Page 121 of Echoes of the Raven
“Shit!” Jago exclaims. “I knew this was a bad idea.”
Rífíor arches his body over mine and pushes me toward the exit. We scramble like rats, ashes stinging our eyes and clogging our noses. The air itself seems to groan under the weight of the collapsing building. I squeeze my eyes shut, picturing the heavy wooden beams pinning us like insects. Then something shifts, a disturbance that seems out of place. I peek with one eye and watch as the blackened skeleton lifts up and floats away, the silver light of the moon splitting the darkness, exposing us.
A dark figure stands above us, one hand lifted toward the hovering pile of rubble, red espiritu flowing from his fingers.
Galen huffs. “Well, don’t just sit there gaping at me. Hurry!”
48
VALERIA
“On the charge of treason, you are hereby exiled from Tirnanog until the hells devour you.”
Korben Theric - King of Tirnanog - 1971 DV
As soon as we dash out from under the wreckage, Galen lets the charred bulk drop. I flinch, expecting a deafening crash, but the sorcerer waves a hand, and there is barely a sound as the weakened beams snap and the rest of the building collapses into the cellar that served as our hiding place.
So naive of us to think we could hide from his espiritu. It was only a matter of time before he found us.
Rífíor squares his shoulders, stepping protectively in front of me. Galen smirks, dusting his cloak. He doesn’t look the least bit intimidated.
“For our people’s sake, Galen,” Rífíor says, “help us or get out of the way.”
“Who is this guy?” Jago leans in to whisper in my ear.
I ignore his question, trying to think of a way to escape, but I don’t see one.
“Help you?” the sorcerer asks, as if it were the most foreign concept he can imagine. “Help you, how?”
Rífíor fists tighten, but they’ll be no match for espiritu. If only we had our fae-made blades, but Rífíor’s is lost in the forest and La Matadora is back at the inn, reclining against the wall.
Galen sticks his hand under his cloak. Rífíor tenses, his entire body coiled to spring. The sorcerer pulls something from a hidden pocket and holds it out for us to inspect.
The Eldrystone!
As if frozen by espiritu, Rífíor stands mutely.
I step from behind him, driven by a slight glow of the opal. Seeing it, I realize how much I’ve missed its weight around my neck, its warmth over my chest. Mechanically, I lift a hand and reach for it. When Galen pulls it away, my heart lurches and anger fills me. It takes all my strength to reign it back in, but I prevail.
“Nah ah ah.” He shakes a finger. “I have conditions for the king.” His sharp green eyes drift over my shoulder to Rífíor.
“The king?” Jago echoes. “Puta madre! I have a feeling I missed a lot.”
“Anything.” I turn to Rífíor. “Right?”
I sense his disappointment at my thoughtless answer. I haven’t the faintest idea what history exists between them, and what the sorcerer could possibly want from the Fae King. It isn’t for me to decide if Galen’s conditions are met. Yet, we’re talking about The Eldrystone. Surely, Rífíor will agree to any demands.
“What do you want, Galen?” Rífíor asks.
“You know what I want.”
“You already have it in your hand, do you not?” Rífíor’s tone is heavy with contempt.
“The damn thing refuses to work for me,” he complains. “Also, you could show a little gratitude. I took the amulet back from that dolt, and I diverted their attention in the wrong direction.”
“Thank you,” Rífíor says, but it sounds more likefuck you.
Thesorcerer crosses his arms and presses his lips, looking like a stubborn child who refuses to talk unless he gets the sweets he has demanded.
