Powers of the Six Page 2

  “The baker wants to move?” The duke snorted. “That’s ridiculous.” He picked up a roll and took a generous bite. “The bakery is just fine where it is.”

  Nolan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The duke’s wife snickered. Nolan caught her smiling gaze and quickly looked away. “No, my lord. Mr. Bakker is a tailor, not a baker.”

  Duke Ragnall paused mid-chew. “What are his reasons?”

  “Well, my lord. He states his business has declined since his daughter came into the Shay of Accuracy last year, and the people of Orange District have been avoiding his shop and going elsewhere. He wants to go somewhere ‘where he’ll be appreciated.’”

  Duke Ragnall turned his attention to his plate, shooing a meaty hand in Nolan’s direction. “Of course, of course. If he has the means to move, then so be it. He has my permission.”

  “Very good, sir.” Nolan rolled the parchment and slid it into his bag. After a brief inspection of the serving platters—which held far too much for only the three of them—Nolan selected a glazed pastry and placed it on his plate.

  “I also wanted to speak to you about the upcoming Tournament of Awakening,” Duke Ragnall said. “Our recent encounter with the prisoner will bring the king’s army here sooner than expected. I’ve received word that General Trividar will arrive this afternoon to question him.”

  Nolan stopped his fork midway to his mouth. Kael was coming … today? His stomach lurched.

  Duke Ragnall continued, “Considering our current circumstances, I think it might be best to deliver the summons for the Tournament of Awakening as soon as possible. Perhaps you might make them available by tomorrow at the latest?”

  “They’re already done, sir.” Nolan motioned to the bag, grateful he had stayed up to finish them. It would be one less thing for Kael to criticize.

  “Why, Nolan, you never cease to amaze me.” The duke turned to his wife. “My dear, isn’t his performance outstanding?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m sure it is.”

  Mikayla reached over and brushed her fingers across Nolan’s hand.

  Nolan coughed and rose quickly, jarring the table. “If Your Excellency would not object, I’d like to deliver the summons myself.”

  Duke Ragnall gawked, his mouth gaped, revealing his last bite of fruit. “You want to deliver them?”

  He gritted his teeth, wishing he’d kept his big mouth shut. It wasn’t like he wanted to run around in the horrid heat. And he could barely keep his eyes open. Nolan forced a smile. “The fresh air and exercise will do me good.”

  ***

  A puffy, gray blanket of clouds stretched the expanse of the sky like wads of dirty lamb’s wool. It covered the town of Alton and the forest beyond, and even went to the distant mountains, obstructing the tops of the rocky fortresses from view. The sky appeared as it always did in the thriving city: dark, gloomy, and depressing.

  Nolan walked the streets of the Yellow District, where every shop looked as if fading dandelions had sacrificed themselves on their walls.

  A painter worked outside the herb shop, his clothes splattered in a prism of colors. The building’s yellow hue peeled except where the man applied a new layer of pale, thick paint.

  The man’s rainbow-colored clothes sagged from his humped shoulders. His eyes met Nolan’s, but he quickly averted his gaze, too ashamed to be seen by an employee of the manor.

  Guilt gnawed at Nolan’s gut. The only reason he had a privileged job was because he secretly used his Shay to succeed. He too could’ve become a painter—one of the lowliest jobs in the whole of Adamah. The poor man had no district color to claim as his own.

  He turned at the corner. The buildings of the Orange District were always brighter than the others. Nolan passed the primary apothecary, where they made the paints each day. He shook his head. No wonder their district’s colors always appeared the best.

  He wasn’t sure why they bothered. They said it honored the different Shay abilities; each color represented one of the six powers—like the Rol’dan cared or felt “honored” by them slapping paint on their walls. Perhaps it was really because they were jealous of the Rol’dan; they claimed a color because they couldn’t have one of their own. Or maybe it was just an excuse to not get along. The color districts always bickered, always presented long and detailed complaints. Lucky Nolan got to record every one.

  He wound between rows of tightly constructed merchant shops, delivering summons for the Tournament of Awakening. Nolan hated this time of year. Parents dreamed their young one could become one of the “fortunate” few, one of the Shay Rol’dan. It was also when the city became more annoying than usual. With the tournament only two weeks away, people poured in from all the outlying towns. Law required every fifteen-year-old to take part, so families converged upon the city in noisy and excited droves, making the crowded city even more unbearable.

  Morning stretched into afternoon before Nolan made it to his final destination in Red District. Turning at the candle shop, the clashing of swords rang nearby. On the front edge of the armory, a metal sign hung in the shape of a shield with Deverell’s Arms etched on its surface.

  He opened the door to a crowded room. The clang of swords and the smell of soot filled the small space. People from all districts were there, wearing clothes of every color. Nolan squeezed as politely as he could between the reeking bodies and past a large man entranced with the performance—of sorts—in front of him. Instead of a blacksmith or two tinkering around an anvil and coals, a rough-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair sparred with a boy only a couple years younger than Nolan.

  The older one was Kardos Deverell, renowned arms maker; he had the large, developed forearms of a blacksmith. The boy resembled him, except instead of dark hair, tight, blond curls clung to his head. Although Nolan couldn’t say for sure, he guessed he was the blacksmith’s son, Alec Deverell. It was Alec Nolan came to see.

  “Excuse me,” Nolan asked the large man next to him. “What’s happening here?”

  The man only stared at the duel.

  Nolan ground his teeth. He hated being ignored. He wiped a trail of sweat from his face before jabbing the stranger on the shoulder.

  The man turned finally, annoyed. He stared … or more accurately, gawked at Nolan like he was an ignorant clod. “They’re sparring, in case you can’t figure that out.”

  “I can see that,” Nolan said. “Why?”

  The man shrugged, his large shoulder covered in a layer of grime and sweat. “Why not? Deverell and his boy do this all the time.”

  Kardos swung around, blocking a blow; the crowd gasped in unison. Fringes of dark hair flared around the blacksmith’s face, his eyes gleaming like a madman.

  “They’ve done it for years,” continued the man. “Every afternoon they’re fighting. Only the past few years it’s been worth watching. The boy didn’t last long enough before.”

  Nolan flinched as the son dodged a swing at his shoulder and then swept his own sword around; Kardos blocked it and returned the attack. The crowd gasped again as the blow barely missed Alec.

  “The boy’s been putting up a good fight nowadays,” the man said. “Matter of fact, he might win one eventually. Boy, I’d like to see ol’ Kardos’s face when that happens.”

  Both swordsmen glared at each other, nostrils flaring, veins protruding from their necks. If Nolan didn’t know any better, he’d think they were trying to kill each other. Finally, with a wide sweep, Kardos tore Alec’s blade from his grip, flinging it aside. The crowd erupted in applause.

  Nolan strained to hear Kardos scold his son. Why was he angry? Alec had fought well.

  After a few final curses—heard even above the noise of the people—Kardos turned and bowed with a flourish.

  Alec withdrew to the back of the shop, his face turned downward as he tied a strip of cloth on his palm, as if dressing a wound. He peeled off his battered leather armor and drenched tunic and flung them to the ground.

  Nolan stared. A l
arge scar ran across Alec’s chest. Another blazed his side. Numerous others crisscrossed his arms. Even his face had a long, straight scar below his cheekbone.

  Nolan’s own father hadn’t been kind. At home, he’d yelled more than he talked. Nolan never did anything right while helping on the boat. Too much net. Not enough line. Too loud—he’d scare the fish. Too slow—they’ll get away. But at least his father hadn’t used him for sword practice. Nolan’s father probably didn’t even know how to hold a sword.

  It took several minutes for the crowd to clear, leaving Nolan standing alone in the center of the viewing area. Kardos caught Nolan’s eye and smiled, displaying a row of straight, white teeth that contrasted with his soot-covered face. He extended a friendly hand.

  “Enjoy the show, boy?” he asked.

  He gawked. Kardos didn’t want him to answer, did he? Instead of saying something he shouldn’t, Nolan crammed a scroll into the blacksmith’s outstretched palm and recited his bland, rehearsed statement. “I am here to present an important document to Alec Deverell, from Duke Ragnall.”

  The merriment fell from the blacksmith’s face. He stared and then tore open the seal, unrolling the parchment. As he read, his brows furrowed deeper and deeper into a furious scowl. Alec approached and peered over his shoulder while Kardos muttered under his breath.

  “No son of mine is going to be taken away from me. Those … I’ll show them … They think they can tell us what to do.” After Kardos finished reading it, for probably the fifth time, he crushed the document and chucked it to the ground. He opened his mouth to speak, his finger raised as if to jab Nolan’s chest.

  “I’ll be there.” Alec picked up the crumpled summons. “I’ll be there as required.”

  “No, Alec,” Kardos said. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “Father, I’m going.”

  “Shut your mouth, boy. We don’t have to put up with this.”

  “We don’t.” Alec’s intense eyes locked on Nolan’s with a resigned look. “I do.”

  Kardos grabbed Alec’s arm and jerked him around. “Alec, I’m your father—”

  “And this is the law. I’m fifteen now. I have to go.”

  “We can refuse.”

  “And what?” Alec said. “They arrest us? They close your shop? For Brim’s sake, Father, I’ll only be gone a month or so. I’m sure you can make do without me for that long.” Alec turned. “If you’ll excuse us, we have work to do.”

  Nolan didn’t know how to respond. But before he had to, Alec walked to the forge. Kardos glared and then followed his son. The two began to work as if he weren’t there.

  Obviously, Kardos cared for Alec—when he wasn’t slicing him to bits. He was willing to lose everything, his freedom, and his shop, to keep his son from the Rol’dan. Nolan’s own father sold him off to be a scribe for failing his Tournament of Awakening. Kardos fought to keep Alec away from the very same trials.

  Suddenly, Kardos didn’t look so bad, sword slashes and all.

  Nolan left the shop and maneuvered through the crowded streets toward the manor. The whole situation was strange. The Shay Rol’dan army had most, if not all, of their swords made at Deverell’s shop, yet the man wanted nothing to do with the tournament. One would figure that, because of his business with the army, he’d be excited about the chance of Alec becoming one of them.

  The glory and reputation of the Rol’dan blinded most people. They didn’t see their true nature. Selfish. Bitter. Cruel. In his regular dealings with the Rol’dan, Kardos Deverell most likely saw what most didn’t. The truth.

  As soon as Nolan came within sight of the manor, he stopped. His palms were slick, and he wiped them on his breeches, trying to steady himself.

  A crowd gathered at the main gate. A father held a small boy on his shoulders; the smiling youth waved a yellow flag. Several maidens huddled together in a ridiculous, giggling mass. Nolan cringed. Only one person, besides the king himself, could cause this much excitement. General Kael Trividar had arrived.

  Chapter Three

  NOLAN STOOD IN THE gold-adorned hallway near the entrance as voices echoed from inside the Great Hall. A year had passed since Nolan had seen him last—a peaceful year that flew by much too quickly. Last year, Master Irving had dealt with Kael while Nolan ducked away.

  Now, Nolan held the position and responsibilities of master scribe. This year he’d have to face his self-absorbed brother, whether he liked it or not. He stepped closer, stretching to hear better.

  “Where is he now?” Kael asked.

  “Safely locked in the tower, General,” Duke Ragnall answered. “You may question him at any time.”

  Kael chuckled. “I’m surprised your men had the capabilities to apprehend him. But I suppose he’s only an Empathy user. I’d be amused to see your pitiful lot try to capture someone with Speed.”

  Nolan huffed. Kael always thought his Speed Shay was better than the rest of the powers. Typical Rol’dan.

  “Yes, General. We were quite fortunate.” The duke cleared his throat. “You should be pleased to know that the last of the summons for the Tournament of Awakening are being delivered as we speak. Everything is ahead of schedule.”

  Nolan peeked around the corner. Daylight filtered through the glass in the high, domed ceiling. Kael strutted under the dim light, adorned in his golden tunic and waist-length cape. A leather jerkin stretched snugly across his broad chest. Duke Ragnall waddled behind him, acting more like a servant than the Lord of Alton.

  The way everyone loved the Rol’dan, doted on them, gave them free goods from their shops frustrated Nolan to no end. Even the duke fed Kael’s massive ego. Nolan was so tense, he almost didn’t hear the delicate padding of feet coming down the corridor. He turned, and his heart stopped. Mikayla stared at him, her slender hand on her hip. He snapped his jaw shut and dropped his eyes, taking in the rest of her.

  Gold bands encircled her upper arms, and a blue-jeweled pendant hung low on her chest, drawing attention to her revealing neckline. He forced his gaze from her chest to her gown; it cascaded down long, olive legs in numerous strips of sheer blue fabric. Several gold rings adorned the toes of her bare feet—a hint of her Talasian culture. She balanced a tray on one hand, gracefully moving closer with cat-like steps.

  Nolan stepped back as she came toward him, but the wall stopped any chance of escape. When he opened his mouth to speak, she placed a finger against his lips. The intoxicating scent of sweet-and-spicy oils permeated her skin.

  They said nothing for several long seconds, only studying each other in the lantern-lit hall while warmth flooded Nolan’s cheeks. She smiled as her hand slid down Nolan’s neck. He needed to stop her, but he couldn’t move. With a quick yank, she undid the tie on his tunic.

  He jolted to reality and grabbed her wrist, but not before her fingertips sent a fire-like jab into his chest. He inhaled sharply and glared at her, shaking his head.

  She paused, reluctantly stepped back, and wrenched her wrist free. With a playful pout, she turned and disappeared into the Great Hall, making her way toward her husband. Nolan remained against the wall, his heart pounding against his ribs.

  “Ah, Mikayla! Thank you, my dear.”

  A moment later, Mikayla reappeared, empty handed.

  Nolan flinched, bracing himself, but she did nothing but glance over her shoulder, teasing him with her eyes as she disappeared down the corridor. He watched her swaying hips as she glided out of sight.

  The voices drifted from the Great Hall, pulling Nolan back to his eavesdropping.

  “How many will attend this year?” Kael asked.

  “I believe there are around eighty from our region,” the duke said. “Nolan could tell you for certain. He has them all recorded in the city’s census reports.”

  “So my brother is still in your service?” He stressed the word brother like he’d just tasted something disgusting.

  “Yes. Of course! He recently assumed the position as my personal scribe. I’ve never s
een one with such a natural talent for the job. He surpassed my previous scribe in just a few short years.”

  Nolan scowled; he really needed to make more mistakes.

  “That young man has been such an asset here in the manor,” the duke said. “I am most certain his work cannot be matched even by the king’s personal scribe.”

  “Your sentiments are … touching. As if scribbling on bits of paper is an asset.” Kael paused, taking a gulp of ale.

  “It’s more than scribbling,” the duke said, missing Kael’s insult. “I’ve never seen someone with such a perfect hand. Each stroke is … well, it is magnificent.”

  Nolan groaned. His nightforsaken Accuracy always got in the way. One of these days he’d slip up and find himself locked up in a cell.

  The duke began describing some of Nolan’s finer attributes. Nolan shook his head. At least the conversation dislodged the image of Mikayla’s legs from his mind. Sometimes he wondered how long he could keep it all up—hiding his power, avoiding Mikayla. Someday she would catch him off guard. Crows, what would happen then? He’d have to take everything one cautious step at a time.

  He sighed, knowing he needed to get this over with. Nolan pushed off the wall, cleared his throat, and entered.

  Kael’s smirk widened when he saw him. “Nolan! The duke was just telling me how hard you work here at the manor.” He drained his mug in one gulp, set it on a nearby table, and scrutinized the full length of him. “These are new.” He jabbed at Nolan’s spectacles, knocking them out of place.

  “Yes.” He straightened the frames. “Duke Ragnall was generous enough to have them made for me. With all the writing I do, it puts quite a strain on my eyes.”

  Kael laughed. “Now even your eyes are weak. How appropriate. One might say it makes you look smarter. I suppose you need all the help you can get.”

  Nolan strained a smile.

  Kael slapped his hands together and rubbed them as if trying to stay warm. “I suppose you must record the questioning of the prisoner as the law requires. And since you’re here, well, there is no need to wait, is there? Nolan, why don’t you be a good boy and go get the record book? We will have a chat with our friend up in the tower.” He paused and held up a finger. “On second thought, let me grab it. By the time you return, he might die of old age.”