“But he’ll have the dark.”
“If all goes as planned, you’ll have the dark as well,” said Dakota, without a trace of doubt.
“Why would I want the power of dark? Isn’t it evil?” Scarlet asked, her face twisting in alarm.
“The Mortada are evil, Scarlet. Darkness is a force—easily abused, surely, but as natural and vital as any part of the magical world.”
***
Scarlet gazed absently at the fountain, putting the pieces together in her mind, trying to process it all. It was as fantastic as everything she had seen so far, even more so. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Dakota. It was just . . .
How could she be the greatest sorceress in the world? She was just a girl.
“Give it time. You will understand all in time. Train well,” Dakota said. “Pay attention and concentrate. I promise I’ll be close.”
She watched him pad off. She’d give it time.
What else could she do?
***
Later that day Scarlet was summoned to the library again, this time meeting Xavier there without her dad. Reluctant as he was to have his daughter put in harm’s way, he had agreed that training her would only make her safer, at least until he could find another way to stop those who were after her.
They would be learning to focus the light now, Xavier explained. By focusing the light, she would be able to create a powerful offensive force when she was forced into battle. Listening to Xavier’s description, Scarlet at first pictured a large laser beam—but the actual focused light was much more fantastic, she found.
With a little practice, she was able to move the inner light—the same light that in her previous lesson she had expanded into a great, blinding sphere—into the palms of her hands. At a thought from her, a beam of crimson light shot out from her hands into the fireplace, boring a hole into the wood, which quickly caught fire.
Xavier seemed as pleased as he could be, telling her that the best pupil he’d ever taught before her had learned focus after a month, and the next closest had taken nearly an entire year to get the concept.
The next day, her lesson was on illuminating other objects, turning them into permanent or temporary sources of light. Scarlet illuminated books in the library, Xavier’s chair, a goblet, and finally the entire mosaic ceiling, making the tesserae glow like radiant gemstones.
Sent off to practice, she happily took to delighting Melody with her newfound gift. The next lesson, Scarlet decided, must be a particularly complicated one, because Xavier said that he wouldn’t teach her again until she had shown great progress with what she’d learned so far.
***
The week passed quickly. At one point, Scarlet had to ask Xavier to come and help her de-illuminate her room; she had turned every object into a lantern, and it was so bright that she found it impossible to sleep.
Late in the week, Scarlet saw Lindi for the first time since the feast. Scarlet was hovering a softly glowing ball ahead of her as she walked down a corridor that was, unusually for the castle, dimly lit.
“That’s supposed to save us from the prince?” an all too familiar voice called out from behind her.
Scarlet’s orb instantly dissipated as she turned to face the girl. “What do you want, Lindi?”
“Oh, nothing. I’ve just been watching you. Can’t say that I’m impressed.”
“I don’t remember asking for your approval,” Scarlet snapped back. She didn’t know what the young Tounder’s problem was, but she’d had enough of being nice.
“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? Getting everyone to believe that you’re some kind of hero. As if a human could possibly—” Lindi seethed with rage. Whatever hatred she was harboring, she obviously couldn’t contain it any longer.
“I’m not getting anyone to do anything,” Scarlet answered, backing up a couple steps. Lindi had begun to glow with an eerie purple light.
Scarlet racked her brain. This was no good at all. Even with all her practicing, she wasn’t ready for a fight, especially not a fight using magic. A moment ago she had felt ready to face anything; now she was overcome by feelings of inadequacy. She felt small and helpless.
“Everyone else might think you’re some mythical hero, some great hope, but you don’t fool me one bit.” Lindi’s glow grew brighter.
“What is the matter with you?” Scarlet pleaded. “I barely even know you. I haven’t done—”
Without warning, Lindi sent out a beam of purple light that struck Scarlet square in the chest like an anvil. It didn’t seem possible that light could have such mass, such force, but as she fought desperately to regain the breath that had been driven from her chest, Scarlet didn’t need any more convincing.
Lindi strutted over to Scarlet, who was still too shocked to move. The Tounder’s glow was now painfully bright.
“Let’s see what everyone’ll say after this,” she shrieked, focusing another beam into her hands.
Then suddenly Lindi was flying back away from Scarlet. It had happened so fast, Scarlet hadn’t even seen what had hit the girl. She could only watch in astonishment as Lindi landed with a crash against a far wall.
“What are you playing at?” Delfi shouted at Lindi, bending over Scarlet to check on her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Scarlet croaked.
“I’ll be right back,” Delfi said, straightening up and walking cautiously over to Lindi, lying in a motionless heap ten yards away.
Lindi was making painful groaning noises, and finally she managed to turn her head and look up at Delfi, whose anger melted away at the sight of Lindi’s pitiful expression. He was visibly torn, trying to decide what to do.
“Get out of here,” he said finally. “Don’t let me find you within shouting distance of Scarlet again, or I swear . . . ” His voice trailed off.
Lindi got up slowly and, after taking a few tentative limping steps, flew off out of the corridor as Delfi went back to Scarlet and helped her up.
“Let’s get you to your room.”
Scarlet nodded. She was still in considerable pain.
“You could’ve walloped her, you know,” he added with a smile.
13
Chosen’s Acquaintances
Brennan was still shaken from his battle with the tiranthrope. Physically, he was almost back to his former self; at least he was no longer on the verge of passing out from lack of food and exhaustion. His muscles had become used to Chosen’s relentless tempo.
It had taken nearly a week to get out of the Southern Wildlands, and although they had done so without any further run-ins with tiranthropes, their venture had not been without incident. Chosen was one of the few who knew the Wildlands well, it soon became obvious. As they threaded their way along beside the raging river that seemed to snake endlessly through the trees and rocks, coming ever nearer to the impassable marshlands, Chosen stopped suddenly. The place he’d chosen looked no different than any other—a dense clump of trees, a craggy bank next to an unfordable river. Chosen looked briefly to the left and right, then walked straight toward the riverbank. He seemed to shrink and then was gone.
Brennan ran to the spot he had last seen Chosen, only to have his feet slip suddenly and his stomach heave into his throat as the ground dropped away. Before he could realize what had happened, he was sitting on his bottom, staring down a dark tunnel with small streams of water trickling from the ceiling. Chosen was twenty yards ahead, making his way under the river to the other side. The ground was covered in wet stones, and Brennan had to place each foot carefully to avoid slipping.
He’d been concentrating intently on his feet, trying his best to see through the gloom, when a flicker of light caught his eye. He looked up and saw a flurry of small birds, no bigger than butterflies, their wings glowing above. Chosen was out of sight, having already emerged from the tunnel on
the far side. Brennan stopped, transfixed by the beautiful birds and wondering what they were doing in such a confined space beneath a river.
Without warning, the birds scattered, fleeing down the tunnel and out the far side. A strange emotion filled Brennan at seeing the birds fly away. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt as if he and a good friend had parted company.
But then the sensation of being watched pushed all other feelings aside. Every nerve on his body tensed.
Turning slowly, Brennan saw five men, dressed exactly like Chosen, standing at the entrance to the tunnel, where he and Chosen had come from. They smiled malevolently, seeming to feed on Brennan’s fear. He had a moment to decide: fight or run? There were five of them—but then again, what are five skinny men compared to a tiranthrope? he wondered, allowing himself an uncharacteristic moment of arrogance.
There was something off about these men, though. Something told Brennan that fighting would be the wrong choice. It was the same eerie presence that Brennan had felt when he first met Chosen.
Turning on his heels, Brennan sprinted headlong down the tunnel, slipping and fumbling over the rocks as he hurtled toward the exit. Crashing through brush and thickets, he emerged into the pre-dusk light, nearly running into Chosen, who stood impatiently, leaning against a tree.
“Well, it certainly took you—” Chosen swallowed his words, noticing the panicked look on Brennan’s face. “What is it?” he scolded, the answer to his question immediately following his words in the form of the five figures charging from the tunnel.
Brennan had expected Chosen to react as he had, with great alarm, but Chosen merely looked amused. The five figures flashed strikingly beautiful smiles, and Brennan had the impression that if he were asked to tell one from the other, he would not be able, so alike were the flawless features and flowing blond locks of hair.
“Mortada,” Chosen whispered to Brennan.
“How unusual to find you traveling in these times, Devoveo,” one of the figures hissed, making no attempt to mask his contempt, a jarring note that marred the normally musical tone of the Mortada.
Brennan looked curiously at Chosen. Devoveo?
“How unusual to find one who has failed the dark one so miserably walking Satorium alive,” Chosen said coolly.
The Mortada who had spoken became visibly angered, his face flushing for a moment and his jaw clenching. He recovered quickly, though, his smile returning.
“You have heard wrong. I was not a part of their failure,” he argued, trying very hard to keep his voice level.
“It’s possible,” Chosen quipped back. “Not that you would have done any better. With your previous failures it’s probably best that you didn’t volunteer to cross after the girl. I’m not sure the dark one would have been as forgiving . . . as just to kill you, that is.”
The cloaked Mortada could no longer control his anger. He stepped aggressively toward Chosen, pulling a long, curved knife from beneath his robes. In his anger, he had neglected to pay attention to Brennan, who he was nearly brushing past.
Brennan had only a second to make a decision, although for that moment time seemed suspended, allowing a multitude of thoughts to pass through his mind. He was not particularly fond of Chosen; after all, Chosen had only watched while Brennan had fought against the tiranthrope. Then again, without Chosen, Brennan was completely alone and purposeless, a fate he wasn’t sure would really be any better than prison. And it had been Chosen who’d saved him from that prison, regardless of what ulterior motives lay behind his actions.
In the end he reacted on impulse, his fist darting out as the figure passed by him, striking the Mortada solidly in the face. There was a loud thwack as Brennan’s fist collided with the Mortada’s forehead, sending him tottering backward several paces. What happened next was difficult for Brennan to fully understand.
The Mortada howled, not in pain but as a declaration—a pronouncement that Brennan was about to die. The features that had only moments ago been so beautiful were twisted into such anger and violence that they could easily have belonged to some ferocious cold-blooded animal, perhaps a crocodile. A whirl of smoke gathered around the Mortada’s hands, and his eyes began to glow in the failing light.
Then Brennan found himself sprawled on his back as Chosen shoved him out of the way, moving with amazing speed and agility. Chosen was on top of the Mortada before Brennan had fully settled on the ground. The black cloud grew, quickly cloaking the entire group of Mortada. Brennan’s hands went to his ears as a deafening crack broke the air; it was like standing inches from a bolt of lightning when the thunderclap follows.
Silence, deeper and more complete than any Brennan had ever known, descended. The sounds of the forest were completely absent. Nothing stirred. Slowly the black cloud began to dissipate, becoming more and more translucent until it finally faded away. Standing alone, five cloaked figures lying motionless at his feet, was Chosen.
He turned suddenly to Brennan. “We have to move. Now.”
***
From that moment on, not a word passed between the two. For a week they traveled at a desperate pace through the treacherous depths of the Wildlands. The tension between Brennan and Chosen was so thick that even the relief of emerging from the Wildlands hardly made a dent in it.
Chosen had offered no explanation for what had happened by the river. Brennan, although he burned to know who the men were, how they knew Chosen, and what had happened to them, hadn’t dared to ask. Now, more than ever, he sensed something dark about Chosen, something not to be trusted, not to be trifled with. He needed to figure out how to escape from the man. Whatever Chosen wanted from this girl he searched for, it surely wasn’t to protect her—or at least, that wasn’t the full story.
Brennan’s mother had told him tales about these Mortada, men who had mastered dark and evil magic—cunning, wicked men who’d sold their souls for power and beauty. Until now, Brennan had regarded her stories as just that, fables told to entertain, and to warn of the dangers of the world. In fact, until that day by the river, he had forgotten all about her stories of the dark ones. But ever since, these stories had been echoing in his mind. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t thought of them the moment he saw Chosen.
On its north side, the forest gave way to pastureland, a rippling expanse of grass covering gently rolling hills. Occasionally they would pass a farmhouse, but they never saw any signs of people, or any sign of life other than fields that had once been tilled but were now barren. Brennan tried to remember his geography, but since all he knew was what his mother had described to him, and he had never seen a map in his life, it was difficult to place where they were. If he had to guess, he figured that they must be somewhere near the land of the Dorans, somewhere in Leona.
Something was wrong, though, if they were in fact in Leona. His mother had always told Brennan of the prosperity of the Dorans, their fertile farms, their abundant crops. Yet all around them, at each and every farm they passed, they saw only fallow fields and abandoned houses. Many miles along the empty road, they had yet to see a single Doran. Surely this was not the land of enterprise and plenty that Brennan’s mother had described.
At nightfall Chosen led them into one of the abandoned farmhouses where, he informed Brennan, they would be spending the night. So tired and so glad to see a warm place with a roof was Brennan that he didn’t even think to
question who the house might belong to, or whether they might be trespassing.
He would need to find out more before he could leave Chosen, Brennan had decided; he didn’t know enough about this world to venture off on his own without at least knowing where he was and who he could trust—if indeed he could trust anyone. It would do no good just to run off into the waiting arms of more slavers. After all, for all he knew, the Dorans could themselves be a part of the slave trade that pervaded the south of Satorium. He debated asking Chosen, but decided tha
t this would only betray his true intention. In the end, he just found a room and lay down on a bed, falling asleep almost instantly.
As he slept, Brennan dreamed of a young girl with red-gold hair and pale skin. She was being chased by something that Brennan could not see, hunted like game through a dense and dark forest. The girl was somehow very powerful, and yet she was afraid. She was lost and had nowhere to go; the hunter was closing in on her.
Brennan had never seen the girl before, but for reasons he couldn’t explain, he felt a strong desire to protect her, to keep her safe. He tried first to catch up with her, tell her that he would help, but no matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t close the gap between them. If he couldn’t reach her, he decided, he would attack whatever was after her, so he turned, plunging headlong through the forest to intercept the hunter. With each step he took, however, the forest grew darker and denser until he could barely move through the brush. The trees began closing in on him, and now it was he who was afraid.
No matter where he turned, no matter how hard he struggled, Brennan couldn’t move. He was overwhelmed by panic and dread. He tried calling out to the girl, but he had no voice. Then Brennan realized what he must do, and he reached deep within for the Tempest. He called to it, begged it to come to him. The warmth began to rise . . . and then it faded and was gone.
***
Brennan woke with a start, covered in cold, clammy sweat. The sun was filtering through the dusty windows of the small farmhouse onto his face. He rose, blinking in the light, and wondering how long Chosen had let him sleep. Normally they were up before dawn; Chosen liked to have been walking miles before the sun rose. He tried to remember the details of the dream, but found that the only thing he could recall with any clarity was the feeling of panic.
Scarlet and the Keepers of Light Page 10
