Awaken the Three Read online

  Ynara

  As Ynara watched the armored procession streaming out of her forest, she let her eyes fall upon her brother, Kethras, leaving the protection of the trees. It hurt to make him go, but it had to be done.

  She had always been closer to him than any of their other brothers and sisters, and she finally knew how their Mother had felt when she’d sent them away to find Thornton. It was her responsibility, she knew, but knowing never changed anything; it only spread out the pain over a longer period of time.

  Looking up at Naknamu, she remembered what the ancient tree was like when she was young, all those thousands of years ago. She knew its branches well, and they seemed to bend toward her now in a loving embrace. It made the pain of separation at least a little more bearable.

  She was its protector now; she was the forest. She was the Binder of Worlds.

  And one day, she knew, she would also be the Last Kienari.

  Chapter 4

  Ellenos

  Lilyana

  “Lily, wake up.”

  No answer.

  The words were sweet and gentle. They were her mother’s words—Coraline, daughter of Eidaline.

  “Lilyana Coros. I’m not telling you again.”

  Full name. She meant it. A little less gentle, but it didn’t detract from the lovely contralto of Cora’s voice.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Lily’s own words came out barely above a whisper as she pulled the patchwork blanket over her head to steal just a few more seconds of darkness. If she had known it was the last time she would hear that voice, Lily would have kept the covers over her face just to hear her speak again. She would have treasured it. She would have savored it.

  She would have . . .

  She would have . . .

  It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was her.

  ***

  Lily fought off her sleepiness with a yawn and walked over to where her mother was finishing brushing her hair.

  “Where are we going today?” she asked.

  Coraline was looking in the polished silver mirror at the reflection of her and her daughter, two women separated by about twenty years and not much else.

  “Well, aren’t we eager?” Coraline said with a laugh. She moved over and patted the worn cushion on her seat. “Why don’t we fix you up and I’ll tell you.”

  Lily sat down and looked up into the eyes of her mother, framed by high cheekbones that made them stand out even more. She had trouble describing her mother’s face as anything but perfect, but Coraline’s soft jawline and delicate lips made more than a few men stop in their tracks and stare. Her looks were her most valuable asset, and she had no qualms about using them. She took care of the way she looked, accentuating her feminine qualities and making sure that the men who saw her liked what they were seeing—liked it enough to pay good money for it.

  The underbelly of Athrani society was not publicly acknowledged, but it was very real. They liked to think of themselves as better than their human and Khyth counterparts, but they weren’t—they were just better at hiding it. Her mother was certainly good at hiding it from Lily, and it wasn’t until much later that Lily would even connect the dots as to how she really made her money.

  Darling, Coraline was always saying, you pay attention to those women with the fine clothing. That will be you someday.

  Her mother took the dark wooden brush to Lily’s hair and hummed softly as she ran it through. The melody was plain and bright; the tune, comforting.

  Lying ’neath the falling rain

  Scattered under stars,

  She rides the wind to heart’s content

  ’Til he returns again.

  The loveliness of Coraline’s brown-on-blue eyes and long brown hair was surpassed only by her voice.

  “I like that song, Mother. What is it?”

  “Just something that your grandmother used to sing to me when I was a girl,” she answered.

  It was a simple little tune, but her mother’s soothing voice did wonders to it.

  “What does it mean?” Lily asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Coraline said as she kissed her girl on the head. “But I always thought it was my mother’s way of telling me how she missed my father.”

  She leaned in close to Lily and whispered, “Now hurry up and get your dress. The blue one.”

  Lily’s eyes lit up, and she raced to the wooden chest in the corner of the room. She opened it and didn’t have to look far: her favorite dress, the blue one with white frills, was nestled neatly near the top of the chest.

  She pulled it on over her head with a smile. Tonight would be unforgettable.

  Chapter 5

  Gal’dorok

  Duna

  Duna Cullain had marched the armies of Gal’dorok halfway across Derenar by the time she even considered resting. In just a matter of days, they had almost made their way back to Khala Val’ur, city of the Khyth.

  The peaks of the Great Serpent, Gal’behem, were visible on the horizon.

  Not much longer now, she thought with relief.

  She looked back over the men—a mixture of the Fist of Ghal Thurái and the warriors of Khala Val’ur—and finally saw just how many they had lost in the Battle for the Tree. They were a thin, weakened force. Pathetic, she thought. Beaten by a smattering of Athrani and a few dozen Kienari. Truly pathetic.

  The next realization came slowly and heavily: they were her army now.

  Wherever Tennech had run off to, she knew he would not be coming back; she had heard how the Khyth dealt with failure. The general must have known he was as good as dead if he ever showed his face in Khala Val’ur again. And after Commander Durakas’s brains had become acquainted with a Kienari arrow—and shortly thereafter, the forest floor—she was now the highest-ranking military officer in both Khala Val’ur and Ghal Thurái.

  The highest in all of Gal’dorok, in fact.

  The epiphany dried out her throat and left her tongue feeling thick and numb. She frowned.

  Duna’s thin blonde hair hung down over a pair of green eyes that were spaced just too far apart, she knew, and her wide forehead left little room for the rest of her face to grow. She conceded that she wasn’t much to look at, but if anything, this fact was what had driven her to success; she had thrown herself at her work because throwing herself at men had proven to be a waste of time, energy, and self-esteem. Though the men around her had no interest in her sexually, they held nothing back from her politically, wasting no time with deceit. They treated her like one of their own. Commander Durakas had seen this, and her fearless attitude, and had decided to take her under his wing.

  Only now, that wing had been torn off and left on the floor of Kienar, and she was going to have to figure out how to fly on her own.

  The sounds of hoof beats behind her jarred Duna back to reality. She was surprised when she looked around to find that her army had come to a stop. She whirled back around on her mount and shouted, “What is the meaning of this? I gave no order to stop!”

  A bigger man toward the front of the formation spoke up. “F-Forgive us, Lady Cullain, but look”—he pointed over her shoulder, to a point far off in the distance—“there.”

  She turned and strained her eyes in the darkness. Far beyond the reaches of Khala Val’ur, beyond the spine of Gal’behem, was the mountain fortress of Ghal Thurái.

  Only now there was no fortress.

  Flames and an empty horizon filled the space that should have been Ghal Thurái. Great plumes of smoke curled their way up into the night sky as they reached for the stars, like gray fingers.

  “What is it?” one man called out.

  “What does it mean?” cried another.

  “Quiet!” Duna shouted as she turned around to face her men. “We will know soon enough. But our debt is to Khala Val’ur, an
d we must make our way there or face the wrath of High Khyth Yetz.” The mere mention of the name made more than a few men shiver, but just as many were steadfast in their resolve.

  “It’s a sign from the Breaker,” someone shouted. “We’re needed in Ghal Thurái!”

  Murmurs of agreement sliced their way through the rumblings of the army, growing increasingly dissonant. Those from Khala Val’ur wanted nothing more than to return home. But those from the Mouth of the Deep saw what could only be their once-great city in flames.

  “Lady Cullain, let us return to the Mouth!” one man near the front begged. “The Khyth can wait. And for all we know, there may not be much time left.”

  Duna narrowed her eyes as she thought. Whatever happened in Ghal Thurái was recent. If there was ever a chance to stop what is happening in the city, that chance is now.

  She looked back to the faces of her men.

  Tired, ragged, exhausted. Determined.

  “Then we will continue on to the Mouth,” she said. “I will answer personally for our . . . diversion.” As she spoke the words aloud, she pictured the face of the most feared man in all of Khala Val’ur and shivered. Yetz would not be pleased with their lateness—but he also didn’t know what he didn’t know. And if she kept it a secret from him, Duna reasoned, he never had to find out.

  A click of her heels on her mount spurred it forward.

  She only hoped that she was right.

  Chapter 6

  The Wastes of Khulakorum

  Rathma

  It hurt every single time.

  Rathma could already feel the headache that always followed his jumps through reality, but he couldn’t afford to give it a second thought; he knew he wasn’t in the clear just yet.

  Rathma could hear growled obscenities coming from inside the courtyard; Kuu wasn’t born with the gift of farstepping like Rathma was.

  “I’m sorry, Kuu!” he managed to shout through the pain. “You know where I’ll be!”

  He had to keep going.

  “Just stick to the plan,” he said to himself through gritted teeth.

  The jagged slabs of rock that made up the outside of the compound were mostly obscured by the darkness, but the flicker of torches waving around them cast shiftless and wandering shadows, and one of those shadows—Rathma—was moving quickly away.

  But even as he moved away from the compound, he knew that his friend was more than capable of taking care of himself. Kuu had a few skills that even Rathma envied. But, for now, he was on the run.

  ***

  Djozen Yelto’s men, while certainly fast and determined, were not born with the gift of farstepping, and therefore were simply no match for Rathma. In fact, as long as he could see to where he was farstepping, Rathma could blink in and out of the landscape with nothing more than a thought—a thought which was always followed by violent nausea. But he simply had to put enough space between himself and Yelto’s men until he was sure that he would be safe. He had no choice: he would have to do it again.

  Each time Rathma farstepped, it took a toll on him physically, but in this situation it didn’t matter how much.

  Taking a breath, Rathma tried to calm himself. He had no idea how his older brother was able to farstep so easily; it had always been a struggle for him. With a grimace, he looked at a point far off in the distance and braced himself again. He closed his eyes and focused.

  Now! he thought, doing what only a Farstepper could do: moving through the air like lightning. He reappeared once again, a great distance away . . . and collapsed.

  ***

  Rathma had no idea how long he had been out for, but the throbbing in his head told him that it was a while.

  Never again, he swore to himself.

  The “gift” that everyone called farstepping was a cruel joke wrapped in a hex dipped in a curse. It was no wonder that most chose not to pursue it at all. But others, only a handful that Rathma knew of, embraced it. His grandfather had told him about a Farstepper who was even able to travel to the Otherworld itself, staying there for days at a time. When he emerged (so the stories went) no time had passed at all. But that was neither here nor there: it was most likely Grandfather exaggerating—or the end result of someone trying to impress a girl. Rathma had always brushed it off as nonsense.

  But one thing was for sure: his own brother was one of the most gifted Farsteppers that Rathma had ever heard of. Which was why, when he left their desert at the age of eighteen, everyone in the tribe had been devastated.

  Lying on his side, Rathma pulled tight the cloak that his brother had given him. He shivered in the air of the cold desert night and fought off the headache that threatened to overpower him. “Dammit, why did you have to leave me here?” He coughed. In the far distance he could see the torch lights of the servants of the Holder, searching the area in vain for some sign of the Farstepper.

  “Perhaps he knew that you would never amount to anything,” scoffed a deep voice from behind.

  Rathma didn’t have to see its owner to know he was in trouble.

  It was a voice he’d heard boom orders to the followers of the Holder, once at the beginning of the day, and once again at the end. A voice that belonged to a man who sought to rule the Wastes at any cost.

  A voice that conjured such hatred that Rathma would do anything to overthrow it.

  Rathma rolled over to see, grinning down at him, the last man he expected outside of Djozen Yelto’s stronghold. The same man who had somehow managed to follow him across the impossible expanse of desert between him and the fortress.

  “Yelto,” Rathma croaked.

  “In the flesh.”

  Dressed from head to toe in the finest silks that money could buy, Djozen Yelto looked like a man who always got what he wanted. He was heavy and bald, with skin the color of the dark desert sand, and was known to truly care for only two things in this world: himself and the prize that hung from his neck.

  Years ago, Yelto had traveled south to Do’baradai and had returned clutching a strange dagger, followed fiercely by the Priests of the Holder. What happened in that old, crumbling ruin of a city was a secret only Yelto knew, but his rapid rise to power soon after was seen as no coincidence by the tribes. He wore the dagger around his neck as a reminder of this rise—among other things.

  But everything Yelto did was just a grab for power, and Rathma knew it. Even the appointing of his own successor to the position of chief of the eastern tribes had been done out of ambition. And now that he had subjugated and proclaimed himself chief of the central tribes as well, he was frighteningly close to making truth out of rumors and whispers—uniting the tribes under one banner: his.

  Rathma retched again, the taste of fear now mingling with the nausea of farstepping. “Well, you found me. Now what?” he asked.

  “Now you stand trial,” Yelto answered. “You and that Wolfwalker friend of yours. For treason.” He grabbed Rathma by the rough material that made up his cloak’s collar and pulled him up, whirling him around to look him in the eye. With a grin wider than the slice of moon above, he added, “And I doubt the sentencing will be light.”

  Rathma frowned. They’d caught him and Kuu. That definitely wasn’t part of the plan.

  No matter, he thought. He was caught now, and there was no getting away. Yelto had his hands firmly on him, and the pure iron shackles that were wrapped around Rathma’s wrists meant that he wouldn’t be farstepping his way out of it.

  No, Rathma thought. This is the end. Might as well face it like a man. That’s the way Jinda would have done it.

  If he couldn’t master farstepping like his big brother could, he could at least try to live—and die—in a way that would make him proud.

  Rathma Yhun frowned as he clenched his jaw, looking defiantly at the lights ahead, and began the long walk back as a prisoner of Djozen Yelto.

  Chap
ter 7

  Derenar

  Thornton

  The Athrani Legion marched over the plains and hills that lay between the Forest of Kienar and their home, the capital city of Ellenos. They had been moving slowly with Endar Half-Eye leading the way, but Thornton noticed that their pace had quickened as they drew closer to their destination. He thought he would probably have done the same if they were marching toward Highglade. Allowing himself some mental respite, he thought about the first time he’d left the village on his own.

  His father had been reluctant to let him go into Lusk by himself, but Thornton was persistent in his pleading, and the big blacksmith had finally relented. You go straight there and come straight back, he remembered his father saying. He was standing there, big arms crossed over a barrel chest, looking and sounding as hard as steel. No dawdling.

  Of course, that had been the plan all along: to come straight home. It was just nice to get a small taste of freedom, even if it was only for the day. His horse, Jericho, was much younger back then, a spry version of the aging workhorse that was waiting for him back in Annoch. And his father’s beard had been only a fraction of the face-filling monstrosity that Olson was known for.

  But at the end of the day, when Thornton and Jericho were pointed back toward Highglade, they had both felt themselves moving faster. It wasn’t anything that Thornton had consciously decided, but he found himself riding slightly harder, Jericho’s legs pounding slightly faster, when they had rounded the trail that led into the small, wooded village they called home.

  So Thornton had to admit that he was not surprised when the footfalls of the Athrani soldiers were getting closer and closer together.

  Yasha, riding beside him, seemed to notice this as well.