest. “Marhabah. My name is Yousef.” His gaze flashed at the shorter brother. “This is Ahmed.”

  Ahmed waved and then shot a gust of wind at Yousef, knocking him onto the sand. The boys picked up where they’d left off, throwing strong gusts at each other in fun.

  “And this,” Eleuia said, “is Eadith.”

  The tall blonde stepped forward and clenched her hand, extinguishing the flame into a plume of smoke. “It’s a pleasure.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Grima and Beigarth are on their way,” Eleuia said.

  “There are more?”

  Her mother grinned. “Many more, but Grima and Beigarth are the only others traveling with us. You’ll see more at the solstice celebration.”

  Zanya leaned against the cool rock wall. “Where exactly are we going?”

  “The Tikal Temple, in three days.”

  “Is it close?”

  “South, in Guatemala,” Eleuia replied.

  Zanya sipped her coffee. “So Tikal is where the bonding ceremony will be?”

  “Yes,” Eadith said. “It is where the lights of Aurora touch those destined to bond during the great celebration. Your mother says this will be your first solstice?”

  “Um, yeah.” She turned to her mother. “Arwan said—” She paused, then continued. “I heard about these lights before. But I don’t get what they are, really.”

  “Renato would be able to explain it better. He’s good at that kind of thing.”

  Deep, hearty laughs echoed from the beach. Zanya turned to see Hawa leading a man and a woman over the beach, toward the veranda. The man was dressed in thick wool clothes, and the woman had strawberry-red hair woven into a braid. Her pinkish skin glowed in the tropical sun.

  “Here’s Grima and Beigarth.” Eleuia stepped closer to the railing. “They’re originally from Germany, and settled in Ireland—Vikings, from the old country. They may take some getting used to.”

  “Vikings?” This was just getting better and better. “Not to sound rude, but when I saw Eadith and met the Arabs, I couldn’t help but think—aren’t all Riyata Maya descendants?”

  “At some point in time, yes. I think their grandmother, six or seven generations back, was some kind of earth shifter. There are almost no full-bloods anymore. Now the cultures are so widely diverse. Most of the gifted Riyata don’t look the slightest bit Mayan.” She shrugged. “That’s what happens when you’re one-sixteenth Maya—or whatever they are.”

  “Renato told me Riyata and humans don’t end up together very often, so how did they branch out so far?”

  Pain flooded her mother’s face, and her eyes darkened with grief. “That was the first thing I thought when I met your friend and the healer. He’s in for a lot of heartache.”

  Zanya clenched her cup tightly between her hands.

  “Don’t go making them feel bad about being together. They’ll figure it out.”

  Zanya examined her mother, who had gone quiet. “Is that why you never talk about my father?”

  Her mother swallowed, then glanced down at her empty mug. “There’s nothing to say. I selfishly fell in love with a mortal human.” She circled the rim of her cup with her finger. “I didn’t expect to lose you both so soon, but if I hadn’t given you to your father, Sarian would have found us all, and there would have been no heir to protect the stone once you were gone. The obedience spell would have automatically been broken, and Sarian would have had decades longer to do his will.” She glanced up at Zanya. “The world would have been lost to their kind.”

  Thick air lingered between them, only cleared when her mother cast her gaze to the beach. “Grima and Beigarth are cousins. I think you’ll really warm up to them.”

  Zanya blinked, and Hawa was suddenly leaning against the railing, while the Vikings trailed far behind.

  Hawa watched Ahmed and Yousef roughhouse on the beach. “Arabs?”

  Eleuia nodded.

  “Thar’s the wee lass,” the man’s deep voice bellowed from the beach.

  Zanya drew in a sharp breath as she stared at Beigarth’s thick finger, pointed straight at her. His wide smile was partially hidden behind thick, wiry facial hair that was the same color as his sister’s bright red bow.

  Zanya shifted closer to her mom. “What do they do?”

  “They’re petrifiers.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “It’s exactly how it sounds. They don’t use their ability often because it’s not reversible and obviously lethal. There aren’t many of their kind left.”

  “I should be able to do it—petrify—right?”

  Her mother’s lips pursed, and the edges of her mouth turned down. “There are some abilities even I couldn’t master as the guardian. Theirs was one of them. Petrifying is one of the most difficult to control, and it’s more exhausting than any other ability. Worse, if you don’t know how to control it, it’s likely to backfire.”

  Zanya made an O with her lips. “Maybe that’s why I haven’t read much about it in any of Renato’s books.”

  “There’s still a lot for you to learn. But for today, let’s get to know some of your new friends.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Arwan

  Drina’s house lay just over the hill. The cramps in Arwan’s stomach increased with every step. His mind reeled with possibilities of what the page would say, most of them filling him with disappointment.

  He rounded a twist in the path and stopped when he spotted Drina’s hut in the distance. He slid his hand into his pocket and brushed his fingers against the rough edges of the textured paper. Maybe not knowing would be better. Then he could live the rest of his life believing his mother was an innocent victim who died still loving him. Destroying the page would give him that option, though it would mean spending forever in regret.

  As if he needed another reason to hate himself.

  He pressed forward until he reached the hut. “Tia Drina?”

  “Si.” The old woman’s voice sounded tired. “Entra, Arwan.”

  Of course she’d seen him coming. Drina’s link to the magic of the Maya kept her well aware. He pushed through the flap into her modest home.

  Drina sat on a woven mat beside a basin of clear liquid. Flower petals, sand, seashells, and herbs formed a circle around her.

  “What are you doing?” Arwan asked.

  She placed a handful of dried herbs in the water. “Preparing,” she mumbled.

  “For what, exactly?”

  He hadn’t seen a traditional Maya ritual done in many years. His curiosity must have annoyed her, because the old woman scowled. “You need answers?”

  Arwan nodded.

  She sprinkled wild jasmine flowers into the basin and then dropped in pebbles that instantly sank to the bottom. His muscles clenched when she extended a knife. “We need blood offering.”

  Arwan took the blade. He had just healed from slitting his own wrist, with a scar to remind him of the nightmare. “I was hoping not to make a habit out of this.” He ground his teeth and dragged the blade over his forearm. Bl
ood rose from the wound. He extended his arm over the bowl, allowing plump droplets to fall into it.

  The scarlet dispersed into the water, tainting it a light pink.

  Arwan applied pressure to the cut. He hadn’t gone deep—just enough to draw blood. The wound would heal on its own, without a healer’s touch. He watched the bowl, waiting. Whether there would be a written message, or perhaps some kind of image, he wasn’t sure. After a moment, he looked at Drina. “What’s going to happen?”

  She frowned. “Magic takes time, boy. Not everything happen so quick. Have patience.”

  Arwan checked his cut. It had already stopped bleeding. He wiped his bloodstained hand on his pants and pulled the page from his pocket. She snatched it from him and unfolded it in her lap. Her wrinkled fingers pinched the page as she examined the markings. A deep sigh and the drop of her head made his chest tighten.

  She gently placed the page into the basin. Water curled around the edges and crept on top, dragging it down to the rocks. The ink bled, and the glyphs smeared.

  Arwan sucked in a breath and reached to pull it out, but Drina smacked his hand away. “Patience. Anyone can copy a page of t’e book, but only bloodletting can tell if it is true. If t’is is from Contessa, we make sure it is real before anyt’ing.” She leaned over the basin, watching the dark ink merge with the bloodied water.

  Drina rested her wrinkled hands on the rim of the bowl, and her graying black hair fell on either side of her face.

  The space was silent and the air was still. Arwan shifted. “I want to know.”

  Her shoulders rose and fell with each breath. It seemed as if she was stalling, or perhaps she didn’t want to be the person to say it aloud. If that were the case, he would confront it head-on.

  He sat beside her. “Is it true? Did my mother kill herself because of me?”

  The old woman nodded, and she swallowed. For the first time since Arwan had known her, Drina’s eyes shimmered with tears. “T’at is what t’e page says.” She reached into the bowl and cupped her hands under the page, rescuing it from its watery grave. As she waited for the rest of the water to roll off its surface, her eyes narrowed. “Wait, t’is is not right.” She peered at it closer. “It does not say she killed herself, it says…she gave her life.” She carefully splayed the wet page on a stone slab he often saw her knead bread on. “T’ere is a difference in t’e words. She gave her life—her immortality.” She peered closer at the page. “T’is cannot be right.”

  “What?” He examined the paper even though he couldn’t read it. “What does it say?”

  “Your mot’er gave her longevity before she was sacrificed.”

  “What do you mean, ‘sacrificed’?” The word made his body temperature spike.

  “Just what I said, boy. Sacrificed, by t’e gods of Tamoanchan.”

  “Sacrificed by the heaven gods?”

  She stared up at him, her lips parted. “Yes, Arwan. T’e heaven deities, t’e gods of Tamoanchan, chose your mot’er to be given to the king of the dark realm. T’ey chose her, and she agreed.”

  If she’d been a victim, he could have gone on believed it had all been a great injustice. Something out of her control. Now he was forced to understand she’d actually chosen to consummate, and after she’d conceived him, she chose to leave.

  ***

  The walk back to Renato’s house went fast, but the familiarity of the jungle didn’t bring him any peace. The trees became sparse as he neared the beach and the ground changed from the soft, mossy turf to loose sand. He broke through the tree line to see a group of people standing outside Renato’s house.

  He didn’t recognize any of them. Something had to be wrong. He broke into a sprint, working to propel himself over the beach.

  A tall, lanky blonde turned to face him. Her dark brows bowed under a glare, and her eyes flared as red as rubies. When she extended her hand, a flame bellowed toward him as if shot from a flamethrower. He ducked and rolled under the inferno, then quickly gained his footing and pushed forward.

  Their house was under attack and he hadn’t been there to fight. Why hadn’t Marzena called him? Perhaps she was wounded, or worse. If anything had happened to Zanya, he’d never forgive himself.

  A man with bright red hair and a thick beard stomped toward him over the sand, his lip curled in a snarl. Two men wearing turbans and robes stepped into sight.

  Arwan sized them up as he charged forward. The woman was a fire conjurer, but he couldn’t get a read on the other three. If he took out the husky older man first, maybe the others would fall back.

  Using the man’s weight against him, Arwan skidded at his ankles to strike him, sending the stranger head over heels. The man thudded to his back on the sand and let out a loud wheeze.

  Fierce winds formed a roaring cyclone around him, carrying sand in its force. He strained to see beyond the barrier, but it was impossible, and jumping through it would hurt like hell. He ground his teeth and covered his eyes, then leaped through the sandstorm. Grains slashed at his skin, and warm blood dripped down his cheek and arms.

  The blonde was waiting on the other side with a fireball in her cupped hands. It grew between her palms until it was a bright storm of flames, rolling and flickering with light.

  “Hey!” Zanya hung halfway out the door to the kitchen, staring at them with wide eyes. “He’s with us!”

  The blonde slowly smothered the ball of fire until it was no more than a puff of black smoke that vanished into the air. She pursed her lips. “Next time consider announcing your arrival.” She raised her chin, showcasing her fair skin and a gaze as sharp as steel. “Then we may not try to kill you.” Blonde strands whipped around her. When she turned, her long coat carried in the air behind her.

  Zanya stalked toward him, glaring almost as fiercely as the fire conjurer. Half of her hair was pulled up. The other half was draped over her shoulder. She looked stronger. More hardened. “Where the hell have you been?” Zanya snapped.

  Her scornful tone slammed him back into reality. She hated him, even though the book was wrong about them being fated, and even if he didn’t deserve her a damn bit.

  “I had to see Drina.”

  Zanya paused. “Oh. Right.” She crossed her arms over her chest, and the flush in her cheeks faded. “The page from the Popol Vuh.” She gave a tiny shrug. “Renato told me.”

  The husky, red-haired man grumbled as he passed them.

  Arwan raised an eyebrow. “Who are these people?”

  “Friends of my mom. Other Riyata. Apparently we’re not the only ones in a hundred mile radius.”

  “I thought we were the only ones on this continent.” The two younger men in robes strode side by side, whispering in Arabic.

  “What about the page? Did you get what you were looking for?” She brushed away strands of hair that had blown across her face from the sea breeze.

  He suppressed the urge to do it for her and cradle her cheek in his hand…feel the warmth of her skin. He swallowed and averted his gaze.

  “Listen. Just because we aren’t…” She paused and shifted her weight. “It doesn’t mean I don’t care. I know how much it means to you to find out what really happened to your mother.”

  “She betrayed me,” Arwan growled, unable to hold back the pain tearing through his heart.

  Zanya’s gaze softened. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not hard to understand.” He locked eyes with her. “She gave herself up, knowing she’d be killed. She gave up her longevity so she didn’t have to watch me grow up and see what I am. She became a willing sacrifice, and worse, a willing bride.” The darkness inside of him flared. He narrowed his eyes. “She hated me, and she would have rather died than stay with me. That’s what the book said, and that’s the truth I will have to live with for the rest of my life.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Zanya

  Renato’s study was more crowded than ever. Zanya sat on the love seat beside Tara, and Peter squished them closer
together when he took the seat on the other side.

  The two petrifiers, Grima and Beigarth, stood by the fireplace at the back of the room, warming their hands. Zanya recognized their soft conversation by their deep accents, distinguishable from the combined chatter of the group.

  The man seemed jolly, like Santa in Celtic wear. His hair was slightly frizzy, and his red beard was wild, except for the single braid on either side, keeping the facial hair at least slightly maintained. His sister was just as broad-shouldered, giving her the stereotypical Viking stature but with the features of an Irish maiden. Her pink-toned skin was dotted in freckles and was framed with thick strawberry-red hair. She seemed kind. Zanya sensed a warm energy from them both. Her stone liked them, too.

  The Arab brothers, Ahmed and Yousef, looked nothing alike, even though they were twins. Still, their lighthearted nature was a welcome change from the heavy air that lingered in the home. They spoke mostly Arabic and some broken English. Thankfully, Renato was fluent in Arabic and often chattered with them in their native tongue.

  And Eadith, the blonde fire-thrower, carried herself like a French socialite. She stood with such pride and grace that the prospect of sparking a conversation with her was almost intimidating.

  Regardless of her slight insecurity around the newcomers, they all seemed to welcome her with open arms. Sure, this was her house, but she had only been a part of this world for months, and they could have just as easily turned their backs and rejected her. Maybe her mother’s presence put them at ease, but she appreciated their affable spirits regardless.

  Renato cleared his throat as he sorted through a stack of manila envelopes. He wore a smile she hadn’t seen for a quite some time. “Very well.” He handed out envelopes to each person in the room, starting with Marzena, who stood silently to his right. It seemed like forever since she’d seen the dreamwalker. She had to remind herself that even though Marzena lived in the north wing of the home, she appreciated her privacy more than the average person.