Heritage: Book Three of the Grimoire Saga (3 page)

Clack
.

She cursed under her breath. “I’m done.”

“What’s that?” Stone asked.

“I said I’m done!” she snapped.

“No, you aren’t. I haven’t released you.”

She jumped to her feet. “I couldn’t care less, Stone! This is a waste of my time, and you clearly don’t know what you’re doing. I want to train, yet here I am, stacking bricks. Ourea is about to go to war. I need to make the Bloods respect me, not learn how to blow apart baked clay!”

“This is training.”

She forced a laugh. “No, it’s monotonous! Training is sparring. Training is fighting. Training is learning techniques and how to duck and how to hit an opponent hard enough to cripple him. This brick thing is nothing but a waste of time!”

“It’s hardly—”

But Kara wasn’t having it. She raced for the village, her boots pounding along the trail. She ran so fast her lungs hurt. When a sting tore down her throat and her body cried out for a rest, she made herself run faster.

Cottages blipped into view from between the trees. At least she wasn’t alone with her mentor. She was the second Vagabond, master of the legendary Grimoire, and that meant recruiting other vagabonds to join her if she wanted to survive. She’d been reluctant to drag others into her life of distrust and near-constant death, but she couldn’t deny her gratitude for no longer being alone.

The village center—a circle of paved stones that connected the first Vagabond’s tomb with Kara’s mansion—appeared in the distance. Kara pushed herself to run faster. She didn’t really know where she was going. She didn’t care. She just had to get away from that stupid isen of a mentor.

Someone called her name, but her feet pummeled onward. Anger coursed through her, stronger now than it had been in the clearing. Rage, frustration, and annoyance propelled her through the treeline and into the village center, where groups of her vagabonds sparred in small huddles of four or five. Some turned and waved, but most didn’t look up from the sparring matches in front of them.

Good. Her vagabonds didn’t have much time to train. They had to take advantage of every remaining second.

She followed her feet and bolted up the steps to her home—the Vagabond’s mansion. The three-story building sprawled across the grounds, and her mind wandered the many rooms inside. She could go to her room for some peace of mind, or maybe slip away to the war room.

Instead, her legs carried her to the study. She threw open the doors and slammed them behind her, only stopping for breath when a silent command slid the lock into place with a
click
.

Kara leaned her forehead against the door and sucked in air. Her lungs screamed for a rest, but her pulse raced. She couldn’t sit. She couldn’t move. She just stood there, brow to the cold wood as she tried to calm herself.

Only, her body wouldn’t listen. Her heart raced harder. Sweat licked her neck and palms. She tightened her hands into fists and gritted her teeth.

She cursed again, loud enough for the word to echo once off the large windows covering the far wall of her vast office. The stacked bookshelves on the other walls absorbed what remained of the sound.

Kara glanced around the same office she’d seen a hundred times. The oak desk faced the door, centered beneath a pair of floor-to-ceiling windows. Papers and a few unlit candles littered the polished wood surface. The chair hovered by the window, pushed slightly back to where she’d left it the last time she left.

The office was her second home. She could think here. Her heart settled ever so slightly.

She was the Vagabond. A protector. A hero. Ourea didn’t have much time left before Carden did something to expose the Bloods so he could kill them. That was inevitable unless she convinced the Bloods to trust each other—to trust her. They had to unite against Carden, or he would tear them apart. Who knew what would become of Ourea then? This world was brutal, but it was the only home she had left.

Yet here she was, throwing fire at bricks. She needed real training if she had any chance of success.

“Screw Stone.” Kara raised her hand to the window and pulled on the curtains with her mind. The fabric flung closed, casting half the room in shadow. She shifted her focus to the other window in the room without even looking over. The curtains closed there as well, sucking the light from the room with a rush of air.

The study plunged into darkness. A ray of light broke through the curtains here and there, but Kara could barely see the outline of her own fingers. A bead of sweat rolled down her cheek. Her pulse slowed.

Kara crossed to the dim outline of her chair and sat. She leaned back. The chair’s wooden frame dug into her shoulders, but she relished the pressure. A deep breath filled her lungs, and she waited for her heart to settle further.

She peeked through one eye at her darkened study. The silhouette of an unlit candle on her desk caught her attention, and she grimaced. Of all the ways to handle conflict, she chose to sit in the dark and sulk. Her face burned with embarrassment. She was being silly. She’d overreacted, just as Stone predicted. Once she relaxed, she would talk to him about getting some real training. None of this sensei nonsense, either.

Kara glanced again at the candle and focused on lighting the wick. Tension pulled at her mind and shoulders. At her command, a flame blipped into life on the candle. The flame blossomed and flickered, casting an orange glow on her fingers. It sparked. Hissed.

It grew.

More fire followed. In seconds, flames roared to life from the base of the wax, engulfing the entire candle in an inferno that raced for the ceiling.

A wave of heat blew against Kara’s arms. Her hair billowed from the force, the ends missing the flame by inches. She reeled back in surprise. The fire spread to papers on the desk. Puddles of melting desk polish pooled along the work area. Black smoke curled toward the ceiling.

Water!

Kara reached for the element with her mind, not caring where it came from. Panic tore through her. Fear dried her throat. She would not burn down her own home.

Gallons of water materialized from the air above the desk. It all dropped with a splash and the weight of a waterfall. Kara’s skin stung and fractured like a desert’s surface, suddenly dry. She must have taken all the moisture out of the air to put out her flaming mistake.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She inched backward and tugged ever so slightly on the curtain. It inched open. A thin stream of light illuminated what remained of her desk.

A lingering smoke trail spiraled up from the soot and damp ashes that had once been her notes and jotted thoughts. The white ceiling now sported charred smudges. Small streams of water poured off the desk wherever an indent or fissure in the surface let it flow.

The last puff of smoke dissolved into the air. Kara coughed. The rivers of excess became a steady
drip, drip
of water on the hardwood.

Kara’s fingers twitched. She turned, her shoulders and legs numb. With a sigh, she sat on the floor in the middle of the room. She crossed her legs and bit her lip to keep from crying.

Adrenaline surged through her veins. Her nerves crackled. The hair on her arms stood on end. Her breath came too quickly. She tried to take deep breaths, but she couldn’t control her lungs. She couldn’t stop the sweat pouring down her neck. She couldn’t slow her racing heart. And she could no longer ignore the lingering frustration of what she had become.

Crack!

Kara flinched, only to recognize the familiar snap Flick made when he teleported anywhere.

In her selfish tantrum, she’d left her pet back at the clearing with Stone. How horrible could one person be? She curled her knees under her chin, sulking in a blurry cocktail of tears and shame.

The little creature batted his tail against her back, but she didn’t turn. In her peripheral vision, he trotted into view. He purred and rubbed his head against her hand, so she relented. She reached an arm around him and hugged him close, apparently forgiven.

She might have one heck of a temper, but it couldn’t be indulged. There was no time for that anymore. Like it or not, she was the Vagabond—a vigilante gifted with the power of the Grimoire and its endless knowledge. She had seen every surviving yakona kingdom in Ourea. She’d spoken with kings and queens and even the demigod-like beings that were the muses.

In her travels, one truth became painfully clear: the leaders of this world expected her to restore peace. Somehow, even after all the near-death experiences and lost allies, she expected as much of herself as well. How she would do it escaped her, but Kara always believed she would figure out how to live up to the responsibility she received when she opened the Grimoire all those months ago.

But that was before she became an isen. That was before she lost control. Every day, she sacrificed a little more of herself to the power surging within.

Flick butted her chin with his head. Her eyes snapped into focus and flitted around the dark room, taking in the shadows of bookcases and the ray of light shining on her smoldering desk.

She couldn’t even light a candle anymore without destroying something. How could she possibly save the world she’d grown to love?

CHAPTER TWO

THE FORGOTTEN DOOR

Braeden cursed, his voice echoing through the trees. Birds hushed. A gust tumbled through the canopy, knocking leaves together in a rush. Beams from an orange sun illuminated the forest, but he didn’t intend to quit just yet. He had a mission.

He stood in a clearing, hot rays beating down on his neck as he fought to rein in his frustration. A six-foot-wide stretch of stone wall towered over him, nothing but an eyesore he couldn’t seem to destroy. This wall formed a gray archway in the middle of the woods, but dark stones filled in what should have been an easy passage underneath. Two marble statues framed the structure: a dragon and a sea serpent. Each stood upright, its body twisted around itself until it ended in a massive head with glittering jewels for eyes. Each curled its chin toward its chest, mouth open in a silent scream.

A lichgate lay in between the layers of this wall—a lichgate that would take Braeden to the Stele. He’d found notes about it in an ancient journal he stole from Ayavel’s royal library a week ago, and he’d finally found the damned portal. The problem was he couldn’t break through the enchantments that kept anyone from using it. According to another book he found in the library, locked lichgates were a recent development made only in the last eight hundred years, so Braeden’s key to the Stele only unlocked lichgates altered in the last few centuries. In ancient Ethos, they only knew of one way to lock a lichgate: a magical barrier like this wall.

For the past half hour, Braeden badgered the wall with everything he could muster, including some newly acquired Stelian techniques. A few months ago, he would never have used one, but the time had come to embrace his Stelian bloodline. It was part of him, even if most of Ourea feared him for what he was. His cruel father didn’t define him. Braeden made his own future.

He took a deep breath to calm himself, but it didn’t work. He’d already wasted precious time trying to demolish the seal blocking the lichgate. He’d shot at it from every angle and with every technique he had. The lichgate wasn’t even visible from the other side. The wall encompassed it entirely.

Another curse bubbled in his throat, so he hurled a gray ball of flame at the giant wall. Its black stones absorbed the fire. Ashes popped and fizzled into curls of smoke, but not so much as a charred streak remained once the haze cleared.

Unbelievable.

He curled his hands into fists and stared at the wall. He didn’t know what else to do but cling to what was left of his patience. His mind raced, grasping for any ideas of how to break through. According to the journal he’d stolen, this barrier went up after the fall of Ethos. The diary belonged to the Ayavelian Blood of the era—Blood Grizwold—and the number of secrets in the little book made Braeden dizzy the first time he read it. But of all the entries, one stood out: the day Grizwold banished the Stelian Blood—whom he wouldn’t name—and sealed every known lichgate into the “vile kingdom.”

“Vile kingdom”—those were Grizwold’s words for the Stele.

Since Stelians traveled to and from the kingdom all the time, some of the sealed Stelian lichgates were somehow opened after the fall of Ethos. Others, however, seemed to have been forgotten entirely. This wall contained one of those forgotten portals.

Braeden’s chest burned with frustration. He needed to get into the Stele unnoticed, and this forgotten lichgate was his best option. Arguably, his only option. Not long ago, he scouted the known lichgates into the kingdom, and every one of them now had dozens more guards than he’d ever seen before. Braeden could only guess why, but it likely had to do with his last visit home. He’d tricked Carden into stumbling into an ambush and nearly killed the man himself, though Braeden endured days of torture to get that far. And in the end, he failed.

He shuddered. Carden’s torture nearly robbed Braeden of his free will. The only way to escape a life of servitude was to kill his father and take his place as the Stelian Blood. Braeden didn’t enjoy the prospect of ruling, but he didn’t have much of a choice.