Tome One: Arcana

By John P.R. Hughes

Arcana, the secrets and mysteries of a land remade by Angels of Light and Darkness, remains in the tales, tomes, and relics scattered through Erilan, a war-torn continent of once-great kingdoms. Seven hundred years ago, the War of the White Crown decimated the races Galadorian, Croe, Toran, Daiman, Ur, and Daemon, and much of their history was lost. Four unlikely heroes, with secrets of their own, set out to reclaim the forgotten lore and tokens of magic that hold the hope to oppose the dark and malevolent forces that are rising to overwhelm the land once again.

Ronan, Hart, Ash, and Blackthorn begin their quest to unearth the arcana their ancestors brought to bear against evils that nearly destroyed the free folk of the kingdoms, but another seeks these tokens as well for his own ends. Ban, the necromancer, covets dominion over all of Erilan. He is the Sand King, ruler of Aegis, but even now, his influence in other kingdoms threatens to achieve his dark aims.

First of a trilogy, Arcana begins the saga within an epic fantasy richly detailed in history, lore, and legend. Drakespawn and Daemon Glaive conclude the cycle of the Rings of Silver, set against the backdrop of a magical, mythical land.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662424458

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Brook

The cold moon, nearly full, hung low in the west. It was the Hour of the Bat, but it was an owl that perched in the sheltering crook of an autumn-leafed oak tree on the shoulder of a muddy byway. The night hunter stared at the silvery orb in the heavens with its golden eyes, pondering mysteries or, perhaps, lamenting the dearth of fat mice in the wood that bordered both sides of the rutted track. Its head swiveled uncannily at a distant rumble, like thunder, but the sky was clear, sharp, and bright in the moonlight. The sound grew louder, and from around a bend in the road, a great carriage drawn by four black Percherons burst into view in a headlong gallop. Startled, the snowy owl ruffled its feathers, shedding one from its plumage, and vaulted itself into the night sky. The feather drifted slowly down until it was caught in the swirl of the passing carriage and drawn through a gap in the curtained window. The white pinion settled on a plush dark-green velvet bench and was absently brushed to the floor by a small, pale hand adorned with long, red lacquered nails.

The hand belonged to a young woman, perhaps twenty-five, whose hair was as black and as glossy as coal. Her eyes were pale blue and sparkled like tourmaline. Her small, upturned nose over a generous mouth in a heart-shaped face all spoke of Galadorian blood, but she claimed no particular heritage. She slouched on the velvet-covered bench, one red leather-booted foot tucked under her and one arm splayed across the back of her seat. She watched the man across from her, perched on a similar bench with a narrow table between them, slowly turning over cards from a large deck and arranging them in intricate patterns.

He was an old man with a bald pate and a scruff of silvery beard on his strong jaw. His eyes were gray, and his small mouth, lips ever pursed, was not unkind but rarely smiled. His thin shoulders were draped in a black, hooded, great cloak, and under it, he wore a simple white tunic. His nimble small hands continued turning cards.

So, Ronan, master of the arcane. What do you see in my future? Will I truly venture to the great city of Gritch and see the wonders there? the young woman asked.

Ronan paused, a card halfway to the table, and stared at her. Your sarcasm is wasted on me, Ash. If you do not fling yourself from this carriage or I do not throw you, then yes. You will be in Gritch in a matter of hours.

She glanced at the Fayvelian clock secured on the mantle by the curtained window. It was very old and very traditional with its round dark-green face, cast-gold number runes, and cast-silver sigils. The one hand of the clock, in the traditional shape of a sword cut from flawless white quartz, pointed a bit past the 10 rune and the bat sigil. As the well, the hole at the top of the face, rather than rune and sigil, was black, she knew it was the Hour of the Bat, two hours before dawn.

Ash huffed petulantly. I see no sense in it. You know, as well as I, that Eldwin cannot tell a relic from rat squat. He claimed to have found Olin’s silver kite shield in the basement of an Avalosian sea captain, and it turned out to be a tin cutting from the construction of a privy chute.

Ronan’s lips quirked between wry amusement and discomfiture. That was…unfortunate. Why is it you only call him Eldwin when you are perturbed with him?

Do I? I had not noticed. But it was more than unfortunate. It was costly, if I recall. You paid the man six gold standards for it, sight unseen.

Ockland bels, not Argen standards, he corrected. Ronan studied her face, ignoring her further disgruntled diatribe. He truly felt pity for her though he would never dare to tell her so. She would be an uncommon beauty if it were not for the scars. He realized Ash had stopped speaking and was now glaring at him. Hmm? Apologies. My mind wandered.

Ash sighed. What does it matter. We are off to see this tavernkeep and pay an exorbitant sum for a rusty sword hanging above his mantle that Eldwin claims is a lost Galadorian war relic.

Ronan spoke not for some moments. Then, he softly said, The Path is rarely clear in fulfillment of the Word.

Ash threw her hands up. There is another vexation. You speak of some path and word as if it is a living doom to which we are bound. It is beyond me.

I believe Hart nears the place upon this road where the brook flows nearest. He will halt and allow the horses to drink. As we stretch our shanks, I will attempt to explain it again.

Ash slowly shook her head and sighed. As you wish. But it is rarely wise to attempt to teach an ock to sing. It wastes your time and annoys the ock.

Two hours later, as Ronan imprecisely predicted, the carriage slowed and then halted. They listened to the jingle of harness and rein as they wrestled open the small, creaking door at the rear of the carriage. Ash jumped down nimbly and reached a hand to aid Ronan. He ignored it and leapt, like a hawk after a vole and stumbled only slightly. The pair rounded the corner of the carriage together, and a beautiful vista spread before them. The sun was rising over their right shoulders, casting tongues of golden fire through breaks in the sullen gray clouds that had gathered in the last hour. A verdant hollow, bisected by a meandering, crystal-clear brook, greeted the sunrise. A tall, massive form, who was their carriageman, held the reins of four hulking Percherons, heads bent to the icy current and drinking noisily. The brook’s course turned away sharply from the road only rods downstream and continued on until it was lost in the distance.

It is lovely, Ash said softly.

The most trivial of observations, Ronan replied, without venom. Look again, not with your heart but with your mind.

Ash furrowed her brow but complied, gazing over the lush green vale. After a moment, she asked, For what do I look?

What do you see? he asked, the tone of his voice becoming that of the master of arcana.

I see the direction in which you attempt to goad me, wise one, Ash replied mirthfully.

Ronan sighed. You asked I explain the Word and the Path. Here lies the clearest illustration.

Ash turned to face him, stuck out her tongue, then turned back to gaze out over the pastoral scene, and said, I see a brook.

From where did the brook arise?

Ash laughed softly, a musical sound. Do you question my attention to your tutelage in geography?

Ronan shook his head. From whence do all brooks arise?

From rivers, I suppose, she said, shrugging her shoulders.

And from where do rivers arise?

Ash frowned. You are trying to trick me.

I make no such attempt, Ronan said implacably.

Ash’s frown deepened. Who can say?

Ronan nearly smiled. The Word can. It knows all beginnings and all ends. As surely as you could not say where this brook arose, neither could you say where it ends. That is the sovereignty of the Word.

Ash gnawed at that for some time and then asked tentatively, The Word is the beginning and the end?

Ronan nodded. Now, what lies between the beginning and the end?

The middle, Ash said. Then her pale blue eyes widened slightly. The Path.

Ronan did smile at that, though briefly. Precisely.

If that is the extent of your theological revelations, they leave much to be desired, Ash reproached.

Ah, but you have not heard or listened, for I aver I have told you this more than once.

Ash rolled her eyes. Yes, yes. Tell me again.

Why does the brook turn so sharply, just there, away from the road?

It has a mind of its own, Ash replied sardonically.

Do not attribute a free will to a thing lacking the competency. The brook is a metaphor. But why does it turn and twist? Perhaps, there is a boulder or a ridge of clay just below the surface. But then comes the true question. Why does the brook turn away from the road, rather than flowing beside it or plunging under it?

She shook her head. I am confounded. For once, Ronan, wilt you not speak plainly?

He gazed out over the vale then nodded. I will make an attempt, woefully adept in such matters as I am.

Ash smirked. Indeed. Then speak on.

Ronan took a deep breath and then began. The Word chooses all beginnings. We are given no choice unto whom we are born nor where nor in what circumstance. But we are given a spirit, a precious thing like an ingot of silver, at our beginning and are set upon the Path with it. Neither did the brook choose its beginning, a mountain basin, a wellspring amid hills or a rainy plateau, and it was given its nature, its ingot, with which to begin its path. Soon, the brook comes to a hill or a great stone over which it cannot flow and must find a way round. Does it flow left, right, or back? On our Path, we encounter obstacles and challenges to which we also find a way round. Some will say they overcame some obstacle or challenge, but that is arrogance. They made a choice: left, right or back. Our choice of Paths is of greater consequence than the brook’s, for ourselves and for others, and they begin to work upon our ingot of silver, like a forger at the anvil. Each obstacle we face leads to a choice we make, and it is another fall of the hammer. Yet the Word is not blind, deaf, and mute to the trials of the travelers along the Path. When a spirit cries out in pain, bewilderment, or dilemma, even unspoken, the Word provides an answer, whether the petitioner is aware his voice was heard or even comprehends the reply. Rarely, the Word intervenes more directly, emphasizing a choice that is ever in the hands of the forger. So we travel along our Path and the brook in its course. A sudden, the brook finds itself at the end of its path, in a dry desert, a still pond, or a great sea, and the brook’s nature is given back, becoming of another nature with a new course. Like the brook, we, too, a sudden, find ourselves at our Path’s end. It may be a place familiar and expected or a place unknown and unforetold. Perhaps, in contemplation of our choices along the Path, we might not be so very surprised, but we can never be certain of it. Only the Word knows all ends. When we come to that end, we, too, return our spirit, our ingot of silver we have crafted along our Path. Some will be wondrous, beautiful works, and some will be vile and wasteful renditions, but they all are collected and recast in new natures and different Paths. So in the Word and the Path, our silver is circles, rings, beginning to end to beginning. Our labors, our influence, is in the choices we make in our Path and what we have crafted at its end to fulfill the Word.

Ash closed her mouth, which had gaped, unaccustomed to such a long soliloquy from the old man. I will ponder your words, she said quietly.

Outstanding, Ronan replied. Hart will return with the horses shortly. We should be ready to depart.

Ash watched from the window of the carriage, having pulled back the curtain, as the Toran carriageman led the Percherons, two sets of reins in each hand, to their harnesses. Ever she was a bit startled by Hart’s sheer size. He was some twenty-one hands tall and likely weighed twenty-one stone, all muscle. His face was angular with sharp cheekbones, nose, and chin over a small, thin-lipped mouth. But what was most remarkable to Ash were his eyes. Teardrop shaped and slanted from temple to nose, they regarded the world, lidless, like emeralds. She thought, perhaps they were emeralds, sparkling deep green in reflected light. He was something out of a Wejan tale, an admixture of giant, troll, and elf. She had seen many curious and strange things in her life, many since Ronan had taken her on as a member of his traveling mummery, but few more curious and stranger than Hart was. Her mind drifted, unbidden, through the events that had brought her to this odd circumstance, amid an old man, a Toran, and a Croe.

Chapter 2

Ash’s Tale

Ash was born in Xandria, a once-great kingdom just west of the Iron Mountains and near the southern coast that had long since deteriorated, through partisan and martial strife, into a collection of feudal holdings. Her father was a blacksmith and her mother, a weaver, both in service to Duke Erlic, who held a small castle and fielded a small army. The duke’s army protected his lands and the folk who lived upon it from rival Xandrian factions, and so Ash and her family lived in relative safety and security until she was nearly ten years old.

Then, the emissaries of Ban, the Sand King from Aegis, came to the duke’s court. They were strange folk to Ash’s eyes, dark skinned and dressed in voluminous robes over close-fitting tunics and leggings. They were Ur, Uldran, and Magrans, fabled to delve in magics and mysteries that arose in their desert lands, and she feared them. Her mother and father attempted to allay her fright, explaining they were folk just like Xandrians, but she did not believe them. She did not like the way the black-eyed Aegians stared at her whenever one crossed her path.

The emissaries were followed by warriors some months later, supposedly to bolster the duke’s army against a supposed alliance of rival dukes intent on seizing his lands. None questioned the wisdom when Erlic replaced his own captains with Aegins or when he began conscriptions from among his vassals. Only when word reached the duke’s folk of his assassination by an Aegin warrior while Erlic sat at table did their suspicions coalesce. An Aegin captain declared martial law, claiming the assassin was a member of the Zephyr Guild out of Ishtal, hired by the rival dukedoms, and retribution would be swift and severe. Every able-bodied man in the late Erlic’s land was handed a sword, sworn into the Aegin legion, and marched off to war. The once-peaceful holdings of Duke Erlic had been wholly swallowed by the growing Aegin empire.

When Ash’s father had hammered out arms and armor for every new conscripted Xandrian, the Aegins came for him as well. Ash watched her father protest then refuse to accept the Aegin captain’s writ of conscription as he stood beside his anvil. A sudden, the captain held a dagger to his throat, and Ash sprang at her. She casually reversed the dagger in her palm and aimed a backhand, killing thrust at Ash’s left eye. She turned her head just enough for the captain’s blade to miss her eye, but it gouged a jagged wound along her cheekbone. Ash’s vision dimmed in pain and shock, and then she knew no more.

When she awoke, her father was gone, and her mother was clumsily stitching her ghastly wound. Ash. Listen to me, her mother said in a whisper. The captain will return, be assured. No one opposes the Aegins without dire punishment. You must go this very night. I know it is a long journey to your friend’s keep, but her father is a baron. He will protect you as I cannot. You must go there.

The salt of Ash’s tears stung the raw flesh under her left eye. Come with me, Mother, she pleaded.

Her mother shook her head. I cannot. They will overlook a young girl run off, but my work is something they need, like many others that are…were in the duke’s service. They would hunt me down and hold me up as an example to them so they do not attempt the same. When this has all passed, I will find you, and by then, I am certain your father will have returned. But now, it is time for you to fly. Her mother tugged off the small silver ring set with a fiery opal, the one her father set upon her mother’s hand when they wed, and slid it on Ash’s own finger. Remember us, my beautiful daughter.

Ash looked back at her mother, standing in the doorway of the cottage, silhouetted by the firelight from within, and wondered if she would ever see her again. Ash hurried across the field of long summer grass and away from the only home she had ever known. She remembered little else of her journey save terror and hopelessness until she stood on a small rise overlooking the fanciful tiny castle of Baron Christov. Turrets and walls of white-veined blue granite sparkled in the light of a gibbous moon, and she thought it likely that the fairies of the Wejan tales must surely have built it. Christov’s fourth daughter, Anna, befriended Ash at a faire several years past, and they had remained fast friends through correspondence and occasional visits. Ash was certain of her welcome in Sirdin, which Anna told her meant Star Castle in some archaic tongue. She was and dwelt there for seven years.

That first night of her residency, on her arrival, Ash sat at a table while the baron’s healer removed her rushed stitches and cleaned and bandaged the wound while Christov questioned her of the events that had brought her to his castle. His face grew concerned and angry as he listened closely to her tale. Your mother was right to send you to me, child. We are well away from the concerns of the Aegins. None have come thirty leagues from my borders. I have no great army, but I have twoscore loyal men-at-arms that ward my castle and holdings. You will be safe here until the trouble has passed.

While Ash was burdened with worries for her family and those she knew in Xandria, Anna considered Ash’s residency a lark. Anna’s sisters were older, with their own concerns, while she still roamed the forests and woodlands of the foothills around Sirdin. Her sisters donned gowns and dresses, powdered their faces, and adorned their hair with ribbons and combs. Anna preferred well-worn tunics and leggings, dust and dirt on her face, and dead leaves and cobwebs in her wild tangle of golden hair. Her enthusiasm for what she called adventure was infectious, and Ash found herself more and more joining her friend in wanderings through forest and field about Sirdin, and they seemed to Ash as enchanted as the castle.

Besides the near-daily roaming, Anna kept promising Ash she was planning a great adventure deep into Graywood, a wild forest on the northeastern border of her father’s holdings. She claimed to have been there a year before Ash arrived and found a cave that surely once was the lair of a jadin. Ash did not believe her, of course, knowing that the fox-faced, barb-tailed shadowlings lived in deserts, if they lived anywhere at all save Wejan tales. Why is it you think a jadin once lived there? Ash asked.

So will you when we go. You will feel its evil presence and see its signs, Anna replied gravely.

What signs?

You know. They are all there in the tales.

Name one.

Well, there are the tracks and claw marks, for one. Jadin have only three fingers and three toes whilst weasels and foxes, which you might be thinking were in the cave, have four. Anna knew it was not a very convincing argument, so she went on. And there are runes and eerie drawings on one wall.

Ash thought this a bit more promising and asked, What were the drawings, and could you read the runes?

Anna shook her head. It was a long time ago, and besides, do you think a jadin would not cast some spell on its writ to confound deciphering or recollection?

Ash shrugged. I knew not they made runes at all.

Oh yes. One Wejan tale tells of a jadin changing runes on its master’s prison to free her from a magical dungeon.

I have not heard that one.

I will tell you all of the tales of the jadin before we go so you will be prepared should we find it home.

Ash laughed. I wager we will find no more than stupid lads chasing weasels into caves and scratching their names on the wall.

You will see. Anna laughed and threw a pillow at her friend.

Early in the month of Hinari, the Dry Month, Christov told his household he was required to make a journey of several weeks to Loreldin. Ash had lived in the baron’s castle nearly three years, and Christov had never made such a journey, but Anna said it was nothing unusual. Her father visited Loreldin every five years or so to renew contracts and reacquaint himself with merchants who purchased timber from him. Anna did not explain further, for she was much too excited. Do you not see, Ash? This is our chance to adventure in Graywood. My sisters, undoubtedly, will slip away to some faire or to a beau, and we need only to evade servants and guards to make our flight.

The girls’ preparations were nearly as extensive as the baron’s as the day approached for his departure. Additionally, and adding to the thrill, they had to be accomplished secretly. Packs and rucksacks were loaded with pilfered rations from the pantries. Clothing and bedding were rolled in bundles, borrowed from forgotten stores. A pair of dirks was vanished from a display of arms on a wall in a little-used passage in the castle. Rope, flint, and steel; oil and a small hooded lamp; a half-dozen candles; a mallet and spikes; two staves; and a small pouch of Toran stars, copper coins of the lowest denomination, all disappeared from the quartermaster’s bins.

A day after the baron took leave of the castle, Anna’s sisters all disappeared. Two nights after that, Anna and Ash slipped into the stables, saddled the pair of docile mares that were reserved for the girls’ riding lessons, and stole away themselves. Unbeknownst to Anna, who would have ridiculed her for it, Ash left a note for the cook, indicating their destination and their expected return in four days. Ash never forgot the excitement and wonder of riding under the vault of heaven, strewn with stars, off in search of adventure.

Graywood was a rather small forest, but it seemed vast and mysterious to the girls as they came upon it the following morning. The dawn had not burned away the mist or dried the heavy dew as they approached the eaves of the wood after a long night’s riding. They had halted a half a league from Graywood to sleep, but neither of them found much of it. The land was still, and only a few songs of birds broke the morning’s peace. The girls guided their mounts into the trees, hearts thumping in their chests. Which way? Ash whispered breathlessly.

Toward that mountain peak in the distance. The cave is not far into the trees. There is a little glade with a stream, and the cave’s mouth no more than a hole in the ground, Anna replied quietly.

Soon, Ash heard the burbling of water to their right, and as Anna had said, they found a lovely little glade with a tiny runnel of clear water winding through it. They dismounted and unsaddled the mares, allowing them to graze freely. The pair of horses was most unlikely to wander off with succulent turf in abundance as well as water. The girls shed packs, rucksacks, and bundles, taking only what they expected to need in their exploration of the cave. When they found the opening, no more than a ragged crack in the clay bank of the stream, Ash was a bit disappointed. It was only slightly wider than her shoulders, and she thought that did not portend a great cavern. When she told this to Anna, her friend, she only replied, Are you frightened? Ash shook her head even though she was, just a little.

Anna took the lead, backing her way into the hole, feetfirst. It is only a few rods down an incline before this narrow way ends. It opens onto the floor of the first chamber.

The first? How many are there?

Three, I remember. I wager there are more, but I was little then and did not search overlong, Anna replied before disappearing into the dark hole. Ash steeled her courage and followed.

When Ash emerged from the short tunnel, Anna had already lit their small oil lamp. Ash stood and gazed about her in wonder. It was not a large chamber, perhaps a span in diameter, with a high ceiling where a few bats roosted, undisturbed by the girls or the light. The walls and floor were a slick, damp red earth. The sound of slowly dripping water echoed in the cool air. This way, Anna said and carefully stepped over the clay floor. An irregular arch appeared in the lamplight as they neared the back of the chamber, and the sound of flowing water came to Ash’s ear. Only steps beyond the arch, a small stream flowed, barely a rod wide. Jump over. The other bank is stone rather than this treacherous mud. Ash did not need jump, making only an elongated stride with a bit of a bounce. Anna joined her, and the lamp illuminated a passage that seemed to end in a blank wall twenty rods away. Ash thought she saw something sparkle in the darkness, but she did not discover its source until they drew very near to the dead end.

A chain? Ash asked quizzically.

Yes. Jadin cannot fly, and they are shorter than even you, Anna replied. It is a climb of about thirty hands. I will leave you the lamp and go up. Hook the lamp on the chain, and I will pull it to the ledge. Then you climb. Ash nodded, and soon, that feat was accomplished.

When Ash joined Anna on the ledge, her friend was holding the lamp high, and a very large chamber spread out before them. There were stone teeth hanging from the ceiling opposed by those rising from the floor, like some terrible beast. Shadows danced between them, and things glittered and sparkled in the dark. Ash found herself believing a jadin certainly might dwell in such a place. Over here. The wall of runes and glyphs is over here, Anna said.

They crept cautiously between the cavern’s teeth and came to a wall of a chalky stone. The girls peered at the sigils scratched into the surface for some moments before Ash began to laugh. The runes spelled out such inane slogans as Aden scribed this and Aribeth loves Luke. The drawings were crude renditions of cruder subjects. This is not what I remembered, Anna said with a sigh.

You were no more than just seven, Ash said consolingly. I doubt you could read it then or have any clue of the drawings.

Anna continued to study the wall as Ash began to wander round the chamber. After long moments, Anna turned away from the ludicrous display and called, Ash?

Over here, Ash replied.

I am very sorry. This did not turn out to be much of an adventure after all, Anna said disappointedly as she moved toward the sound of Ash’s voice. Where are you?

Over here. Behind the outcropping. Come look at this.

Anna rounded a buttress of stone and saw a faint glimmer of light from a narrow crack eighteen hands above the floor. Are you up there? Anna asked.

Yes. Just grab the edge and pull yourself up, Ash called back.

What about the lamp?

Leave it there. I have the candles.

Anna set the lamp on the stone floor and reached above her head. Still, she required a small jump to catch the lip of the crack and pull herself through the thin cleft. Ash crouched in a low-ceilinged room, peering at something on the floor. Anna moved to her side. What have you found?

I am not certain. It looks like a pull ring but it does not budge.

Anna searched the floor, finding the outline of a trapdoor. No wonder. You are standing on what should give way. Ash saw her friend’s point when she looked at the sharp, straight lines forming a square on the floor.

It is too wide to reach, Ash said.

Anna pulled a length of rope from her belt and said, This should do. They knotted one end of the rope through the ring and stepped outside the square. They pulled mightily, but nothing happened. It is barred or stuck fast, said Anna.

Perhaps not. Try a different side, Ash replied. They did so, and the trapdoor swung open without a creak. That is a bit eerie, Anna said quietly. The girls peered through the trapdoor at a spiraling stair leading down into darkness.

They held a long debate there in the low-ceilinged chamber, and it was Anna who was reluctant to proceed. Are you frightened? Ash mimicked her friend’s earlier question.

I am, Anna admitted. This is not natural. A metal stair in a finished stone shaft?

I ken no more than you, but we might learn its nature if we follow it.

Not with candles. We need collect the lamp. Then, mayhap.

Once they had the lamp, Anna was still hesitant. What if there is something down there?

A jadin? Is not that what we came to see?

Anna shook her head sharply. I came to show you those nasty drawings. I knew they would make you laugh.

Liar, Ash mocked. You did not know what those were at seven, when you saw them. Ash sighed and looked at her friend for some time. Hear me, Anna. I do not know what lies at the bottom of that stair. I do know, however, the Aegis will not be satisfied ruling just my land. Eventually, they will come to Sirdin. My folk had no will or way to oppose them. Jadin have magic in stories. The Aegins have it in Erilan. If this is part of their magic, we can steal it from them. If it is not theirs, then we can claim it for Xandrians to oppose them. Likely, there is nothing at all down there, but if there is magic here, as it appears, then I will see it.

Anna was silent for a long moment. At last, she said, Then we both shall see it. But if we both die, I will kill you.

The girls descended the spiraling stairs for what seemed like hours and to an unguessed depth. It ended on a small landing before a door of the same metal as the stair. It stood slightly ajar. Bloody abyss, Anna hissed.

Ash touched a finger to her lips and pushed the door wider with her booted foot, allowing the light of the candle and lamp to illuminate what lay beyond. It was a small, six-sided room of finished stone, and it was empty save a black shadow at its center. Ash dropped her candle to grab Anna’s arm with one hand to halt her from bolting and clamping her other