Kingdom of fire and fae, p.12
Kingdom of Fire and Fae, page 12
Just as he took his first sip, savoring the burn of the alcohol as it slid down his throat, he spotted Varkir in a shadowed corner, hunched over a table. The spy’s nearly clear eyes met Draven’s, and with a subtle nod, Varkir beckoned him over. Draven could see the flicker of unease in Varkir’s gaze, a sure sign that he had valuable information to share.
Draven approached, his curiosity piqued. Aged wood and spiced cologne filled the air. “Got something for me, Varkir?” His voice was barely audible above the ambient noise of clinking glasses and hushed conversations.
Varkir leaned in, his breath carrying a hint of mint as he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Our spy network isn’t the only one in Solstice City.”
Draven’s grip tightened around his glass, the cool surface pressing into his skin, the anticipation mingling with his lingering frustration. “I’m listening,” he replied, his focus entirely on the spy’s next words.
“My sources tell me that Alestain Firetwill is working on a portal potion that can rip open the realms and let an army through.”
Draven’s jaw clenched, the news aligning with what Lanae had said. But she had destroyed all the vials before she came back. He gave a slow nod for Varkir to continue.
“They are using the Dragon’s Heart.”
Draven tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Varkir. “I thought you told me the Dragon’s Heart held no power?”
Varkir shifted in his seat, the wooden chair creaking under his weight. “It doesn’t, per se.” He bit his lip, glancing around to ensure they weren’t overheard. “It seems if they chip off pieces and turn them into liquid, it allows them to add it to the portal potion ingredients they have and it magnifies it by a thousandfold.”
Draven pinched the bridge of his nose as the tension mounted. “So, they are destroying the stone?”
Varkir shrugged, his expression one of resignation. “Alestain is chipping small pieces off for their use.”
A low rumble of discontent came from Draven, and he took a larger sip of the drink, relishing the way it burned going down his throat, the warmth spreading through his chest. “Anything on that document you mentioned?”
Varkir pulled a parchment out from his cloak and handed it to Draven. The texture of the aged paper was rough against Draven’s fingers. “I’d wait until you are home to read that,” Varkir said. “And one other thing. There seems to be a spy within the city that is feeding Alestain information on the troops.”
Draven clenched his teeth. “Do we know how they are communicating?” His voice carried the sharp edge of frustration.
Varkir shook his head, his movements slow and deliberate. “My sources don’t know who it is or how they are communicating. Just that they are.” His features scrunched into frustration, his brow furrowing deeply, mirroring the tightness in Draven’s expression. The dim light cast shadows on Varkir’s face, highlighting the lines of concern etched into his skin. The air charged thick with tension, and uncertainty hung heavy in the space they shared.
Draven attempted to piece together what Varkir was trying to relay, and something did not add up. “Who told you this?” he demanded, casting a glare at Varkir, his ire increasing at the holes in the information. His eyes burned with intensity, the frustration clear in the tense set of his shoulders.
Varkir shut his mouth and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “My source is questionable,” he admitted.
Smoke bled from Draven’s nostrils, a visual manifestation of his rising anger. “Then why did you even bother to tell me this information?” he growled, slashing a glare at Varkir. His voice cut through the ambient noise of the bar.
“Because...if I didn’t and it is credible, you’ll have my head,” Varkir responded, his tone tinged with fear.
He wasn’t wrong. Draven took a breath and calmed the rising inferno in his chest. The heat dissipated with each measured inhale. “Take me to this source,” he ordered, his voice steady but firm. He had allowed Varkir to run the network since they came back from Xoltan’s castle free of Firetwill’s mind control.
“Draven,” Varkir started in a tone that screamed impossible. The desperation in his eyes was unmistakable.
“I have given you my trust in merging our spy networks. And this is the first time you’ve given me unreliable information. Why?” Draven’s voice was laced with disappointment, his eyes boring into Varkir.
Varkir wiped his face, the frustration evident in the furrow of his brow. “As I said...”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Draven snapped, his patience wearing thin.
Varkir dropped his lids and grumbled as he hung his head. When he glanced up at Draven, his jaw tightened with resolve. “I can feel someone reaching out to Firetwill’s realm. I just can’t tell you who,” he admitted, his voice heavy with the revelation.
Draven’s eyes narrowed. “You? You’re the unreliable source?” he questioned, his tone laced with disbelief.
“Yes,” Varkir replied, his voice a strained whisper, the admission hanging heavily in the air.
Draven studied him, his piercing gaze searching for any hint of deception. “Explain,” he demanded as his pulse quickened.
Varkir took a deep breath, his eyes reflecting a hint of terror. “I sense the echo of the call since the mind-controlled have awakened. I was under the blood curse for a long time, Draven.” His voice wavered.
The stinging reek of fear burned Draven’s nose, mingling with the ambient aromas of the bar.
“The pull of Xoltan’s realm has fluctuated over the last couple of days, as if a communications channel has opened or portals have opened.” Varkir let out a half laugh, devoid of humor. “At least I recognize the sensation and have been able to ignore the call to arms.” He stared at the bottom of his drink as if it held answers he couldn’t decipher, his fingers tracing the rim of the glass.
Draven’s heart calmed as he processed the information. “Portals have been opening and closing,” he stated, the realization settling in.
Varkir’s gaze jumped to meet his, a flicker of fright reflected in his pale irises.
“Alestain’s son has been here at least twice. He had the balls to kidnap Lanae and then try to pass his shape-shifting ass off as her.” Draven’s jaw clenched in anger.
Varkir’s eyebrows shot up, and he leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. “Why didn’t you tell me that when we last met?” he demanded, his eyes widening in surprise.
“All of this shit has gone down since we last met,” Draven replied, finishing his drink with a final, decisive gulp. The burn of the alcohol lingered in his throat. “Have you felt anything since last night?”
Varkir closed his eyes, his face tightening in concentration. After a few moments, he shook his head, the movement slow and deliberate. “Not since the early evening,” he murmured, the frustration evident in his voice.
Draven reached into his cloak and pulled out the only vial left of Firetwill’s batch, the green liquid shimmering under the pale glimmer. “I need this analyzed. Who should I go to?” he asked, spinning the clear canister in his fingers.
“May I?” Varkir held out his hand, and Draven offered him the smooth, cool glass. “Where did you get this?” His eyebrows cocked with curiosity and concern.
“Lanae grabbed three of them before she destroyed the rest that were lined up on a table in Firetwill’s lab,” Draven explained with a shrug. “She used one to get back.”
“And where are the others?” Varkir’s gaze intensified.
“She lost one in a wrestling match with Alestain’s son.” Draven pointed to the vial in Varkir’s hand. “That is the last one.”
“The best sprite I know who dabbles in portal potions is Jairamon. He guards the Isle of Dreams between his laboratory stints,” Varkir said, his voice steady and assured.
Draven’s chest rumbled with a deep growl. “He sold us a portal potion when we were trying to get Lanae out of the Citadel dungeons,” he recalled, the memory flooding back with vivid clarity.
“While I know you can find the Isle of Dreams on your own, I can lead you to his laboratory, since I have some business I need to discuss with the sprite.”
Draven nodded, and Varkir handed the jar with the green liquid back to him.
The two rose from their seats, the bar’s ambient noise fading into the background as they focused on their next move. The cool metal of the vial in his hand reflected the light, casting small, shimmering glints around the room as they crossed to the door.
Outside, the sun was high in the sky, its rays casting a warm glow over the bustling streets. The scent of fresh rain still drifted on the air, interwoven with the fragrant aroma of blooming flowers and the city’s earthy odor. Draven and Varkir moved swiftly, their footsteps echoing on the cobblestones as they headed toward the edge of the city.
The journey to the Isle of Dreams required a trek through the forest outside the city walls. A trek Draven barely remembered. The last time he crossed this way was with Caelum and Nero, looking for the magic to open Nero up to his ancestral powers. That had been one of the quests Varkir had sent him on while Lanae rotted in the Citadel dungeons. One that made it possible for them to beat Xoltan.
The towering trees formed a canopy overhead, their leaves rustling softly in the breeze. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the foliage, creating a dappled pattern of light and shadow on the forest floor. The air was filled with the sweet scent of wildflowers and the distant calls of unseen creatures.
Draven scanned the surroundings for any signs of danger. The forest was alive with subtle sounds—the whisper of leaves, the chirping of birds, and the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. Varkir walked beside him, the tension between them clear in their synchronized, purposeful strides.
As they closed the distance to the cavern that led down to the Isle of Dreams, the fog he remembered rolled like a living beast. It flickered and pulsed, casting an otherworldly glow on the surrounding trees. The path down was just as harrowing as he remembered, but without Jairamon guiding them, the climb was slower and more treacherous. They took care to place their feet on the slippery mud and shifting rock, cursing as the fog thickened around them.
When they reached the bottom of the ravine, the fog cleared, revealing a clearing covered in soft moss that glowed with a gentle, ethereal light. A lazy river cut through the ground, breaking up the lush land with a vein of bright blue, as if the water came from glaciers in the far north. The stream carved a path around an island of moss, and the familiar hum pulsed with rhythmic energy through Draven. Golden coins still littered both the water and the moss. There was more than he recalled, and his dragon growled in want. The shiny objects represented wishes of those who came to request wealth, health, or myriad things from this mystical relic.
Varkir led him beyond the Isle of Dreams and into a clearing. On the other side, a serene landscape of rolling hills lay beyond, with crystalline lakes and vibrant, dreamlike flora. A small, ivy-covered stone building that exuded an air of ancient wisdom sat in the valley.
As they approached, a sprite appeared at the doorway, his iridescent wings catching the light and creating a cascade of colors around him.
“Draven, Varkir,” Jairamon greeted them, his voice melodic and welcoming. “What brings you to my isle?”
Draven held up the vial, the green liquid shimmering within. “We need your expertise, Jairamon. Can you analyze this?”
Jairamon took the glass vial and stared at the green shimmer of the liquid, the sunlight catching and refracting within it. “It looks like the same portal potion that I had given you to return to Solstice City.” He uncorked it and took a cautious whiff. His brow creased, and he beckoned them inside with a swift gesture.
Draven stared at the door and raised an eyebrow, his broad shoulders tensing. He would never fit through the opening, never mind be able to stand up in the building. “You go,” he said to Varkir, his voice a low rumble. After all, the man could become smoke.
And that is exactly what Varkir did. His form dissolved into a wispy, smoky tendril and slithered inside the house.
Jairamon stopped in the doorway. “I’ll open the window so you can hear what we say.” Jairamon met Draven’s hard stare with a resolute nod.
“Thank you,” Draven replied, his voice edged with impatience.
Jairamon stepped inside, and a window creaked open, allowing Draven to hear the conversation within.
The air drifting from the window held the scent of herbs and potions. Jairamon moved to a wooden table cluttered with alchemical tools and carefully set down the vial. “This potion...it’s not just mine,” he murmured, his fingers lightly tracing the glass. “There’s something else in here.”
Varkir reformed into his solid state, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean, something else?” His voice rose with suspicion. “Have you ever sold your recipe?”
Jairamon’s wings fluttered in agitation, the colorful light scattering around the room. “I have never sold my recipe, Varkir. It is my creation, guarded closely.”
“Then how did this unknown substance get into the potion?” Varkir pressed, his frustration mounting. “Who could have had access to your ingredients?”
Jairamon’s eyes flashed with annoyance, his voice growing sharper. “Are you accusing me of incompetence? I know my own potions. This substance—it’s not something I would ever use.”
Varkir stepped forward, his posture tense, his shadow stretching across the room. “I’m not accusing you, but we need answers. This is serious. If someone else knows your recipe, they could be dangerous. We need to find out who and how.”
Jairamon breathed slowly, visibly trying to calm himself. The ambient sounds of the valley outside amplified the tension between them. “I understand the critical nature of the situation. I will help you identify this substance. But I assure you, my recipe has not been compromised.”
Draven watched the exchange through the small, ivy-framed window, his eyes narrowing with intensity. “Let’s focus on analyzing the potion first. We can worry about the origins later,” he interjected, his voice steady and commanding, carrying authority.
Jairamon nodded, his iridescent wings settling back into a calmer rhythm. “Very well. We will sort this out.”
Jairamon went to his workstation, the air filled with the scents of various herbs and potions. He opened one of the intricate contraptions, its brass gears clicking softly. Carefully, he poured a single drop of the green liquid from the vial before recapping it. He moved a scope over the contraption and stared into it, his fingers deftly adjusting the focus. As he muttered to himself, taking meticulous notes, the soft glow of the laboratory’s lanterns cast a warm, golden light over the scene.
Draven stared through the tiny window as a cool breeze brushed against his face. He exchanged a glance with Varkir, who lifted a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. They both returned their gazes to the little sprite, waiting with bated breath.
After a few minutes, Jairamon pulled away from the machine and sent a curious glance up at Draven. “This is my recipe, but modified with something I have never seen.” His eyes reflected a mix of confusion and intrigue.
“How many vials have you sold?” Draven’s question rumbled through the room, causing all the glass to rattle, the vibrations echoing in the small space.
“Too many to count. Selling potions is my business,” Jairamon scoffed, his tone defensive. He looked into the contraption again, his brow furrowing deeper. “It looks like blood was mixed in with my portal potion. But not fae blood,” he added with a hint of concern.
The rhythmic hum of the laboratory’s machinery and the distant chirping of birds outside were the only sounds that broke the silence.
Dragon blood. The thought pierced Draven’s mind like an icy dagger. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing with the revelation. The implications were staggering, and an icy dread settled in his stomach. He needed to get home to read whatever was on the parchment tucked in his pocket. If the Dragon’s Heart still had traces of dragon blood, Alestain had the power to cross realms just like Draven.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Desperate Measures
LANAE TRUDGED HOME FROM the Citadel after a long day of standing guard, the creak of her armor reminding her of the battles she fought, both on and off the field. The cool evening breeze brushed against her face, carrying with it the scent of blooming moonflowers. She was lost in thought when Caelum sidled up next to her at the intersection of the cobblestone roads at the edge of their neighborhood. The cobblestones were slick with evening dew, dulling the echoes of their footsteps in the stillness.
“Hey, Lanae.” He kept pace with her. His presence was a comforting contrast to the chill in the air. He slowed as they edged closer to the house, his expression dropping into trepidation. “We should try to reach them again.” He nodded toward the side of the house where their parents’ bedroom was.
Lanae sighed and nodded, her heart heavy with uncertainty. “I’m not sure it will do any good.”
“We can’t give up on them.” Caelum shot her a determined look as they advanced toward the house, the gravel crunching under their boots.
Caelum had always been the one with the sunnier outlook. And she smiled at the hope lit in his eyes, especially after the last harrowing encounter they had with their parents.
The blooming moonflowers climbing up the front walls of their home let off a sweet, intoxicating scent as they approached their walkway, their petals glowing softly in the moonlight.
Caelum paused outside the front door, his hand on the handle. “Oh. I almost forgot. Nero slaughtered another cow today.”
Lanae tilted her head back in defeat and groaned. “Just what I needed today.” She marched through the house to the back door and swung it open, the hinges creaking. Nero pecked at a partially picked carcass, the cold metallic essence of blood blending with the garden’s earthy fragrance. “What did you do?”
