“Ro! Are you okay?”
Feyda ran to her and helped her to her feet. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Rowen said in between quick breaths.
“It’s all catching fire!” Feyda shouted as the blaze from the trees started spreading.
Before they could react, they were encircled by a ring of fire with flames so intense that Rowen and the others started to sweat, smoke rose from the ground, and the horses went mad.
“I’m trying to hitch the horses so we can get out of here,” Perdan shouted to them as he grabbed the reins of the horses and tried to keep them from running off.
A horse bucked and tore the reigns from Perdan’s hands. “Can I get some help?”
Rowen ran to him. She placed her hands on the horse’s neck and closed her eyes. She’d never used her power on an animal before, but gave it a try nonetheless.
“Calm down,” she whispered. “Shh. Everything will be fine. Just stay still.”
“Ro!” Feyda yelled to her. “What in blazes are you doing? Don’t Tempt the bloody horse! Tempt the fire!”
She shot a look of bewilderment to the older woman. Tempt the fire? “What? I can’t do that.”
Feyda gathered her skirts and marched over to her. She narrowed her eyes. “But, you can. Give it a try. What harm is there in trying?”
She opened her mouth to protest, but snapped it shut and closed her eyes. Feyda has lost her mind. There was no use arguing with her. She opened her eyes and stepped away from the horses. “Fine. I’ll give it a try.”
“You can do it. Find the line of energy and bend it to your will. Anything can be Tempted. Trust me.”
With a snort, Rowen closed her eyes and held out her hands. Trust was a word that didn’t sit well with her.
She breathed in and exhaled, calming her heart and breathing so that she could devote her energy to focusing. Her hands tingled as her power searched for a target. Inside her mind, she could see it whipping out from her fingers without any guidance.
“To the fire,” she whispered, her brows knitting together as she tried to control the power. It pulled her forward and yanked her to the fire. Rowen gasped and opened her eyes. What she saw before her took her breath away.
“You’re doing it, Ro! Keep it going. Bend the fire away from the cart and horses.”
Her eyes widened as the flames wavered and pulled in her direction. She could see her power, like a mist of green grabbing it. “And, do what with it?”
“Just move it out of our way so we can get out of here,” Feyda said, waving toward the flames. “Hurry, Ro.”
Rowen pulled the blaze further away, opening a small pathway, but not big enough for the cart to fit through. Her forehead beaded with sweat and she felt her breaths grow shallow. It took a great deal of energy to manipulate the fire and her arms started to weaken.
A tree fell in front of the horses and the flames licked and ran along the cart.
“Grab what you can from the cart,” Perdan shouted.
Feyda placed her hands to her cheeks as she looked at their cart in flames. “No,” she said.
She and Rowen ran and grabbed what they could before the flames took over and consumed everything. With the last of their water, a few of Feyda’s potions and what was left of their meager remnants of food, they were utterly lost. The horses fled, and Rowen and the other ran from the cart just in time as the entire thing burst into flames.
“Forgot to grab the damned Dragon’s breath,” Feyda grumbled as they watched the horses run in the other direction.
Away from the flames, they all stood there watching the disaster before them.
“Well, at least we’re alive,” Perdan said, catching his breath.
Feyda huffed. “Not for long. We’re in the Wastelands. If we don’t die from starvation or thirst, the elements will certainly take a stab at us.”
“We do still have the map,” Perdan said.
“And no idea where it leads after this valley,” Feyda pointed out.
“We have to find shelter,” Rowen said. Her survival instinct spoke before she truly had a plan. “Come, let’s go find somewhere to rest and think of a plan.”
Feyda and Perdan both looked at her and silently nodded.
It was odd having Rowen lead the way. As they walked from the burning cart, she rubbed her hands together. She now knew of a new power, one she never imagined. She just didn’t know what good it would do them out there in the barren wilderness of the Wildlands.
She looked to the sky as lightning cracked again.
Where was her good friend, Luck now?
Chapter 12
Night began to shift the colors of the sky from blue to orange and purple as the sun retired and the clouds hid it away.
Prince Rickard walked the narrow streets of Lindenhold, a port on the southern tip of Withrae. He was cloaked and in clothing a commoner would wear. He kept his head down as he passed a few Withraen Navy soldiers gathering supplies for their trek back home. He didn’t need to get recognized. Not before his plan was fully executed.
No one paid him any mind, and he slipped away from the port crowds and into the small island town. Sailors and pirates escaped into taverns and brothels, and the people of Lindenhold retired to their homes after a long day of work on the docks and in the mines not too far from the harbor.
No one knew him around here, and that worked in his favor.
His destination awaited in a dark corner, where vines covered most of the stone walls, almost hiding it. He knocked on the door.
A small girl opened it, slightly, and peeked at him with big eyes. A buck-toothed grin came to her lips. “Prince Rickard.”
He stepped inside when she opened the door for him. “Call me Rick, Cota. I don’t need the entire town knowing I was here.”
“Course, sir. Won’t happen again,” she said, attempting a curtsy.
Rickard exhaled. “Just close the door and keep it down.”
She closed the door and almost giddily clapped her hands and motioned for him to take a seat. “I woulda’ known you were comin’ this way…Rick, I woulda’ cleaned up a bit.”
He sat in one of the chairs at the small table pressed against the whitewashed wall. He looked around. She’d made some improvements to the home she shared with her brother, Trenneth.
“Like it?” Cota asked, sitting on the rug on the center of the floor at his feet. “Trenneth painted the walls and patched up all of the holes in the ceiling. Quite cozy now, aye?”
“Yes,” Rickard said. “Cozy. Tell me about Captain Elian Westin. He came here not too long ago. What did you two talk about?”
Cota shrugged. “Same stuff, really. The map. The Red Dragon. Wish he’d come more often. Funds are gettin’ low.”
She was being vague for a reason. Rickard rolled his eyes and pulled out a purse of gold coins. “That should last you a few years.”
Her eyes grew larger as she took the purse from his hands and looked inside. Funny how quickly she started spilling everything she knew.
“I told ‘em about the map and how its gonna kill ‘em.”
“What do you mean it’s going to kill him?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know for certain. The dark souls didn’t tell me.”
Rickard leaned forward. “Did you tell him anything about the half-blood dragon?”
Cota tilted her head. Her silence worried him.
If she told him the secrets of the half-blood dragon prophecy, it could ruin everything. Perhaps he should keep what he knew to himself and not give away any clues. The last thing he needed was Cota selling information back to Elian. Or worse, his father, King Thorne. If she’d seen anything that linked the map, the Red Dragon, and the half-blood dragon he needed to know.
It was worth the risk. What he had planned was greater than anything and anyone involved. It was enough to change the world.
She blinked up at him, suspiciously quiet.
At the very least, he could pay her b
rother, Trenneth extra to keep an eye on her and make sure she kept her mouth shut.
“Did you see anything about the half-blood dragon in your visions?”
Cota tilted her head, smiling. She nodded. “Aye. I saw her. She was beautiful.”
Yes, she was.
“What else did you see?”
Cota picked at a loose string on her apron. “Can’t say. Was too dark. Was a lot of blood.”
That made him sit up. “Whose blood?”
“Not hers,” she said. “Twas everyone elses.”
His brows knitted together. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I think she killed everyone.”
That was unsettling. Rickard sat back in his chair and scratched his head. There must be a new prophecy he hadn’t studied. Rowen must be growing stronger.
“Anything else?”
She shook her head. “Like I said. Twas dark. The dark soul didn’t want me to see too much. Was not my business.”
He stood and headed for the door. “I can trust you to keep this meeting and what I told you a secret, can’t I?”
She grinned and held up the coin purse. “I’ll do whatever you ask…Rick.”
“Good.” He left her home, pulling his cloak’s hood back over his head. As he left the alley Cota lived on, he tried to make sense of the pieces of prophecy Cota had seen. He needed more information in order to execute his plan. There was no room for error.
Not when he planned to kill his father and take over the Withraen Throne.
Chapter 13
The Gatekeeper stood on a platform at the bottom of a tall black tower, dressed in a long blue robe embroidered with glittering silver threads that made up symbols of their duties. Flying was exhausting, and he hadn’t much time. If he wanted to return home and set back out on his mission, Rickard would need a quick solution.
His visit with Cota had been enlightening. Now, he needed to work another part of his plan.
One that was more dangerous.
Armed with a few coins, he approached the older woman with long black hair. Silver strands stood out from the others and a yellow aura encircled her body. She held a golden rod that was over a foot taller than her in one hand and a book bound with flesh in the other. This was one of the only forms of the old magic to still be allowed in their society, and for good reason. Rickard couldn’t even imagine what terrible fate would befall them if they attempted to execute a Gatekeeper.
Her white eyes lowered to him as he stopped and fished the coins out of his pocket. He placed them in the hands of a small boy with long, dark hair who sat on the ground before her, his legs crisscrossed. His eyes were white just like the Gatekeepers.
As her apprentice, they’d never return to their normal color for as long as he lived. The symbol of their class was also burned into his forehead, a circle with a line cutting through the middle and up the length of his forehead, and down to the tip of his chin.
He counted them and looked up with a smile. “Please proceed to the Gatekeeper.”
Rickard took off his cloak’s hood and knelt before the Gatekeeper.
“Is your soul clean?”
He nodded. “It is.”
A Gatekeeper could not transport anyone who had recently committed a crime against the flesh. Murderers. Rapists. Anyone who had committed an evil such as those would be turned to dust if they attempted a Port after a crime. It was just one way the realm kept crime in order. It wasn’t perfect, but it served its purpose.
Rickard was lucky. He hadn’t killed anyone in weeks.
“Where would you like to go? I can send you as far as Harlsburg.”
“Central Withrae,” he answered.
He keep his head down, and resisted one last look at her crystalline white eyes. She tapped his head with the end of her golden rod, and within seconds, his body began to go translucent as a mist rose from the ground and took him away.
The ride was quick, and painless. But, when he opened his eyes to the bright sun of Withrae, he was a bit wobbly on his feet. He inhaled and looked around from the top of the Withraen Gatekeeper’s Tower. White, stone steps led down to the paved streets of his kingdom. Instead of walking down them, he shifted and flew into the horizon, toward the grand castle that stood far away, just before the mountains his ancestors once ruled.
The Withraen Castle was quieter than it had once been. Only weeks ago, the halls had been cheerier, with beautiful ladies and regal lords lingering each season to gain favor in the king’s court. A somber mood had taken over, and Rickard did not approve.
Lawson was dead, but the living had to go on. Whoever killed him knew what they were doing, and how it would change things.
He’d mourned his brother’s death in private. Locked in his room, he tried to forget the memories of their childhood together, even though most were marred by his older brother’s torment of him. Once, there had been an innocent child within Lawson, one of love and compassion. That innocence had died long before he did.
The world thought Lawson was the golden child, their savior.
He scowled.
Nonsense.
As Rickard walked up the stairs to the throne room, he grimaced. Lawson was no savior, and would have made their father look like a saint if he’d had been allowed to become king of Withrae. All of Draconia and the human realms would have been shaken by his rule and thirst for power.
But, that was a secret the world was not ready to know.
He fixed his clothes. After the flight from the Gatekeeper’s tower to the castle, he had bathed and changed into something more appropriate for the new heir of Withrae.
The throne room was quiet. At the back of the room were three large windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. They were open, in case the king wanted to stretch his wings and fly to the Keep where he spent most of his time studying the ancient texts and forgotten prophecies.
Today, he stood at the window in the center, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Rickard,” he said in a deep voice that echoed off of the walls of the room. “Where have you been?”
Rickard strode across the room toward him, swallowing back a fleeting sense of fear. He freed his face of all emotion, something he’d learned from Rowen.
She was a remarkable woman, one who in such a short amount of time had reeled him in. Such a feat would have been thought impossible until she arrived.
With one look, and one touch, he knew.
She was made for him, and he was made for her.
She was an expert at hiding her true feelings, and he mimicked her to no avail.
One look from King Thorne, and he knew his face had paled.
The paling was quickly replaced with a crimson red when his father slapped him hard across the cheek.
Rickard tasted blood. His hands balled into fists, but instead of letting out the rage that boiled in his belly, he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.
The king spoke in an even tone. There was no anger, or even a raise in his voice.
Always calm.
Collected.
Downright devilish.
“Where is the half-blood?”
Rickard wiped his mouth and looked at the blood that streaked his fingers. It took a moment for him to reign in his rage, but he swallowed it down and cleared his head. He could handle the abuse, for a while longer.
“I haven’t found her,” he said, lifting his gaze to his father’s deep indigo eyes. “Yet.”
King Thorne had white hair, cut short and a matching beard. It was a bright contrast to his leathery bronzed face. Rickard wasn’t fair like his brother, and that was because he took more after their father. The similarities ended at the physical traits.
Thorne was strong, despite his age, and still the fire of a Dragon running through his veins.
He was nowhere near his deathbed. Rickard looked forward to changing that.
“I’m running out of patience. Find her, kill her, or bring her to me so I can see
her hang. Do you understand?”
“Why? We both know she didn’t kill Lawson.”
“I didn’t ask for your questions. You do as I say or you’ll be turned to the mountains, where you can live out your days imprisoned with the other beggars and thieves,” he said, tightening his jaw.
“Fine,” Rickard said. “I’ve vowed to find her, and so I will. But, the kingdom will hate you for what you’re doing…when they find out the truth.”
Thorne smirked. It lifted the corner of his mouth, but his eyes narrowed and burned with hate as he looked at Rickard. “Let them. Soon, the world will know the true strength of the Thorne clan, and immortality will mute any opposition to my rule.”
Rickard kept quiet.
As he focused on relaxing his fists and convincing himself not to punch his father in the face, he admitted that Thorne was right about one thing. Immortality would mute any opposition.
Just not for his rule.
Chapter 14
Rowen cringed as she took a small bite of the gristly meat of a Wasteland scoottail. She wanted to spit it out, but the hunger from barely eating anything for two days made her think twice and continue chewing. Swallowing it down wasn’t any easier. But, at least it quieted the nagging pain in her empty stomach. She closed her eyes and tore more of the tough meat with her teeth.
“I vow to never eat scoottail ever again,” she said.
Feyda shrugged, rubbing her hands in front of the fire. “It’s not that bad.”
For such hot days, the nights of the Wastelands were frigid with winds that blew so forcefully that it was hard to keep a fire going. They depended on Rowen to keep the fire alive.
With her newfound power.
“No, its worse,” she said, trying to ignore the foul flavor on her tongue. “Did you know these are considered delicacies to the Dragons of Withrae? They’d eat them in a thick spicy red sauce on a platter for special occasions in the palace. I doubt they’d ever tasted a real one. I can’t see how anyone could stomach it.”