Erich moved to follow him, but his father placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Be safe.” King Frederich’s voice was low.
Erich nodded. “I will.”
“And Erich?” his father’s voice called after him before he could slip out the door. “Wear your uniform.”
Erich rolled his eyes at the dark hallway. “Yes, Father, I will.” He was not a child anymore.
Mere minutes later, Erich was on his horse, riding through the courtyard gates into the night. He was wearing the gray uniform of the Iseldis guard, but the stiff vest was hidden underneath his own thick fur cape. The night air was cold, and would only become more so as they neared the sea.
If they pushed themselves as hard as possible, they would reach the shore before dawn.
Erich leaned over his horse, ducking his head against the western winds. While he had spent the night dancing and then worrying over Aden, he wasn’t even close to exhaustion.
He was so ready for this.
The muscles in his body were relaxed but poised. The horse carried his weight, but his legs and chest responded elegantly to the swaying motion of the galloping animal. He felt alive, ready for an exciting adventure.
Erich had trained his whole life for this moment, knowing that he would be defending his kingdom from the cruel and powerful magic-wielders that haunted even the most ancient of legends. He was a captain of the elite guard. Though he was only twenty, he had spent the last six summers rigorously training in the Falqri desert. There was a reason his body could endure a night of dancing before effortlessly mounting a warhorse and making all haste to the sea to reinforce their defenses.
Erich was ready.
Chapter 4
Aizel’s neck twisted uncomfortably against her lumpy pillow. It was her own fault. She was the one who had torn open a corner of the stitching and removed the scraps of fabric and old feathers that made up the pillow itself. She had replaced the stuffing with a few essential items for her escape.
When she was sure her parents were deeply asleep, Aizel slipped out of bed. Grabbing the makeshift pillow sack, she stepped silently across the sandy floor and slipped through the woven door of their small home.
When she was a child, the Quotidian taskers had enforced a strict curfew every evening. Now, they kept everyone working during all hours of the night and day, which made her current mission far easier. It was hard to shake old habits, though, and merely stepping outside after dark put her on edge.
No one seemed to notice her, darting from shadow to shadow as she made her way down the dilapidated alley.
The village was surrounded by a tall sandstone wall, which was said to keep the waves out—although Aizel had always felt it was more intended to keep the Majis in.
Slipping into a line of tired workers, she kept her head down and shuffled through the guarded western gate. Once outside the village wall, she peeled away from the group. Her bare feet were silent on the sand. No one wore shoes on Istroya, because they hampered movement on the soft, shifting ground.
Things were going too easily, but her senses remained on high alert. The taskers were not incredibly concerned about someone escaping from the island as it was impossible to do so without a ship. And it was impossible to get a ship close to Istroya due to the shallow reefs which surrounded the island. The main port up north was more heavily guarded.
She had made contact with a member of the River’s Talon and arranged for them to smuggle Celesta off the island several seasons prior. Sadly, they never arrived. She could only assume something had happened to her contact, Peter, since she could never get through to him again. She hoped that was not the case, but she could think of no other explanation.
So, Aizel planned her own escape. She would find the leader of the River’s Talon—someone named Robin—and come back for Celesta and their parents. With the upcoming Quotidian attacks, she was running out of time.
A single guard patrolled the long, accessible length of the shore. Waiting for him to turn his back to her, she lingered in the shadow of the village wall.
Reaching into her sack, she pulled out a small vial. It was carved from the interior of a mollusk shell—which were easy to find on the shoreline—and had the familiar iridescent shimmer of a pearl. Unlatching its intricate metal clasp, she removed the cap from the vial and dabbed a tiny amount of fragrant oil onto her fingertips.
Rubbing the oil around the base of her nose, she began to hum the tune her mother and grandmother had taught her. The crashing waves, only a short distance, away drowned out the noise of her song.
Despite its familiar floral scent, the powerful aroma added to the lightheadedness she already felt.
As a diver, she used the oil daily in order to breathe underwater. Extracted from the seeds of the Istroya fruit, the oil was scented with the essence of the lotus flower. Because it enhanced a magic user’s ability, it was a highly regulated substance. Outside of their dives, the Majis were not allowed to own it, have it, or use it.
Aizel had spent weeks secretly saving minuscule drops from her daily ration to save up the small amount of oil in her mother’s heirloom pearlescent vial. Since she didn’t tell her parents of her plan, she felt a little guilty about taking her mother’s small bottle. They would have certainly tried to stop her, or they would have insisted on coming as well—which would have been worse. Aizel was willing to risk her own life, but she would not be responsible for putting someone she loved in danger.
The guard was drawing nearer. She froze, silencing her song.
Objects themselves were not magical, but, depending on the amount of harmony within the object, it could channel magic better. Lotus flowers were highly regarded among the Majis because they grew in the muddiest waters to emerge with beauty and color. Beauty balanced the mundane.
