Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
ANU
A storm was making its way to shore, black clouds encroaching on the clear horizon like spilled ink over paper. Steady and calculating, it crept, with the controlled measure of a wolf. Occasional slivers of lightning illuminated the rolling dark from deep within the storm’s center.
The threat was completely transparent, honest even, with the battle it was bringing. There for all to see. If the observer had their head turned in the right direction.
Just another peaceful day, not a cloud in the sky…if they didn’t.
All around him, people carried on, seemingly unaware of what was coming. Perhaps many did see it, or feel it, but assumed it would dissipate before reaching land. As most storms did.
A gambler’s fallacy; that an event is less likely to occur because it has not happened recently.
Kings were not allowed such blind faith or willful denial. They could not fix their attention to the desirable and throw caution to the wind. A king must keep his head on a swivel, looking for threats from all sides. Anticipating the storm .
Alaric watched a flag on one of the ships whip about. Were the gods as diligent? According to Trophonius, they were. And then some. Many went as far as to gift aspects of themselves to their favorites. Blessings; not only of magical powers, but divine transference. Scions.
According to the oracle, if the gods found a new soul worthy, or uniquely similar to their own nature, they might impart some of themselves onto that soul during its reincarnation.
Such had been the case with Kielyn.
Apparently, a giant rift in the universe–unlocking a fifth realm–had been enough for Trophonius to reconsider his vow of silence. Though he claimed, since the events leading up to the revelation were now in the past, he was permitted to relate that which had already come to pass.
The old man spoke to everyone after Merick and Teakin arrived. The oracle, Pythia, had reason to intervene on behalf of Kielyn and show herself to Stefen all those years ago. Pythia was beholden to one such goddess, Freyja–a deity who had blessed a mortal with aspects of herself once upon a time.
Freyja, goddess of love, fertility, battle, death, and prophecy, was directly tied to the Chosen One. Which, as it turned out, also explained the connection to Ashdon’s mother Kielyndrian .
Trophonius would not go into the specifics of how Apollo’s oracle, Pythia, might have become entwined with the Norse goddess, but he did suggest Freyja’s talent for predicting the future was a guiding force. Alaric supposed it made sense that two beings known for prophesy, might have found reasons to cross paths over their immortal lifetimes. And why Pythia eventually forfeited that immortality to secure Stefen’s future.
According to Trophonius, Freyja had become fond of Kielyndrian in one of the mortal’s past lives, and so blessed her next with aspects of Freyja’s own nature.
That blessing continued past Kielyndrian’s last life which had ended in Gerra. Freyja had honored her favorite by making sure the beautiful dragon queen’s legacy lived on. And led her youngest son to his rightful future.
In doing so, Kielyndrian and Freyja had set forth a series of chain reactions. Dominoes that would fall into place, one by one. Events were set in motion that would play a part in all their lives.
It started with a name. A name whispered into the dreams of Kielyn’s pregnant mother. A name so unique, so blessed, that even the most stubborn male dragon couldn’t ignore it.
Fate, and the gentle persuasions of a deity, had brought Ashdon and his mate together. The same mystical forces had seen fit to protect Stefen and seen him through a seemingly impossible transformation.
Was it also Freyja, and her love of the LaGoryen bloodline, that then tipped the scales once more? And placed a half-angel in Gerra?
Trophonius had shut up at that, refusing to discuss further the murky lines bridging the past and the future, what was prediction, and what was history. They may never know exactly how much influence Freyja, Pythia, and Kielyndrian had in bringing them all together. But they knew one thing for certain…
They were each standing where they needed to be.
By the hands of the gods, or the hands of fate, they were all connected. Together they would figure out how to close this rift in the universe, and seal shut the fifth realm.
“I thought I might find you here.” A distinct female voice pulled him from his refection.
Alaric turned to face Merick. “Oh?”
She approached, stepping near silently over the cobblestones, clasping her hands loosely behind her back. “I had a hunch.” She shrugged, the gesture as slight as the rest of her.
If ever there were a more ethereal female, Alaric had yet to meet her. Merick embodied regality and grace. She matched her mate in that regard .
Unlike Stefen, she was deceptively unassuming. One could mistakenly mark her as nonthreatening. An easy opponent to the untrained eye. Even a battle-hardened warrior might fall victim to her innocuous appearance.
A costly mistake.
Merick had developed into one of the realm’s most lethal fighters. The only known female dragon, she was the fastest of them all. And a talented Fire-dancer, blessed with the gift of Sight.
Still, with such boastful accomplishments in such a short span of time, she remained gentle and steadfast, understanding and humble. A female worthy of the title queen. Anessa would have been proud.
“Well, I shan’t question your hunches.” He smiled. “They are usually right.”
Alaric looked back at the sea. The storm cloud was larger now, churning grimly toward shore. The temperature had dipped and the wind had picked up, rippling the surface of the calm sea. The ocean gently smacked at the pier, bobbing the smaller boats anchored there.
A snake’s rattle…
“Tell me, sister,” Alaric spoke, and the winnowing wind fermented and sighed, threading invisible fingers through his hair, pushing strands of gold across his brow. “Which deity is it that follows you?”
She stepped up beside him, her gaze on the advancing storm. “Arianrhod.”
The Celtic goddess of reincarnation and stars. He should have known.
Arianrhod also had a deep connection to animals, the wolf in particular. They thought Merick’s ability to transform into a wolf had been due to her archangel bloodline. Might it be more than that?
“How long have you known?” he asked.
“Since last night.” Her gaze met his as the first drops of rain fell from the sky. “But you expected that, didn’t you?”
A sail snapped free on a boat's mast. The crew scurried to tie it down. Now others were moving as the bedlam of the advancing storm propelled them to seek shelter. Townspeople hurried into shops, alleys, and homes.
“I hoped that after hearing what Trophonius had to say you might draw your own conclusions.” Alaric faced her. “Pinpoint which of the gods had blessed you similarly.”
White-blonde curls whipped around her heart-shaped face. “Now that I know, what do you need from me?”
His words competed with the wind. “I need you to harness whatever gifts Arianrhod has blessed you with. See if you can discover a way to seal shut the fifth realm. Stop whatever darkness is escaping.”
The rain was coming down steadily, pelting the back of Alaric’s neck. He should have spoken to Stefen first. He would have to answer for this later. Hope his brother didn’t try and kill him for his deception.
Merick’s multi-colored eyes studied him for another long moment. The rain soaked her skin with silver drops and made it glisten.
“Trophonius left one detail out,” she finally said. “These gods and goddesses do not just bless their favorites with aspects of themselves.”
Alaric hesitated, having the sudden and distinct impression someone else was here with them.
Merick said, “In rare cases, they give all of themselves to a new incarnation.”
“Manifestation?” Alaric stared at her. “Merick, are you saying you are Arianrhod?”
She glanced past him, to the clear blue horizon without a trace of the storm that had developed. “I came out here last night. Asked the stars that very question.”
“Did they answer?” he asked.
Merick smiled softly. The rain was only scattered sprinkles now, disturbing puddles with their drops. “As clearly as an incoming storm.”
Ventus
Stansoll Wharf
T he thick harbor stench was strong enough to lean against. Eirik dropped his head and relaxed his shoulders. As much an attempt to blend in as it was to hide from the odor.
He had made excellent time, sleeping for only a few hours during the night. Stansoll Wharf was the last of the small fishing villages before Hornhall. An active port, it was always bustling. Many goods were traded here during daylight hours, at fairer prices than the bigger city harbors.
More sinister dealings were bartered by night.
Which was why Eirik had decided to start his hunt here. Stansoll Wharf catered largely to a certain, unscrupulous, type of character. Fae who didn’t want to be known, seen, or remembered. If he played his cards right, kept his ears and eyes open, he might discover the information he was seeking.
Eirik rounded the corner to the pier and stopped dead in his tracks. It was teaming with Windsong soldiers. Newly arrived off one of the king’s ships.
Fuck!
He doubled back the way he had come. What the hell! Everyone was supposed to be at the castle for today’s games. What were Windsong soldiers doing here, this close to Hornhall’s border? They never came this far south.
Two soldiers strode up the lane across from him. It would absolutely blow his cover if any of them recognized him. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He ducked into a tavern.
The heel of his boot to the rickety old door kept it from slamming shut behind him and drawing more attention. A few weary heads lifted from drink and food to take him in. Eirik scanned each face–vagabonds and petty criminals–then walked to a corner table.
He slid into a chair and settled his large frame into the shadows, facing the wall. A bar wench approached and Eirik tossed two coppers on the table. “Bread and ale.”
She snapped up the coin, bit down on it to verify the metal, then turned away. Eirik exhaled and leaned back in the chair. Why had Calian not told him soldiers might be patrolling along this border? Had something happened in the last twenty-four hours to send them this way?
No, he mentally corrected. Even with perfect currents, no newly departed ship could have made it here in that amount of time. Those soldiers had been out at sea before he left Windsong.
“She’s got a plan,” someone grumbled from the table behind Eirik, low enough to go undetected by fae ears. But not a vampire.
Take that, Borgen and Fenrir! His hearing was just fine. Maybe not as good as his brother’s, but better than the average fae.
“It’s not right,” the companion growled. “And you know it.”
“It doesn’t matter what I know,” the first male challenged. “All that matters is my Shelia. Your boy. And all the rest. Locked up in that dungeon awaiting the noose!” A mug landed hard on the table, its contents sloshing over the rim. “If they’re even that lucky.”
“Still doesn’t make it right,” the other man groused. “We’ve never broken faith with–”
“Shut up.” Silence followed. “Too many of the king’s dogs trotting around here.”
The floor creaked with the sudden weight of both men standing. Eirik looked down and away when the wench approached with his bread and ale. “Anything else?” she asked, sounding bored.
He didn’t reply, just listened. No coin landed on the table behind him. Only retreating footfall, as the two males moved off across the room. The server didn’t stop them, didn’t demand her payment. Her undivided attention stayed on Eirik, awaiting his response. The tavern door slammed shut behind them and the bar wench turned for the kitchen with an annoyed huff.
Eirik grabbed her wrist.
She spun back around, trying to wrench free of his grip. “Take your meaty paws…”
Her words trailed off when his other hand pushed a gold coin—more than she would earn in a year—across the table.
“Yours,” he said. “If you tell me where those two are headed.”
Windsong
S age moved to stand beside the others. At least a hundred of them. All High-fae. The exception being Bastian LaGoryen.
Despite her best efforts, her gaze kept wandering to where he stood amid the crowd. Not that he was difficult to locate. The male was a fucking beacon of masculine beauty. She had to remind herself to look away, to focus on the royal family taking their appointed places just outside the castle’s outer wall.
The sea beat the rocks below, but this high up the sound could not compete with the king’s booming voice. He called out, “As witnessed, none of the lesser fae have made it to this stage in the tournament.”
Indeed, the champion of the first round had won his last challenge, but then succumbed to his wounds the following hour. Sage had hoped the unexpected underdog would make it to this next stage in the games. She’d cheered him on as he bested each of his competitors.
“It is now up to two of you to win my favor.” The king surveyed the crowd. “The stakes are high this year. But the rewards are unparalleled.”
The prince gave no indication the words affected him, but the princess visibly tensed. Sage felt for her. She hoped Eirik made it back before the last round. Only then could any interested Warborn enter the tourney. Only then might the princess marry for love.
The king continued. “Because of my generous reward, I have altered the competition.” The crowd grew still. “There will only be two more rounds.”
The princess’s lovely golden complexion dropped a shade. This was new information to her as well. Cutting out eight tourneys would all but assure Eirik could not make it back in time.
Sage felt Bastian’s gaze on her before she glanced his way. He knew it, too. She read the burning question in those piercing blue eyes as if he had spoken the word out loud. Why?
“Since eight of ten final rounds are being omitted, the trials must be harder,” the king said. “The first competition will be the Chelseea Rock challenge. A test that up until today has only ever been issued to my most trusted warriors, the Warborn.”
Chelseea Rock was an islet about a half mile out to sea. Composed mostly of jagged stones, sharp enough to make getting to the top of the island a feat in itself, the only living occupants were birds. Originally, a lighthouse resided on the highest point, but it was now a crumbling husk.
It wasn’t the rocks one had to worry about, though. It was the half mile swim to get to them. If one could get past the breaking waves, at times twenty feet high, the rip currents were the next big challenge. Expert swimmers could be overwhelmed by the sheer force. A single second of disorientation could lead to being overtaken by the waves, then bashed to pieces on the rocky ocean floor.
But immortals were hard to kill. It would take more than a mere drowning to get the job done.
That’s where the sea dragons came in.
“Another amendment to the first tourney will be the use of your magic.” The king stood, his voice strong and clear over the crowd. “The Warborn must forgo them when they accept this challenge. Proving their capability is more than the blessings bestowed upon them by the gods. In honoring this tradition, any that wish to compete today must do the same.”
Calian’s gaze scanned the High-fae. “Those that succeed in making it to Chelseea Rock will have one more test. They must make it to the lighthouse ruins, retrieve further instructions hidden there, and carry out those instructions. Those that do so will move on to the last round. Where they will be granted full use of their magic.”
Lord Venderson stepped forward. A footman with a cart moved one step behind him. The king motioned to the cuffs laid out on it.
“To assure that no one tries to access their powers, these magic insulators will be worn.”
A clash of emotions permeated the crowd–a throb of excitement, the tang of fear, along with genuine shock. Never before had such a device been used. Sage was unaware one even existed. Based on the emotions around her, she wasn’t alone in her ignorance.
Her gaze sought out Chogan. No emotion on his face indicated his thoughts. Sage looked at each of his brothers in arms. Nothing. They were all locked fucking vaults. She instinctively turned her head to Bastian.
He was gone.
B astian pushed through the stunned crowd. He wasn’t interested in the king’s amended games. He had come here to test his powers. Not surrender them.
He should have gone with Sterling to Hornhall. Bastian shoved past a blank-faced male–likely one of the first to die. Unbelievable. What sort of circus was Calian running?
Nothing had gone as expected here. In fact, about the only thing he had come to expect was attempted murder. Decidedly not what he had signed up for.
This…this change in the tourney was the final straw. He’d been sent to Ventus to advance his craft. A difficult thing to achieve with no one to challenge him. He had zero reason to remain here. And numerous grounds for leaving.
Eirik could keep Windsong, be the soldier he clearly wanted to be, run whatever errands the king demanded, dilute his gifts to little more than a bloodhound.
Bastian had seen enough. He would retrieve his belongings, catch the next ship out, and be on his way to Hornhall. With luck, he would get there in time to join the High-fae rounds.
He was halfway to the castle doors when a clear and defiant voice rang out from the dais. “I will compete for my own hand!”
Bastian turned back. The princess stood proudly on the raised stage, wrists outstretched to the king’s advisor. “Put the cuffs on me,” she demanded.
Bloody hell!
The king’s face seemed to echo the sentiment. Lord Venderson looked up questioningly.
“You heard me.” The princess stared down the advisor. “The rules are simple. Any High-fae can compete.”
“I…Your Highness, the rules are for–”
“ Any High-fae,” she challenged. “It doesn’t state what level.”
But it should, Bastian mused . The royal twins had only a drop of magic between them. A common amount for any High-fae born in the last fifty years.
Ever since the fall of Arrowren, fewer and fewer fae were blessed with magic. A curse, the rebels claimed. The price of greed. The revenge of the Astamere bloodline.
Another failing of Calian: not amending the tourney rules to accommodate such varied and drastic amounts of magic. To make it fair. Bastian dug his fingernails into his palms.
Even if she managed to survive this first challenge without magic, she could not win the final. Looking at her, at the resolve in her eyes, he realized she would try.
She would try, and she would fail. But she would do so on her terms.
The crowd shifted and parted, and Chogan stepped forward. The warrior must have noted the princess’s resolve, too. He didn’t say a word, but his sights were fixed on his cousin, the king.
That was when Bastian noticed. The eyewitness . The male stood just to the left of the stage, blank, black eyes locked on Calian.
Bastian looked at the king. Something in his gaze had hardened. Gone was the shock and fear presented after the princess’s declaration. What resided there now seemed only to be… nothing…
Calian said, “Do as the princess asks.”