Fireborn (A Born Prophecy Book 1)

  “It was.” The spirit straightened up, squaring his shoulders. “And I was captain of the guard, serving the Master of Kelos until his untimely end. Now I serve his apprentice, and that is all you need to know. Be on your way, traveler, lest I teach you that even the spirits of those who once resided in Kelos are still to be feared.”

  Hallow held on to his temper. Never one quick to anger, he had found in his time with Master Nix that patience with the unwilling (or drunk) was more successful than force. “I will be on my way just as soon as I find the runeseeker Exo—by the goddess!”

  To Hallow’s surprise—and no little amount of pain—the ghost stabbed him in the arm with the sword. Blood poured out of a gash the width of his hand, staining the gold and white tunic bearing Lord Israel’s arms. He glared at the ghost, saying, “That was uncalled for. My sword was sheathed, and this tunic is only borrowed. Now it’s stained.”

  “You are unwelcome,” the captain said, taking a step forward. Hallow didn’t take the time to wonder how a spirit could manifest himself in a physical manner; he simply pulled down energy from the weak starlight that sat beyond the range of the sun, and blasted it at the ghost, sending him flying backward through the open archway of a partial ruin. With a quick order to Penn, he ran into the tower, throwing himself at the iron-banded wooden door.

  Behind him, many voices cried out in alarm, filling the silent air of Kelos, and with a muttered protection spell that he knew would last only a few seconds, he pushed with all his might against the door.

  The hinges were not rusted, but had been used so infrequently that they were stiff and unyielding. He risked a glance over his shoulder, and saw his horse disappear behind a company of ghosts. Coming up fast behind them was his nemesis with the sword.

  “Blessed goddesses of Alba, grant me your strength. Or protection. Protection is good. Might even be better.”

  He threw himself at the door again, mentally rifling through the spells that Master Nix had taught him. Unfortunately, they mostly concerned manipulating arcane magic, and had little do to with oiling frozen hinges, but just as the hairs on the back of his neck rose, the door opened with a bloodcurdling screech.

  He squeezed through, wincing at the pain from his arm when he shoved the door closed again, wondering if the spirits of Kelos could transport themselves through solid objects.

  For the count of seven, he held his breath, his sword in hand, ready to battle the captain should he materialize, but evidently, he would not be put to that trial. “Either they cannot move through stone and wood and brick, or they are afraid to do so,” Hallow said aloud, instantly wishing he hadn’t done so. Behind him, a marble-floor hall seemed to stretch back forever. His voice echoed in a mocking manner that he felt was wholly unnatural ... but he had a job to do. In an unconscious imitation of the captain, he straightened up and squared his shoulders, his sword comfortably in hand.

  He passed quickly through the hall, his gaze taking in the centuries of dust and cobwebs that covered every chair, every small table, every once-luxurious couch upon which the priests and arcanists of Bellias would recline. A small room led off to a dark and cluttered kitchen and buttery, while another door opened to a large hall containing a broad flight of stairs that curved upward.

  “Runeseeker Exodius?” Hallow called, moving up the stairs. His voice didn’t echo here—in fact, it was muffled, as if he had spoken in a crypt buried deep in soil.

  “That is not a healthy line of thought to pursue,” he chided himself. “Let us think instead of pleasant things like puppies, and fluffy ducklings, and the joy that a full wineskin and a warm serving wench can bring. ” He paused near the top of the stairs, noting the dust-caked portraits on the walls of long-dead occupants, now tattered so that little canvas remained. The nearest portrait, that of a dark-haired priestess holding a star over her head, caught his attention.

  “Those are slash marks,” he murmured, touching the damaged painting. It quivered and crumbled under the touch of his hand. With a little shiver, he continued his climb upward, passing through a long gallery, to the foot of another stone staircase that led upward in a circular pattern. He peered up into the darkness, judging that he was in the heart of the tower.

  Exodius had to be up there ... if he was still alive. In vain Hallow had argued that the Master of Kelos was likely long dead; Lord Israel simply refused to accept that, and insisted that he was needed for the Council of Four Armies. “Foolish,” Hallow muttered to himself, but resolutely started up the stairs.

  The climb upward took a lot longer than Hallow expected, but at last he stood in front of an iron-bound arched door. He knocked, waited for the count of ten, then tried the door. To his surprise it opened, revealing a circular room. Large floor-to-ceiling windows allowed the dull sunlight to fill the room, making motes of dust dance in lazy swirls upon the air. “Magister Exodius? I am Hallow of Penhallow, and I come on Lord Israel’s request to bid you come to the gathering of the Four Armies.”

  There was no sign of life in the room, but Hallow admitted to himself that a medium-sized war charger would be able to hide behind the stacks of books that rose to the vaulted ceiling a good two floors above. The walls themselves were lined with shelves containing everything from pots and jars filled with mysterious contents, to books, plants, odd mechanical devices, star maps, globes, stacks of yellowed papers, great cones of incense, dried flowers and herbs that waved in the gently moving air, neatly folded dust-covered fabrics, and even ... Hallow squinted against the gloom cast by a nearby stack of books. A stuffed dog lay in an extremely unnatural and awkward position. “That taxidermist has a lot to answer for,” he murmured, dragging his gaze off the dead beast to further scan the room for the runeseeker.

  “Are you speaking of Eagle? He has years left in him, years!” The voice that spoke was not old and creaking (as Hallow had expected), nor did it have the ethereal, hollow quality of the ghosts that lived below.

  It also originated right behind him.

  Hallow jumped and spun around, causing the stuffed dog to lift up his head and utter a rusty-sounding woof. A man who barely reached Hallow’s shoulder shuffled past him, a stack of books in his hands, several long scrolls stuffed into the crook of one arm, while the other bore the weight of a dusty red velvet cloak inscribed with runes in gold thread. Strapped to the man’s bent back was a long staff made of unmarked black wood, topped with the figure of a black bird with spread wings.

  “Exodius?” Hallow asked, making the elaborate bow that Master Nix had told him never failed to impress. “My name is—”

  “Hallow of Penhallow, yes, yes, I heard you the first time.” Exodius stopped at a table that was already groaning with the weight of several journals, three pots of ink, countless quills, a mountain of loose papers, and a parrot. Hallow eyed it, half expecting it, too, to suddenly move, but unlike the dog, it was well and truly stuffed. Exodius was mostly bald, with tufts of white hair poking up from around the fringe of his head, and the most prodigious bristling black eyebrows Hallow had ever seen. Tendrils of hair waved from his brows, almost as if the eyebrows were feelers bent on capturing small motes that floated on the air. Exodius cocked one of those alarming eyebrows at Hallow. “Do you think I cannot hear?”

  “No, sir,” Hallow said, clearing his throat preliminary to making the speech he’d written on the two days’ journey to Kelos. “It is with the greatest respect that I come to ask you—”

  The old man froze for a moment, cocked his head, and lifted up a hand. “There is an intruder.”

  Hallow blinked, unsure of what to say to that.

  Exodius shot him a quick, unreadable look. “Another intruder.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Did you not hear me? It is you who have troubled ears, not me.” Exodius raised his voice almost to a shout. “GO DEAL WITH HER.”

  “Her?”

  “THAT’S WHAT I SAID.” Exodius’s voice dropped to a normal level. “The lad’s simple as well as hard of he
aring.”

  “Sir, I assure you I am not—”

  “GO!” Exodius pulled the staff from his back and tapped it loudly on the floor three times.

  Hallow found himself moving to the door, almost as if he had no will.

  “I am busy with locating the queen’s moonstones that were hidden when the Harborym invaded. Do you understand? DO NOT RETURN UNTIL YOU HAVE DEALT WITH THE INTRUDER. Don’t know what’s coming to this younger generation. No sense of what’s proper, no sense at all. Imagine allowing intruders to roam Kelos at will. They’d be getting underfoot, interfering with the magic, and stirring up the ghosts. ARE YOU STILL HERE?”

  “I will gladly help, but—”

  “HERE. TAKE THORN.” Exodius tossed his staff at Hallow. “She’s likely to be trouble. I SAID, SHE’S LIKELY TO BE TROUBLE.”

  “Thorn is your staff?” Hallow asked, a strange warmth seeming to flow into his palms from the black wood of the weapon.

  “’Twas the name of my master, one of a long line of Masters of Kelos before me. He chose the form of a swallow when it was his time to pass beyond. HE’S A BIRD, LAD.”

  “I have a sword, Exodius.” Hallow pulled it out so he could see how fine was the weapon that Lord Israel had given him.

  “She’ll kill him before he could even draw it.” Exodius gestured, and the sword was knocked from Hallow’s hand. “THORN WILL PROTECT YOU. GO STOP THE INTRUDER BEFORE SHE DESTROYS ALL THE GHOSTS. They won’t like that at all, no they won’t. That captain will have a word or two to say to me about that, and I simply don’t have the time. I’m so close to finding the moonstones. ...”

  Exodius moved a stack of paper that promptly toppled and spilled onto the floor, paying it and Hallow no mind.

  Before Hallow could open his mouth to ask how he was supposed to stop someone who had the power to destroy ghosts, invisible hands pushed him out of the room, and almost to the bottom of the stairs before he felt his body under his control again.

  At least the staff felt right in his hands, as if it was made for him. He squared his shoulders again and, with a quick prayer to both Bellias and Kiriah, opened the door just enough for him to slide out into the dusty gray of Kelos.

  At first he thought nothing was awry. The air was still and silent, the sensation of being watched still present, but there were no ghosts about. He walked slowly down the stone steps, glancing around, but no one sprang out at him. It was then that it struck him that Exodius had gotten rid of him with a convenient story of an intrusion. “And really,” he told himself, shaking his head and turning back to the door, “how likely is it that anyone else would come here?”

  He had his hand on the metal latch when the faint sounds of a woman’s voice reached him. The wind shifted then, carrying the noise away, but it sounded to him like someone was ... singing? In this place of death and dust?

  He shook his head again, but nonetheless slid the staff into the back of his belt. He walked down the main road, passing Penn and giving him a comforting pat on the neck before continuing. He paused every few feet, twice catching the strains of the woman’s voice. He hurried on, watching for—but not seeing—any of the spirits who had accosted him.

  It was when he passed around the central round temple that he saw her. He stopped in the shadow of the broken wall and watched with amazement.

  The woman was clad in black, a simple tunic and leggings, the latter bearing silver crossties. Her hair was as black as the wing of a raven, while her skin had a dusky hue that looked faintly blue in the light of the sun. She was voluptuously made, but that wasn’t what held Hallow’s interest. It was the way she slaughtered the ghosts who were streaming out of the buildings around her, racing toward her with swords held high, and breathless battle cries lifting upward into the wind.

  She held two swords, both flashing silver and gold in the dull sunlight as they cut effortlessly through the ghosts’ bodies. She twirled as she fought, her hair flying out in a shiny black tangle, her movements effortless, quick, and agile.

  And very deadly.

  She sang while she moved, the words now reaching him clearly.

  Shadows of black, shadows of blue,

  Cast by you who are long dead.

  Wraiths of the living who once were true,

  Though phantoms, still my blade will rend.

  And deliver you your final end.

  She moved with the grace of a deer while she sang, her swords flashing, the bodies of the ghosts falling to the ground before dissolving into nothing. Hallow wanted to applaud when, in a show of bravado, she leaped onto a fallen column and slashed her way along it doing an intricate dance step while disemboweling and beheading her attackers. She was clearly greatly enjoying herself, and she moved as if she’d trained for battle her entire life.

  But waiting at the end of the column was the captain who had stabbed him in the arm. Hallow reached for his sword, but found it missing. He pulled the staff from his back instead, ready to run forward and help the woman fight the captain, but before he could blink, the captain’s head rolled to his feet.

  After two seconds, both the head and the body disappeared in a faint glitter of blue light.

  The woman jumped off the column, and stopped singing, looking around to see if any ghosts remained.

  There wasn’t a sound, not so much as the breath of wind disturbing the temple grounds.

  Hallow shifted in preparation to take a step forward, and instantly, the woman was there, her swords spinning toward him. The staff jerked in his hands, blocking them just when they would have taken off his head, leaving him looking into very surprised black eyes.

  Only they weren’t true black. They were flecked with gold, like pinpricks of molten gold that flared and then ebbed away.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked, slowly lowering the blades. “Are you the runeseeker? I thought you were an old man. He didn’t say you would be so ...”

  “Dashing?” Hallow said, relaxing enough to give her a little smile. “Obviously intelligent? Slightly handsome?”

  She glanced at the top of his head. “Blond. Only the Fireborn have that shade of silver-blond hair, and yet your eyes are blue, not brown. How did a Fireborn learn arcane magic?”

  She thought he was Exodius? That was interesting. At least he could answer her question truthfully before he sent her on her way. He had no desire for another person who was searching for Exodius to find him. “I had a master who was taught by a great Starborn arcanist. My eyes turned blue as is the way of all arcanists. Why do you seek the Master of Kelos?”

  “You are to come with me,” she said, sheathing her swords, her manner polite but fairly abrupt, as if she was unwilling to spend any more time in Kelos than was necessary. He didn’t blame her. It was a singularly unpleasant place. “You are wanted for a great campaign. And ... er ... a personal one, too.”

  He leaned back against the bit of wall still standing, charmed despite himself. “A personal campaign for you? Now, what would a ...” He eyed her tunic, not recognizing the symbol on the black cloth. She bore silver cuffs on both wrists inscribed with what looked to be containment runes. “... er ... what exactly are you containing?”

  “Pardon?” She looked mildly startled.

  He gestured to the cuffs.

  “Oh, that.” She gave him a level look that he couldn’t easily read, and said in a haughty voice, “I’m a Bane of Eris.”

  “A what, now?”

  She repeated the phrase, then added in her normal tone, “Actually, I’m a priestess of Kiriah, too. My name is Allegria.”

  “You’re Fireborn?” He was surprised by this. Her coloring was all wrong for people of his continent. “Do you have a Starborn parent?”

  “No. It’s ... oh, it’s a long explanation. It’ll have to wait for the ride back to Deo to tell you. Do you have some things you’d like to take with you? I’m anxious to be away before nightfall.” She glanced upward, clearly judging the descent of the sun in the sky. “If we leave within th
e hour, we should be well away from here before the ghosts return.”

  “You killed them,” he said, shaking his head at the inanity of the sentence. “That is, they were dead already, but you ... I guess, re-killed them.”

  “I only dispersed the ghosts’ spectral form. Once they have sufficient energy to regain their corporeal forms, they will return. And I’d really rather not be here when they do so, since they are bound to be a bit testy about the fact that I disrupted their day.”

  “I’d rather not, as well. One of them is quite antagonistic. What was that song you sang?”

  “Hmm? Oh, the song. I call it ‘That Which Doesn’t Kill Me Had Best Run.’ Where are your lodgings? In that tower?” She took him by the arm, clearly intending on urging him on.

  “Yes, but I can’t go with you,” he said regretfully, and reluctantly allowed her to pull him toward the tower. He liked her despite her obvious attempts to impress him, attempts that wilted away and revealed her true personality. He suspected she was as bright and sunny as a priestess of Kiriah should be, but for some reason tried to appear much more grave and dignified. “I have my own campaign, alas. Did you say Deo? As in Deosin Langton, son of Lord Israel?”

  “Yes.” Her manner became wary, and she released his arm to shove open the door. “He sent me to fetch you.”

  “Well, now, that’s very interesting.” He was silent while he followed her up the first flight of stairs, mulling over this news. He had a feeling that Lord Israel had no idea his troublesome and occasionally murderous son was on the same continent. He was tempted to ask the runeseeker if he had any ravens available for a message to be sent to Lord Israel, but decided that he would simply urge Exodius into leaving that day, rather than spending a few days supplementing his knowledge of arcane magic.

  She paused at the damaged pictures, peering closely at one. “That picture has been tainted by chaos magic. Were Harborym here?”