Page 54 of The Shadowed Oracle (The Bonded Worlds #1)

“He was an orphan?” Ingrid asked. If she hadn’t read about Izadora’s picturesque upbringing on that farm, she might’ve thought all Oracles were damned with absentee or unable parents. “And still he never told Dean he was his father?”

“Don’t get me started on that.” Tyla waved her hand, shaking her head. “It’ll never make sense to me. Karis was the most selfless person I’ve ever met. Yet, when it came to Dean and Gianna, he was a real shithead.”

“Hey!” Ingird pointed at her accusingly, as if catching her breaking a rule in a game they’d been playing. “ Shithead . Viator don’t say that, do they?”

“No,” Tyla admitted. “But so what? You want a trophy?” Her glare sent Ingrid into a slump, frowning with her arms crossed. “That’s what I thought. Now, where was I?”

“He left home when he was sixteen,” Ingrid grunted.

“Right. Karis had always wanted to see the inside of the Hydorian castle. He trained with whatever warrior would have him, learned every fighting style known in Ealis. Then he did what all ambitious young males did in those days—he joined the army. Tinkered around the lower ranks for a while until his power started blooming.”

“Was he hiding his eyes at that point?” Ingrid asked. “Did he know what he was?”

Of that, Tyla was certain. “I’ll never forget that story.

A sort of prototype of what you’re wearing now.

The alchemist in his village first came up with it when Karis was just a boy.

His grandfather had asked if he knew of a way to conceal eye color, and he got to work on it immediately.

He wore them for years. But once Karis had risen to Captain, he didn’t feel the need to hide anymore.

He started to display some of his powers to his superiors, and within months, he was head of a legion.

A year after that, he was invited to visit the king. ”

“The king before Makkar?” Ingrid asked. She’d read all she could on the history of Hydor, but since most of those books were written hundreds of years ago, collecting dust somewhere in Callinora’s massive library, she hadn’t found anything covering the ascension of the last fifty years.

“I think,” Tyla said, scrunching her nose.

“Or maybe the one before that? Who knows. It doesn’t matter, really.

What matters is that the moment Karis finally set foot in that throne room, fulfilling his childhood dream, he had a vision.

” She raised her hands, palm up, as if she was receiving some divine message from above.

“He saw the darkness that was coming. Saw the murder and religious fervor that would soon take place inside those very walls.”

He'd seen Makkar. His armies. His war.

Or, at least an outline of it.

“So Karis fled,” Tyla said, taking a deep, long breath.

“Went into hiding, honing his craft. Then once he’d mastered it, he travelled to Earth.

Said it was one of his earliest visions that planted the idea to go there.

But that day in the throne room, and what he saw, it was clear that he needed to build an army as soon as possible. The Mother called, and he answered.”

Rustling, Ingrid quickly asked, “Seems like that’s all he did. Did he ever do anything just because he wanted to?”

Tyla went still at the question. “Now that you mention it,” she said. “He rarely spoke about himself. Sometimes it felt like he didn’t see himself as an individual. Like I told you, he was selfless. One-track minded.”

And utterly dedicated to his mission, Ingrid thought feverishly. What started as a shot in the dark had turned into more cutting questions about Karis’s big secret. Since she’d first heard about the deceit, Ingrid had been oddly hung up on it. And now a new angle presented itself.

“So it’s possible,” she asked. “That maybe he didn’t tell Dean that he was his father for a reason?”

Tyla’s mouth was a tight line as she pondered. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about that. Karis was private. Didn’t waste words. But he wasn’t a liar.”

Ingrid’s curiosity was now a persistent tingle spiraling up her throat. “Tell me more about Gianna,” she said. Possibly the closest person to Karis, and the catalyst for what made Dean… Dean.

“Wish I could help,” Tyla said. “But you know just as much as I do. She was brilliant. Flawed, but brilliant. I never heard her speak on anything encroaching sentiment. She lived an entirely cerebral existence.”

“Nothing else?” Ingrid asked sharply.

“Nothing.”

Ingrid hummed, at a loss. If Karis’s lover didn’t offer any insight into him, then maybe he was indeed that much of an enigma.

In the nights by Callinora’s fireplace, reading book after book, she’d started to inadvertently think of the last Oracle before her. At least once a night, Karis would pop up out of nowhere as if he’d called out to her from the grave.

“When Karis was here in Ealis,” Ingrid continued her interrogation.

“Before he left for Earth, was he really that isolated from everyone? Dean told me he avoided Viator because of his power and reputation. But did he have allies? Friends?” Specifically, she thought of the faction of wielders that she and Dean had discussed all too briefly. “Did he ever meet with the Libeeri?”

Tyla snapped her head at her student, nearly choking on the water still sloshing in her mouth. “God no. The Libeeri?” Wiping her mouth, she added, “They’re a secret society for a reason. They don’t meet. They don’t show themselves. They just… find you.”

“So they never found Karis?”

“No.” Tyla said it confidently, but still seemed deep in thought.

“Well,” she corrected. “I mean, Karis never mentioned it. The only time I can remember him even acknowledging the Libe wasn’t in the best light.

He disapproved of their isolated practices.

Ironic, I know. But he hated that they only protected other wielders instead of using their powers to help all of Ealis. ”

Ingrid remembered Dean saying something like this before, that first night traveling the dark road through tall redwoods.

You have a gift most Viator would kill for , he had said.

It was why many wielders never told anyone about their abilities.

They hid themselves out of fear. Fear of prejudice. Fear of prosecution. Fear of violence.

“Protect,” Ingrid muttered under her breath. “Does that mean wielders were hunted? Are still hunted?”

“Not so much anymore.” Her teacher fixed her eyes on the floor as if she were ashamed.

“But there was a long stretch of time when wielders had to go into hiding. After Izadora’s reign, soon after she’d passed on, there was an influx of wielders being born.

Almost overnight, the population of gifted Viator tripled.

It was seen as a blessing at first, but, as you well know, power comes with a cost. The common people became increasingly terrified of them.

Like they were suddenly too aware of where they sat on the proverbial food chain.

Masked Viator would murder wielders in their beds.

Anti-magic coalitions formed. And eventually, it all led to the second Great War, when wielders were forced to fight back. ”

Hands clasped tightly to her chest, Ingrid asked, “And that became the Libeeri?”

“After a while, yes.” Tyla stood, shaking out her legs. “To avoid any further bloodshed, they disappeared. Even after all these years, they only show themselves to wielders in need. Although they’re rumored to have been weeded out by Makkar.”

Ingrid scoffed. “And you believe that, do you? In this current climate?”

“No,” Tyla said without hesitation. “I don’t believe it for a second. The Libeeri are out there, somewhere.”

“Then we should go looking for them,” Ingrid said casually, like one might absent-mindedly voice that they were hungry. “Surely they’d help us.”

Tyla shot daggers out of the corner of her eyes. “Did you drink too much of Callinora’s juba tea again? You sound… high.”

Not helping her case, Ingrid said, “Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t go looking for them?”

“Sure!” Tyla tossed her head back, making a show of it. “After we infiltrate an entire kingdom and free a cursed prince, we should definitely go looking for an ancient society of magic-wielders that don’t want to be found.”

“I didn’t mean now . Just, it’s something we should consider.”

Ingrid didn’t hold her breath for a response. Tyla had returned her eyes to the window, her arms crossed in contemplation.

“Maybe they’ll find me? Or maybe Callnora’s mother had?—”

Ingrid never got to finish the thought.

“Something is happening down there,” Tyla interrupted quietly. “The people are gathering.”

“Another street fight? Those rumors are really getting out of hand.”

“No…not a fight. There are hundreds down there. More.”

Ingrid quickly joined her side, bending her head just inches from the glass and looking down at the city below.

Indeed, a large crowd had gathered at the fortified gateway separating the king’s castle from the townspeople.

The portcullis was dropped, the imposing iron door closed, but the brattice in the center had been repurposed, creating a makeshift stage for the onlookers to stare up at from below.

The crowd began to bristle when an unsettling metallic sound echoed from above.

It was that same booming bell that rang that first night from the high watchtower just outside the castle gates.

The same bell that hadn’t sounded off since.

More and more Viator swarmed the scene as trumpets now mixed in, blowing beckoning music throughout the streets.

“Someone called for a meeting,” Tyla said tersely.

“An address to the people? Now?” Ingrid asked.

No word was given to Callinora. Otherwise, they would’ve heard something.

“We need to go.” Tyla gripped Ingrid’s arm and hurriedly led her down the castle steps until they were on the ground level.

Keeping pace, they ran with heavy breaths through the halls, footsteps echoing through the empty corridors.

There wasn’t a Viator in sight. No guards.

No servants. No one. They worked into a sprint as they neared the back of the gate, but nearly stumbled over once they found the princess standing before them.

She was alone, her hands clasped behind her in a menacing grip.

Callinora wore no makeup, none of her customary necklaces dangled from her neck, and was only wearing a thin, revealing nightgown underneath a fur coat.

It was an outfit she might wear in one of their meetings in her chambers, but not something she would choose to step out into public with.

It was clear that she’d only just heard about the gathering.

Callinora gave them a look of warning, keeping her lips shut tight. The pair got the message. This was not the time to speak. Only watch.

Watch as the violent show began.

Ingrid’s mouth went suddenly dry as she peered upward. The stage above the gate, she realized, it was no stage at all. It had been turned into gallows. A lifted platform with a spotless guillotine in the center, glistening in the light of day.

Ingrid couldn’t make out most of the faces standing around the archaic device, but she did make out the distinct, stringy blond hair of Ballius. He was standing at the front of the stage, dressed in a long black frock as if he were about to give a sermon.

King Nestor was not among the males who stood behind him. The only others in attendance were two of Ballius’ fellow schemers, the executioner, and a third, hunched-over male whose face was concealed by a filthy rag.

Ingrid looked again to Callinora, but the princess was still fixated on the macabre meeting, unblinking, her hands now a sickly shade of purple caused by the nervous wringing.

The crowd was quiet, held in suspense.

Then Ballius stepped forward, orating loudly for all to hear.

“Not all public demonstrations are for justice, nor are they to set an example. So I say to you, good people of Maradenn, our gathering today is a happy one. For it signifies change.” He paused, perversely satisfied with himself as he scanned the crowd.

“A new era has arrived. An opportunity to right our past mistakes. Accomplish what our ancestors could not. Yes, hear me now and rejoice. No longer will this kingdom sit idly as the rest of our blessed Ealis unifies. Together, we are everlasting. But apart, we are no better than the cannibalistic blasphemers of Earth.”

Seemingly summoned by the words, the executioner strode toward the doomed Viator and removed his hood.

Underneath was a youthful face, handsome and familiar.

Ingrid had seen him walking around the inner castle when she’d been first led up to Callinora’s room.

He was one of the high council members. The well-respected group of wealthy, influential lords and ladies that had once been so close to the king, but had now been replaced by Ballius and his conniving followers.

A collective gasp pressurized and released in the chaos of the crowd, and the shackled Viator screamed out, begging for his life.

But Ballius quickly silenced the protest.

He lifted a hand, and the executioner brought down the hilt of his sword on the council member.

“It is a sad day,” Ballius went on. “When any member of our society breaks the law. And it is something else entirely when the criminal is a member of our own trusted high council.” Ballius feigned sorrow, locking his hands over his chest. “Yet, a cultural and spiritual shift such as this has a way of weeding out the stubborn, the headstrong who would put their own ideals over the good of the kingdom.” With a dramatic flourish, he turned and gestured to the prisoner.

“Let his death be a marker in the great history of Maradenn. A final nail sealing away any thoughts of division.”

The high council member struggled mightily as he was lowered onto the medieval device. He began to beg again, but all Ingrid could hear was the pleading and the questions and the cries for justice from the crowd.

“At your word, Lord Ballius!” The executioner gripped the lever.

“For the new age! For mother Ealis! We rid her of this internal rot. Release!” Ballius watched with cold indifference as the killing blow came crashing down.

Blood spurted below, trickling down to the people and creating an empty circle where the unlucky few had been standing.

“Murderers!” they cried.

“Explain yourselves!”

“Where is Nestor!? Where is our king?!”

Neither the executioner nor the male who gave the order spared a look at the civilians. Ballius only showed his back to the people, turning his sights on the castle grounds below.

He glared directly at Ingrid, at Tyla, at the princess.

A smile appeared on his face, like a promise.