Summer's Fall Read online

  "Cheat!" Omen closed in with two long strides.

  "Nobody ever fights fair." Templar knocked him back with a hard kick to the chest. "You said we're teaching Kyr how to fight, not knit."

  Omen twisted like a cat as he fell, catching himself before he struck the ground. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder toward the grassy clearing, checking on his little brother.

  Kyr sat on a dark green cloak spread beneath the shade of a willow tree. The fragile boy stared with the rapt attention of any ten-year-old at a glittering beetle in the palm of his hand, heedless of the sword battle playing out for his benefit. Tormy and Tyrin snored loudly beside him, lulled to sleep by a group of bards rehearsing in the park's central gazebo. Tormy's large form curled protectively around both Kyr and the small kitten Tyrin.

  "Leave the bugs alone, Kyr!" Omen called. After the sandlure attack on the beach the day before, he didn't want to delay teaching his brother to defend himself. "Pay attention!" Omen gestured to his weapon. "When fighting you have to maintain your balance — keep your weight over your feet."

  Obediently, Kyr dropped the shiny beetle and shifted the entirety of his attention back to the practice bout. The summer breeze swirled around them, rustling the trees. "The flowers can fly," Kyr mused and gave Omen a brilliant smile.

  There he goes, Omen thought, concerned. The ocean has eyes, the flowers can fly. What next? Though at least the weather is much nicer than yesterday. More like summer.

  "What were you saying about crazy not running in your family?" Templar snorted.

  The small hairs on the back of Omen's neck stood up, and he let out an irritated growl. "You're the crazed Nightblood who sharpened the practice swords," Omen snapped. He rotated away from Templar to focus on his little brother. "So, Kyr, if you can get your opponent's weight off his feet—" Omen twisted his sword, trapping Templar's blade, pushed and sent him stumbling backward.

  Templar should have gone down, but ever contrary, Omen's friend did a theatrical backflip out of the stumble and landed with nimble grace on both feet. Trained at his father's court of Terizkand, Templar excelled at a dual-sword method, which relied on speed and agility and frustrated Omen greatly.

  Burning night! Omen glared. "We're supposed to be teaching Kyr the basics — not carnival flips!"

  Templar looked unrepentant. "There are people watching," he excused his own behavior offhand.

  Of course. Defiantly, Omen ran a familiar piece of music through his mind — the notes, a mnemonic device, instantly awakened a psionic pattern which triggered his mental powers. He felt the rising buzz of energy at the base of his skull as he extended the psionic force in a sweeping motion that caught Templar unaware. He knocked both feet out from under his friend, and Templar went sprawling to the ground.

  But Omen's triumph was short-lived. A second later blazing tendrils, crackling with wild magic, wrapped like vines around his ankles and yanked him into the dirt as well.

  Omen spat the dust from his lips. "Let me guess, rope spell." Can't really complain since I just broke the rules myself.

  "Still domestic," Templar quipped, rising to his feet. "If you want to teach Kyr how to fight, why don't we just go down to the beach and see if any of those critters are still there? What did you call them?"

  "Sandlures." Omen dusted himself off as he stood. "And I'm not taking Kyr back down there — you didn't see those things. They could have dragged him out to sea. Besides, the dragons don't want anyone getting in the way while they search for more."

  "Killjoys," Templar snapped quickly, but then his face turned thoughtful. "Sandlures," he repeated. "I don't think we have those in Terizkand. You've always said that Melia was peaceful, safe. Sandlures don't sound very safe. Are they common here?"

  Omen shook his head. Everybody he'd talked to had been shocked at the presence of the sandlures. "They're cold weather creatures, and don't like warm water."

  Templar flicked his dark hair back from his face. "Melia's waters are really warm. What are they doing here?"

  "I don't know," Omen said. Unease stirred in him again; he remembered the dark, silent looks his parents had exchanged the night before when he'd told them about the attack. And after learning about the singing Kyr had heard coming from the ocean, his mother had warned him to keep the boy away from the shoreline.

  Determined, he motioned toward his brother. "Come on, Kyr, your turn with the blade."

  Kyr rose dutifully, flashing Omen a mercurial smile. Pale and skinny, with wind-blown hair and large sunset violet eyes in a fragile face, Kyr looked almost too frail to hold any blade, let alone a sword.

  Still too skinny, Omen noted worriedly even though Kyr's current health was vastly improved from the bone-starved, fleshless, feral child he had been five months ago. When Omen had rescued Kyr from the burnt-out wasteland that had been his home for far too long, he and the rest of the Daenoth family hadn't even been certain Kyr would survive, let alone become the much adored little brother they all cherished. He could have just as easily fallen asleep with the cats instead of watching. Glad he paid attention.

  "That was great Omen! It's just like the song!" Kyr exclaimed with innocent enthusiasm.

  "Which song?" Omen asked, glancing through the trees where he could still hear the group of bards rehearsing, hoping Kyr was talking about them. He can't be talking about the song of Urgolath again — we're nowhere near the beach.

  "The Maiden and the White Rose," Kyr answered. "I don't know how you remember all those verses."

  "The ballad about the first Melian Festival? You remember that?" Omen asked, relieved to hear it was a different song this time. But what does that song and the number of verses have to do with sword fighting? He motioned to Templar. "Take the spell off the blades now. It's Kyr's turn."

  "More fun this way," Templar evaded at first, but then relented under Omen's glare. He touched both blades briefly, pausing to inspect the weapons. "Aren't most Lydonian long swords made of silverleaf?" he asked.

  Omen handed the newly dulled blade to Kyr, hilt first. "These are just practice weapons. I'll get him something proper later." He'd specifically picked this make of sword because it was smaller than many others, and would be more suited to Kyr's thin frame — at least once he grew a bit more.

  Kyr gripped the sword, his knuckles turning white with the effort. "We should take flowers to the lady," he said, struggling to hold the blade steady.

  "Those ladies?" Omen asked, motioning toward a nearby group of women and their chaperones strolling along one of the park's shady footpaths. Templar grinned and waved to them. The ladies giggled at the attention but made no effort to stop, their chaperones pausing to glare darkly at the foreign prince.

  Kyr shook his head emphatically. "No, the sister."

  "What's this about flowers?" Templar asked, turning his attention away from the ladies.

  "Kyr thinks you should take flowers to Lilyth," Omen half-joked, guessing at Kyr's meaning.

  Templar's eyes flashed amber in the sunlight. "Your sister scares me. I gave her a compliment the other day, and she punched me."

  "You called her adorable, you pignut," Omen pointed out while supervising Kyr's blundering attempts to mimic a fighting stance. The boy swung the sword experimentally through the air a few times, biting his lip in concentration.

  Templar frowned. "So?" He stepped back from Kyr's wild swing.

  "She was covered in mud," Omen clarified. He placed his hands on his brother's shoulders and physically turned Kyr so that he wouldn't accidentally step on the sleeping cats.

  "And it was adorable," Templar insisted. "She punched hard. It hurt!"

  "She's ten," Omen stated, familiar with his sister's violent temper.

  Templar gingerly touched the bridge of his nose, faking injury. "It still hurts!" he whined. "She used some of your weird Daenoth psionics behind the punch."

  That caught Omen's attention, and he lifted his eyebrows, incredulous. "She knows how to do that?" He shifted his weight
from foot to foot. "She's not any good at it, is she?"

  "Better than you!" Templar scoffed.

  "My dad is always giving her extra training!" Omen kicked at some pebbles on the ground, annoyed. Even though he was five years older than his sister, there was still a great deal of competition between the two of them, and he often felt on the losing end of things. Lilyth had a conniving nature that Omen just couldn't seem to second-guess.

  "Didn't your father tell you to meet him for your psionic lessons four hours ago?" Templar asked innocently. "And didn't you decide to go to the park with me instead? When I came through the portal, you had me sneak out a back window."

  Omen scratched the back of his neck. "That's different."

  "Not that I'm judging your choices," Templar said, laughter in his words. "I applaud them."

  "We're not just wasting time, you know," Omen insisted, feeling a twinge of guilt he refused to acknowledge. "We're teaching Kyr how to sword fight. That's important. We were attacked on the beach — who knows when it might happen again." He moved around his brother and placed his hand over Kyr's on the hilt of the blade. "Come on Kyr, hold the sword like this." The moment he touched his hand, however, Kyr dropped the blade as if it had burned him.

  The boy turned toward Omen with a wide, earnest look on his face. "We're supposed to put all the iron in the chest, Omen. They don't like it. It burns."

  Omen exhaled slowly and bent down to pick up the sword. He then reached out to take hold of his brother's wrist. He knew there was little point in asking Kyr what he was talking about — no doubt the explanation would make no more sense than anything else the boy said. Kyr lives in his own world. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever understand him. "The dragons don't mind the iron, Kyr. So it's fine." Omen forced an encouraging smile and put the sword back in Kyr's hand.

  Kyr nodded and accepted the iron weapon without argument. "But I wish the boat would stop going up and down. It's hard to sleep. When are we getting off the ship?"

  Templar, inexplicably amused by Kyr's bizarre behavior, grinned and clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Right now!" he exclaimed, humoring the child. "There! You see, we're off the ship, back on dry land — and look at that, we're in the park. You like the park."

  Kyr mimicked Templar's grin. "I like the park. It's green." He looked to Omen for further instruction.

  Omen stayed silent but adjusted Kyr's stance and his grip on the sword.

  "Now you have to make the blade flame," Templar suggested, motioning to the weapon.

  I didn't grab firebrands. Templar just can't help himself, Omen thought, but a quick double-check of the blade's surface showed that Kyr's practice sword now had runes etched into the metal, courtesy of Templar's magic, no doubt placed there when he'd altered the sharp edges. I recognize those marks. With the right incantation and a little bit of magical force, they're going to light right up.

  "Don't you think teaching him the long sword and magic at the same time is a bit too much?" he asked Templar sharply.

  Templar shrugged, unimpressed. "Kyr's a demigod and a Venedrine elf. Of course it's not too much. I've done the hard part for him — all he has to do is trigger it. Doesn't even have to memorize a pattern. Besides, it looks much more impressive on fire."

  All good points, Omen had to concede. He knew the only reason Kyr was even still alive was the extraordinary blood flowing through his veins — but certainly his colorful heritage had to have given him more gifts than mere survival. Omen's varied bloodlines had given him great strength and easy access to the magic surrounding them. Certainly not out of Kyr's reach. He should be able to ignite the runes. "All right then, Kyr. Let's make the sword flame too," he said, turning his attention back to his brother.

  "Is it night?" Kyr asked, befuddled, and looked around the sun-drenched park. "It's dark. The shadows are watching me."

  "Which is why we need a flaming sword," Templar told him, looking more entertained by the minute.

  Kyr grimaced. "The autumn wind is very cold. Someone should really close the door."

  "It's still summer, Kyr," Omen said, feeling compelled to correct his brother. Probably pointless. "But we'll close all the doors you want when we get back home. Now, to make the blade flame, all you have to do is concentrate on the magical energy around you and say the incantation — it's written here on the blade." He indicated the marks newly etched, though he knew Kyr's reading skills were poor at best.

  "The incantation is—"

  But before Omen could speak the command word or instruct Kyr how to channel the magical energy around him, bright blue flames erupted from the metal and ran up and down the edge of the sword.

  Kyr shrieked in shock and tossed the weapon away from him. The flames extinguished the moment the sword struck the ground.

  "Sun and scales, Templar! You scared him!" Omen exclaimed.

  Templar threw his hands up in protest. "I didn't do anything. That was all him."

  Startled, Omen looked at his frightened brother, his heart clenching in alarm. "Tha . . . that was amazing, Kyr," Omen stammered.

  "What did I do?" Kyr asked, his voice quivering.

  "You activated the spell," Omen said. It takes months to learn how to manipulate magical energy — sometimes years depending on your gifts.

  Kyr turned eagerly toward him, looking somewhat breathless. "Does that mean I won the game?"

  Templar laughed out loud. "Yes, you won!"

  "I'm hungry!" the boy told them both with vigor.

  Instantly little Tyrin lifted his furry head, ears perking forward.

  Tormy jerked swiftly awake, rolling over as he shouted, "Fish, fish, fish!" He was either announcing what he had been dreaming about or, alternatively, his lunch order.

  Omen regarded his giant cat fondly. He'd been certain Tormy had been sound asleep. Mere mention of food and he's awake. How does he do that?

  "That's really amazinglynessness!" Tyrin exclaimed as he stretched his tiny furry body, paws extended forward. "On account of the fact I is being hungry too, Kyr! It's like you is reading our minds!" Despite the cats' strange grammatical choices and their bizarre habit of conjugating inventively, their desire for lunch was unmistakable.

  Kyr beamed at the two cats.

  Omen pinched the bridge of his nose and gave Templar a look of resignation. Now that the cats are awake and demanding food, sword lessons are over. "Fine, we'll go to lunch," he acquiesced. They'd run off to get food even if I said no.

  Omen retrieved the extinguished sword from the ground, pausing to study the magical sigil Templar had cast upon the blade. An uneasy thought passed through his mind. "Kyr's not going to go around lighting things on fire accidentally, is he?" he asked Templar. While Omen had studied rudimentary magic, he'd concentrated the majority of his studies on the art and craft of psionic manipulation.

  "No, he won't." Templar shook his head dismissively as he retrieved his own sword belt from the ground and fixed the two bone blades he typically wore at his side. "It takes years to learn the magical patterns to cast a fire emblem like that. All Kyr did was channel raw magic into the already existing emblem — which is impressive enough. That usually doesn't come easy. You're going to have to train him before too long."

  There was a long list of things Omen needed to teach Kyr and it never felt as if there was enough time in the day. "Psionically too," he added forlornly. The boy currently wore a shielding bracelet around his right wrist similar to the one Omen had worn through most of his childhood — it would protect his mind from stray psionic attacks. But Omen knew from experience that was only a temporary measure. While Kyr did not possess the stronger mind powers of Omen's family, he had ability enough to prove dangerous if left untrained. "Never enough time."

  Omen sheathed the practice swords, before retrieving his own enormous two-handed great sword from where it lay in the grass. Strapping the large sword across his back and latching the quick-release fastener on the belt, Omen then attempted to pull his leather jerkin out from
under Tormy. "Nice pillow?" He tried to make it sound like a scold.

  Tormy nodded, the tip of his tongue sticking out through his front teeth in a sweet cat smile.

  Kyr grabbed Omen's hand as he passed, catching his attention. "Thank you for teaching me!" the boy said sincerely.

  A smile stretched across Omen's face. That's the thing about Kyr. His honest gratitude more than makes up for anything else.

  "You're welcome, Kyr," he said, pleased.

  Kyr nodded. "I liked shooting a bow." He headed after the cats, making whizzing arrow sounds as he walked away.

  Templar practically snorted with laughter. "Good going, sword master. He thinks we were practicing archery." He playfully punched Omen's shoulder.

  Utter bewilderment swamped over Omen. "Is Kyr getting better?" he asked Templar plainly. "Or is he getting worse? Some days I can't tell."

  Templar's eyes followed Kyr and the cats. "We spent the entire morning with him and not once did he stop to talk to imaginary dead people." Templar mustered a supportive smile. "I'd call that a win."

  Omen considered. They fell into step, side-by-side, and hurried to catch up. Kyr chatted happily with Tormy and Tyrin, oblivious to Omen's worry.

  "Remember last week when he got into that huge argument in the street — rambling on about flour and eggs?" Templar reminded Omen.

  "Well, to be fair, I had just taught him how to bake cookies, and he was arguing with a group of dead bakers," Omen cast about, knowing he was making excuses. Kyr was so upset. I should have pretended they were real.

  "Imaginary dead bakers," Templar corrected, emphasizing imaginary.

  Omen frowned. "We don't actually know if they're imaginary or not," he admitted hesitantly. More and more he felt it difficult to argue against it. "Kyr might actually be a mystic." As my mother stresses constantly. Kyr's habit of muttering in Kahdess, the Language of the Dead, didn't help matters either.

  Templar looked skeptical. "A mystic who talks to dead bakers? Why?"

  "Maybe they have something important to say." Omen bit his lip, wondering if he should mention the incident on the beach yesterday. "You never know. Maybe there's some ancient prophecy about bread that we don't know about."