Page 23

23

A Portent of Death

I t’s mid-morning when we reach the second temple the following day. It looks much like the last one—squat, with dark grey stone—but it’s smaller, and it’s surrounded by the jungle like a lone prey fending off a circle of wolves.

But when we draw closer, where there was a magical ward at the last temple, that tightness that washed over us… nothing happens here.

Everything is like the fading of an echo. A memory of inhabitants and normalcy that’s absent now.

We land before the doors, but no one comes out to greet us. The jungle is a tangible presence at our backs, pressing in, watching, waiting. I wish I knew what for.

Daenn helps me down. His gaze roves our surroundings; either he senses my uneasiness or he feels the same things in the air I do, because he is on full alert.

“We should get inside.” I glance at the door. How do we open it from this side?

Daenn grunts in agreement. He leads the way up the steps, and I follow close on his heels; Storm brings up the rear, his feathers puffed.

Daenn quickly finds a recessed handle along one of the stone doors and tugs. It groans as it eases open, seeming almost reluctant to allow us entrance—almost as reluctant as I am to go in. Only my desire not to be out here in the open pushes me to step over the threshold into the shadowed hall beyond.

Still no one has come to greet us, but even more concerning is the mild disarray we find. There’s not much in the room, but the torches that should line the walls are unlit, missing, or, in a few cases, fallen to the floor. In itself, that bit of untidiness wouldn’t matter much to me, but there’s also a gathering basket near one of the built-in stone benches. Its contents—some sort of withered flowers—are scattered around it on the floor.

There’s something indescribably wrong about it for some reason, like a portent of death hanging in the air.

“Let’s go this way.” My words echo through the room and into the distance down the halls, and I wince. I drop my voice before continuing. “If the layout is the same as the other temple, it should lead us toward the kitchen.”

Daenn nods, and we head down the suggested hallway. Our steps ring out, a warning bell to anyone around of our presence.

If there even is anyone around.

My wondering on that count is answered within minutes: the next corner we turn, four men jump out at us. No, not men—not human men, at least. Elyri men. Their pointed ears rise from hair of greens and golds—even some bright reds and oranges—which is braided away from their chiseled, fine-boned features. They all wear strange, matching armor that reminds me of leaves or ropey vines. Their blades—swords and spears—are gleaming wood that looks wickedly sharp in the impossible way only Spring Elyri weapons can .

They charge, and Daenn has to retreat to give himself time to draw his own sword. Storm, though, leaps to meet them, ripping at the nearest man. His dying screams deafen us.

Daenn brings his sword up to block the second man’s attack. They clash, again and again. The third swings at Daenn’s legs with his spear when there’s an opening, and Daenn trips over it, slamming his head into the wall. He stumbles to his feet quickly, before they can get any closer, but he’s swaying on his feet. His gaze looks slightly unfocused. The fourth edges forward, waiting for Daenn to stumble again.

I won’t wait. I reach for my magic, guiding it through me to strike at the fourth man like last time I wielded it. He crumples in an awkward heap, and the third man turns to gawp—which gives Daenn his own opening to stab the man in the chest before spinning back to cut down the second.

The fight lingers in the air as it echoes down the halls. I hate to break the silence; who knows how many more Elyri lurk in the temple?

“These are no monks,” Daenn says drily. He leans on the wall, his eyes squeezed shut. Storm nudges his shoulder, and Daenn nearly topples.

“How hard did you hit your head?” I ask, my voice rising with my alarm.

He mutely shakes his head, wincing at the motion. I hurry to his side and look him over, but he waves me off.

“I’m just… I’ll be fine. Give me a moment.”

And then I realize exactly what it is. It’s the bracer; it’s draining him so much even the hit he took to his head—certainly not nothing, but usually easier to shake for the Daenn I know—takes it out of him.

I want to rip the bracer off him and throw it in the nearest fire .

Pattering echoes scurry toward us. I turn, putting myself between Daenn and the new noise. Storm releases a warning shriek.

But the next man to come out of the hallway isn’t an Elyri warrior; he bears no weapons or armor or pointed ears and unusual coloring of the ones we just fought.

He’s a monk with a long dark beard and plain robes. He pulls up at the sight of us, wide eyes casting over the scene. They shift slowly back to Daenn and me.

“You can’t be out here—you have to hide.”