Page 56 of Hunting the Warlord's Daughter

They drew their weapons and descended into the cave.

* * *

“Aral!” Wren spun back to the portal. A solid wall once more. She ran the few steps to it, then stopped. The sanctum recognized Aral as an intruder and expelled him.“You’ll enter the inner sanctum alone.”Sabra’s words came back to her. What if she went outside and brought Aral back, would the forces that protected the sanctum take further, more violent action? Worse, what if it didn’t like her repeated efforts to escort Aral inside and barred her from entry?

As much as she wanted to share this with him, she couldn’t risk it. The sanctum would allow her inside, the Sacred Key, and no other.

Poor Aral, he’d have a fit thinking he couldn’t protect her. But she could defend herself if need be. Besides, what was the worst that could happen to him in the short time she’d be in the sanctum? Some obsessive worry, a little boredom. Plenty of cursing. “Patience, Aral. I’ll be right back.”

She turned back to the lovely room, a fairyland of glittery motes and runes glowing on the walls. Golden sparkles followed her every move, like phosphorescence in a tropical sea.

A box—a chest—sat on the stand in the rear of the room. The treasure? She aimed her flashlight at it, and it instantly shut off.Huh.She tapped the flashlight a few times, but it was dead.

She was alone in the dark. Out of habit she started to push on glasses that were no longer there. It showed how much she’d changed since leaving Barokk, and yet had not.

Well, she didn’t need a flashlight. The glow motes had formed circles on the smooth floor, like stepping stones leading to the chest. A path. She started forward, carefully stepping in the center of each circle. It brought back memories of childhood, Sabra making her cross the river on those slippery stones, the roar of the water rushing past, her focus glued to those stones, else she might slip and fall. Everything else in the chamber was like that noise. It would only distract her. She tuned it out and focused on the chest.

She didn’t want to fail.

Reaching the chest, she placed her hands on the lid. “Comes a heart pure and true,” she murmured, and wasn’t sure why. It seemed the right thing to say. How pure and true could her heart be anyway? Her blood was of a vile and wicked man. But her mother had given her the blood of priestesses. The sister on Issenda hadn’t seen her as evil. No, she’d regarded Wren with awe. In her eyes, Wren was a doer of good things, not a carrier of evil. And in Aral’s eyes, she was the love of his life. To Sabra, she was the chosen one, born to make the galaxy whole again, a girl placed her care and eventually seen as a daughter. It was enough to give Wren the strength—the heart—to make this moment worthy of all who’d placed their hopes in her, a small girl with a big reputation.

Once, she’d felt so alone. No longer. She couldfeeltrillions of souls across the galaxy here with her, the good and the misguided, all their hopes and dreams. It was time to do what she’d vowed to do: take possession of the treasure and use the contents for the good of the galaxy.

“My blood is your blood. My DNA is your destiny!”

You’re wrong, Father.

Her destiny wasthis.

Tingles raised bumps on her skin. She shivered. Only it was a good shiver. Powerful. She grabbed the lid and hoisted it high. For a heart-stopping moment she thought the box was empty. The item inside took up so little room.

A thick, old book.

Had the contents already been plundered? Was the sanctum nothing more than a trick from ancient days—a tease? Or was this single book that important?

Runes decorated a cover of deep blue etched with silver. The material seemed to absorb light, except for silvery highlights which glowed from within, much like the pendant. Wren ran her fingertip over the embossed, old-fashioned surface, the strange language. Then, ever so carefully, she picked up the heavy tome.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

Nauseated,his head on fire, Aral came to slumped in a sitting position on the floor, his legs sprawled. His face and neck felt tacky with blood. The air was cool, damp, still. He was still in the cave.

The cave! Everything came back in a rush—entering the sanctum with Wren, being ejected, landing here. Then something had hit him—hard, knocking him out.

He started to lift a hand to the back of his head. His wrists were bound! His ankles too. What the freep? He struggled to free himself of his restraints.

“Greetings, Aral.”

Aral halted as if he’d been flash frozen. Then jerked his head up. Pain flared, and he regretting the sudden move.

A man watched him in the dim light of a porta-lantern, his arms crossed, his dark clothing and boots unremarkable. Silver streaked the nearly black hair he wore in a neat ponytail, perhaps a little more than when Aral had last seen the man, but Karbon Mawndarr was still as regal, still as polished, with the same cruel set to his jaw and mouth that had haunted Aral for as long as he could remember.

Wren. She was his one thought. Not how Karbon followed them, not how he got free of his Triad captors. Only that he was here and Aral needed to keep Wren away from him. The rocky wall through which she’d disappeared was still solid. How long before she emerged?

Karbon chuckled. “I’m waiting for her too. Do you think she’ll be long?”

Aral knew better than to react to anything he said. It would only make things worse. Although, they were about as bad as they could get. He’d just awakened to his worst nightmare.

“I have you to thank for setting me free,” Karbon said. “I told the Triad you wanted to be the next warlord. They ate it right up. The warrant for your arrest went out so fast, I’d barely gotten the words out. After that, they let down their guard. Fools.”

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