Page 29 of Fate of Echoes and Embers (Heirs of Elydor #3)

ISSA

Gems of every color and size. Obsidian shards.

Stonecap mushrooms. Gauntlets and daggers.

I didn’t know where to look first, the Veiled Market unlike anything I’d seen before in my life.

I’d had to quiet my senses, there was so much magic.

It reminded me of when I had first learned how to harness my intuitive abilities and became easily overwhelmed, or when we’d used the Ascension in Aetheria and first entered the palace.

After securing a room at the inn—one room for us both, after a brief discussion that still made me blush thinking of it—and assurances from Marek he had already sent inquiries regarding Draven’s movements, we set out for the market.

With naught to do but wait for word from Mev and Kael, and for Adren’s arrival, I attempted to shake off the guilt that plagued me.

While I galivanted about the port with Marek, what was happening at Hawthorne?

Had Lord Draven made a play to take command?

I had no doubt Sir Warren could keep the Gyorian reivers at bay in my stead, but never would I have imagined Draven as a threat to Hawthorne Manor or its people.

“If you’d hadn’t joined us, we may not have learned of Draven’s duplicity,” Marek said beside me.

I hadn’t realized I’d stopped and was staring at what appeared to be a broken piece of black glass, its seller eyeing me warily.

“I thought the same,” I admitted.

Marek stepped toward the seller with a wink to me.

“May I?” he asked.

The seller, a gruff-looking Gyorian nearly as large as Kael, gestured for Marek to help himself. Picking up the black shard, he inspected it.

“A fine piece of obsidian.” He placed it back down. “And unfortunately, a fake.”

The ground suddenly rumbled beneath our feet. I hadn’t even seen the seller use his hands to make it happen, but watching closely, I noticed the seller’s fingers twisting at his sides.

“No need to get angry,” Marek said easily. “I’m trying to help you out. That piece is from Cretnor, aye?”

The ground stilled. The seller’s brows knitted together in confusion. “It is.”

Marek shook his head, as if sympathizing with him. “He sold me a fake bit of stonecap. If you see him, give him my regards.” Marek placed a fist to his heart.

The seller hesitated, and then returned the gesture. “He is a dead man.”

“Hmm, best of luck with that. Cretnor is a slippery one.”

We moved away from the table.

“How did you know it was fake?”

“The obsidian? I’ve seen a real one. Its edges are smoother, shinier. I also happen to know the dealer well. He’s been peddling fake ‘dark magic’ objects all over Elydor for years. Someday, it will catch up to him.”

We walked through the marketplace, which reminded me of an earthier, more dubious Valmyr Port.

I asked about some of the items for sale, things I’d never seen before.

Marek introduced me to at least two of the dealers, neither of whom seemed surprised to find a human in their midst. Along the border, near Hawthorne, such a thing would be unheard of. Marek laughed off my observation.

“The people of Grimharbor care little about the politics of their regions. The battles of their kings and queens have hardly affected them. They operate in the underbelly of society where survival is paramount, the squabbles of their leaders secondary to eating, drinking, and whoring, in that order. Apologies,” he said immediately. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“I may be innocent in some ways,” I said, cutting him off, “but have spent enough time with my own warriors to have heard much worse. No apologies are necessary with me.”

I doubted the wisdom of my words when the glint in Marek’s eyes told me he was about to say something that would likely remind me of that night in the cabin. Or he would have, at least, if a voice from behind hadn’t interrupted him.

“Marek. This way.”

I turned to face an imposing, dark haired—though with strands of gray—Gyorian warrior. His striking green eyes and rugged face seemed familiar.

Since Marek followed, I assumed he was friend, and not foe.

“Adren,” Marek whispered as we wove through the stands, the pace one I could hardly keep up with. How did he know? Marek had never met Adren before.

He seemed familiar because I had met him once, many years ago when I’d traveled from Hawthorne to the capital of Gyoria to plead with the king for the minerals that would potentially save my parents’ lives.

The king denied my request, but Kael followed me from the palace and tried to help, against his father’s wishes.

It had been the beginning of our friendship, and Adren had been with him that day.

In the years afterward, Kael’s right-hand man had never traveled with him to Hawthorne, but I’d heard of Adren many times. Fiercely loyal, he was as intelligent as he was pragmatic. According to Kael, he was also ruthless in battle and had earned the respect of their men.

Following Adren to what looked like the entrance to a cave, once inside, we continued through the side of the mountain in which Grimharbor was built.

Wall sconces lit the way, and neither man spoke until we came to a wooden door which Adren opened without touching.

Some sort of Gyorian magic, though I had no notion of how he’d done it.

“A tavern?” I said, not realizing I’d done so aloud.

There were patrons, though very few of them. Wine barrels with slabs of wood for tables and candles on each one. We sat at the far end of the strange room, a server immediately appearing at our table.

“Mead and trexan ribs for my friends and me. Unless you’d rather stonefire stew?” Adren asked me, apparently not caring if Marek had a preference.

What was this place?

“Ribs will do,” I said, trying not to stare.

“How did you know each other?” I asked. “If you’d never met before.”

“A Thalassarian sailor and human woman,” Adren said. “An odd combination, even in Grimharbor.”

Fair enough. “But you knew him too?” I asked Marek.

“Kael told me of his scar.”

Adren reached up to touch his chin. “A skirmish along our northern borders, courtesy of an Aetherian wind whip.”

When he dropped his hand as the mead was served, I squinted but could hardly see it. How Marek noticed such things, and so quickly, amazed me.

“Welcome to Gyoria,” Adren said, lifting his mug.

I took a sip, unprepared for the heavy, spiced drink.

It would take more than a sip or two to become accustomed to its strong taste.

“It has been many years,” he said to me, obviously remembering our first meeting.

“My sympathies for your parents’ passing. ”

“Thank you,” I said. “Much has happened since then.”

Adren sighed heavily. “You are safe enough here,” he said. “But I will admit, I was surprised to learn you were accompanying Marek on this mission.”

“She will not be entering the Depths,” Marek said. “But will only verify the crystal’s presence, if she’s able to do so from a safe distance.”

“You can sense magic?” Adren asked.

It was odd, admitting my ability to a Gyorian, even knowing I could trust him. “Aye,” I said.

“So tell us what you know.” Marek took a deep swig of mead.

I must have stared at the way his lips curved over the mug for a bit too long and earned a wink for it.

Glancing away quickly, I pushed this morning’s kiss, one that hadn’t lasted long but somehow felt more intimate for its casualness, from my mind.

“Years ago, during a mission for Kael, I interrogated an old sailor who lives on the outskirts of Gyoria. He was half-mad and obsessed with the sea. I got little information from him, but he muttered, ‘The wind sleeps beneath the tide,’ over and over again.” Adren took a sip of mead so I did the same, attempting not to grimace.

“I’d forgotten the incident, but as I searched for the Wind Crystal, his words came back to me.

I remembered he was a navigator in Balthor’s fleet.

I paid him a visit, and he was as mad as ever.

But every lead kept pointing to the sea, so I asked him directly if he knew anything about the Crystal.

He didn’t confirm it, not with his words, at least, but he continued to babble about lost ships and swallowed secrets. ”

“How did you connect him to the Crystal in the first place?” Marek asked.

“I found a set of cryptic records disguised as naval logistics reports. Movements of ships and resources that made no sense. The same captains ventured out time and time again. On one of those missions, a ship and its crew vanished completely. I tracked down a witness who had worked the docks that day, and though he couldn’t confirm where it was headed, all clues lead to the Maelstrom Depths.

I dug deeper into the archives and found a reference to the ‘king’s greatest treasure’ in connection to the missing ship.

That’s when I realized, it wasn’t our king but Aetheria’s. ”

“So that’s how he got the Crystal into the Depths,” I asked, having wondered that all along. “By sacrificing its crew?”

Adren shrugged. “Maybe they thought they could get out alive. More likely, they knew it was their last mission. Balthor can be persuasive, and ruthless, but sacrificing his own men is callous, even for him.” Adren grimaced, shaking his head. “Hate has consumed him.”

“Hate for humans,” I said, disgusted. “For my kind.”

Adren turned to me. I looked into his eyes, seeing none of the anger Gyorians so often harbored for us.

“I do not hate you, or your people, Lady Isolde.”

I had not realized my tone was so bitter. “You are an exception.”

“I’m not as rare among Gyorians as you might think,” he said. “There are others like me.”

There was something about the way Adren was looking at me that felt… odd. Marek seemed to pick up on it too.

“Adren?” he asked. “You are among friends.”

Adren drained his mug, sat back, and crossed his tree trunks of arms.

“Not just friends,” he said, looking pointedly at me, “but relatives.”