15. Declan

Chapter fifteen

Declan

M y eyes cracked open.

Everything hurt.

I tried to sit up, but the forest spun and the ground rose up to meet me. I blinked at the star-filled sky.

Night? How long have I been out?

"You're awake!" the excited voice of a perky young girl said from several paces away.

I ignored my queasiness and raised my head.

Aside from the lush island palms, the land was empty around me.

But I was sure I'd heard someone.

I edged onto my elbows before lifting myself to a sitting position. I was relieved when nausea didn't return.

My muscles ached.

I glanced around again and found the area just as dark and empty as before .

"What are you looking for?" the girl's voice asked.

I wheeled around a little too quickly and was punished by another wave of dizziness. I braced myself with a palm to the ground and asked, "Who's there?"

"I am, silly. You fell down."

I held my head and swiveled to the left.

Still nothing.

órlaith hopped onto my lap.

I stroked her head and smiled at her coo-purr.

"I love when you scratch with your fingernails."

My eyes flew wide as the bird's beak moved with the sounds of the child's voice. I threw myself backward so suddenly she had to scamper off to avoid being thrown.

She cocked her head. "Done that fast? I really like the scratches."

"Spirits, I've lost it. I've gone mad." I rubbed my eyes, then returned my gaze to the owl. "órlaith?"

"I prefer órla . órlaith sounds so stuffy."

"How . . . are you talking ?"

"Well, I open my beak and my thoughts make sounds, pretty much the same way you do it—and you talk a lot , mostly to yourself. That makes you look crazy. You know that, right?" She giggled. Her feathers ruffled with the sound.

"But . . . órla . . . I can . . . understand you now. You're not just peeping."

"Peeping? That sounds gross. Like pooping. Why would anyone peep? Unless they really had to go." She giggled again, her big eyes squinting with owlish glee.

I leaned back on my elbows and tried to remember the moments before I'd blacked out. I'd stepped on the path, there was an old man shouting something, and I couldn't breathe . . . then órla glowed and breathed something into me.

That had to be it.

"What did you do to me? What was that glowing mist?"

"I don't know. You couldn't get air, so I gave you some of mine. I was scared." She hopped toward me. "I thought you were dying. I didn't know what else to do. You can breathe now, right?"

I rubbed my chest. It still burned when I breathed, but the air flowed in and out freely. "Yes."

As I struggled to my feet, I noticed we rested about ten paces from the first stone of the path. Whatever happened must've thrown me back pretty hard. That explained some of the sharp pains in my legs, buttocks, and back.

I reached back, placing my hands on my lower back to stretch, when a glow flared from behind. I jumped forward, and my hand flew to the knife hanging from my belt. I spun around, knife extended—and found nothing but empty grass.

This just keeps getting better.

"Did you see that?" I asked órla.

"See what?"

"The blue light? You didn't see it?"

"Oh, sure. You mean that light that came out of your hands? I saw that. What were you doing?"

Light out of my hands? What in all that's holy is she talking about?

I leaned forward to dig my waterskin from my pack and realized that my back no longer hurt. In fact, nothing hurt anymore—and the burning in my lungs was gone.

I took a sip of the magical wine and tried to think about what had happened.

None of it made any sense.

As I stood, Larinda's voice whispered through the trees as if carried by the wind.

Follow yer path. Trust yer Light.

The skin fell from my grasp as my head whipped about, but the old woman was nowhere to be seen.

"Whacha looking for?"

"Larinda. Didn't you hear her just now?"

órla tilted her head to the side. She seemed endlessly amused. "Nope. Nobody's talking except you. I'm used to that. Did I mention you talk a lot?"

"Yes, you said that. Thanks for the reminder." I scowled.

"You're welcome. You forget things sometimes, too," she said, oblivious to my sarcasm.

The mountain was shrouded in milky darkness, illuminated only by the moon that loomed larger than I remembered. Was it this close to the land in Melucia as well? Was it always that bright? I couldn't remember.

Unsure how to proceed up a path that cared so little for visitors that it hurled them off its stones, I found a boulder nearby, sat on the ground, and leaned against it. órla tottered over and took her place in the crevice formed by my shins, preening for only a moment before tucking her beak deep into her feathers and closing her eyes. I watched the rise and fall of her tiny body, and a smile bloomed in my soul. I wasn't sure how something so tiny could bring joy simply by sleeping, but she did. A hint of the golden glow that I vaguely remembered before blacking out still shifted around her, an aura of sparkling majesty unlike anything I had ever seen.

What was that? What had she done? Clearly, the owl possessed some sort of magic or Gift. I hadn't even known animals could possess Gifts. The Mages never mentioned such a thing in all my time living in their midst. It seemed fantastic to the point of unbelievable.

So what was it about órla? What did she possess?

Or perhaps . . . should the question be, "What is she?"

I ran a thumb across her head, and my smile widened when she rumbled with high-pitched pleasure.

She's just an owl. I'm being ridiculous. The magic must've been something related to the path and its stones .

But that didn't explain the light that had flowed from my own palm. Even behind me, I saw the brilliance of its shine.

And it Healed me.

I Healed myself?

I had to bite back a laugh lest I wake my sleeping beauty, but the thought was even more outrageous than an owl with powers. Long ago, magic made it clear that it wanted nothing to do with me. I was a Mute as a child and would remain so for the rest of my life. There was no way the mystical powers that ruled our world, whatever they might be, had suddenly changed their minds and bestowed their grace upon me.

But . . .

I Healed myself.

It had to be the stones or path or whatever.

It could have been this mountain everyone seems to think is sacred.

For all I know, Larinda sent her own Healing from the village. She hadn't been shy about speaking from that distance. Could she also send magic that far? Did she have the power to Heal?

I laid my head back against the cold stone and stared up at the night sky. It was so different than the one back home, yet so familiar. The clouds had retreated, leaving a blanket of the darkest, bluest velvet sprinkled with pinpricks of light. I breathed deeply, savoring the tropical air that carried the slightest hint of sweetness. The forests along the Kingdom border had always brought me peace, but this place . . . the comfort that flowed from the land and sky, from the sea and its ever-flowing waves—even from its people and their lilting tones—everything about this place felt like peace personified.

It felt like home.

At some point in my star-staring and soul-searching, my eyes must have closed. I woke with the skies still blackened and an owl nibbling on my earlobe.

"Sweet Spirits, that hurts!" I jerked my head to one side and freed my aching lobe. "Can you find another way to wake me, please?"

"But I like how your lobes taste, all salty and chewy. The rest of you is so hard."

What do I even say to that?

I laughed and rubbed my eyes.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, still not believing I was talking to an owl—and she was talking back.

"Nope. There are lizards everywhere. I had one before hopping on your shoulder for dessert."

She bounded down my arm and onto the ground, then scooted to stand beside the first stone of the path. "Ready to try again?"

"You sound so excited about this," I grumbled. "You weren't the one who got his arse kicked by a walkway. "

She giggled. "It did get you pretty good. You should've seen your face . . . I mean, before you blacked out."

I rolled my eyes and got to my feet. "Thanks, I think. Can we come up with a way to go up this mountain that doesn't involve me getting beaten unconscious?"

Stepping up to the path, I shivered at the thought of touching it again.

"It'll be okay this time," órla said as she scurried onto the first stone.

"Hey, wait!" I released a breath, then stared at how the stone hadn't reacted to her presence. It lay there, undisturbed, like . . . a rock. "You sure? That last time wasn't fun—and I don't want to see what that old man would do if he got really angry."

She nodded. "Yep. Trust me. It'll be okay. Just breathe—and do that thing with your hair again. It's cute."

"What?" I chuckled as I pulled my hand out of my hair. "Sorry, old habit."

I tossed my pack over my shoulder and took a series of deep breaths.

"All right. Mister Keeper, I come in peace."

I set my foot on the first stone.

This time, the stone didn't react with violence. It flared brightly, then faded until it returned to its dull gray with only a hint of a glow. A smattering of sparkling blue mist drifted into the air above the stone before vanishing into the night.

The old man didn't return.

No one bellowed or shouted.

Nothing hurt.

There was no blackness.

Relief washed over me. My shoulders relaxed as tension released.

Still, I couldn't help but be a little wary.

The second step was the same as the first—bright flare fading to gray with a slight glow and sparkly mist. We continued up the path for a solid half hour, winding back and forth as it led us up the mountainside. We rounded a sharp switchback, and a clearing came into view. The cottage I had seen in Larinda's magical window appeared before us. The old man sat on the porch exactly as before, rocking and staring out at the landscape, not even glancing our way as we approached. It looked as if he had not moved at all in the hours since I'd first seen him.

The man's head rose. "Declan, you made it."

He knew my name? I nearly missed a step.

"I had to help him. You scared the breath out of him," órla said before I could speak. "Literally!"

The old man chuckled and stood, leaning on a wooden cane carved with intricate vines along its length and topped with a polished, gnarled knot larger than both his bony fists .

"Daughter, it warms this old man's heart to see you again." He turned toward the door of the cabin and waved to me. "Come, come. We have much to discuss."

I followed the man into the cabin, surprised to find the inside even simpler than the exterior. Aside from a small bed nestled against the wall, a round table and simple wooden chairs, the cottage was bare. Opposite the door, a copper teapot squealed from its hook over a fire. Battered mugs hung in a row from hooks above the hearth.

"Please sit. I'll pour us some tea." The old man shuffled to the pot, leaning his cane against the wall beside the fireplace.

Flesh sizzled, and his hand glowed, as he grabbed the handle of the pot and poured water into two large mugs. The acrid smell of scored skin wrinkled my nose. Yet, when the man returned the pot to its hook, his palm was whole and unmarred.

The shock on my face prompted a deep, rumbling laugh. "Dear boy, you look like a hooked fish, staring with your mouth open like that. Close it before the flies get in!"

"He's silly like that sometimes," órla chirped, prompting the old man's laugh to swell and his eyes to crease.

I set my pack down and sat at the table. The man sat as well and took a long sip from his mug while staring at me over the rim.

The moment stretched .

I hesitantly sipped my own bitter brew, then cleared my throat.

I didn't know what to do or say.

The man's head snapped up. "Ah . . . Forgive me, boy. I was lost in thought. What were you saying?"

"Declan is silly," órla offered before I could reply.

I shot her a glare. She giggled and ducked her head.

"Why don't we start with an introduction?" I suggested.

"That's a grand idea. It's been years, maybe decades—or centuries, I can't remember—since my last visitor. Days and nights . . . they all blend together, and I am so very old."

The man settled back into his chair and took another sip before staring at his tea in silence.

More long, awkward moments passed.

órla hopped from my shoulder onto the table and trotted to stand in front of the man. "Keeper, please."

He startled and peered down at the little owl. "Ah, yes, Daughter. Forgive me."

His gaze returned to me, and clarity entered his eyes for the first time since we'd met. "Young man, as I'm sure you guessed, I am the Keeper of Magic. Perhaps you will know me by other names in days to come. My charge, for as long as time itself, has been to protect the Well from all who would do it harm or covet its power."

"It is an honor to meet you, Keeper," I said, not quite sure if an honorific was appropriate, and, if so, which one. I was treading on unfamiliar ground. "I am Declan Rea, a Ranger of the Melucian Empire. The Arch Mage sent—"

"Yes, yes." He waved his skeletal palm. All warmth having left his voice as he asked, "Why did you intrude on the Path?"

I was taken aback. "I didn't intrude. I was sent to find you, to ask for your help."

"And what help could an old man offer?"

"Honestly, I don't know. The Arch Mage . . . Atikus . . . they sent someone who doesn't even have a Gift to find magical aid." I ran my hand through my hair and sighed. A note of resignation entered my voice as my shoulders drooped. "I'm not sure what they're expecting from this. All I know is that they believe you can help us, and I was sent to ask, to beg if necessary."

"Why does the Arch Mage need assistance? He is powerful in his own right. And Atikus"—his rumble returned—"that man has layers upon layers undiscovered."

I wasn't sure what he meant about Atikus, but certainly understood how the old Mage could be secretive. His Gift of perfect recall was impressive, but that would do little to fend off trebuchets and flaming arrows.

Over the next few minutes, I explained the situation on the border between Melucia and the Kingdom, our encounter with scouts in the mountains, and the tens of thousands of troops now camped within leagues of our homeland. The Keeper listened intently, peppering me with questions throughout. All signs of the doddering old man had vanished, save for how he hobbled when he stood to refill his mug.

"Without help, many will die, and Melucia will fall, likely followed by the tribal lands to our east. The military power of the Kingdom far outweighs all the other nations combined."

The Keeper stood and turned toward the fire so only half of his face was visible. Light danced across his expression, casting ominous shadows.

"It has been over a thousand years since one came to me seeking aid. Her pleas were genuine, and her need was great, so I granted her access to the Well. The evil she wrought using the power of her Light was terrible. If I live another thousand years, nothing will cause me more sadness or regret."

My mind reeled as I searched my memory and tried to recall lessons of the history he recounted. "I don't understand. A thousand years ago . . . would've been the time of the Kingdom War . . . and Irina. Are you saying Irina used power you gave her to start that war?"

"Yes . . . yes. Irina. That was her name. I can see her face even now. She seemed so frail and helpless." The weathered man shrank before my eyes. "She found a way to harness the power of the Well and bend it to her will. She would've succeeded had your Arch Mage not come to me quickly and told me of the war she waged. I also granted him access to the Well, only the second in millennia, and by the Phoenix , he raised the mountains that now form your border, killing many but halting the plague of war."

There wasn't a child alive who couldn't recite some version of the legend of Irina and the Kingdom War, but I had never expected to hear the tale from one who helped bring it about. And then I realized what he'd said. . . .

"Wait, you said our Arch Mage came to you for help back then? Arch Mage Velius Quin ? He can't be more than thirty or forty years old . . . and I was taught that the Phoenix raised the mountains by sacrificing herself, not some Mage. There's no Mage powerful enough to do something like that. That's what our legends say."

The Keeper laughed so hard he spilled his tea.

I gaped as the dark liquid evaporated in tiny flashes of light the moment it touched the pearlescent fabric of his robe.

He returned to his chair and eyed me through an amused, fatherly gaze.

"Oh, my dear boy, Quin must be twelve or thirteen hundred years old by now, perhaps a few centuries more. Magic does such wonderful things for the complexion."

He chortled again, hacking a few times as his laughter settled.

"Some of what you have been taught is true," the man said, sipping several times to clear his throat. "But none of that is important now. After Irina's . . . troubles, safeguards were put in place to ensure the Well is never abused again. You encountered the first of those protections when you touched the Path. Without the flow of magic, one cannot even see the stones."

My head snapped up. "Wait. Then why could I see them? I don't have a Gift."

The Keeper placed a hand on my arm as his smile brightened. "My boy, there is Light inside you brighter than any sun. Magic has always flowed within you—through you, actually—though you may not have known it."

My mouth opened, but I couldn't find words. My eyes refused to blink.

"You have much to learn, but the question remains: Are you worthy to be taught?"

Childhood anger flared, and I tossed off the old man's hand in a fit of juvenile rebellion. "I don't know what you're talking about—any of it. I've never been good enough . . . or worthy . . . or whatever . Magic never chose me, and it never will!"

The Keeper sat back and stared for a long moment, his expression a dark mask, then stood and held out his mug. "I'd like some more tea, please."

"Get it yourself," I spat.

órla tottered to the edge of the table and caught my eye. "Get the man his tea, Bond-Mate ."

Her serious, almost-adult tone surprised me almost as much as the Keeper's claim I had magic .

"Fine!"

I shoved back my chair, marched around the table, and grabbed the scalding handle, jerking the kettle off its hook above the fire. A glow flared from my palm, gaining brightness the longer I gripped the angry metal.

The acrid taste of charred skin assaulted my senses.

My eyes flew wide, but the Keeper simply held out his mug.

I filled it, then returned the kettle to its hook.

I stood before the fire and gawked at my palm as the glow faded. There should've been a line of scored flesh. I should've been in pain—a lot of pain.

Unmarred, healthy skin stared back.

This can't be real. There's no way—

"Oh, it's real, my boy." I heard the Keeper's booming voice in my head.

I spun around to find the old man smiling and sipping his tea.

"But . . . how? I'm Mute and—"

"Yay! Declan made blue Light again!" órla hopped on the table, snapping both men out of the moment. She continued her dance while I struggled to remember to breathe. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself.

Without preamble or warning, the Keeper reached up and pressed his index finger into my forehead. "Now, let's put that silliness about you not having magic away. The real question is, what will you do with it? "

The world spun into complete darkness.

This time, órla didn't bring me back from it.