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An Evil One.
I slump down, dizzy, my back to a broad rock as I teeter sideways, weeping.
Jules crouches down and takes my arm. “Come away with me.” There’s steel in his voice. “I’ll find Keltic clothes for you. We’ll escape.”
I thrust my arm out at him, my skin glimmering faintly emerald in the gathering darkness. “It’s no use, Jules. How could we hide this?”
His jaw hardens. “I’ll smuggle you into Verpacia.”
I’m shaking my head as the tears stream down my face. “They’ll catch us. I’m sure they’ve closed the border.”
“I go to the University,” he insists. “I know people. People who could help us.”
“But my family,” I keen in despair, wracked by sobs.
“I’ll be your family.”
He says this with such rock-hard conviction, the tears catch in my throat. I look to him, stunned.
“I’ll marry you,” he insists. “Somehow, we’ll get to Verpacia, and I’ll marry you. We’ll get a cottage there. Somewhere remote. I’ll find work at the University and I’ll hide you.”
“Gardnerians don’t marry,” I remind him, my voice choked with grief for my family, my people. “We wandfast. Then we seal the bond.” Anguish rises in me like a terrible wave. “Just leave me, Jules. I’m going to get you killed. You can’t help me.”
“I can.”
I take a deep, shuddering breath. Kind, foolish Jules. I touch his face. His jutting cheekbone. His infinitely intelligent eyes.
“You can’t marry me, Jules,” I tell him, my mouth trembling. “I’m not a Kelt.”
His expression turns fierce. “I don’t care! When have I ever cared?”
“I will always be Gardnerian.”
“Then be Gardnerian,” he stubbornly returns. “We’ll make a life in Verpacia. And when things calm down, we can wandfast if it’s possible. I don’t care. I’d bind myself to you.”
I’ve known for some time that Jules fancies me. It’s been building in him over time. I’ve seen it in the heat lighting his gaze when he looks at me. In the new tension between us. But he’s always held back, polite and unsure of my feelings. To hear him speak so boldly stuns me into silence.
“We’ll go up through the mountains,” he says. “You can stay here while I get a horse and supplies.”
“What if they’re still alive?” My voice is small and weak, clinging to senseless hope. My crippled, doddering grandfather and my sickly eight-year-old brother. What are the chances they’ve escaped all this?
He gives me a hard look. We both know the likely truth.
“What would they want you to do?” Jules asks, his jaw set tight.
A bitter laugh cuts through my tears. “Grandfather? He’d want me to push you clear off that cliff.” I start to weep anew at the thought of my gentle, staunchly religious grandfather and his overwhelming hatred of Kelts. Grandfather would be horrified at the bizarre prospect of Keltic Jules trying to wandfast to his granddaughter, for the same reasons that he foolishly, blindly heeded our religion’s strictures that barred women from wielding wands without first securing the Mage Council’s approval.
“What would Wren want, then?” Jules asks, softer this time.
I think of my brother’s wide, ready smile. Roughly, I wipe the tears from my eyes, steeling myself. “He’d want me to go with you.”
“Will you do it?” Jules asks, his hand coming up to caress my face. “Will you come away with me?”
I nod and let him pull me into a warm embrace.
A twig snaps to my left.
“Well, isn’t this touching.”
Jules’s whole body stiffens, and I blanch at the sound of the familiar voice.
Brandon stands just a few feet away, smiling triumphantly as three Keltic soldiers surround us and unsheathe their swords.
Chapter 3: Prisoner (#u67028d46-285a-5abf-8dc5-9e69a8ecf052)
“Where’s my brother? And my grandfather?” My voice is coarse and low with dread as I stumble along the wooded path toward Crykes Field. I’m stealthily summoning up bits of magic from the ground as I’m herded along, storing the power inside me, though it hurts to gather so much without using it.
All I need is a wand.
Brandon laughs. “Quit your nattering, witch.” He gives me a rough shove, which almost sends me hurtling to the ground. I choke back my outrage as I regain my balance.
Narrowing my eyes, I pull up another thread of magic and wind it around the others deep inside me. Gardnerian magic runs along affinity lines—fire, water, air, earth and light. I have mostly fire.
Lots of it.
Jules is being mercilessly driven ahead of me. One of the soldiers, a tall, bearded man, gives my friend’s head a hard smack every now and then, laughing when Jules nearly falls sideways. Night has taken hold, the stars shining pinpricks in the sky, shadows engulfing the woods around us.
I flinch as yet another dragon flies overhead, my hidden magic sending a knifelike jab to my ribs.
So many dragons. A sickening terror tries to pull me under, but I push the magic’s simmering power at it, keeping the fear at bay.
We’re close to Crykes Field, and I can hear the raucous laughter of soldiers up ahead. My nerves fray as the shrieks of countless dragons echo above and across the ground in the distance. A staccato burst of orders is shouted nearby, and I can make out rough, low voices speaking the sharp language of the Urisk.
Urisk geomancers are powerful magicians from the southern lands, able to harness the latent magic of gemstones and crystals. And their military has recently formed an alliance with the Keltic forces.
Against my people.
The woods open up, and Jules is pushed into a clearing. I hesitate, heart thudding, my steps skidding to a halt.
A mammoth barn looms before me. In the darkness of the forest, I hadn’t realized that we were approaching Mage Gullin’s sprawling farm. That the enemy soldiers had decided to place part of their encampment here.
There are Keltic and Urisk soldiers standing and talking in small groups, the barn just beyond them. Torches on iron stands have been thrust into the dirt. They ring the large, circular clearing between farm buildings, the flames casting everything in a sinister, orange glow.
This flat land extends to the steep bluff that lines the entire rear boundary of the farm, offering a clear view of the full expanse of Crykes Field below. Countless campfires are scattered across the field, flickering between the rows of Keltic military tents and the georune-marked shelters of the Urisk soldiers.
My cottage and those of my neighbors are still ablaze in the far distance, just past the river, and the smell of charred wood hangs heavy in the air. Far to the north, I can just make out the dark shapes of dragons soaring across the night sky, still winging their way toward Gardneria.
“Move,” Brandon orders, giving me a shove from behind.
A few Keltic soldiers turn to give me the once-over, their red uniforms the color of blood in the torchlight, their faces filling with dark interest at the sight of me.
I push waves of my fire magic against the fear that threatens to undo me, the surge of warmth bolstering my courage. As I study the scattered Urisk soldiers—whose magical talents make them far more intimidating than the Kelts—I find myself pulling up even more magic to steady my nerves. They’re lethally streamlined in appearance, their scythes glimmering with inlaid gemstones and strapped to their backs. One geosoldier rides by on a snarling hydreena, the beast’s ugly, tusked head twisting from side to side against its tight reins.
There’s a military sameness to most of the blue-hued Urisk soldiers, but one soldier stands boldly out. He’s the most heavily rune-marked soldier here, and the dancing torchlight reflects vividly off the gemstones adorning his armor. Sapphires encircle his wrists, looped over his palms, and a string of multicolored gemstones is thrown diagonally over his chest. An aura of glowing power surrounds him like a soft blue mist, and the sheer quantity of gems he carries marks him as a strafeling, one of the most powerful classes of Urisk geomancers.
The strafeling stands next to a Keltic commander with a neatly trimmed blond beard, the Kelt’s deep red uniform trimmed with multiple black bands around his arms and edging his cloak. Beside the Kelt commander towers a huge blond ax-paladin, one of the strongest and most feared of the Keltic soldiers, a colossal ax strapped to the warrior’s broad back.
All three men turn to look at Jules and me as we’re pushed forward, the Kelt commander’s eyes hard and steady, the strafeling appearing curious. The ax-paladin crosses his broad arms in front of his muscular chest and regards me with an open leer.
I cling to my magic, swallowing back my terror, and force myself to hold the ax-paladin’s gaze. Then my eyes alight on something thin and white tucked into the side of his weapons belt. The ball of magic churns white-hot in my chest.
A wand!
But why would a Kelt soldier be carrying a Gardnerian wand? Kelts don’t possess any magic.
“Who’s this?” the Kelt commander barks at Brandon, gesturing toward Jules.
Jules’s fists are clenched by his sides, blood trickling down his bruised, split cheekbone. His eyes narrow in defiance and an attempt to focus, his glasses long since smashed under Brandon’s boot heel.
“Jules Kristian,” Brandon announces, stepping forward with bravado. He spits in Jules’s direction and shoots him a look thick with disgust. “A race traitor.”
“He was trying to hide the Roach girl,” one of our soldier escorts explains, his lip curled with malice.
The ax-paladin lets out a low laugh and looks me over, his eyes heavy-lidded. “More than hide her, I’m sure.” He smiles suggestively at Jules, then turns to me. “Do you want a wand, Roach girl?” He bares his teeth, reaches down toward his groin and hoists his member. “I’ve got a better wand for you than that skinny boy.”
The strafeling shoots the ax-paladin a look of disdain, but Brandon and the Keltic soldiers laugh, savoring the idea of my humiliation. I beat back my fear and shift my attention inward, pulling two more long, crimson strands of magic up from the ground. The power pushes at my ribs with searing heat, straining toward the wand.
“Leave her alone,” Jules snarls, his eyes bright with fury.
“Jules,” I caution, but his eyes are locked on the ax-paladin.
“Or what?” Brandon jeers, shoving Jules so hard he stumbles back. “You’ll split our heads? Do you swear you will?”
Jules launches himself at Brandon, catching him off guard, and lands a solid blow to his broad face that knocks Brandon to the ground.
Brandon’s surprise morphs to rage, his expression murderous. With the surrounding Keltic soldiers cheering him on, Brandon rises to his feet and rushes at Jules. He wrestles my friend to the ground, pinning him with his superior size, and punches him hard in the face.
“You bastard!” I yell, moving to run toward them, only to be caught by my elbows and jerked backward by two Keltic soldiers. Furious, I struggle to wrench my arms free.
If I could only get my hands on that wand! Breathing hard, I try to focus on gathering more power as the crowd of Kelts closes in around Jules, egging Brandon on and cutting off my view of him.
The ax-paladin smiles wickedly, his large chin thrust forward. He gestures to the guards restraining me with a hard flick of his hand.
My feet skid across the damp earth as they drag me to a fenced-in livestock pen to the right of the barn. The soldiers open the gate, and I’m pushed forward, my palms slapping down onto the cold, muddied ground. It’s pitch dark back here, the area devoid of torches. I blink, my eyes struggling to adjust to the dimness.
“Tessie!” A shadowy form grabs at my arm as I rise.
It’s Rosebeth, my sweet Gardnerian friend from three cottages over. I cling to her, grateful to see a familiar face.
“You’re alive!” she sobs, hugging me. “Thank the Ancient One, you’re alive!”
“You embrace her?” A disgusted voice sounds from the blackness of the pen. “She ran off with a Kelt!”
I can just make out the young Gardnerian woman’s hate-filled eyes, large and luminous in a beautiful face. Her skin, like mine, shimmers a faint emerald in the dark. She spits on the ground in my direction, then makes the sign to ward off the power of the Evil Ones. “Staen’en,” she hisses under her breath. Race traitor.
I squint into the darkness. There are five other Gardnerians in the pen, all huddled in a far corner near the hateful girl—all of them elegant Upper River Gardnerians. I can just make out their dark silken clothing in the moonlight, a stark contrast to the black woolen homespun Rosebeth and I wear, like most of the impoverished Lower River Gardnerians.
In another corner of the pen, a small figure is curled in a tight ball, sobbing, and dressed in light-hued Keltic attire. Unlike us Gardnerians, there is no faint emerald shimmer to her skin, and she’s been shorn bald. It’s meek Keltic Daisie, the smith’s daughter.
I suddenly realize that the pen holds only women. Young women. I turn my head and see the shadows of three Keltic soldiers hanging over the fence, watching us. Their eyes glitter in the moonlight.
Trying not to panic, I look back at Rosebeth. “Did you see Wren?” I whisper, taking hold of her arm as she sobs. “My grandfather?”
Weeping, she shakes her head, her face a mask of misery. She gestures toward the barn. “Wagons keep coming. Full of Gardnerians. They’re forcing everyone in there. All but us.” Rosebeth casts a frightened sidelong glance at the young Kelts. “What are we going to do?” she asks me imploringly, her voice quavering. She’s chewing on her lip so hard, she’s bloodied it.
I look toward the men. The Keltic soldiers are passing a flask back and forth as they laugh and leer at us, but over their shoulders, I can see that the crowd around Jules has dispersed. He’s been dumped by the edge of the barn, lying on his side. His face is swollen beyond recognition, one arm cradling the other as if it’s broken.
Anger swells in me, and I turn, my focus honed on the ax-paladin.
“So, are you a Roach now?” The strafeling idly points at the wand that hangs from the ax-paladin’s belt.
The ax-paladin spits on the ground. “Some Roach filth south of here got hold of it and cut down several members of our guard. I’m to bring it to the Tenhold armory.”
“Why not destroy the cursed thing?” the strafeling asks, eyeing the wand with suspicion.
“We’ve tried,” the paladin says. “It is surprisingly hard to break. And it’s oddly powerful.”
My attention lights up. I’ve heard tales of wands like these—wands of great power.
“What will we do?” Rosebeth asks me again in that tremulous voice, clinging to my arm and breaking my focus.
“Quiet,” I order, more sternly than I’d intended, but I need to concentrate.
I’m only a Level Three Mage. Not a huge amount of power, to be sure, but I do have a unique talent. I can pull up threads of magic from the elements and knit them together, amplifying my power. I’ve done this on only a few occasions, experimenting with Grandfather’s wand while making medicines and using the ability once to defend myself. Each time, the spell-linking gave me a fever and scoured me out, as if I’d been grievously ill. It’s dangerous, what I’m doing. Magic can turn deadly when gathered like this, catching on the very life force of a Mage and choking it clear out. The last time I linked spells, I was attempting a complicated medicine to treat Wren’s chronic illness. Grandfather found me passed out in the kitchen amid vials and scattered potions, and he forbade me from ever, ever using his wand again. I was feverish and bedridden for days, but more devastated over the loss of the wand than anything else.
I’ve never tried to pull in and link together as much power as I’m holding right now, and I know I’m playing with fire.
Deadly, raging, elemental fire.
My chest is full of burning pain, but my resolve is strengthened by it. I coldly assess our situation.
We’re completely surrounded by a sea of soldiers—but the men are hardly the only threat. Several Urisk geosoldiers struggle to contain a dragon nearby, the beast’s whole body undulating with rage. The dragon turns its head to look at me and bares its long fangs, pinning me with its eerie white eyes.
Terror claws at me, but I force myself to stand my ground as Rosebeth cries out and hides behind me, her slender body quivering.
A tall, winged figure steps into the clearing, and I feel my bravado slip away.
I take a frightened step back as the Icaral demon casts its glowing orange eyes around. His black wings arch threateningly, and the terrifying evil of his grinning expression is heightened by the torchlight. He balances a bright ball of flame over his palm as he slinks over to the Kelt commander, the strafeling and the ax-paladin.
