12. Atikus

Chapter 12

Atikus

I stand on the shore of a massive river of the purest cerulean waters.

Immense power wafts up as mist tingles against my skin.

Currents crash against unseen rocks buried beneath.

Where there should be the briny scent of life, there is naught but crisp, cool air.

The river is mute as its frothy indignation passes without voice.

Curious, I kneel.

Tendrils of translucent mist reach up and entwine my fingers as I hold them above the flow. My eyes widen as the mist creeps up my hand, yet I feel no pain, only the tingle, almost a tickle, of magic’s gentle touch.

Emboldened, I extend my hand toward the river’s flow and allow the tip of one finger to breach its surface.

T he world flared with brilliant light.

My head swivels as I now stand on a mountain’s peak.

The horizon burns with hues of red, orange, and gold atop an endless bed of forest greens. The fresh scent of pine fills the air. Crisp autumn wind pimples my skin.

The vision’s transition left me disoriented, yet the sight of such an awe-inspiring sunset still brought a smile to my lips.

A moment passes as I watch the sun’s rays surrender to the horizon with evening’s first touch. Something dark disturbs the view many leagues to the west.

I squint.

Rank upon rank of heavily armored men ride astride equally armed horses. At the head of the columns, I see a man—no, a woman—wearing a brilliant crown. She clutches a silver staff in her right hand and points forward with her left.

Irina?

Where . . . No, when?

The world flashed with brilliance again, and I struggled to gain my bearings.

I stand in the center of a large city.

Men and women race in all directions as screams of terror flee their lips. I call out, but no one hears my cries. I am nothing more than an invisible witness to history.

My head swims.

Charred rubble from nearby buildings litters the cobbled stones of a thoroughfare. I scan the area to find few structures untouched by fire and destruction. Bodies lie unmoving among the stones.

Bells begin to toll, slowly at first, then urgently.

My gaze rises above the din, and I recognize the gleaming turrets of the Palace of Spires, the heart of the Kingdom in its capital of Fontaine. Smoke rises from watchtowers—not the warm, curling smoke of their hearth, but the angry plumes of unwelcome intruders.

I stumble a few steps, then run toward the Palace.

I round the corner of a stately manor, and the Palace bursts into view.

I skid to a stop as my mind again struggles to process what my eyes witness.

Soldiers in green-and-gold livery lie scattered and broken before ornate iron gates. In their place, men in brown robes, each holding a heavy cudgel, stand vigil. They scan the street before them, ready to strike, but none appear to notice the Mage striding toward them.

I am invisible still.

I reach the first of the fallen Palace Guard and peer down.

The smell of waste and bile assaults my senses.

I stumble back.

A man’s throat bears vicious lines, as if rent by massive claws. His arm lies a few paces away.

He’s been ripped apart.

I move to the next guard and find similar wounds. Some wild beast has devastated the ranks of the royal elite.

How was this even possible?

I glance up and realize I now stand face-to-face with one of the robed figures. Human eyes glare from behind the mask of death. To my surprise, those eyes hold no anger or enmity, only emptiness. Fear races through my chest, yet the hollow eyes cannot see me.

I take another step toward the gate.

The world flashed again .

When my vision clears, I find myself in the royal audience chamber, paces from the Throne of Spires. Jess stares out, the sunset auburn of her hair trailing across one shoulder of her pristine, snowy gown. A trail of blood trickles from her nose, and her eyes bear the glassy stare of one departed.

The bulky form of a man in blue lies on the bottom step of the dais before her.

“NO!” I scream.

I fall to my knees before Keelan’s unmoving form.

It is impossible to tell how long I hover over my adopted son’s body before the scuffling of boots on marble turns my head.

Again, what I see threatens to overwhelm my mind.

Five beasts stand in a line before the chamber’s massive bronze doors: a horse, a wolf, a bird of prey, a bear, and a mastiff.

Blood drips from fangs and claws.

Each stares directly at me.

They see me.

The world flared again.

I stand on the Eye in the Chamber of the Triad.

Tendrils of terror lace into my chest with white-hot rage.

I try to raise a shield, but it is too late—insidious barbs bury deep within my spirit. I feel their hunger, their hatred. I scream in pain as something precious rips from my soul.

Then I hear a voice.

It is a whisper but compelling all the same.

“Atikus, it is órla. Follow my voice.”