Powers of the Six Read online

  Ridiculous! Powers don’t weaken. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. A year before, Nolan could barely keep his power under control. He’d figured that he’d just gotten better at hiding. Or maybe it was both.

  “Though I can’t prove it,” Emery continued, “I believe King Alcandor is responsible. His powers and abilities are like none other. I suspect he is harnessing our Shays, using them to increase his own.”

  Emery squeezed the window ledge so hard his blood-smeared knuckles whitened. “It’s essential that we save these children before they are lost to the king’s army. Increasing our numbers also gives us a better chance of finding a solution to our fading powers. Do you understand our plight? Nolan, can you help us?”

  He couldn’t answer. Emery was asking him to alter everything. His life was safe as a scribe. He should tell Emery to shove off, but something made him pause. Nolan was as much a prisoner in the manor as Emery.

  “I can understand your hesitation,” Emery said. “It’s a serious crime I’m asking you to commit. Even if you refuse, I’d like for you to go with my friends. Our life isn’t safe, but neither is the one you’re attempting now. With my friends, at least you’ll no longer have to pretend.”

  His jaw dropped. Such a place exists?

  The echo of footsteps approached. Nolan’s supplies lay strewn on the floor near Emery’s feet. Nolan scrambled to retrieve the book and quill. As he rose, Emery grabbed his arm and whispered, “What is your gift, friend?”

  A guard entered and Emery quickly dropped his hold.

  “General Trividar, sir?” The guard looked around. “Where’s the general?”

  “He left,” Nolan lied. “Didn’t you see him pass?”

  “I uh … Yes. Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Are you done then?”

  “In a moment.” Nolan bent to retrieve the bottle of ink off the ground and locked eyes with Emery. In that brief moment, he made a decision.

  He relaxed, letting a pulse of his Shay leak through his control. The blue light of Accuracy flickered in Nolan’s eyes, just long enough for Emery to see, and then he hid it away again. For the first time in his life, he’d shared his secret.

  The guard led Nolan from the room and pulled the heavy door closed. He casually reached into a small pouch around his waist, digging into it with a confused expression. “Strange. Must’ve left it downstairs.”

  “Left what?” Nolan asked.

  “My key.” The guard grunted. “It’s not like the traitor can go anywhere with those chains, but still …”

  “I’m sure it’ll turn up.” Nolan reinforced his words with his best reassuring smile and readjusted the pouch … which held the key.

  Chapter Four

  NOLAN BRUSHED HIS HAND over the battered red cover. Inside, the book listed the results of the Tournament of Awakening for the last hundred years. He opened it and thumbed back two years prior, the year of his own tournament, the year his life drastically changed. Nolan’s name was under the large list of people who’d failed. The list of those obtaining a power contained twenty names.

  Nolan pulled his eyes from the book to the activities of the pub. It was mid-morning—well past breakfast and well before lunch. Every table was filled, and people hovered at the outskirts of the room, all waiting their turn to grab a chair.

  A robust woman appeared at Nolan’s table. Her rosy cheeks crinkled in a pleasant smile, and a mane of salt-and-pepper hair framed her round face. “What can I do for ya?”

  “Ale please.”

  “Of course, love.” She wound her way through the crowd to the bar, chatting and laughing with several patrons on the way.

  Nolan assumed she was Aunt Bonty, but he wasn’t sure. He’d never set foot in the woman’s famous pub before. When he arrived, the crowd nearly made him turn back around. However, the smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the open door—and the fact he still had an hour to kill before the tournament—finally lured him in. Aunt Bonty’s pub was one of the few places in Alton where everyone was welcomed. Clothing of all shades filled the room—segregated into their own sections, of course. Luckily for Nolan, working at the manor allowed him to sit wherever he wanted.

  Nolan repositioned the book and flipped back to Kael’s tournament year. He was one of thirty-two discovered that year. The number of Rol’dan recruits increased the further back he looked. Thirty-eight. Then forty. Then sixty-five. The most recent tournament listed only nine names.

  He stared at the page.

  Why hadn’t he noticed? The numbers had radically dropped. How much longer until the Shay powers would disappear completely?

  “You all right there, love?” Bonty stood at Nolan’s elbow, waiting patiently for a place to put the ale.

  “Sorry.” He closed the book and stuffed it into his pack.

  “Ah, not to worry.” She placed the mug on the table. “You meetin’ someone?”

  “Um, no. Why?” He picked up the mug and took a drink. It tasted much better than he’d imagined.

  Bonty smiled. “Just wondering. I thought she might be looking for you.” She pointed toward a young woman seated at the bar, patted his arm in a motherly fashion, and continued to the next table to drop off a bowl of savory smelling stew.

  A girl, maybe a few years older than Nolan, sat straight on a stool. Her dark brown hair hung down her back, tied loosely with a strip of gray cloth. She was pretty. Not exotic like Mikayla, but still quite lovely. Wearing simple clothes—a light blue dress and no jewelry—she could easily fit in with the girls back home.

  He took a prolonged drink and murmured a laugh. Don’t be an idiot, Nolan. He shouldn’t think of home—or admire pretty girls, for that matter. The manor was his life. Today, he’d leave to record the proceedings at the tournament, like last year and every year to come. And when he returned, he’d hide in his gloomy room and die of old age as the scribe of Alton Manor. No trip home. No girls. No life. Just him, his ink, and his quill.

  A boisterous laugh rebounded off the walls. A large, hairy man perched on a stool too small for him with his back to the pub’s far wall. His eyes sparkled. His beard hung long and matted. Everything about him was huge. If Nolan guessed, he would assume the man to be a Higherlander, the people from the other side of the mountain range. But that would be ridiculous; they didn’t usually leave their lands.

  An energetic group of children, dressed in every shade of the districts, sat on the floor surrounding him, hanging on his every word.

  “Nay!” the man said in answer to a child’s question. “I’ve never seen them. No living man has. But I have seen a man after the fact, after the dark beasts took his soul.” He leaned forward for effect. “Aye, you best listen to your mums about the night. Everything she’s said is true.”

  The children leaned their heads together, whispering.

  The Higherlander was quite a storyteller. Activities of the pub died as others hung on his words. Nolan reclined in his chair and stretched his legs to get comfortable.

  “And the Demon Wars?” a girl asked.

  “That, my lass, I do not know. I’ve heard a man who can tell those tales, so he says.”

  “And the magic stones!” a boy asked. “Do you have the magic stones?”

  The man stroked his long beard, smiling. “And what do you know about those?”

  The boy looked around shyly. “My friend, Tommy, showed them to me. He said you gave him magic stones that keep the night beasts away. He said he got them from you yesterday.”

  The man laughed so deeply it rumbled in his chest. “So that is why I have so many here to listen to my tales! Aye, laddie, I still have some.”

  The children rose, pressing in closer. Nolan stretched to catch a peek.

  “Now, remember, these here aren’t real,” the man said. “There are legends of real stones, hundreds of years ago. They say the light inside them can scare any darkness away. So don’t be wanderin’ out in the dark and getting yourselves killed. These here are
only rocks, not true magic stones.”

  The children didn’t seem to care if they were pretending. They chattered excitedly as he handed out small bundles. The brood scampered away with their new treasures, some running out the door and others joining adults at nearby tables. Conversations started up again. A boy at the table next to Nolan’s held out his bundle, showing it to his father. The man scowled, yanking it away.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” He tossed it on the floor and led the crying boy away.

  Nolan scowled. Oh, for Brim’s sake; let the kid have some fun.

  The storyteller rose and threaded his way through the pub, talking with those he passed. He headed to the bar where the pretty girl waited for him. She tapped her fingers, speaking to the man in low tones. Nolan straightened, his stomach dropping in disappointment and shock. The girl was with … him?

  How in the name of Brim did a hairy oaf end up with a girl like her? She only came to his shoulders. And for crow’s sake, he was way too old for her. A smattering of gray went through his dirty blond beard.

  Nolan studied the girl’s profile. And while staring at her might’ve been rude, he found the view much better than the smelly tradesmen crammed around the tables surrounding him. After several moments, she placed a few coins on the counter and swept the room with her eyes. Nolan panicked and jerked his head down.

  The table wasn’t very interesting, but there was no way he would look anywhere else. Nolan traced a finger on a jagged knife gouge, and when he couldn’t stand it any longer, he raised his head.

  The brown-haired girl and the mountain man had gone.

  Nolan pushed back disappointment and downed the last of his drink. He reached to retrieve his overstuffed pack and noticed a small wad of cloth lying on the floor—the one the father had tossed away. Nolan glanced around, seeing if anyone else had noticed. Conversations continued. He plucked it from the ground and set it in front of him.

  It consisted of some sort of animal fur—deer, maybe—tied closed with a thin bit of leather. Nolan pulled the strap, and it came undone. Inside lay six small stones, each painted a different color. Nolan smiled. Magic stones. He palmed the small rocks, rolling them, inspecting them. He then placed them back in the pelt and tucked the bundle into his pack.

  As he rose to leave, Kardos Deverell, the blacksmith, burst through the door like an angry badger. Nolan sat again and pulled out his book, pretending to read. Things were too interesting to leave now.

  “What can I get for you, Kardos?” Bonty asked.

  “The same as usual.”

  “Aren’t you and your boy swingin’ swords about this time of day?”

  “It’s a bit hard to fight yourself now, isn’t it?” He downed the mug in a long gulp and slammed it on the bar. “Alec is leaving for that nightforsaken tournament, and he won’t bother listening to reason.”

  “It’s not like he had a choice.”

  Kardos grunted. “I swear … If they lay one hand on my boy, those Rol’dan dogs will be on the other side of a Deverell blade.”

  The room quieted into whispers as eyes darted toward Kardos. Either Kardos didn’t notice or he didn’t care.

  “Here, love.” Bonty refilled his mug and pushed it toward him. “Set your mouth to this instead.”

  “Forget it.” Kardos shoved the mug away, sloshing its contents onto the bar. He threw two coins on the counter. “I need to get to work. The Rol’dan might not be able to murder anyone else without a good weapon. Good day, Bonty.”

  “Take care, Kardos,” Bonty said, and then shifted her attention to cleaning the mess.

  The conversations swelled back to loud drones. If Alec was anything like his father, the tournament would be interesting, indeed.

  Nolan stood, grateful to leave the overcrowded pub, but dreading the start of his day. The streets outside were even worse than the pub. The merchant shops in Alton were typically swarmed with shoppers and travelers. Today, the entire city—and probably the surrounding ones—had all come to wish the competitors a good journey. Nolan couldn’t take two steps without some passerby jostling him.

  He finally reached the river where three long boats rested along the docks, waiting for departure. In the center of each boat, a canopy sheltered reclining Rol’dan soldiers from the scorching sun. Kael sat in the lead boat with his feet propped on a chair. He drank from a large mug, seemingly bored.

  Nolan slid his bag off his shoulder and rotated his arm. A table had already been set on the pier. He situated his ink bottle and the tournament book in front of him. Nolan opened the book and ran his finger down the page. He was ready, he supposed, to begin his first duty of the tournament: the tedious process of calling off the names.

  Nolan scanned the hopeful faces pressing toward the docks. A few of Alton’s guards held off the expectant throng, waiting for Nolan to give his cue to begin. Emery’s plea for help prodded the back of Nolan’s brain. Nolan couldn’t help him. Not now. Not ever. He was only a scribe, for crow’s sake.

  Forcing back his guilt, Nolan focused on his task at hand. He had a job to do. Some of these people were about to confront their greatest desires and darkest futures. In a few moments, their life-altering journey to the Tournament of Awakening would begin.

  Chapter Five

  AFTER SEVEN DAYS ROWING down the Curlew River, and another seven on foot through the Forest of Vidar, Nolan and the traveling party broke through the trees into a breathtaking view.

  On the farthest edge of a grass-covered field, a lake sat at the base of a towering cliff. Branches and twisting vines draped over the rock face, giving shelter to a small waterfall that cascaded and churned over a medley of red and brown stones at its base. Small shafts of light broke through the cloud cover—unlike the low, endless clouds over Alton—making the water sparkle in spots. The grouping of nearly one hundred travelers gawked, muttering a few “oohs” and “ahhs.” Many had probably never seen the sunlight at all.

  The other thing that amazed Nolan was the colors. The grass was green—not the artificial green smeared over the district buildings in Alton, but green unlike anywhere else. The flowers smattered on the grass and clinging to vines all shouted natural colors, making the brightest paint in Adamah seem just another shade of gray. Nolan loved this place, even if it reminded him of the tournament. He shook his head, pushing aside memories of swords and arrows and blood. He scanned the mass of excited faces as they collapsed, one by one, in the grass. Poor fools. They didn’t even know what was coming to them.

  Nolan wiped his forehead. For a brief moment, he considered running to the small lake and jumping in fully clothed. From the murmuring, it seemed similar thoughts crossed the others’ minds as well.

  A short distance away, a sea of tents burst with competitors from other cities and towns. In all, over five hundred were supposed to come for the trials. Since Alton was the largest of the cities, and Nolan being the scribe of that city, he had the “honor” to keep track of everyone. His shoulders sagged thinking about it.

  Nolan’s eyes drifted to the others, and he thought about Emery Cadogan’s request. A girl with red hair flipped it over her shoulder. A heavy-set boy chatted with a tan-skinned friend. How in the Darkness did Emery expect Nolan to do anything? Everyone looked the same before coming into their powers. How could he “keep an eye out” for anyone? Excitement buzzed. They couldn’t wait for their trials to begin.

  He’d watch them, of course. That was his job: to watch and to record. But there was no way he’d ever try to coax them from the Rol’dan. Knowing his luck, whoever he talked to would report him. Then Nolan’s secret would be laid bare. And if that happened, he couldn’t help anyone, including himself. He’d be marked as a traitor and hanged. Guilt stabbed Nolan. Emery was on his own.

  A hearty laugh sounded from the group of Rol’dan where Kael chatted. Unlike the rest of the travelers, they had ridden on horseback.

  “Why do they get to ride anyway?” a boy whispered.

  “It’s becaus
e they’re the Rol’dan,” a girl answered. “They deserve to ride.”

  Several nodded in agreement.

  “They probably forgot how to walk,” another voice said.

  All heads turned to Alec Deverell, who, instead of resting, yanked a tall blade of grass out of the ground and flicked it. “Or they’re just too fat and lazy to walk on their own.”

  The group giggled and gasped. The Rol’dan soldiers quieted, and a Perception officer’s eyes glowed orange as he listened with his Shay. Nolan held his breath; this would not bode well.

  “Let them walk behind piles of horse dung for a change,” Alec continued. “Or maybe it was their own droppings, otherwise, they’d have to actually get off their fat backsides to relieve themselves.”

  Those who’d thought him funny before went silent, their eyes wide.

  Nolan stared. Is he really that stupid? Or does he want to die young?

  The Perception officer leaned over to Kael, and a few words passed between them. He pointed in Alec’s direction, and the whole lot made their way over, causing everyone to quickly rise to their feet.

  Kael stopped in front of Alec and studied him. “What’s your name?”

  “Alec Deverell … sir,” he replied, though the “sir” sneered with nothing close to respect.

  “Deverell … Deverell …” He snapped his fingers. “Ah! You’re the bladesmith’s son.”

  Alec didn’t answer.

  “Yes, I see the resemblance. Dreadful man that Kardos. At least he turns out a good blade.” Kael slid his sword from its sheath and laid the shining blade against his open palm. “I carry one of your father’s swords.”

  Alec only glanced at it. “Yes, I know that blade.”

  Kael stabbed his sword into its sheath and flicked a finger across the scar on Alec’s cheek. “It appears you know your father’s blades quite well.”