Onyx Storm (The Empyrean Book 3)

To live amongst the Zihlni, you must prepare to accept luck as your guide and chaos as your standard.

—Zehyllna: Isle of Zihnal by Major Asher Sorrengail

No wonder the leaves are almost fully green. Zehyllna has magic. Not enough to channel or even properly shield, and nowhere in the realm of wielding, but there are definitely two strands of power trickling down the bonds from Tairn and Andarna.

I shove my flight jacket into my pack so I don’t sweat to death and make quick work of dismounting. Tairn dips even lower in deference to my aching ribs, and I pat the scales above his talon in thanks as I walk onto the field.

To my right, Andarna flicks her head left and right repeatedly, like she can’t fully focus on one sight before another catches her attention, and on my left, Ridoc stares up at Aotrom, saying something I can’t hear over the noise of the crowd. Just beyond him, Trager throws his head back in laughter, then reaches up to scratch under Silaraine’s silver-feathered jaw.

The gryphon tilts her head to give him easier access and closes her eyes.

I can’t help but wonder how long she’s had that particular itch, since it’s in a place she can’t reach.

“Can they talk?” I move forward just enough to see down the line of our squad and watch the same scene playing out among riders and fliers. Even Xaden is paused before Sgaeyl, though it looks like any conversation they might be having isn’t going his way.

“We all can,” Tairn replies with a sound I’d almost call a sigh of contentment.

I give myself a second to smile, to revel in the happiness of my friends who have been denied the closest of their relationships for the last couple of weeks. Then I look up at the mass of people gradually quieting and taking their seats, and scan down the rows to the bottom without finding a single weapon out of its scabbard. Color fills the crowd, but everyone sitting in the front row is dressed in identical sleeveless tunics the shade of apricots.

For as much excitement as they’re showing, none of them rush forward to greet us. In fact, the people joining climb the seats farthest to the right as they enter the field, as though not to obscure the crowd’s view for even a second.

A wisp of a shadow brushes against my mind, and my smile deepens.

“Hi there,” Xaden says as he strides toward me, the corners of his mouth curving. He’s shucked his flight jacket, too, and pushed up the sleeves of his uniform to his elbows.

“Hi there.” I grin, somehow having found home thousands of miles away from the Continent. “Everything good with Sgaeyl?”

“She’s yelling, but I’ll take it over silence any day.” A muscle in his jaw pops as he reaches my side, then turns to face the crowd. “Pretty sure she’s spent the last week or so cataloging every one of my missteps, given how quickly she listed them.”

“I’m sorry.” I brush the back of my hand against his.

“She has every right to be pissed.” He laces our fingers and holds tight as he studies our surroundings. “I need you to make me another promise, Violet.”

“That sounds serious.” I smile at Ridoc as he heads our way with a definite bounce in his step. The others aren’t far behind him.

“Look at me.” Xaden softens the sharp command with a brush of his thumb over mine.

My gaze snaps to his and my smile falls at the intensity in his stare. “What do you want me to promise?”

“That you’ll never do that again.”

I blink. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“You put yourself between Ridoc and me—”

“It seemed like you might hit my friend.” I lift my brows. “And you weren’t exactly yourself.”

“That’s my point.” Fear flashes across his face before he quickly masks it. “There’s no telling what I could have done to you. It’s all I’ve been able to think about.”

“Is it just me? Or are we the equivalent of the circus coming to town?” Ridoc asks.

“You won’t hurt me,” I argue for the hundredth time. “Even when you wanted to kill me last year, you never hurt me. Even when you lack your emotions, you’re still…you.”

“Oh, we’re definitely the show,” Cat answers Ridoc.

“This might be my favorite isle.” Trager takes Cat’s hand. “What do you think, Violet?”

“Me, without any restraint or reason.” Xaden lowers his brows.

“How about I decide when I think you’re too dangerous to approach.”

“I think I know when I’m too dangerous to approach.” He leans in.

“Don’t mind them.” Ridoc’s tone sings. “They’re back to doing…whatever it is they do when they ignore everyone around them and pretend they’re the only people in existence.”

“This from the same man who thinks I need to know how to kill him?” I lift my chin. “Which is it, Xaden? Am I too precious to get close? Or am I the one who needs to know which shadow is yours?”

He gives me a look Sgaeyl would be proud of, and I hold his gaze. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I hurt you.” The sun catches the amber flecks in his eyes, and I nearly relent at the plea in his tone.

“And I won’t be able to live with myself if I stand there and watch you hurt Ridoc.” I squeeze his hand. “I take full responsibility for my safety. You are a giant battle flag waving in the wind right now, Xaden, but you’re my battle flag, and you’d do the same thing in my position.”

“Hey, I hate to break up whatever moment you’re having,” Ridoc says, “but everyone’s here and their emissary is headed this way.”

“This discussion isn’t over,” Xaden warns as we turn our attention to the field.

“Happy to win the fight again later.” I squeeze his hand one last time, then let go as a woman in an orange tunic and matching scabbard walks toward us, carrying a cone-shaped object half my height. “I love you.”

“So fucking stubborn.” He sighs. “I love you.”

All down the line, the dragons lower their heads in warning.

The woman doesn’t flinch, but the crowd falls quiet.

I take a steadying breath and send a prayer up to Zihnal himself that this encounter goes better than our last.

“Welcome to Zehyllna!” the woman says in the common language, then grins as she approaches, her white teeth sharply contrasting her deep-brown cheeks. She’s beautiful, with joyful brown eyes, a halo of black, airy curls, and thick curves. “I am Calixta, mistress of today’s festivities.”

Festivities? My brows scrunch at the term, and Ridoc rocks back on his heels.

Xaden’s head tilts.

Calixta pauses about five feet from my boots, then glances across our squad and begins to speak in Zehylish.

I blink. Any studying I did is completely useless. Nothing on the page could prepare me for hearing it spoken. It’s a lilting, flowy language where one word seems to run into the next.

Dain replies slowly from my right, the words coming out like he’s in pain.

Aaric sighs from beside Xaden, then proceeds to speak like he was freaking born here.

Dain looks ready to murder him.

“Excellent!” Calixta replies in the common language. “I am happy to speak in your tongue if it brings you joy.” She turns to me. “Your translator says you are the leader of this glorious assembly.”

I’m really starting to loathe that word. “I’m Violet Sorrengail. We’ve come in hopes of—”

“Securing an alliance!” She beams. “Yes! Word of your travels reached us a few weeks ago, and we have been waiting ever since.”

“Here?” Ridoc asks. “You’ve all been waiting out here?”

“Of course not.” She scoffs. “People come to the festival grounds as they have time in hopes they will be the first to see the dragons. And Zihnal is certainly with those of us who chose today!” Her gaze sweeps over the riot. “Which is the irid?”

I draw back. “Courtlyn?”

“Courtlyn,” Xaden agrees.

Andarna lifts her head, and Tairn growls down the bond.

“Way to give yourself away.” I narrow my eyes at her.

“It looks…black,” Calixta remarks.

Andarna blinks, and her scales shift color, blending into the background.

“She,” I correct Calixta. “Her name is Andarna and she’s the only irid on the Contin—” I wince. “On Amaralys. We’re searching for the rest of her kind and allies to hopefully fight alongside us in a war against those who wield dark magic.”

“She is marvelous.” Calixta bows, low and deep.

Andarna shimmers again, her scales returning to black, then lowers her head when Tairn huffs a breath at her.

“Our queen is delighted you’ve sought us out and is eager to come to your aid. We have always revered dragonkind.” She tilts her head toward Silaraine. “And the gryphons, of course.”

There’s no fucking way this is that easy. Dad wrote about playing games picked at random to gain entrance. “May we speak to your queen?” I ask. “We’ve brought a prince of Navarre to speak on our kingdom’s behalf.”

“Of course!” Calixta replies. “But first—”

“Here we go,” Ridoc mutters under his breath.

My thought exactly.

“—we must see what gifts Zihnal has chosen for you,” she finishes. “If you are willing to play and accept whatever gift the god of luck presents you with”—she lifts a finger—“without complaint, then you will be granted entrance to our city, where our queen waits.”

“I expected dice or even a board game, not gifts,” I admit to Xaden.

“There’s a trick here,” Xaden warns. “But there’s not enough power to read her.”

“And if we…complain?” I ask.

All traces of amusement drain from her face. “If you do not accept that luck determines your fate, that Zihnal may gift you with great fortune or take it, then we cannot ally ourselves with you. We do not accept those who do not adjust their sails in a storm.”

Not such a random choice of game, then. They want to see how we handle disappointment.

“No whining,” Xaden remarks. “I can respect that.”

Looking left, then right, I meet the eyes of every person on our squad, starting with Trager. One by one, they nod, ending with Mira on the right, who immediately rolls her eyes afterward.

“We’ll do it,” I tell Calixta.

“Wonderful!” She spins back to the crowd and lifts the pointed end of the hollow cone to her mouth before shouting into it.

The crowd roars.

“She said we’ll play,” Aaric tells me, leaning forward to see around Xaden.

“Where were these language skills when we were translating journals last year?” I ask.

He looks at me like I’ve gained another head. “I was raised to be a diplomat. Diplomats don’t speak to dead people.”

“You didn’t think we should know you speak fluent everything?” I arch a brow.

“And nullify Aetos’s reason for joining…what is it Ridoc calls us? Quest squad?” Aaric shakes his head.

“Let us see what Zihnal shall gift you with!” Calixta says over her shoulder, then walks toward the crowd.

Five people emerge from the right side of the steps, four carrying a table and one, a chair and a canvas bag.

“Guess we follow,” I say to the others.

We walk as a line across the field, and I stifle a yawn. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can find our beds. I can’t remember the last full night of sleep we had without pulling watches. Deverelli, maybe?

“I don’t care if she hands you a steaming pile of goat shit,” Mira lectures down the line. “No one complains. Got it? Smile and thank her. This is our last real chance to secure an army.”

“What if it’s cow shit?” Ridoc asks. “That’s considerably heavier.”

“No complaining,” Drake snaps from the left.

“Fuck, it’s like traveling with my parents,” Ridoc mutters.

“What are you thinking?” I ask Xaden as the table is set on the field about twenty feet in front of the crowd.

“They’d better have an army worth handling cow shit for.” His gaze continuously moves over the area. “And I’m not a fan of it being two thousand to eleven, even with dragonfire at our back.”

“Agreed. Let’s get this over with.”

“Excellent idea. I’d like to find lunch,” Tairn says.

Three of the furniture carriers scatter, leaving Calixta facing us in the chair behind the table and two men off to her right. The closest holds the cone.

“Stop,” Calixta says, holding out her hand when we’re about six feet from the edge of the table.

We stop.

I wave a bug out of my face and glance up at the sky, hoping for some form of approaching cloud cover to shade us from the heat, but there’s none to be found. Guess Zihnal has decided we’ll bake in our leathers while we wait.

Calixta reaches into the canvas bag, then pulls out a stack of cards as thick as the width of my forearm. They’re the size of my face and have a bright-orange pattern on their backs. “Each card represents a gift,” she says, mixing them with a skill that speaks to practice.

The closest man translates for the crowd, his voice booming through the cone, and the taller one to his right signs.

Calixta spreads the cards face down in a long arc across the table. “You will pull the card Zihnal inspires you to choose and receive your gift.”

The men translate, and the crowd murmurs in anticipation.

“There’s no way two thousand people gather to watch us open presents.” My stomach turns at the looks of rapt fascination among the crowd.

“Don’t pick the shit card,” Xaden replies.

“Step forward and choose.” Calixta points to Mira.

Every muscle in my body tenses and a wave of dizziness makes me brace my feet apart. Not right now, I beg my body.

Mira walks to the right edge of the table and plucks a card without pause.

Calixta takes it and smiles. “Zihnal gifts you wine!” She shows us the painted wine bottle, then rotates it for the crowd as the men translate.

The applause is instant, and a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair runs forward from the left front row carrying a bottle of wine.

“Thank you,” Mira says as the woman hands it to her, and Calixta translates.

The woman bows her head, and Mira mirrors the gesture before turning toward me.

“I’m going to fucking need this,” she says with a fake smile, then falls back into line as the woman hurries to her seat.

One by one, Calixta calls us forward, moving down the line.

Maren receives two orange tunics from a short, smiling man with a shiny bald head.

Dain’s card reveals a hand, and when he offers his to the woman who walks over to him, she slaps him across the face so hard his head turns in our direction.

I swallow my gasp and force a blank expression onto my face when I catch Calixta glancing my way. Message received: we can’t complain about anyone else’s gifts, either.

Dain blinks twice, then thanks the woman and inclines his head.

Ridoc barely stifles a snort, but quickly schools his features when I glance sideways at him.

“Do not laugh,” I warn Xaden, fighting off another tide of dizziness.

“I’m more worried about the implications of that hit,” he answers without losing his professionally bored expression. “And a little jealous of the woman who delivered it.”

Garrick is given a rusted steel bucket.

Aaric receives a fractured hand mirror that immediately cuts his thumb when the man hands it to him top first.

My heart pounds like I’m on the mat as Xaden chooses his card.

He’s given an empty glass box the size of his foot, with pewter hinges and edges. “Better than getting slapped.”

A smile tugs at my mouth, but it doesn’t calm my racing heart as I step forward. I choose a card on the far left end of the arch, then hold my breath as I hand it to Calixta.

“The compass!” she announces and the men translate.

A tall man with bronzed skin and short black hair comes forward from the right, and I turn to face him. His dark eyes study me for a moment that quickly becomes awkward.

I lift my chin and his mouth tilts into a smirk as he nods subtly, as though finding my reaction worthy. Extending his hand silently, he offers me a black compass on a dark chain. I glance down as I take it and notice that the needle doesn’t point anywhere near north. It’s broken.

Now I understand the smirk.

“Thank you,” I tell him and bow my head.

“Use it wisely,” he replies, his eyes blatantly mocking me as he bows.

“Broken compass,” I tell Xaden as I fall back into line.

“You can put it in my box of nothingness,” he replies. “We’ll keep them on the bedside table.”

“I’m not carrying this thing home.” But for now, I lift the chain over my head.

“It’s bad luck to throw away a gift from Zihnal,” Xaden lectures as Ridoc heads to the table.

Ridoc draws a card with a painted pair of lips, and the crowd cheers.

The way this is going, I half expect the lanky blond man approaching Ridoc to hand him a tin of lip rouge, or maybe a pair of lips that’s been sliced off a dead cow. Instead, the man clasps both sides of Ridoc’s face, then smacks a loud kiss onto each of his cheeks.

“Thank you,” Ridoc says, and the two bow, then part. He lifts his brows at me before taking his place in line.

Cat is given a gold necklace with a dangling ruby the size of my thumb.

Drake draws next.

“The claw!” Calixta announces, holding the painted symbol high, and the crowd cheers when the men translate.

My heart jumps into my throat as a bear of a man marches forward from the right, huge fists swinging by his sides.

Drake doesn’t flinch.

I ready myself for the punch that’s inevitably coming and wonder if the man’s nails have been filed into sharp points.

He stops in front of Drake, then reaches into the front pocket of his tunic.

And takes out a mewling kitten.

Drake receives the orange tabby with both hands, then thanks him and bows.

“What the fuck are we going to do with that thing for the rest of the trip?” Xaden questions.

“Keep Andarna from eating it.” A bead of sweat drips down the side of my face, and I wobble as my head starts to swim, but I keep upright.

“Dizzy?” Xaden asks, sidestepping so my shoulder rests against his arm.

“I could use some sleep like everyone else,” I answer but lean a little on him.

Trager draws a card from the center and hands it to Calixta.

“The arrow!” She holds it high, revealing a painted arrow, then turns it to the audience. The men translate, and the crowd falls silent.

Trager staggers backward. Time slows to a crawl as he turns toward us with three fumbling footsteps. His gaze lurches for Cat, and then he falls to his knees and sways.

An arrow protrudes from his heart.

He’s dead before Ridoc and I can catch him.