Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
I bite my tongue because adding my doubt to the mix doesn’t help, especially when we’ve come this far. Not without challenges, though. Yesterday, we lost a wagon, its axle splintering on the rough terrain. The mortals occupying it shifted to other wagons and horses, though some have no choice but to walk. Two more wagons crack and squeal with each turn of their wheels, a sign that they’re ready to follow suit.
We can’t continue this trek much longer.
“We must veer east if we are to reach shelter by nightfall,” Abarrane announces.
I check the sun’s position. No more Nulling creatures have visited our camp—thank God—but how many times will we be so lucky, especially as we move closer toward the rift? “Where are these caves?”
“Another few hours that way.” Zander points past the wall to where the snow-capped mountains dip into a crevice of green before stealing a glance toward Gesine. “We should head straight there so we can settle, and perhaps venture back in a few days’ time when we have rested—”
“No.” The word comes hard and fast from Gesine’s lips. With a breath, her typical serene demeanor is back. “We do not know what lies ahead or behind us, how far the Islorian army truly is, or how close the Ybarisans are. We do not know what else may surprise us out here.” She doesn’t have to mention the grif—it’s still on our minds. “Each new day brings danger. A few days may change the course of everything, and there is something Romeria must see here, today.”
Zander’s lips purse. We’re down to fifteen legionaries, and they’ve been keeping them close rather than sending out scouts. Gesine’s not wrong; we really don’t have a good grasp of what waits for us ahead.
“What is the witch talking about?” Jarek demands. “What must Romeria see in these deadlands?”
I stifle my sigh. I warned Zander that he should tell the others. “There’s something at Stonekeep that Gesine feels is vital to Islor.” I hesitate. “It has to do with a prophecy.”
“Prophecy?” Abarrane hisses. “We are following Mordain’s nonsense now?”
“No, we’re trusting someone who has done nothing but help us so far,” I snap. “We will leave the wagons here and ride ahead with a few warriors. They could use a rest, anyway.”
Zander glances back at the mortals who follow us blindly, as if to confirm my claim. The ones on foot are hobbling. “If it helps Gesine see the error in relying on prophecy once and for all, then so be it. Let us go now.”
Her sharp green eyes settle on the stone wall, still at least a mile away. “There is something there for us. I know it.”
Eros weaves around the boulders, his footing cautious on the loose stone as our group of seven closes in. Abarrane, Zorya, and Jarek scan meticulously, as if expecting an assault.
But my attention is on the massive wall in front of us. As vast as it seemed from a distance, it’s taller than even the skyscrapers that grace New York City’s skyline.
And it’s plastered in familiar carvings.
“It’s like the stone in the nymphaeum.” It bears the strange swirling alphabet no one seems able to read, only that wall of carving resembled a door in its shape. The carvings here have no apparent rhyme or reason as they crawl up the flat side of the mountain.
“What is known as Stonekeep existed before the casters. The assumption has always been that it was created by the nymphs, though we have no written trace of its origin.”
“You’ve never seen this before.”
“Only in illustrations. To see it in reality ….” Her awe-filled words drift as she tips her head back to regard it.
“We are here, as you requested, High Priestess. I do not see anything that I have not seen before. So tell us, since I assume you are still withholding vital information, what is so special about this wall of carved rock that you have us following the guidance of seers?” Zander’s horse shifts on its feet, its impatience mirroring that of its rider’s.
Gesine slides from Elisaf’s saddle and strolls over. She reaches forward and presses a tentative hand against the stone, closing her eyes. “Romeria, come.”
I dismount and follow her over.
“What do you sense?” There’s urgency in her question. She so badly wishes for an answer other than “nothing,” to prove herself and the casters right.
The same impulse I felt in the nymphaeum stirs in me now, and instead of pressing my palm against the stone as Gesine does, I run my fingertip along one of the engraved curls.
Faint laughter stirs in my ears. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Abarrane snaps, her head swiveling, searching for a threat.
I’ve heard it before, that day in the nymphaeum with Annika. At the time, I dismissed it as Saoirse and her flock.