Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
His brow pinches. “Fearghal? How far to that clearing?”
“About ten leagues.” The mortal squints up at the sky through the looming trees. “We should just make it.”
“We’re a bit out in the open here, aren’t we?” We emerged from the thicket of trees and into this expanse of sparse grass and boulders as the sun was scraping across the western mountain ridge. The legionaries and mortals moved quickly to build a suitable camp before darkness fell, erecting tents inside the circle of wagons and stacking piles of foraged wood as tall as me at the four corners of our campground. To mark a perimeter, Elisaf explained, for the creatures deterred by fire.
When I asked him which creatures he meant, he quickly found a task that needed urgent completion.
“That is the intention.” Zander studies the landscape alongside me. The surrounding wall of forest is at least half a mile in every direction, and beyond, jagged mountains loom, no longer a distant view. “We expect to attract attention tonight. This way, we will see them coming from any angle.”
“The saplings?”
“This is where Flann said they met them once.”
“Why do I feel like bait?”
“They have no use for you. But we are bait no matter where we go. At least this way, we control the situation.”
I inhale deeply. The air here is thinner, suggesting a higher altitude, and it reminds me of an approaching winter—cool and dry. Sleeping outside tonight isn’t appealing, but I doubt anyone will sleep. “I hate this.”
“So do I, but we have little choice if we want to find Drakon and Iago alive.” His gaze drifts over my outfit. “There are warmer clothes in the supplies Theon sent us. You should find some.”
“I will.” People began pulling on layers as we moved farther into Venhorn’s wild landscape. Now, many don fur vests. With the sun behind the mountain walls, the temperature drops degrees by the minute.
Beyond the invisible border of our camp, near a crop of stones, two mortals gently lower Ianca’s wrapped body into a hole. Gesine stands nearby, her head bowed as if in prayer. “I should pay my respects.”
“I will join you shortly. We must start these fires.”
“Need a spark?” I hold up a finger, and a small flame appears on its tip. It has become so easy to beckon on a whim, now that I know what to look for inside. “I’m like a Zippo.”
“You say strange things.” Zander leans in to press a close-mouthed kiss against my lips. His dark mood hasn’t lifted, and I know he’s still dwelling on the horrors of Kamstead and the doom it may foreshadow for Islor.
While I can’t fix that dilemma, I can offer him a temporary distraction. “I can do strange things too”—I nip his bottom lip—“if you’re nice to me later.”
The corner of his mouth curves. “That is intriguing.”
I feel the tiniest tug on my affinity.
All four pits ignite.
Darkness has arrived as Gesine and I walk back from Ianca’s grave toward the raging firepits, no doubt visible from any point in this basin. Gesine is still solemn, but her aura is lighter—more settled—than earlier in the day.
“Zander told me about Stonekeep.”
“He did?” She hums softly. “And what did he tell you? Allow me to guess. He said it was complete folly and we will find nothing there but disappointment?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“An Islorian king who has no use for prophecy. I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me.” A tiny, knowing smile touches her lips. “He is rather stubborn in that regard, but that will soon change.”
“You really believe there’s something there that will help Islor?”
Her green eyes flash. “Help? No. I believe there is something there that will save Islor.”
“Ybarisan!” Abarrane hollers, marching across the camp, a lengthy wooden stick in each hand.
I curse under my breath. The last thing I’m in the mood for is her saltiness. “What do you need?” I ask with forced patience.
She tosses one stick at me without warning.
I fumble but manage to catch it.
“The king wants me to train you.”
“Okay …” I search for Zander and find him talking to Fearghal. “Right now?”
“Yes.” Without warning, Abarrane launches herself at me, slamming the wooden sword out of my hand with hers before her foot lands square against my chest. I tumble backward and land flat on my back, struggling to inhale, my chest feeling like it’s caved in.
“Are you done already?” she taunts.
I focus on the smattering of stars as I wait for my breath to return and the pain to subside. Finally, I’m left with only a dull ache and my staggering rage.
“That’s not training, Abarrane!” I pull myself up to a sitting position with a curse. The well of power inside gurgles with anticipation, as if begging to be unleashed on her.
“But it is. Training is teaching.” She crouches beside me, the perpetual hostility in her eyes missing. “I am teaching you that you are still weak and vulnerable, and I am teaching my warriors that whatever else you may be, you are flesh and blood and can be killed.” Her gaze flickers to Zander, paused in his conversation and watching this unfold, before shifting back to me. “But that you can be one of us.”