The Thrice-Gifted Child - Shadow Journey Series Book Two

Author's Note

Despite it’s dark and terrifying attributes, there is a light in this story that lives in all of us. For this reason, I find myself happy to return to this particular world, to write again about Duncan and Grace, Carina and Mika, and, of course, the enigmatic child, Resa. They continue to grow on the pages as they do in my head. And, so no one gets bored, several more characters have made their way into these pages, each going through their own growth, their own changes.

Another book will follow this one, and still another after that. I hope you stick with us—me, and my young, troubled heroes—because your readership is so very much appreciated.

Acknowledgments

I want to thank all those who read The Shadows We Make and expressed themselves so wonderfully in their reviews, their conversations with me and others.

I also wish to thank the various entities who assisted me with publicity with that book and this one. I’ve never been very adept at marketing or tooting my own horn.

I thank, also, the various bookstores who permitted, even encouraged me to put myself out there for book signings. I met members of the public whom I won’t forget. My thanks to all of you, as well, for keeping me going.

I especially want to thank, though, those who believed in this book, The Thrice-Gifted Child, the second in the Shadow Journey Series. I’m hoping I haven’t let you down.

1

Grace

When I was a child, I mean a very small child, I believed in the tales we were told. Not as if they were true, but as if they held a frightening yet somehow glorious, never-ending possibility of truths. Now, at sixteen, I knew the tales for what they really were: lies. Because the truth in them, the absolute truth in them, was so much worse than what we had been given to imagine.

Swearing, weapon in hand, I rose from the ground and stared through the darkness beneath the trees. I’d heard tales about The Wilds, too, and fully anticipated these truths might end up far graver than my mind could fathom. Yet to come here to this place had been imperative. With Stone Tiran’s soldiers pursuing us, the best place to hide had to be the one they’d least expect. No one went into The Wilds. Not willingly. Not with any expectation they’d come back out. Besides, and maybe more importantly, knowledge existed in the stories associated with the Wildron. I only hoped we would survive to find it.

Years ago—centuries—mages broke from the tribes and sought refuge in The Wilds. They never returned to the world they’d known. But it was rumored mage lore lived on, passed on by word of mouth from generation to generation. I had need of this knowledge. Not to use it. As a warrior trained and blooded, my gifts were established. But with what I held trapped in the crystal hidden within the bag around my neck, I planned to learn something to save us all.

Skelly, I said, I want to help you.

A little late for that, he answered, his voice wisping through my brain.

My breath went out, slowly, as I took in the shadowed figures in the night. I adjusted my stance, berating myself for not having heard them coming. I should have. I always did. I’d become careless, useless to my companions. A warrior did not fail at her duty.

Yet, it appeared even the conjure was caught unaware. Alarmed, and therefore more dangerous than usual, the beast now crashed in my direction across the small clearing where we’d camped, stomping straight through the dying fire with his huge cloven hooves, scattering embers over my friends and startling them awake. Not Resa, though, I pleaded in silent desperation; please, not Resa, not profoundly gifted Resa. In her panic, Duncan’s sister wouldn’t differentiate between friend and foe.

The conjure’s thickly-furred shoulder struck Duncan, who had risen beside me with makeshift spear in hand. Duncan hit the ground hard, his weapon clattering away. Prudently, he stayed put. Chauncy—yes, I had given the brute a ridiculous name—thrust its head into the air above mine, hot breath shifting the curling strands broken free from my braid. I dashed them away with a forearm. The animal’s corkscrew horn pointed into the air before us both like a bowsprit, nearly as long as I was tall.

Be easy, I said. I had no idea if he’d recognize any authority behind the instruction. They were independent creatures, conjures, only rarely developing symbiotic relationships with such as me. The relationship required a lengthy process. We’d been together less than two days, a time measurement that meant nothing to a conjure. Even so, the creature had chosen to protect me in the first instant we met. Whether he did so by instinct or cognitive reasoning was probably something I’d never know, yet I found instinct the more disturbing choice. Instinct so rarely proved wrong. If he protected me by instinct, then danger was real.

Forcibly dismissing this thought, I studied the figures arrayed in a rough circle beneath the trees, counting the ones I could see without turning my head. I didn’t want to appear weak or unnerved, refusing to glance around as if their numbers mattered. Far better to stand tall and unafraid. I could do so, because even disheveled and dirty and far too thin, I was and would always be a warrior of the Ser Irese. Nothing taking place in these past months could alter my heritage, my training, my determination.

Once called Olympian, The Wilds had been blasted and harvested by war and overgrown by vegetation through multiple generations. The people who inhabited the place had a reputation for being fierce, violent and intolerant, keeping to themselves. They didn’t welcome strangers. They clearly didn’t appear ready to welcome us.

In hooded cloaks colored like the night, some held raised, mechanized bows, extended, arrows nocked, while still more held weapons resembling the impulse used by Citadel guards, designed to release deadly energy pulses. I slowly bent my knees, lowering to the ground my lathesa, the weapon I’d constructed from fire-hardened wood to resemble the one I’d once owned, the one given to me by my mentor upon completion of my warrior’s training, the one Stone Tiran had ordered taken away before sentencing me to death.

I straightened, hands up, palms out, grateful in the knowledge that in that last at least Tiran had failed. I still lived. So far.

We mean no harm, I said. No one reacted. I repeated the words again, using the dialect often employed in the desert markets during haggling, a mixture combining common words from many tribes.

Someone snorted. You were understood the first time.

I couldn’t discern which mouth among the shadowed faces had spoken. I dropped my arms to my side, empty palms still facing out. Duncan scrambled to his feet behind me. I heard him but didn’t look, hoping he had left his spear on the ground. The others hadn’t moved since they’d bolted upright beneath flying ash. I risked a glance at Resa. She remained on the ground asleep with Carina’s hand on her back.

We—my companions and I—did not mean to trespass. I tried to sound both confident and apologetic, although I felt anything but. Angered frustration coursed through me. I’d truly grown quite tired of persecution, of fear. As if sensing this, Duncan pressed his hand against my shoulder blade.

Ignorance has never excused anyone, the same voice shot back. Arrogant, male. I’d almost picked him out, the speaker, but they stood too close together for me to be certain.

I could have taken him on without a problem, if necessary, but he was not alone and neither was I. Those I could see outnumbered us three to one. I had a responsibility to Duncan and Carina, to Mika and Duncan’s sister. Everything that had happened in the past day was my fault.  I’d thought I could do it alone, bargain, make an exchange: myself for Resa. I’d been wrong. In unguarded moments, I caught a look from Duncan, an expression, a tilt to his eyes, plainly saying he had not forgotten betrayal. Because it was betrayal. A betrayal of trust.

I have no wish to be excused, I said to the speaker, only to explain.

 We don’t accept explanations, either.

Okay, now he’s just being a jackass, Duncan whispered. I jerked my head, shushed him. Like a child. He wouldn’t like that either.

I straightened my shoulders, lifted my chin. Very well, I said. What, then, do you accept?

This seemed to set the hooded fellow back a mental pace or two. Above my head, Chauncy growled, brandishing his fiendish-looking horn a bit from side to side. I heard a small whimper at ground level. Resa had started to waken, the gods help us.

Carina, I said.

I’ve got it. Her voice betrayed exhaustion, the tone weak, harried. I drew a deep breath, let it out. A possibility existed that things were about to go bad very quickly. I felt it in my weary bones, like an ache, like a rumbling in the ground beneath my feet, vibrating straight into my skull.

I glanced again at the lathesa I’d set down as a good faith gesture. Not too far away. I’d made sure of that. Mentally, I measured distances, contemplated how many I could take down before being overwhelmed. I wasn’t worried so much about the bows as I was the impulse weapons, my friends in direct line of fire. I considered how swiftly I’d have to retrieve my own weapon from the ground and deploy it, pictured the spin in my hands, the strike, knowing there were too many arrayed against us. I tried very hard not to anticipate failure. To anticipate failure would mean failure, and I had to succeed. I would lose too much otherwise. All of them, friends I had never expected to find, could be killed.

Suddenly another voice spoke into the stillness left by my prior question.

How do you come to be in command of the beast?

I turned, frowned, attempted to locate the speaker.

How do you come to be in command of the beast? the voice asked again with remarkable patience considering how the    questioning had been proceeding. A woman’s tones, odd and coarse, as if she might be in need of hydration. How well I remembered that desperate lack. How well we all did.

I glanced up at the horn hovering in the air above me, thought about the razor-edged incisors positioned somewhere behind my head, the beast’s huge size, his alarming countenance. People feared conjures, and with sound reason. I knew the stories. A conjure could remove a man’s head with far less provocation than what Chauncy might be perceiving this very minute, with an array of weapons pointed in our direction. After all, he possessed that strange guardian determination. It might be best for all of us if I let them believe I did command him. Even so, I spoke the truth. Perhaps, I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t snatch back the words once they’d exited my mouth. Besides, truth was supposed to be a warrior’s keenest weapon.

"I do not command the conjure," I said.

Am I to understand it protects you of its own accord?

I hadn’t asked for the animal’s defense. Having it meant Chauncy constantly sensed a danger to me, if not to all of us. The fact it hadn’t diminished remained a constant worry. Breg, the Ogdonian driver who had rescued us as we fled Tiran’s temporary stronghold, had told me this. He’d recognized the conjure’s change in allegiance.

Except it wasn’t allegiance, not exactly. Not even loyalty, but more something resembling a forbearance for which I should be grateful.

I have been told so, yes, I admitted.

I heard several whispered exclamations, sounding more like a rushing wind than voices. Yet, I heard words in that wind, cut short when the first speaker sliced the air with his hand in a cutting gesture.

Who are you? the woman asked. I saw her now, or the form of her, stepping away from the rest in her long, concealing cloak. What are you called?

Duncan’s hand dropped from my shoulder, thumping against his borrowed clothes. I lifted my chin. Perhaps misplaced at this point, a prideful thrill shot through my veins. I am Grace Irese, of the Ser Irese, I said, and my companions are—

We do not care who the others are. The male again. Surly. Rude. Duncan tensed beside me.

You should, I snapped, because I do. Very much.

A hissing followed my statement, unpleasant in the extreme. It came from them, the Wildron, seeming to indicate their displeasure. I witnessed a sudden shift among them, as if they’d all moved a handspan to the left so quickly my eye barely caught it. I tensed, glancing to the weapon at my feet again. Although I possessed the capacity to wield the lathesa with great efficiency, too many stood against us. Still, I could protect my companions as much as possible until the end. I steeled myself, a heaviness in my heart I should not have allowed in. I knew better.

Abruptly, the woman raised her hand. The sibilant drone sputtered to a stop. The dark cloaks shimmered with violent motion and settled again. Intrigued, I studied them more closely, trying to ascertain how they managed the baffling movement. It definitely unnerved, which I figured might be the entire point to the display.

The female cleared her throat. I swung my gaze back in her direction, searching for the face beneath the hood. As if aware of my intent, she pushed the garment back. Duncan gasped. I managed to keep my reaction in check.

I had seen faces like hers before among my own people, aged, regal, fierce, battle-scarred. This woman’s countenance possessed an oddly precise delineation between the ravages caused by fire and those by time, making it appear as though she wore half a mask like a disguise. I dragged my gaze away from the pale, ropelike scars mapping her flesh and met her eyes. She stared back, her own gaze shifting to linger overlong on the warrior’s tattoo on my cheek. I would have thought the mark no more than a smudged shadow in the dark. Perhaps her strange blue eyes saw more clearly than most.

Grace Irese, we have heard of you, she said.

How? Duncan demanded. I suppose he couldn’t help it.

She ignored him, waiting on me to speak. Why would you know my name here in this place? I asked.

Because Citadel was burned for you, the woman said. Everyone knows that tale.

That’s a lie! Again, Duncan. I wished he would shut up. He was going to be the one to get us killed if he didn’t watch himself.

He did not mean to say you lie, I apologized for him.

I should hope not, the woman said in heavy warning.

I took a deep breath. The story you’ve heard is untrue, however. Citadel was burned by Stone Tiran in war, to take control of government, not because I had refused him in pact. The implication otherwise is absurd.

Oh, whispered Duncan, good on you, diffusing the tension with that remark.

I curled my lip at him, not quite a growl.

The woman’s face moved, only one side, the unburned side, twisting up, mouth opening. A sound barked into the air. It might have been laughter. I couldn’t fathom such a thing, but at this point, anything could be possible. I know this, she said. Tales are often manufactured without regard to truths, but merely to suit a purpose.

I said nothing, reached back and grabbed Duncan’s wrist, avoiding his fractured fingers, silently urging him not to speak out again. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, he whispered anyway, for my ears alone. Duncan Oaks habitually quoted his grandmother, sharing the words as if spouting out astounding wisdom. I’d heard this particular phrase several times in recent days. In this instance the timeworn adage might happen to be dead on. His hand turned, bandaged fingers somehow managing to tighten around mine. Duncan Oaks, the boy who’d betrayed me in a way from which there should have been no coming back. And yet… Yes, and yet.

I squeezed and let go. Chauncy stomped his enormous cloven hoof behind me, his knee joint catching my thigh, causing me to lurch in an unintentional step forward. A half dozen weapons tightened their aim.

I raised my hands once more in supplication. We are no threat. We are only five.

You are not only five, said the mutilated warrior.

Sucking a startled breath in through my nose, my fingers shot to my throat, to the bag lying hidden beneath my tunic. The large crystal snug inside pushed against my sternum from the pressure. If you let me out, I can explain what I am to her with a little show and tell, Skelly’s voice whispered into my mind. She’ll be impressed, I promise you.

My hands dropped. Could the woman possibly know what I concealed, not only from her, but from my companions? I suppressed the ice-cold shiver making its way beneath my clothes, up my spine, across my arms. I had no means to control what Skelly Shane had become. When I’d called his manifestation down into the crystal back in Tiran’s compound, I’d only accomplished it through some unexpected sympathetic reflex. If these people discovered what I carried, contained but uncontrolled, they wouldn’t hesitate to attack. I couldn’t blame them.

But my friends would not pay the price. I would see to that, no matter what I had to give up.

The woman made a small movement with her head, indicating the enormous horn still swaying above me. "You have the conjure," she said.

Chauncy. I hadn’t considered him. Relief made me weak-kneed. I tightened muscle, tendon, joints, to keep myself standing upright. That is so, I agreed, "but we are still outnumbered. With all your weaponry, I doubt even the conjure stands a chance."

You know what I can do, Grace. With me, you can cease your worry and save them all.

I closed my eyes, squeezed them shut, forcing Skelly from my conscious thoughts. When I lifted my lids again, I saw the Wildron’s weapons had all been lowered toward the ground. They were quite well unified, these Wildron. Precision marked their movements, their weapons at an exact level before them, their bodies all held in similar stance. Like well-practiced soldiers. I hadn’t been aware anyone in The Wilds maintained a standing army. These warriors appeared to be rigorously trained. Why?

My gaze shifted at movement to one side. I’d been wrong about some of them. A group, including the male speaker, stood together. They did not possess the same symmetry as the rest. In fact, they appeared to be exchanging looks beneath their hoods. Perhaps noting my study, their attention suddenly snapped back to me.

Why are you here, Grace of the Ser Irese? the scarred warrior asked. You bring outside strife to a place where we have permitted none for as long as only the eldest among us can remember. Those such as I am, she added, as if I hadn’t caught the reference.

I bowed my head in respect for her age and position, the way I’d been taught, the way it had been drummed into me. Even if the teaching hadn’t stuck, I recognized the necessity here and now. Offense would serve no purpose. I understand. We did not mean to. I only—

Duncan stepped past me. We seek sanctuary.

I whipped around and gaped at him. Chauncy danced sideways at my abrupt movement. Mika let out an exclamation, likely shoved to the ground by an animal which showed no respect for personal space.

Duncan, I whispered, reaching for his sleeve. He sidestepped away, straightening his spine beneath his soiled shirt. He tossed the dark hair from his eyes.

The ancient warrior turned toward him. And who might you be?

I am…I am Duncan Oaks, of the…of the Oaks.

Something flickered in the woman’s gaze, tightening the skin around her eyes. Amusement? Dismissal? When she spoke, her voice disclosed neither. But you have no tribe, Duncan Oaks.

He tried to hold his stance, but his shoulders slumped. No, m’am.

I wanted to hug him; me, the undemonstrative one. Hug him for all we’d been through together, for the moments when his actions had shone so brightly, for the times I wanted nothing more than to punch him in the nose.

He has us, I stated. Though I spoke softly, my voice carried. She inclined her head in acknowledgment, continuing to address him.

But you are brave.

No, m’am, he said again. I imagined hugging him harder. Duncan, dear Duncan.

I believe you are, the woman said. She spent a moment longer scrutinizing his face before turning to me. You are wise to surround yourself by those who are loyal to you, Grace.

These are my friends, I said, not some strategic decision.

Yet you met as total strangers only a short time ago.

My eyes narrowed. True, what she said, yet circumstances had bound us as fiercely as time. Maybe more so. Wait, I said, as realization hit like a slap, a warning, how do you know this?

She pivoted her attention deliberately away, back to Duncan.

So, you seek sanctuary, do you?

Duncan jerked his gaze up, away from the ground at his feet where he’d possibly been considering his mistake in asking for sanctuary. I felt sure he possessed some notion sanctuary held universal meaning, that certain rules would be followed in that regard. That we’d be safe. No, we’d only be in their control.

I do, he said, ignoring my gaze in his direction. For all of us, not just me.

Even the beast? the woman asked, signifying Chauncy with a hand.

He hesitated. Yes, I said, before a debate could ensue, even for the beast.

She returned her focus to me. Scarred and aged, I could see she had once been formidable and beautiful; that she still was. Sanctuary, she said. Are you certain?

The figure I presumed had been doing all the talking earlier strode forward, tossing back the dark hood to reveal a face as unmarred as the other’s was battered; definitely male, not any older than I, perhaps not yet my age. I doubted his smooth skin had yet known a razor’s application. I had to remind myself that both my male companions hadn’t much use for one either. The boy looked first to Duncan and then to me, lips twisting into a smirk.

We also don’t do sanctuary, he said.

2

Dandy, Duncan muttered. He’s a sweetheart.

Peripherally, I caught Duncan’s movement, saw him bending toward his fallen spear. Don’t, I said.

He checked, straightened. "Why