Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book III ]

11

The hall was dark, and little Ealin was alone. She stood bare-footed on the cold flagstones before a tall wooden door, still shaking from the nightmare that had woken her. Behind the door was her father. She was a girl of six and had no mother; he was the only one who could chase the nightmares away, and yet she hesitated to disturb him.

Ealin crept to the door and laid her ear upon it, her knees knocking together. There came no sound from within. Hesitantly, she reached for the handle and turned it. The hinges of the door squealed as she pulled it open, peering around the edge. It was her father's bedchamber and workshop. Within, despite the late hour, candlelight glowed golden and cast dark, flickering shadows over the walls.

A man sat at a writing desk with his back toward the door, his head bent over a large book. He raised his head at the sound of the crying hinges and said without turning, "Ealin. You should be in bed."

"I had a nightmare, Father," she whispered.

Ealin's father turned his head to look at her. His long black hair fell in waves to his shoulders, and his deep-set, dark eyes glittered in the light of the candles. For an instant, he looked grim, and dread coiled itself into little Ealin's stomach like a snake...but then the stiff set of his shoulders relaxed a fraction, and his mouth eased into a slight smile.

"Come here, little bird," he said, reaching out for her.

Relief washed over Ealin in a soothing wave. At once, the shaking of her limbs stilled. She padded across the room toward him. He took her by the upper arms and lifted her up onto his lap, leaning down to kiss her brow. "What did you dream of this time?"

"I don't like to say." She curled against her father's narrow chest, closing her eyes. In the warmth of his arms, she was suddenly sleepy.

"You must. The only power fear has over you is that which you give it. You must speak its name; in knowing it, you render it less powerful."

Ealin looked up at her father's face. It was a hard face, all planes and angles, and the most familiar face in Ealin's life. When he raised his brows expectantly, she knew she had no choice; he would press her until she confessed. "It was them. The magic people."

His expression did not soften. "Go on."

"They came for us in the night, and they took me away."

"And where did they take you, little bird?"

"To some dark place. They used their wicked spells to hurt me, and they never brought me home again."

A thoughtful expression overtook the expectation on his face. "It could happen."

Ealin's fingers tightened their grip on her father's tunic. She let her cheek fall to rest against his chest, making a small sound of fear.

"Until we find our path to glory, we are victims in the making—helpless, if the magic-blooded choose to rise up against us. How easily they could stamp us out, if only they awoke to their power. What are the laws condemning their use of magic but words on scrolls in the emperor's archives? Were the Arcborn to come to this house this very night and endeavor to steal my own daughter away, they could do it." His wiry arm tightened around her shoulders. "Be wary of them, Ealin; look out always for the marke."

"You could stop them. You have magic, too."

Ealin's father acknowledged this with a shift in his expression; he glanced toward his writing desk, and the little girl turned her head, following his gaze. There on the worn wooden desktop sat four gleaming stones, each of them the color of blood. Even in the gloom, they glowed and pulsed with unfathomable power.