Oathbreaker - Chapter 10
Devon swore loudly as a wagon rumbled past on the busy street, its iron-rimmed wheels just inches from his feet...
Legend of the Gods is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. In the Three Nations, magic is outlawed, with severe punishment for those who disobey. When her brother’s magic emerges, Alana will do anything to protect him from the Stalkers that hunt them. Meanwhile, disgraced warrior Devon must choose between loyalty to the empire and his desire to protect the innocent. You can find my other books on my website.
A century since the departure of the Gods, the Three Nations are now united beneath the Tsar. Magic has been outlawed, its power too dangerous to remain unchecked. All Magickers must surrender themselves to the crown, or face imprisonment and death.
Alana's mundane life has just been torn apart by the emergence of her brother's magic. Now they must leave behind everything they’ve ever known and flee – before the Tsar’s Stalkers pick up their trail. Tasked with hunting down renegade Magickers, the merciless hunters will stop at nothing to bring them before the Tsar’s judgement.
As the noose closes around Alana and her brother, disgraced hero Devon finds himself at odds with the law when he picks a fight with the wrong man. The former warrior has set aside his weapons, but now, caught between the renegades and the Stalkers, he is forced to pick a side – the empire, or the innocent.
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Devon swore loudly as a wagon rumbled past on the busy street, its iron-rimmed wheels just inches from his feet. The driver did not so much as glance back as Devon’s curses chased after him. Muttering under his breath, Devon pressed on through the crowd, doing his best to keep his head down. He kept watch on the city guard from the corner of his eye. They lined the marketplace, their wary eyes hunting for pickpockets and trouble. He doubted Quinn had managed to send word to Lon so quickly, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.
He was close to the port now, and quickly losing patience. This would be the third tavern he’d visited—and there was still no sign of his contact. He had left Alana and her brother in the room they’d rented, while he sought a ship to carry them north. For now, it was best to keep them as far from this business as possible—he doubted there’d be many ship captains willing to help a Magicker.
Around him, the streets of Lon were packed to bursting. He had never liked the city, where people scurried along the rutted streets like flies on a corpse. Long ago, Lon had been the quiet capital of the farming nation, but those days were long gone now. With Lonians fleeing the impoverished countryside, its population was now twice that of Ardath, with half the wealth.
Devon wrinkled his nose as he walked past an alleyway choked with human refuse. He had long since given up walking around the animal dung lying thick in the streets. Amidst the press of humanity, emaciated sheep wandered freely, while stray dogs darted amongst the legs of pedestrians, seeking their next meal. Broken glass and pottery lay discarded in corners, and he saw more than one barefooted beggar with a limp. In another alley, he glimpsed a figure lying in the shadows—either sleeping or dead. No one stopped to check.
Ahead, the streets opened out, the three storey buildings finally giving way to the docks. This was an older section of Lon, its streets at least cobbled, with a raised sidewalk to protect pedestrians from the overburdened wagons rumbling up from the harbour. As the closest remaining city to Northland, Lon was still the centre of trade between the north and south. That alone should have made the city rich—if not for the Tsar’s taxes.
At the end of the street, the cobbled road turned to wooden planks where it reached the docks. No longer penned in by the narrow streets, Devon took a deep breath, savouring the sudden tang of salt in the air. A cool breeze blew across his face, carrying with it the stench of rotting fish. Smiling wryly, he shook his head and pressed on.
Out on the harbour, hundreds of ships sat at anchor, while dozens more came and went from the docks lining the city front. Men and women moved quickly across the wharf, unloading wagons and carrying heavy crates up gangplanks onto waiting ships. The neighing of horses mingled with the shouts of men, punctuated by the odd crash as something was dropped. Gulls cawed as they circled overhead, their beady eyes on the lookout for food.
Shouldering his way through the crowd, Devon made his way along the docks until he spotted the inn he had been directed to. He breathed a sigh of relief as he caught a glimpse of the Black Seagull and steered his way towards it. Manoeuvring his way around a pile of cages filled with wriggling lobsters, he found himself outside the heavy wooden doors, and pushed his way inside.
Warm air billowed out to greet him, banishing the cold. This close to the coast, the snowstorm had not reached the city, but there was still ice in the air and he was wearing several woollen layers. Stripping off his coat, he hung it beside the door, before looking around to appraise the inn’s occupants. It was still early in the afternoon and the bar room was reasonably quiet—although in this case that meant there were only twenty revellers crammed into the tiny tables. His eyes swept the room, seeking out his contact, but he didn’t see anyone he recognised. Muttering under his breath, he forced his way to the bar and ordered a pint of ale.
When the bartender returned, Devon handed him several copper Austral for the drink and then caught him by the hand. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen a friend of mine? Goes by Julian.”
The bartender eyed him closely. “Who’s asking?”
“A friend.”
The man nodded, eyes still suspicious, and moved away without answering. Shaking his head, Devon gulped down a mouthful of ale and turned to give the patrons of the bar another look-over. Most of the men were sailors, their beards long and grizzled, faces tanned by the constant sun. They would be enjoying their brief time ashore before their next voyage. More than a few women sat amongst them, looking just as rough, their hair dry and split, heavy knives on their belts. Devon grinned as he saw one sailor get too friendly, only to have his head slammed into the table top. The men around him boomed with laughter as one of the bar’s minders quickly dragged the man outside.
“Sailors,” Devon muttered, turning back to his drink.
“I know a ship in need of some muscle, if you’re looking to join the lifestyle, Devon,” a man said with a laugh as he sat on the neighbouring stool.
Unlike the sailors in the bar, the man’s beard was neatly trimmed, though a few grey hairs had appeared amongst the black. His hair remained the same jet-black as during the war, but it was starting to recede at the brow. Wrinkles had appeared around his hazel eyes. He wore a clean white tunic and sleek black pants, along with a slim rapier strapped at his waist.
Devon flashed Julian a grin. “I’ve no taste for the sea, old friend.”
“No, now that you mention it, I seem to recall you growing rather green on that last voyage.”
Devon snorted. “Not sure how, since you spent most of your time huddling below deck.”
Julian held up his hands, the ale sloshing from his mug. “What can I say? One must know his strengths! I never had your talent with death, Devon.”
“Ay,” Devon replied, his amusement falling from him like water. “Few do.”
An awkward silence followed, punctuated by a man’s yell as one of the fisherwomen hurled him across a table.
“So, what brings you to Lon, old friend?” Julian asked finally. “Not like you to be skulking around these parts.”
“Business,” Devon replied with a grunt. “Got a client who needs a ride.”
“I see.” Julian’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing to do with that spot of trouble you got yourself into in Ardath, then? Heard you’ve got a bit of a bounty on your head.”
Devon tensed at his friend’s words, his heart beating faster. “What did you hear?”
Julian raised an eyebrow. “So serious, Devon? Didn’t think a few royal guards would worry you overly much.”
Devon let out a long breath and forced himself to smile. “Oh, it’s not that greenboy and his friends who worry me. It’s the bloody bounty on my head!”
“The bounty?” his friend guffawed. “Well, you need not worry about that. The fool put out a bounty alright, but it’s hardly worth the paper it’s written on. Half a gold libra, if you can believe that? And he wants you alive! Not a hunter in the Three Nations foolish enough to take on a legend like you for such a piddling sum.”
Devon feigned anger. “It’s almost insulting,” he replied. Knocking back his ale, he hailed the bartender for another. He turned back to his friend and went on. “I’ve half a mind to go back and hit him again.”
Julian grinned. “So, these clients of yours, where are they headed?”
“Northland.”
Sitting back in his chair, Julian eyed Devon. “Sounds like a dangerous client.” He paused. Licking his fat lips, he eyed Devon, as though seeing him for the first time. “Are you sure these are clients you want to get in bed with, Devon?”
Devon stared back, jaw clenched. “Do you have a ship or not, Julian?”
Julian was silent for a moment longer, before offering a quick nod. “It just so happens the Songbird is sailing on the morning tide. She’s a Northland ship, heading for Duskenville. How many passengers we talking?”
“Five,” Devon replied. Duskenville was the closest Northland port. Nestled at the foot of the coastal cliffs, the colourful town was only a few days’ sailing from Lon.
“You wouldn’t be one of those five, would you?”
“Could be I am,” Devon said with a shrug. “Let’s just say my recent troubles have opened my eyes to new adventures.”
“It’ll be costly,” Julian shot back, eyes alight.
“My clients can pay,” Devon replied with an easy grin.
Julian raised an eyebrow. “I should hope so.” There was open scepticism in his voice.
Devon laughed. “What, you don’t trust me, old friend?”
Julian relaxed at Devon’s laughter. He shook his head. “Forgive an aging man his distrust. Course I trust you!” He trailed off, then added quickly, “Only, you do still owe me a gold libra for that business back in Coral.”
“You do have a long memory, don’t you?” Devon muttered. “Well, you can add that to the tab for our passage tomorrow. I take it ten libra per passenger is still the going rate?”
“Ten!” Julian exclaimed, spilling more of his ale. “You have been gone a while. The price is now twenty!”
“Ha! You haven’t changed a bit, have you, Julian? It can’t be more than twelve.”
The exchange continued for a few more minutes before Devon finally settled on fifteen gold apiece. He winced at the cost, though he had no doubt Kellian would have the coin. At least they’d managed to get a decent price for the horses they’d taken from the Stalkers. Their branding meant they’d been forced to sell them on the black market, but they’d still been able to use the profits to pay for their lodging and supplies.
He spent another hour talking with Julian, going over details for the journey, which eventually turned to tales of one another’s exploits during the war. Despite his regrets, Devon felt a touch of nostalgia as Julian regaled him of his heroics during their march through the Branei Pass into Trola. Those had been the early days of the war, simpler times when the Trolans had been evil aggressors, the Plorsean army the noble defenders of the innocent.
Finally, Devon knocked back his ale and stood. Bidding his old friend farewell, he promised to meet at the fourth dock the next morning at daybreak. There was plenty more to do before the day ended, and outside he could already see the light beginning to fade. He threaded his way through the crowd and claimed his coat from the rack, before stepping back out into the cold.
Alana shivered as she stepped back from the window and slammed the shutters closed. The sky was thick with clouds, the air untouched by the sun’s heat. Inside their room was little better. The ceiling was thick with mould and its only window faced north, allowing in a thin breath of cold whenever the wind blew. There had been no other lodging available though, and it was better than sleeping in the gutters.
Earlier, Kellian had headed out to collect his funds from a local merchant. Devon was organising them a ship for Northland, leaving Alana and her brother to stew in the tiny room with the old priest.
She was sitting now in a chair before the fire, her blue eyes distant. Braidon sat in the opposite chair, his knees pulled up to his chest, his face still lined with exhaustion. They had ridden hard through the Lonian foothills yesterday, reaching the city only as the last light was fading from the sky. It had taken all her brother’s strength just to make it up the stairs to their room. Food and a full night’s sleep had done them all good, but it would be days before Braidon was fully recovered.
The room consisted of a fireplace, a wooden table and stools, the two chairs near the fire, and three beds—Devon and Kellian were bunked next door. Taking a stool from the table, Alana dragged it across the moth-eaten carpet and joined the others at the fireplace.
Her brother smiled and held out a plate of chocolate biscuits. Seating herself, Alana took one with a smile.
“Do you think they’ll be back soon?” Braidon asked quietly.
“Patience, young one,” Tillie answered for Alana. “They will be back when they’re done—and not a moment sooner.”
Alana wondered for a moment whether she’d made the wrong decision in trusting the men. At this moment they could be fetching the city watch, or a squadron of Stalkers, while she and her brother sat here in blissful ignorance. Even now the hunters might be closing around them. Shivering, she shook her head to rid herself of the thought, and turned to the priest.
“Tillie, during the storm you told me my brother’s magic could be controlled by…what did you call it, meditation?”
The priest nodded, her eyes dancing. “Of course. Meditation is how Magickers have controlled their power for centuries.”
Alana shared a glance with her brother. “Can you teach him?”
“I could, if he wished to learn,” Tillie replied, turning her eyes to Braidon.
Her brother nodded quickly, his blue eyes alive with excitement. “Yes, please!”
The old woman laughed. “Very well, would you like to start now?”
Braidon nodded. Moving from her chair, Tillie seated herself on the rug before the fire and nodded for Braidon to join her. Then her eyes looked up at Alana. “You may join us if you wish, Alana.”
Alana blinked. “It’s not just for Magickers?”
“Of course not. Anyone can take part—though only with dedication and practice can you truly master the art.”
Alana looked from the priest to her brother and then joined them on the rug. Copying the old woman, she folded her legs beneath her, then looked to Tillie in question.
“Do we have to sit like this?” her brother asked suddenly, already wriggling.
Alana sighed—her brother had never been good at sitting still. No wonder he had never excelled in his studies…
“You may sit however you wish, young Braidon, but…” Tillie trailed off as Braidon quickly flopped onto his side. Shaking her head, Tillie continued with an amused smile. “But sitting with your legs crossed will prove most comfortable over long periods, I assure you.”
Alana’s backside was already aching but she kept her mouth shut, trusting the old woman was right. “Okay then,” she said, glancing at her brother. “Should we give this meditation thing a go?”
Braidon rolled his eyes. “It’s only breathing, how hard can it be?” He let out a long breath. “But I suppose I’ll give it a go.”
“Very good,” Tillie replied. “But first, what do you know of your power, young Braidon?”
Her brother shrugged. “Not much. That was only the second time its appeared. The first was…on my birthday.”
Tillie nodded. “Yes, magic always awakens on the anniversary of a birth. That is why we sometimes call it the Gift.”
Braidon looked away at that. “Some gift,” he muttered.
“Perhaps not now, but I have seen Magickers do wonderful, incredible things.” She paused, her eyes taking on a distant look. “How else do you think the drought around Chole was broken?”
“That drought was created by magic in the first place, wasn’t it?” Alana cut in.
“Dark magic,” Tillie replied, “is an altogether different beast.”
“How so?” Braidon questioned.
Tillie sighed. “Dark magic sits outside the natural order of our world. It is capable of incredible feats, but always there is corruption, a perversion of the wielder’s original intent.”
“What makes my magic different then?”
“Your magic stems from one of the Three Elements, and so operates within the natural world. A true Magicker can manipulate part or the entirety of one Element, but never more than that. For instance, your magic, while I don’t yet understand all of its nature, comes from the Light. Your power may be able to manipulate fire, or light, or magic itself, but you will never control the weather, nor speak with plants, since those abilities come under the Elements of Earth and Sky.”
“So his power could start a fire once he gets control of it?” Alana asked, her curiosity growing.
Tillie smiled. “Perhaps. As I said, from the brief display back in Sitton, I couldn’t discern Braidon’s true power – only that it came from the Light. Now, enough of this! The others will return soon, so if you want to practice, young Braidon, we had best start. To begin, we must close our eyes.”
Alana nodded, remembering the old woman’s instructions from the night in the grove, and did as she was bid. Idly, she wondered how ridiculous they must look, the three of them sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire. She hoped Devon and Kellian did not return while they sat there.
“Now, we begin by exhaling until our lungs are completely empty,” the old priest said. “When you can breathe out no longer, inhale, and allow the air to fill your chest.”
Alana did as she was told, exhaling until the longing for air grew too much, and she was forced to suck in a fresh breath. Across from her, she could hear her brother giggling as he did the same, and struggled to keep from laughing herself.
“Keep your mind focused on your breath,” Tillie continued, ignoring the laughter. “It may feel strange at first, uncomfortable or, yes, amusing, but trust me. There is purpose in this madness.”
Smiling to herself, Alana continued the exercise. For a while she concentrated on the rise and fall of her chest, the swelling of her stomach with each inhalation. But after a time, she noticed her mind drifting, her thoughts turning to the Arbor, to Quinn and Devon, to their voyage across the lake…
“Your mind will drift,” Tillie’s voice cut through her thoughts. “It is to be expected. When it does, allow yourself to examine what distracted you, then turn your mind back to the breath.”
Alana shivered, turning her thoughts inwards once more.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
Her mind flickered, centring in on the mindless process of her breathing. Other thoughts continued to press against her, but as each rose into the darkness of her mind, she took it firmly in hand, considered it for a moment, then sent it spinning back out into the void. To her surprise, the exercise came naturally to her, and she found the chaos fading away, the cacophony of ideas and worries becoming but a drop in the infinity of her mind.
Finally, only one sensation remained to her—the strongest one of all.
Fear.
Fear that she would be captured, that her brother would be taken from her, that he would disappear into the bowels of the Tsar’s citadel and never be seen again.
Fear that she would fail.
Taking another rhythmic breath, Alana allowed the emotion to fill her, to rise to the surface. Her body shook, the hairs standing up on her arms as she saw again the stepwell, the Stalkers racing down the steps, dragging away the boy. Then the circle of trees, the vines encasing her brother, the twisted mouths opening to snatch him away. And, finally, the eyes of Quinn as he stepped into the firelight, magic at the ready.
Trembling, Alana scrunched her eyes tighter, her body taut with the power of her fear. Time passed, unknown, uncountable, as she sought to release the feeling, to allow it to pass from her. Finally, she shuddered, her shoulders slumping as the tension rushed from her. Her breathing relaxed into the gentle rhythm of sleep—but she was not asleep.
Opening her eyes, Alana found herself adrift on a sea of darkness. Watching the infinite black, Alana knew she should be panicked, that she should fear the eternity around her, but she felt only peace.
Slowly she drifted, alive but not alive, free but still trapped. For the longest time she was alone. Then, like a fire igniting in a cold room, she became aware of something else. She turned amidst the black and found a distant source of light. It glowed scarlet through the darkness, calling to her.
Unbidden, her ethereal body shot towards it, and she watched the light grow, swelling until it became an angry ball of red and orange. Emotion pulsed from it—fear and anger, jealousy and love, all tangled together in an endless puzzle. And within, she could sense something else, something different, something hidden.
Drawing closer, Alana allowed her mind to flow through the knot, seeking out its puzzle. It called to her, begging her to solve it. A tingle of energy swept through her as it touched her mind, and somewhere deep within a voice called a warning. Retreating, she waited, a speck of light drifting in the void.
When nothing happened, Alana approached again. Her mind circled the knot, picking at its tangles, pulling threads. It began to spin, slowly at first, then more quickly as it unravelled. Lines red and orange spun off into the void, shooting stars lighting the facets of her mind.
Unease rose within her as she watched the knot shrink, as though with its release, she had lost the peace she’d found in the void. Fear returned, piercing her spirit, filling her with sudden terror.
She retreated from the knot, allowing her work to cease, and alarm tingled in her soul. The knot was almost gone now—only a tiny ball of flaming red remained. She was so close to discovering what lay at its core. She could still sense it calling to her, its secrets just beyond her reach.
Resisting its call, Alana pulled away. Rage washed over her, as though some other’s emotions now possessed her. She shrank from it, racing away, darting through the darkness, up towards the light that appeared far above…
Alana awoke with a gasp. Trembling, she opened her eyes and found herself still sitting on the floor before the fire. Braidon and Tillie sat unmoving, their eyes closed, the soft whisper of breath the only sign of life. Looking around, Alana saw the lamp in the corner had burned low, and the light outside was fading into dusk.
Hours had passed.
Her gaze was drawn to Braidon. He almost looked asleep, but as Alana leaned in, she saw his eyelids flickering. She smiled, remembering Tillie’s warning that only the experienced could master her drill. Apparently her brother had taken to it far faster than the old woman had expected.
Looking back at her brother’s face, anxiety touched her. In the darkness of her mind, she had sensed a danger, an unknown threat the old woman had not mentioned. Now she saw a shadow cross her brother’s face, the slightest tremor to his lips, a twitch on his brow. She leaned closer, and saw his hands were shaking. Reaching out, she touched a finger to his wrist. His pulse was weak and erratic, his skin clammy to the touch.
“Braidon,” she called, tugging at his arm. “Braidon, wake up!”
When her brother didn’t stir, she gripped him by the shoulder and shook him. His head lolled on his shoulders and slumped to the side, his eyes still closed. She caught him by the waist and pulled him upright. A low whisper came from his lips as she turned his face to look at her.
“Braidon!” she screamed, her voice echoing through the room.
Beside her, Tillie jerked to wakefulness. Blinking, she looked around, frowning when she saw Alana with Braidon.
“What’s going on, Alana?” she asked.
“He won’t wake,” Alana growled, turning on her. “You did this!”
Tillie shook her head, the light coming back to her eyes. “I did nothing.” She leaned closer, staring at Braidon’s face. “You both fell asleep. I took the chance to refresh my spirit.”
“I did not fall asleep!” Alana snapped. “Does it look like he’s sleeping?”
The old woman’s frown deepened as she looked from Alana to her brother. “He could not have advanced this quickly. Even the finest students take a few attempts to delve into their subconscious.”
“What does that mean?” Alana hissed, grabbing the old woman by the wrist.
Ignoring her, the priest leaned closer, inspecting Braidon’s face. Shaking her hand free of Alana’s grip, she pressed her hands to Braidon’s cheeks. “Braidon,” the old woman called, her voice soft. “Come back.”
Alana sat with breath held, watching the old woman closely. Her heart was pounding in her chest. While she did not understand what was happening, she sensed something was wrong. She recalled the rage she’d felt, the fear and anger tangled up at the centre of her soul, and felt a sense of impending doom.
“What’s wrong with him, Tillie?” Her voice was tinged with desperation now.
Tillie shook her head and waved her back. “Braidon!” she called, more urgently now. “Come back, before it’s too late.”
“Too late?” Alana shrieked, her chest tightening.
In a rush of panic, she shoved the priest aside and took her brother’s arms in hers.
“Braidon!” she called, then again in her head, Braidon, Braidon, Braidon!
Her cheeks flushed, heat rushing to her face. It spread down her neck, a warmth that lit her body aflame. It swirled in her mind as she called her brother’s name again and again, fear giving rise to desperation, desperation to panic. As the heat reached her hands, she felt her ears pop, and suddenly the heat was gone.
Exhaustion swept through Alana like an incoming tide. Slumping back on her heels, she gasped in a breath of air and released her brother. Closing her eyes, she fought back tears.
“Alana?”
Her eyes snapped open as her brother croaked her name. Across from her, Braidon sat blinking, his blue eyes streaked with red. Her heart leapt as he yawned and stretched his arms. “What’s going on? We done?”
Ignoring his question, Alana threw herself forward and wrapped him in her arms. “You scared the Goddess out of me!”
Braidon cried out in protest, but it was several minutes before he managed to disentangle himself from her. He sat back, confusion written across his youthful face.
“What’s got you so worked up?” he questioned. “I was just napping.”
“You were not asleep, young Braidon,” Tillie’s voice cut in. “You were meditating.”
Braidon snorted. “Felt a lot like sleep to me.” He shook his head and yawned again. “Although I’ll admit I had some strange dreams.”
Silently, Alana reached out and hugged him again. He flashed her another smile, though there was doubt in his eyes now. A long silence stretched out. Braidon broke it suddenly with a yawn. His eyes flickered from Alana to Tillie.
“Err, if we are done, you don’t mind if I take an actual nap, do you?” he asked.
Alana forced a laugh and nodded. Rising, Braidon crossed quickly to his bed and dragged himself under the covers. Within minutes his soft snores filled the room. Alana watched him for a moment, reassuring herself he was okay, before turning her eyes back to the priest.
“What happened to him?” she asked, voice hard. “He was in danger, wasn’t he?”
Tillie was eying her closely now, a slight frown on her forehead. “Where did you say the two of you came from?” she asked, ignoring Alana’s question.
Anger flared in Alana’s chest at the woman’s impertinence. She caught the priest by the front of her olive-green robes.
“I asked you what happened to my brother!” She ground out through clenched teeth.
The old woman stared back at her, eyes hard. “Release me,” she commanded.
Despite herself, Alana did so, but she refused to drop the matter. “It was his magic, wasn’t it?”
After a long pause, Tillie nodded. “He shouldn’t have been able to go so far so quickly, especially in his exhausted state. That’s why I thought he was merely asleep. It was fortunate he didn’t manage to reach his magic before we could call him back.”
“What would have happened then?”
“The consequences would have been...severe.”
Alana’s lips drew back in a snarl. “What do you mean, ‘severe’?”
There was no humour on the old woman’s face now. “He would have been lost…” Her voice trailed off. Alana was about to press further when she continued. “Do you know the story of the demon who destroyed Sitton?”
Alana opened her mouth and then closed it again, surprised by the sudden change of topic. Wordlessly, she shook her head.
“That demon was once a great man, descended from the line of Trolan kings who had ruled over the west for centuries. His name was Thomas, and he was a powerful Magicker.”
A tremor went down Alana’s spine at the woman’s words. She knew the tales of Thomas—of the ancient king who had stood with the Gods against Archon. A myth, surely? Yet she sensed there was more to the old woman’s story. Swallowing, she asked the question burning on her lips. “How did he become a demon?”
“His magic took him.”
“Took him?” Alana could not keep the fear from her voice. “What do you mean?”
Tillie sighed. “Magic is not an inert force—it lives! Lives to fight, to make war, to break free. A Magicker is forever at war with the force inside them. Each time they touch it, they risk losing themselves in its power. Once lost, they become what we know as demons, drowned by their own magic, taken over by its energies.”
“And…my brother…” Bile rose in Alana’s throat as she stumbled to her feet. “How could you not have told us?”
The priest rose quickly beside her. “It is not something you speak of during ones first attempt at meditation,” she snapped. “The fear would make the exercise impossible.”
“You’re telling me he might never have woken up?” Alana shrieked, hardly hearing the woman’s words.
“Calm yourself, Alana,” the priest snapped suddenly, her eyes flashing. She caught Alana by the wrist and dragged her forward. Alana swallowed as her gaze was caught by the crystal blue eyes. “Your brother is stronger than you know, girl,” the old woman continued, “but he will never be able to grow if you continue to smother him.”
Alana tore herself free, anger giving her strength. “Smother him?” she gasped. “I’m protecting him!”
The cold eyes stared back at her, unblinking. “So you say.” The woman strode after her. “Who are you, Alana? Where did you come from?”
“None of your goddamn business!” Alana said, baring her teeth. She pointed a finger at the woman’s chest. “And if you so much as touch my brother again, I’ll kill you!”
She swung towards the door, but her brother’s voice called her back. “Alana, no.” Freezing midstride, Alana turned back to see Braidon sitting up in his bed. His eyes caught hers, holding her in place as he continued to speak. “She’s right,” he whispered. “This power is inside me, whether we like it or not. I can’t ignore it. I don’t want to hurt anybody. If she can teach me to control it, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Alana swallowed. “But it might kill you.”
Braidon’s eyes flashed. “It can try,” he said, his voice like iron now.
Crossing the room, Alana buried herself in his arms once more. “I don’t want to lose you,” she sobbed into his shoulder.
His soft hands stroked her hair as they held each other. “You won’t, sis,” he whispered. “Trust me.”
A spasm racked Alana’s chest as she nodded, aware her tears were soaking her brother’s shirt. “Okay,” she croaked finally. Lifting her head, she looked into his eyes. “Okay, I trust you, Braidon. But you have to be careful, okay?”
He nodded, a crooked smile on his face. “I’ll be fine, sis.” He winked. “Remember what happened with the Stalkers.”
Alana smiled, stroking a hand through his soft hair. “That was instinct,” she murmured. “Just be careful when it’s the real thing. We don’t even know what your power does, remember?”
Braidon sighed. “Okay, Alana, but only because I’m afraid you’ll have another tantrum if I don’t.”
“That wasn’t a tantrum!”
Her brother snorted, humour dancing in his eyes. “Sure. So, you weren’t going to slam the door on your way out?”
Scowling, Alana shoved him back on the bed. “I take it back, go ahead and use that magic of yours. Don’t think it’ll protect you from me, though.”
Laughter spread around the room as Alana sat on the other bed. She didn’t look at the old priest—her anger at the woman’s omission was still fresh, and Alana wasn’t sure whether she could keep the rage from her words. Before their laughter could fade into awkward silence, the door to the hallway banged open.
Spinning around to face the newcomer, Alana relaxed when she saw Devon step into the room. Water dripped from his jacket as he pushed the door closed behind him.
“Bloody rain,” he muttered, glancing around the room. One bushy eyebrow lifted as he saw the tears on Alana’s cheeks. “Am I interrupting something?”
Alana quickly wiped the last of her tears away and shook her head. “No,” she replied, more sharply than she intended. Silently, she cursed herself for allowing the warrior to see her weakness. “What kept you so long? Did you find a ship?” she asked, more harshly than she intended.
Shaking his head, Devon moved to the spare seat by the fire and lowered himself into the chair with a groan. He held out his hands to the blaze, allowing its warmth to wash over him. “You could show a little gratitude, you know,” he said gruffly. “I’ve been out all day in the cold searching for this ship. And poor old Kellian, who knows how many strings he’s having to pull to get to his funds on such short notice.”
Heat flushed to Alana’s cheeks at his admonishment. Her eyes dropped to the ground. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I do appreciate it, I swear. It’s just...been a stressful afternoon.”
Devon chuckled. “Getting a little restless in this little room?” He waved a hand. “You can relax, I found a ship that leaves tomorrow at first light.”
Alana’s heart lifted at the news, then sank as she realised Kellian still had not returned. “If Kellian gets the gold.”
“Oh, he will,” Devon grinned. “He’s a good man in a pinch, don’t worry about him. He’ll come through. Now, what’s say we get some supper? We’ve some time to wait yet before he returns, I think.”
The loud rumble of Alana’s stomach was all the answer he needed.
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