Eversworn: Daughters of Askara, Book 3

by Hailey Edwards

  Sacrifice. The whisper through my head belonged to me. It must. The book couldn’t—it wouldn’t dare. Sacrifice. My heart beat steady as my mind whirled with the horror of my choice. I would exchange my life for my daughter’s safety, but I wouldn’t ask others to sacrifice theirs.

  Focus. I walked faster now, counting steps, numbers tripping over my tongue. Then I saw my final obstacle.

  Three males milled around a single tent. From this angle, it was identical to its neighbors. I estimated my distance from them would cost the remaining footsteps I’d calculated. I searched their faces but recognized no one. I slipped behind the nearest tent before I was spotted. What did I do now? Was Dillon still inside? Did that matter? Of course it did. I could no more hurt him than… Wait. I heard something. Straining my ears, I tiptoed closer and leaned as far as I dared.

  “…gone to his tent,” a low voice said.

  A masculine chuckle drifted to me. “If I had a female waiting for me…”

  I swallowed. No, no, no. Things were moving too fast. I had to act. Dillon would find Mason, and I would be caught. I couldn’t risk this. Not when I, we, were so close to tasting true freedom.

  Scooping a handful of sand, I murmured part of the incantation the grimoire had given me. With a puff of air, I blew the grains toward the males surrounding the tent. My eyes widened as my breath turned solid, twisted, gulped sand and grew until a towering cyclone carved a path from my fingertips toward the men. Curses rang out. Then I heard the screams. Warmth tickled my cheeks. My tears turned solid as they mixed with sand and flaked from my face. When I risked a glimpse beyond my hiding place, two males were missing. I prayed they had escaped. The third lay facedown in the sand, his leg twisted. I ran to him, pressed two fingers beneath his jaw.

  I felt a strong pulse, an outcome better than I’d dared hope. Turning toward the cyclone, I gritted my teeth and raised a hand. I used all my strength to deter its carnage. More screams arose. These came from families, the pitches varied from masculine to feminine to youths. I bought them time to seek shelter. The stables were nearby. The clinic sat on the opposite end of the residency tents, that much I remembered from my tour. If the colonists reached those spell-crafted walls, they would be safe. I only needed a few minutes. Then I could turn the storm into the open desert. No one would get hurt. Someone is already hurt. I shook my head to clear it. No one would die. I bit my lip, hoping I kept that promise. My girl was worth this, any sacrifice.

  Panting, I had to release the storm or let it drag me under. It churned, a tower of grit and gloom swirling against the dark sky. I ran straight for it, ducked inside the tent and climbed into the sled. I dropped a single bar of silver into my bag. More and I would be too weighted down to run. I fumbled a modest-sized chest from the stacks of silver surrounding it. The lock was stuck tight. Cursing my weakness, I stretched my senses toward the grimoire, and it sighed in pure bliss as it siphoned power into my fingertips. A harsh command broke the lock. I flung back the lid and reached inside. Several small boxes fit inside the main one. Partitioned orders maybe? I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. I snatched them and shoved them in my saddlebags. When I ran out of room, I stuffed the remaining ones into my top. The sharp wooden edges cut into my breasts. I absorbed the pain and cupped my chest. Darting from the protection of the tent, I ran after the storm.

  I met no one. Everyone was hiding. Good. I jogged toward the stable, skittering to a stop as I realized the shelter would be packed. I couldn’t waltz in and steal a horse or hope to separate mine from the herd. Sand pelted me, and I gasped for air but swallowed desert. What could I do?

  “Lady?” a voice called to me on the wind.

  Deafened by the roar of the storm, I missed whatever else he said. My attention had drifted from him to his horse. Whether he was a legionnaire on duty before the storm hit or had volunteered to gather lost souls, he was my salvation. Once he neared me, I held out my hand. When he took it, I let power unfurl through that contact.

  His back bowed. His horse screamed. Once I withdrew, he slid from the saddle and hit the ground. Stepping over him, I mounted the frantic mare. She danced, eyes wild in the face of the storm. My arm felt hung with weights as I lifted it, palm out, and began a low chanting that made the wind break for a moment before its enraged roar redoubled. It was not pleased, but it did obey.

  Assured the storm would spin itself out well past the colony, I guided the mare in the opposite direction and dug my heels into her sides. She was as eager to escape as I was. Once the howling ceased and the air cleared, I glanced back at the damage I’d done. Several tents had blown away and supplies scattered the dunes. I saw no more bodies. I prayed there were none. Zaniah have mercy on those poor souls. I gave in to bitter tears. For you have never shown mercy to me.

  Ten steps, turn, ten steps, turn. Dillon retraced his tracks as he paced across his tent. He reached up and shook sand from his hair before more drifted into his eyes. He was working up a sweat and a temper. He’d seen the signs, knew a storm was rolling in but hadn’t uttered the first word of warning to anyone. Assuming they all knew the signs the same as him didn’t excuse him from the responsibility for Riley’s broken leg or Osher’s concussion. Both wounds were typical of weather-related injuries, but Mason’s wasn’t. Unless someone had supplied the storm with a hand-shaped stencil and a lightning bolt, they were looking at something else. Dillon frowned. Someone else was more like it, whose hands were smaller than a male’s but larger than a child’s.

  Hands that had accumulated more mileage on his body than any other female, save one.

  “He’s coming around,” Christophe said.

  The healer stepped aside and gave Dillon room to stand at the foot of his cot, where Mason lay sprawled. “Hey.” He waited until both of Mason’s eyes had cracked open. “What happened?”

  “Isabeau…” He swallowed and tried talking again. “Checking for scorps. Touched my back.” He rolled onto his side and gave Dillon a clear view of the handprint burnt into his skin. “Didn’t see it coming.” Mason’s shoulders slumped. “Can’t hurt…she’s…female.” Then he fell silent.

  Dillon rubbed his face with his palms until his eyes stung where grit ground into them.

  You saw what she did to Osher. Five more yards and it would have been Dillon unconscious beneath a blanket of sand. Instead, Osher had shown up ready to give her a ride to one of the storm shelters. Dillon had been so relieved, he’d almost turned, almost missed what came next.

  Osher had reached for her. Isabeau had taken his hand. Then what? If not for the third-degree burns across Osher’s palm, Dillon would have thought Osher had had a seizure the way he shook in the saddle. Isabeau, Emma’s healer, his healer, waited for Osher’s body to hit the ground and stepped over him. She swung into the saddle and urged his horse into a dead run from the storm.

  She hadn’t looked back.

  Why had she run? Easy, she almost killed two males. Okay, how had she done it? Both had entry and exit burns. If they’d been anywhere other than Askara, he would have guessed lightning strike or figured some other form of electricity was to blame. But this was Askara, and neither scenario was likely or explained the hand-shaped burns. His new best guess left his gut cold. Glamour. Magic was the most obvious choice, and usually the simplest answer was the right one. For Isabeau to wield that kind of power, she was either a very proficient Evanti or something else entirely. Next question—where had she gone? To the consulate? He doubted it.

  Magic or not, even if he knew how she’d done it, it didn’t explain why she’d done it.

  “I’ve got some news.”

  Dillon turned to find Church standing outside his tent, staring in. “What?”

  He grimaced. “You’re not going to like it.”

  Dillon already didn’t like any of this. “Are you going to tell me sometime today?”

  “I went with the others, like you said, to help with cleanup.” Church glanced over his shoulder. Low man on the totem pole, se
nt to tell the boss something the boss really wouldn’t want to hear.

  Dillon’s temper sizzled. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

  “The worst of the damage was by the hush tent. We went there first. Uriah went with us to do inventory.” His throat worked in a hard swallow. “Three bars of silver were missing, but we managed to recover two.” Another glance cast over his shoulder. Dillon could have told him no one was coming to save him. “The salt chest was cracked open, maybe on impact, but the salt—”

  “The salt is gone.” He shut his eyes, rubbed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

  “Uriah said the smaller boxes were light, that maybe the cyclone sucked them up once the chest was open.” Church’s voice was laced with doubt. “I’ve experienced tornadoes, but this wasn’t like that. All the debris was in one area. Like the storm was stuck in a rut and spun itself out. We found canvas, snapped poles, everything you’d expect, but no boxes. Not a single one.”

  Dillon headed for the exit, pausing with his hand on the flap. “Christophe, is Mason stable?”

  “Yes.” He answered without hesitation. “He will recover in a day, perhaps two.”

  “Good. When he wakes up, I want you to give him a message for me.” Dillon paused, considering what he could say that wouldn’t result in Mason tailing after him. He came up blank. “Never mind.” The second Mason was mobile, he’d follow Dillon. “Delay him as long as you can.”

  “I’ll brew him some of your tea,” Christophe offered. “That should buy you an extra day.”

  “Thanks.” The herbal tea hadn’t put Dillon to sleep, but it seemed to work fine on everyone else. He supposed biology was at fault. It’d take more than a shot of chamomile to knock him out.

  Shoving past Church, Dillon strode toward the hush tent, or what was left of it. Uriah stood over the toppled remains of the sled, his arms crossed and lips drawn tight. Silver bars were stacked on the edge, leaving a gap one bar wide. He kicked the empty chest and sent it tumbling.

  “Was that necessary?” Dillon liked that chest.

  “No.” Uriah turned. “But it made me feel better.” He grunted and indicated the sled with his chin. “We have a thief among us, a coward who used the storm for cover. All of the salt is gone.”

  “So Church told me.” He debated on letting them in on his suspicions as to who was at fault.

  “What will you do?” Uriah drummed his fingers. “The next shipment is due out tomorrow.”

  “We’ll send the silver on, cash in where we can.” Dillon stared. “As for the salt…I have an idea of who took it. I’ll need to leave now to catch her.” He glanced at Church. “Saddle Diani.”

  Church looked to Uriah, who had resumed glaring at the silver. “She’s the white one, right?”

  Dillon caught himself about to rub his eyes and forced his hand down. “Yeah. She is.” If Church hurt that mare even by accident, Harper would fashion her new saddle from Dillon’s hide for letting Church near her. “Come on. You can watch me this time.” They set off for the stables.

  The quiet seemed to grate on Church. “So Mason’s going to be okay.”

  “That’s what Christophe said.” Another bout of power-walking made Dillon’s leg ache. “If he wakes up and asks where I’ve gone, tell him I’ve gone after the thief and I’ll be back before the healer clears him to get out of bed.” Thief or not, dangerous or not, Isabeau couldn’t have made it far. He’d track her, reclaim the salt, send off the shipment as scheduled and then figure out what to do with Isabeau until Emma and Harper got back. Talk about piss-poor timing.

  Dillon stared off in the direction he’d last seen Isabeau and muttered, “What are you up to?”

  Several possibilities occurred to him, and they ranged from bad to worse. She’d been with him at the hush tent earlier, when he’d suspected a break-in. Had she sauntered into the tent secure in the knowledge the only tampering had been her own? Or had she brought a partner? That would explain her jaw-dropping arrival. Scatter the guards, put on a show up front while her partner got what they’d come for and snuck out the back undetected. Only Dillon had interrupted them. Had the partner been in the tent when they arrived? Had Isabeau known, and that was why she entered the tent without fear? Was that why she let him…? No. She wasn’t that type of female.

  Then what type was she? Lying and scheming, manipulative, it looked like.

  Caving into the pain throbbing behind his eyes, Dillon rubbed until his eyeballs threatened to burst like grapes under the pressure. Harper wouldn’t let Isabeau walk away from this. Whatever her reason, it wasn’t a good enough excuse to endanger the livelihood of the colonists.

  Dillon dropped his hands and waited for anger to snap his composure. None came.

  Instead his calf twinged a reminder of her with every step. Isabeau’s actions had just marked her. By order of the queen, justice was the colony’s to claim—his to claim. He shoved his hands into his pants pockets, knowing if Harper were here, Dillon would be the one he sent to retrieve her. It would be his hands restraining her during her trial and his hands tying the noose about her neck if she were found guilty. While there were no witnesses to the crime, if she had salt on her…

  Glamour tingled across his scalp, tickling down his spine to his wing joints and lower.

  “Head to the stables,” he said to Church, straining to hold his illusion. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Once Church had gone, Dillon scanned the area. Another shiver sent his glamour sliding free of his skin.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. Swearing, he pulled back bloody fingers. Gingerly this time, he stroked from his hairline as far down as his hand would go. Shock dropped his arm. He sank to his knees into the sand and waited, hoping he was wrong. He smoothed past his nape. Spines.

  His first thought, his only thought, was this wasn’t proof Mason was right. It couldn’t be.

  Chapter Six

  A mouthful of mane was the first indication my tithe to the grimoire had come due. Unable to sit upright, I let the saddle horn dig into my gut and the smells of horse fill my nostrils. Secure in my bag, the tome shifted with the horse’s steps, bumping against the back of my thigh, nudging me, reminding me of what it was owed and that it was as parched as the ancient papers its spells were written upon. Steady pulses of energy washed over my skin in sharp, stinging waves.

  “Give me a moment to…” I gasped as its static annoyance burst into slaps of genuine pain.

  My desperation fueled the grimoire’s greed, but if I paid my debt now I would be left vulnerable to discovery. I couldn’t afford to honor our bargain. Already it siphoned my energy, luring me into a dreamless sleep as it consumed the dregs of my will. Either I paid my tab in full, willingly, with blood, or it would ensure I paid my tab in full and left a healthy tip in the form of my death.

  A grimoire would remain sated for years after such a feast. I doubted its treacherous spine would crack after having such a meal. A priestess drained dry, how quenching. Pages full, its covers would close and it would sleep. Until the cost of sentience, the price of containing such powerful glamour, corralling it and controlling it, forced the grimoire into ravenous cooperation.

  Another slap of pain, and I jolted, agitating the mare. She snorted as I braced on her back and pushed myself upright in the saddle. A quick glance around told me I was a safe distance from the colony. Inhaling sharply, I spoke, even though I’m not convinced the book understood.

  “Once we reach—”

  Agony spread from the back of my thigh, up my leg, into my hip and through my chest until I wheezed in the viselike grip of its furious power. I clawed at my neck. All I managed was to snap my locket’s chain. When it slid through my fingers and hit the sand, I leapt from the mare. Pressure increased as the grimoire registered the distance between itself and my horse and me.

  On my knees, I sifted until I grasped the locket’s familiar contours. Wrapping chain about my wrist, I knotted the ends and made a bracelet. Rising on
shaking legs, I trotted after the horse.

  The farther the mare ran, the easier I breathed. I gulped air and savored my lungs burning.

  I was trapped. The colony lay behind me, and Sere lay days before me. My spike of relief eddied. Forget the grimoire. The mare carried the bulk of the salt. The pittance shoved into my top wouldn’t purchase my freedom. More importantly, it wouldn’t buy my daughter’s freedom. What was the point of this charade if both of us weren’t freed? I had to get the horse and the salt back. The book…well…it had realized my reluctance to pay. Perhaps the best idea was to trail the mare. As long as no one was around, I didn’t see the harm. I’d guard the book and the salt but from a safe distance so the book couldn’t touch me. I rubbed my neck. Yes. I liked that plan.

  My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. For a moment, I considered whether or not it was worth the effort to lick my own sweat droplets. Then I realized I wasn’t sweating. I was past that. Once you were thirsty, you were already dehydrated. Out here, on foot, I was digging my grave.

  After hours of trudging through shifting sand, I acknowledged the plan of following the mare wasn’t my best idea. I blamed exhaustion or blind panic for making me think that allowing my sole transportation to run from me was anything less than suicidal. After securing my locket, the salt and the grimoire had been my priorities. Only now did I recall the water tins and meager rations legionaries carried on patrol were also strapped behind the saddle. And the horse? Gone.

  Her hoofprints were blown smooth before I reached the freshest set. Her bay hindquarters were all I saw now. If I’d had Dillon’s horse carving to hold to the horizon, I bet their size would match. Some thief I was. Perhaps I was the whore Roland had named me, except my skill in that area was untried and untested. My title of priestess had been voided the night I accepted Roland into my bed. What did that make me? I was a failed mother and friend, things that mattered most.