JUSTICE (The Ferryman + The Flame #2) Read online

  “Krishani easily could have become pathetic, obnoxious and tiresome in the hands of a lesser writer. But Rhiannon Paille paints a portrait of a desperately grieving hero – whose stubborn devotion just makes him all the more desirable. You will root for him, even when you believe deep down (as he does) that he doesn’t have a prayer.” – Cory Putman Oakes, Author of The Veil

  “Paille writes the high fantasy that we've missing on the shelves. She brings this magical world alive, and evokes a roll of emotions chapter and chapter with characters that never cease to surprise. Flame of Justice asks one of the hardest questions: How far would you go for love?” – Natasha M. Heck, aspiring Author

  How far would you go to destroy yourself?

  Krishani always knew he would have to go to the Lands of Men, but he never thought it would be like this. Enemies everywhere, an ancestor he can't respect, elders he can't trust, a curse he can't stop and friends he can't help but hate. Desperate to end the pain, he sets out on a quest to find the other Flames and face the enemy that took everything from him

  JUSTICE

  The Ferryman + The Flame

  book two

  R h i a n n o n P a i l l e

  www.yafantasyauthor.com

  Copyright © Rhiannon Paille, 2012

  All Rights Reserved.

  www.yafantasyauthor.com

  Summary: Exiled from Avristar, Krishani sets off on a quest to the Lands of Men to find out the truth about the Ferryman and to save the other Flames.

  [1. Fantasy 2. Adventure 3. Folklore, Myth 4. Norse]

  I. Title. II. Series: Paille, Rhiannon: The Ferryman + The Flame; bk. 2

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead; is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without the prior written and signed permission of the copyright owner.

  For Primo,

  thanks for taking the nights off

  0

  The Great Library

  The truth hurt.

  The book hit the floor with a thud and Kemplan leapt out of his large leather chair at the sound. His pipe slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor as he turned in the direction of the sound, exploring the corridor. Another book hit the floor and the old librarian jumped. Only he and the Scryes were allowed to tamper with the books. Even in that capacity the Scryes were only allowed to touch books they had been told to touch. He straightened his back, pulling his vest taut over his round chest. He was going to yell at whoever it was when another stack of books hit the floor. He inhaled sharply and narrowed his eyes as he headed to the nearest row of shelves and peered down its length. It was empty, but his ears perked up when he heard a faint snarl. He quickly rounded the shelves and stopped dead in his tracks, heels digging into the wooden planks.

  Tor stood surrounded by a pile of books. His back turned, a cloak concealing the shiny gray scales trailing up and down his humanoid form. He muttered an incantation and held his hands out over the books.

  Kemplan gasped as a spark hit the paper, bursting the pile into flames. “No!”

  Tor turned, his gray, scaly face contorted in malice. His hood fell around his shoulders, showing off shallow horns, spiked ears, and scaly head. Claws for hands clenched at his sides, and in a swift move he drew Kemplan from the pile of burning books to the wall above the fireplace, catching his throat in the vice grip of his hand.

  “What did you do with it?” Tor seethed.

  Kemplan struggled to catch his breath as cold reptilian fingers with talon-like hooks dug into his thin flesh. A drop of blood oozed from a wound on his neck; he coughed. “The books . . ."

  “Forget them. What did you do with the parchment?”

  Kemplan’s eyes widened at the mention of it. He had forgotten all about the loose page that had fallen from the highest shelves, the one he had thrown so carelessly into the fire. He was bound by the laws of the Great Hall and the law stated he wasn’t allowed to destroy anything unless it was by Tor’s command. He hadn’t even thought of it when he saw the images of the Ferryman and the Flame. He thought it was something that had long been destroyed. He stopped kicking and stared into Tor’s gold, lightning-filled eyes. They were like their own self-contained storms, irises spiking with jagged black lines every few seconds.

  A growl rumbled in Tor’s throat, low and ominous.

  “I burned . . . it,” Kemplan said, barely.

  “They found it,” Tor said.

  Kemplan tore his gaze away from the livid eyes and fought for air. A second later he hit the floor. He coughed and curled into a ball. He didn’t want Tor to say their names. He thought the memories of them were long forgotten. It had taken forever to erase them from the Great Library.

  “The Valtanyana know,” Tor said as he stepped away from Kemplan. He tore into the leather chair with his left hand; thick, clean claw marks marring the soft leather.

  Kemplan winced at the destruction. “I never meant to,” he began, but his voice was nothing more than a faint whisper.

  Tor turned, clenching and unclenching his fist. Kemplan was afraid of what he would do next. When Tor was angry it was hard to stop him from destroying things. “No one can know about the Flames. Erase them from the Great Library and they will fade from existence.” He sounded calmer until he opened his fist and a wind storm blew through the library, pulling books off the shelves.

  Kemplan pushed himself to his feet, hair blowing back from the gale force of the hurricane wind. Pages flapped around him as he fought to comprehend what was happening. The Great Library contained every book ever written in any land, secret and shared, finished and unfinished, plus the literature of the Scryes, the Great Hall’s personal writers. Kemplan watched the maelstrom of books as it swirled into the skies of the library in a tornado of parchment and leather. He held his breath until it was over, wind dying down. Piles of books were strewn across the crowded corridors, tables turned over, chairs knocked down.

  Tor snapped his fingers and a controlled blue blaze lit the books, turning each one to ash as the flames ate away the pages.

  Kemplan’s heart dropped. “What will you do about the Valtanyana?”

  Tor glared at him and bowed his head in defeat. It was Kemplan’s fault the Valtanyana had the original copy of the prophecy, the very thing that explained without confusion what the Ferryman and the Flame were meant for. He thought about the distant past, the way Tor had defeated the Valtanyana and locked them away. It scared him to know so much and to be able to do so little about it. He could never measure up to Tor’s greatness, the choices he had to make, the things he had to sacrifice. He glanced up to find Tor looking reserved and pensive.

  “Their fate lies with the Ferryman,” Tor said.

  1

  Orlondir

  Another loud sob pierced the sky. Istar had no words in him. Paladin padded through the snow until he towered over Lady Atara. She used to be a benevolent caretaker of the lands and now she was a shriveling heap of bones huddled on the ground, trembling. Istar tried to keep his head about himself as he slipped off the horse. Krishani was slung over Paladin. For all he knew the boy was dead, too. His footsteps left marks in the snow as he rounded the horse, closing the distance between himself and Atara. He dropped to his knees and pulled her into his embrace, her tear-covered cheeks melding into his shoulder. She clung to him, another sob rising from her chest.
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  “Snow,” she scarcely whispered.

  Istar nodded as he held her. Snow covered them like a blanket, the first snowstorm to ever hit Avristar. It was a bad omen.

  “Shh,” he said as she buried her head in his velvet cloak. His thoughts were on the mountain—Avred was awake. Atara calmed and he relaxed his grip, looking behind him at Paladin.

  Atara’s mouth hung open. She pushed Istar away and rose to her feet. Stumbling backwards, she put a hand to her lips. “Is that—?”

  Istar stood and hung his head. “Aye.”

  He took the reins and led the horse—and Krishani—through the remainder of fields.

  “He’s not gone,” Atara said, her voice loud in the din. She found her feet and worked to catch up. Istar went to lift Krishani off the horse but Atara pulled his hand away.

  “Don’t,” she began, her voice cracking. Istar watched as she assessed the heap of armor and garments. She placed her hand on the boy’s shoulder and gasped. Dizziness overtook her. She fell backwards and knocked her head against one of the stalls. Istar helped her up.

  She rubbed her temples, putting distance between herself and the boy. “Agony . . .”

  Istar gave her a cold and reserved look. He tried to avert his gaze but she put a hand to his cheek and forced him to look at her. Atara’s dull hazel eyes searched his for a moment, trying to understand. Istar’s fingers covered her hand and pulled it away, placing it at her side. He took her other hand in both of his and glared at her. Her eyes were exhausted, sunken into rosy red cheeks, streaked with layers of tears and dirt. Her auburn hair was stringy and damp, frizzing at the edges and freezing in clumps.

  “Don’t force me to explain,” he said, storming into the servants’ quarters.

  People milled back and forth in the servants’ hall. Everything in disarray, the scents of strong herbs lingered as pastes and tinctures were prepared in haste. Pux sat on the ground, his back against the damp stone hallway wall. He rubbed the scar on his side. He was stunned, cold, unsure. He curled his wolf-like legs towards him, resting his elbows on his hairy knees.

  Memories attacked him, a flash of Kaliel’s dress as it burst through the trees, the battlefield when Pux reappeared in the midst of the fray, swords coming at him. He scanned the field for Krishani and found him fighting the black skinned creatures off with everything in him. Pux turned back to the enemy, his foot crushing bone below him. He winced and glanced down. It was one of the black skinned creatures. He grabbed the nearest weapon and swiped the air. More than anything he wanted to disappear again, but there was no way he could focus in the mess, his heart breaking at the seams. He silently begged for it to end, for the foe to give up and retreat.

  He stumbled and the creatures wrestled him to the ground. He fought, kicked, punched, and the most deafening sound drowned out the battle. The creatures froze, and his heart sank. He was the last one to see Kaliel alive. His body went limp as he waited for their swords to slice him open. Cold wind swept over the battlefield and the pressure lifted off him. It was replaced with the taste of cold rain, a new experience. He thought of warmth, the kitchen where he tasted the most delicious food during the Fire Festivals. He wanted to be there.

  The next thing he knew, something hard pressed against his back, and the heat of the fire warmed the hallway. His eyes fluttered open and he noticed weapons thrown down, wounded kinfolk strewn across the floor. Atara’s ladies tended to the worse off. He watched as more of them came through the archway on his right. Blood landed on stones, cries rang out.

  Pux looked at the ceiling, shadows dancing on the stone. He glanced at the archway again, but no one emerged. He lifted his hand off the wound on his side and inspected the damage. There was nothing but a fresh scar. He closed his eyes, tears escaping his eyes.

  Why did I tell you to go? He never meant for Kaliel to become the foe’s prey. What happened on the mountain? His stomach shook in fits of anguish. Nobody seemed to notice him; once again he was the invisible invalid sitting in the corner minding himself.

  He knew something was wrong when Melianna appeared in the meadow and called the Elders in Evennses. Only the oldest were allowed to go. That included Luenelle, Rueann and a few others. Pux wasn’t asked but he wanted to know what was going on. He transported to Kaliel’s room but she wasn’t there, and the room was nearly bare.

  Loud footsteps pulled him out of his daydreams. Istar whisked past him, heading to the kitchen. His long white hair flapped behind him, the velvet cloak still secured to his shoulders. Pux had almost forgotten what a terrifying person Istar was.

  “Hernadette,” Istar snapped.

  Pux hugged his knees tightly to his chest. Who was it? he wondered as he tried to blend into the stone. The woman mumbled something, gasped, then more mutterings. A fresh breeze ripped through the hallway and Atara emerged from the stables. She looked frantic, her auburn hair disheveled, rose linen dress soiled, eyes splotchy and red. She kept her chin raised as though she was trying not to look at the kinfolk. She shuddered, stopped in her tracks, and hiked up her skirts, showing her sandaled feet. She moved towards the kitchen, but Istar appeared in the hallway and faced her, a stricken expression on his wrinkled face.

  Atara’s eyes hit the ground as Pux shrank away in fear. He felt the power of their energy cascading off them, and it made prickles pool in his chest. He was trying to overcome the pain with numbness, but their agony was so deep, it was hard not to feel the need to curl into a little ball. His head hit the stone as his knees contracted towards his forehead. There was silence amidst the pain. Nobody moved, nobody said a word. Pux wished he was as small as an ant.

  “Where is he?” Hernadette’s voice broke the silence.

  Istar gulped. “This way.” His footsteps moved around Atara as Hernadette and two other servants followed him to the stables.

  Pux huddled, waiting for Atara to follow them, but she stood there and rubbed her bare arms instead. Her eyes darted across the hallway, seeming to assess the damage. Pux knew the worst of it was outside. He felt her strength crumbling as she remained frozen.

  “My lady?” a voice pierced the silence.

  “Aye,” Atara replied, clutching her elbows.

  “We’re moving them to the West wing. Where do you want the Elders?”

  Atara moved her mouth to speak but no words came out. “East,” she began but her voice faltered. “Lower East wing,” she added with less confidence.

  “Aye,” the girl responded. She turned on her heel, and then turned back. “We are almost out of supplies.”

  Atara’s hands fell together in her lap as she hung her head. Pux felt all her grief. No matter what he did, it was impossible not to think about Kaliel.

  “Where are you?” Atara whispered.

  Pux felt large again, like he couldn’t hide anymore. He appeared in the hallway, shivering. Atara’s breath caught in her throat. She recognized him. He squeezed his eyes shut, dreading her touch, but she knelt down and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. Jolts of pain ripped through his body as he fought to pull himself into a tighter ball.

  “Pux, are you hurt?”

  Pux shook his head as Atara’s hands found his. She pulled at him gently, trying to coax him out of his makeshift turtle shell. Reluctantly, he uncurled his legs and rested his head against the wall.

  Atara looked him over, her eyes trailing over the scar. “How did you?”

  Pux shook uncontrollably. He knew what she meant to ask: how was he undamaged? “She healed me,” he squeaked as his hand covered the scar.

  Atara gasped and dropped his hand. She abruptly stood and looked at the archway where Krishani was being carried in by the servants. Her eyes followed them as they ascended the stairs to the West wing and disappeared. Pux curled back into a ball, his knees hunched at his chest. She knelt and searched his face.

  “You saw her?” Her eyes darted back and forth like she was looking for something. He wasn’t sure what.

  Pux nodded. “Right b
efore she went to the mountain.”

  Fire, lava and bits of rock shot into the atmosphere. The mountain rumbled as it erupted again. Avred was restless, its insides heaving, lava pouring out of it like vomit. Molten rock covered the north side of the mountain in thick sheets, magma trickling towards the shore. Cold water from the lake lapped against it, steam rising where they met.

  Krishani hovered there in a dream, watching it. He needed the insides of Avristar to appear on the shores. She was there somewhere, in the place where he failed. Her essence, her bones, her blood, it was lost in the cacophonic waste. He looked at the ash-filled sky. Black and gray flakes covered the trees in a thick layer.

  He turned his attention to the lava rolling down the mountainside. He wouldn’t stop until he was satisfied, until he accepted her death. He silently begged to be let free from the constant nagging at the back of his mind. The Valtanyana found her, but she escaped. The mountain devoured her, but Crestaos lost.

  Krishani wanted to dig his hands into the lava. He wanted to feel the skin peeling off his bones as the rock seared his hands to ash. He wanted to find the last remaining pieces of her dust. He tried to place his hands on it, and felt nothing but the cruel stab of defeat. There was nothing he could do to bring her back, nothing for him to live for.

  A familiar wave of agony festered within him as he squeezed his fist shut. Another rumble sounded from inside the volcano. Avred threatened to erupt again. At this point it would be nothing but bile, nothing but the pure molten rock that rested in the belly of Avristar herself. It wouldn’t be Kaliel. No, she was in the clouds, raining down on the tree tops. She was frozen in the magma near the lake, flowing slowly along the mountainside.

  She was everywhere and nowhere.