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)
“You brought a mortal from Bellcross? Why?”
I explain as quickly as I can.
“I see.” She frowns. “What kind of symbol?”
“The day of the royal repast, Wendeline put an emblem on the hands of the tainted humans. It glowed like the marks you have on your arm, except it was—”
“The mark of Ulysede,” Ianca cuts in. She tosses her spoon, and dipping her hand into her porridge, she coats her fingers with the slop and finger-paints on the wagon wall. While the medium isn’t the most effective, the intersecting crescent moons are unmistakable.
“Yes. That’s it. How did she know?”
Gesine studies not the drawing but the seer for a moment, a quizzical look on her face, before she hops off the wagon. “I’ll be back soon, Ianca. You’ll stay here?”
Ianca doesn’t answer, focused on drawing swirling patterns on the wagon wall.
The grass tangles at our ankles as I lead us toward the horses and the barn. “Is that normal?”
“Nothing is normal anymore. But seers will often illustrate what they see with surprising clarity. It is why the scribes give them paper and graphite. Unfortunately, we don’t have either, so Ianca improvised.” A small smile curls her lips. “She always was clever like that.”
“So she has seen that symbol?”
“All of us in Mordain have. It has appeared in seers’ illustrations for millennia, without any explanation from the seers themselves as to what it means. Some assume it represents the two moons of Hudem, but those are full moons, and these are crescents. Others have called it the mark of two worlds, because the moons intersect. That Wendeline chose this symbol for the mortals … I wish I could speak with her and understand if it was mere coincidence or something more.” She glances back at Ianca. “But I have never heard this term Ulysede before.”
I hesitate, looking around us to make sure no one’s near. “I’ve seen the symbol too. In my world.” I explain the People’s Sentinel.
“Was their blood poisoned? Does the blood curse plague your world?” Gesine asks, intrigue in her tone.
“I don’t know. Definitely not like here. Sure, we’ve heard of vampires, but it’s all fiction.” At least, I thought it was.
“Vampire,” she echoes, as if the word is as foreign as Ulysede.
“What do you think this all means?”
“The symbol itself could represent something entirely different in your world. It is not uncommon for words and ideas to lose their original purpose as they’re passed down through generations and appropriated by other cultures.” She shakes her head slowly. “But it means you have much to reveal during our travel north.”
A shout rings out, pulling our attention to the fence line, where wagons and soldiers on horseback appear like apparitions through the mist. Rengard is at the front, his plum-purple cloak marking him among silver armor.
I curse, scouring the camp until I spot the curly brown mop among the horses. “Pan!” I holler, waving him over.
“That is the mortal? He looks so young,” Gesine notes as he jogs toward us.
“He’s eighteen, though he seems a lot younger sometimes.”
“Hey, Romy,” he says, panting. “You were right about Eden. She’s great. Helped me get set up with a bed and a meal, and now I’m helping—”
“I’m happy to hear it, Pan. But right now, I need you to give us your hand so Gesine can mark it like we talked about last night.”
“Mark it?” He squirms as he looks at her.
She bows, shifting into her usual serene demeanor. “Hello, Pan. I am Caster Gesine, and I’m here—”
“You’re a caster? Like a real one?” His eyes widen. “I heard people talkin’ about you, but—”
“Pan!” I cut him off. I’m learning the guy blathers when he’s nervous. “We need to do this now.”
“Okay.” His head bobs. “Is it gonna hurt?”
“Not as much as what Abarrane will do to you if we don’t get you marked before Rengard arrives.”
Pan’s arm shoots out.
“So, this is what’s left of the Legion.” Lord Rengard’s gaze swings over the trampled grounds and the warriors readying their horses. His face is a portrait of noble elven tranquility, his skin smooth across high cheekbones. He seems older than Zander, though by Zander’s words, they grew up together. Maybe it’s the gray hair that ages him.
Is it surprise or concern that laces his tone?
“Each of them is worth fifty soldiers,” Zander says coolly. He appeared as the company pulled in, his tall, powerful form a portrait of confidence strolling across the foggy camp.
But I now know it’s all an illusion to hide the weight of the turmoil that tortures him.
My chest aches as I watch him close in on the nobleman.
Rengard drops from his saddle, his boots hitting the ground with barely a sound. “Can I assume the smoldering bodies we passed on the road here are thanks to you?”
The two leaders clasp each other’s wrists. Anyone watching can see they’re more than court acquaintances, more than a king and his nobleman.