Daughter of Magic Read online

  “What the . . .” was all Declan got out before the bird disappeared from view up the mountain.

  He straightened his sore legs and started up the stairs after the owl. He stopped counting after thirty, realizing this would be a long climb, but was pleasantly surprised when the path ended abruptly. The entrance staring back at him looked more like the crack on an egg than an intentional opening into the mountain. He could hear the owl peeping and there was a strange shimmering glow coming from inside the crack. When he didn’t enter immediately, the peeping became more rapid and insistent.

  “Yes, dear. I’m coming.” He chuckled at the idea of being henpecked by an owl.

  He removed his pack to squeeze through the crack and was stunned to see it open into a wide chamber that was well lit by braziers on tall stands scattered throughout. He walked to one of the braziers and marveled at his reflection in the clean, polished metal. Blue-white magical flames blazed above the bowl of each brazier, crackling happily with warmth and light.

  At the far end of the alcove to the right sat a small table and three wooden chairs. A shiny silver pitcher and three crystal glasses rested on the table. Declan walked over and was again shocked to see the pitcher nearly full of garnet wine. He poured a small amount into one of the glasses, expecting the pungent scent of vinegar. But all he smelled was the nutty, hearty aroma of well-aged grapes. Fascination and curiosity conquered caution, and he took a sip. It was the most incredibly smooth, full-bodied wine he’d ever tasted—and there wasn’t a hint of the expected vinegar tang. Remarkable.

  The owl peeped to his left, and he turned to see her standing in front of a large silver arch. He could see through the archway to the wall about three paces behind. Flowing script in a language he didn’t understand covered the face and shimmered faintly. At the apex, a small but unmistakable etching of the Phoenix symbol glowed brighter than any of the lettering.

  The owl peeped a few more times and gave him an irritated expression. He walked to the arch and looked more closely, reaching out to trace the script. He felt a tingling sensation as his fingers ran along the lettering, giving the impression that the arch was somehow alive. Encouraged by the tingling, he placed his palm across the writing and gripped the archway.

  Nothing happened.

  Then he stepped back a few paces, taking in the entire gate again. “OK, I’m here. How to I make this thing work?”

  He walked around to the back, finding no seam or break in the gleaming surface. The script seemed to be a continuation of whatever was etched on the front, and he couldn’t find any unusual symbols or raised areas that might give some hint. Without thinking, he stretched his hand out and through the archway. Still nothing.

  The owl peeped up at him twice.

  “I’m trying. I just don’t know what to do now.”

  Frustrated, he walked back to the table, sat, and poured a full glass of the wine. As he set the pitcher back down, he noticed that it didn’t seem to be any emptier. He grabbed the pitcher’s handle again and filled the other two glasses. The pitcher remained full of the aromatic liquid. Huh.

  He sipped his wine while watching the owl as she stood by the archway, staring at him, never moving. As he finished the glass, he realized the gnawing hunger he’d felt when they entered the cavern had vanished. Wine that never runs out and satisfies hunger?

  He looked down at his little companion. “I’m all ears if you have any new ideas. Sitting here with a good wine is the best I’ve got at the moment.”

  The owl swiveled left, then right, then turned and darted through the gateway. As she crossed through the arch, a veil of shimmering light flared into existence across its interior. She continued through the veil and disappeared. A second later, the veil vanished, leaving Declan staring openmouthed, glass halfway to his lips.

  He downed the last of his glass, unwilling to waste such a good wine, and walked to the archway. Gathering his courage, he walked purposefully through the gate and bounced off the wall on the other side, nearly falling backward onto the floor. He stood and instinctively wiped his trousers, even though there was no dust or dirt in the chamber, then walked back to the table for another glass of wine. At least he knew that worked.

  As he drained the last of his wine, something caught his attention. He looked down at his arm and watched in amazement as the cuts and scrapes he’d received on their journey through the woods slowly closed and vanished. Before he could process what happened, his arm was completely healed. He stood and took a step back from the table. The aching in his back and soreness in his legs had also disappeared. Holy Spirits of Utu!

  Realizing the power in the silver pitcher, he grabbed one of his water skins, emptied the water it held, and carefully replaced it with wine. Nothing like having a Healer in your pack.

  Seconds later, the veil shimmered again, and the owl hopped through. Her tiny white brow furrowed in a look of frustration as she scurried to grip Declan’s pant leg in her beak, tugging him toward the archway.

  “Little one, it wouldn’t let me through. I don’t know how to make it work.”

  She let go, peeped a few times, then resumed her tugging.

  He barked a laugh. “Alright, I’m coming.”

  He knelt and scratched the owl’s head, which she returned with an affectionate nuzzle before pulling free and climbing up his arm to perch on his shoulder. He chuckled as he picked up his pack and walked to the front of the arch. The wall-bouncing incident had taught him caution, and he stepped forward—slowly this time. As soon as the owl on his shoulder crossed the threshold of the arch, the veil shimmered into existence. He took a deep breath, walked through, and vanished from the mountainside alcove.

  3

  DECLAN

  Declan blinked several times to clear the dots from his eyes left by the brilliance of the gate’s shimmering veil. Dizziness and disorientation threatened to steal his footing, but his hand found the cool rim of the gate, and he braced himself until the feelings cleared. When he was stable enough to open his eyes, he was shocked to find himself in a small grotto almost exactly like the one he’d just left, complete with a table, three chairs, pitcher, and glasses. He turned to look at the gate and found its writing to also be identical to the one he’d seen in the Melucian mountains. He traced the lettering with his fingers, just as he’d done before, and thought it replicated the script on its twin.

  He’d nearly forgotten his feathered companion until the owl peeped, then scampered down his arm and hopped to the floor. She scurried to the opening, another crack in another egg, then turned and stared at Declan.

  He grinned and shook his head. How did that little bird always make him smile?

  “Can you give me a minute? We just traveled over three hundred leagues and my head is spinning.”

  The owl peeped twice, tottered over to the table, and pecked at one of the chairs.

  “What?” Declan cocked his head in disbelief as he watched the owl offer her wisdom for his recovery. He shook off his amazement and followed her suggestion, setting his pack on the ground before taking a seat at the wooden table. He was pleased to find the pitcher full of the same flavorful wine and filled his glass to the brim. The owl peeped a reprimand and pecked his boot.

  “It’s magical wine. I’m duty bound to drink it. You want me to get the most out of this journey, don’t ya?” he joked as he took a satisfying sip. “Besides, now that you mention it, I don’t remember feeling anything after drinking that other wine. Imagine that—all the wine you can drink without the hangover. I may never leave this place!”

  The owl pulled at his pant leg, so he reached down and let her hop onto his hand, then hop off when it reached the tabletop. She fussed at the wood of the table for a few seconds before settling in, resuming her stare at Declan.

  “Sure wish I knew what was going on in that little head of yours,” he said as he took another sip.

  Peep. Peep-peep. She hopped to an empty glass and pecked at it twice before turning back to Declan.

  “You sure about that? I didn’t know owls drank wine.”

  She pecked at the glass again.

  He shook his head and poured a small amount from the pitcher, then tilted the glass so she could reach the ruby liquid. Her beak disappeared for a second, then resurfaced as she smacked it together a couple of times, a tiny pink tongue poking out. Guess that’s the owl version of licking her lips. Declan chuckled.

  He rubbed her head, and she nuzzled his hand, squinted, and gave him the cooing-purring sound he’d come to recognize as her happy tone.

  It had only been a few days since the owl had happened into his campsite, but he was growing attached to the little bird. She’d already made him smile and laugh more than he could remember recently. And there was something special about her. Something powerful and unique. He was probably going insane, but she seemed to understand him and respond when he asked questions. Then there was their trip through the gate. He’d done everything he could think to activate the portal, but only when she was on his shoulder did it respond and allow passage. Special was an understatement. In his heart, he understood, but the thought flew away every time his conscious mind tried to grasp it.

  He walked to the crack in the wall and peered out. It was completely dark, and the moon was hiding, refusing her light and guidance. “We could use a night’s rest, little one, and this cave is safer and more comfortable than the forest floor.”

  Peep.

  He unfurled his bed roll next to the table and poured one last glass of wine. The owl gave him a sharp look and a couple of peeps.

  “Hey! I might have something scratched or strained or broken. You don’t want me dying in my sleep, do you?” He chuckled and took a couple of sips. He thought he saw the owl shake her head in the human gesture of sarcastic disbelief but returned to his wine, dismissing the thought as crazy—even for him.

  When he finally settled onto his bed roll, the owl hopped onto his chest. This time, rather than settle, she looked around, tottering all over his upper body, then bounded onto his forehead and into his long wavy hair. He held back a laugh as she nested in his hair and drifted off to sleep. In seconds, he heard her familiar hum of satisfaction. He smiled, content with the world in an oddly magical—somehow perfect—moment in time.

  * * *

  The next morning, they ate the last of the dried fruit and crusty bread, which Declan gladly washed down with more wine. When he finally stood and grabbed his pack, the owl jumped and peeped until he lowered his hand to allow her to her nest in his hood. He fished Atikus’s map out of his coat pocket. It was a perfectly detailed rendering of the mountains in Melucia but offered nothing of the island of Rea Utu. The Mage had instructed him to search the town for someone who could direct him to the Keeper but urged caution when revealing his destination. How am I supposed to do both?

  With more questions than answers racing through his mind, he squeezed out of the cave’s narrow entrance. The surrounding landscape was remarkably similar, yet completely different from that of the mountains in Melucia.

  These mountains seemed taller, rougher, and more jagged than those back home. They were covered in trees, but not the pine, oak, or other firs he was used to. Tall palms of every variety blanketed the land in all directions. They poked out of cracks and clung to impossible ledges. The trees back home were taller, thicker, and stronger looking, yet the palms of this island swayed and bent gracefully with the ever-present breeze. The forest floor, if you could call it a forest, was also different. The foliage atop the trees allowed far more light through the canopy, which encouraged shorter palms and other plants to blanket the surface. There goes my easy hike down, Declan thought, realizing that he’d have to hack his way through.

  He looked up from the ground and was rewarded with an incredible sight. From the height of the peak, he could see a handful of surrounding mountains, but also the entire eastern side of the island nestled into the arms of the Great Sea. The sun was rising, scattering hues of yellow and orange and red across the crystal blue of the ocean. He’d always thought of the mountains in his homeland as the most beautiful, serene place in the world, but nothing prepared him for the majesty of this sight.

  The owl sensed that he was frozen in place, poked her head out of the hood, and hopped onto his shoulder. She seemed as awed as Declan and nuzzled into the bend of his neck as they shared the morning view. Coo-purr.

  In the distance, he could see a small village. That must be Rea Utu, just where Atikus said it would be.

  He looked down to find stone steps similar to the ones he’d climbed the day before. They appeared as unused and worn as those in Melucia, somehow even more weathered by time and the tropical climate. Thankfully, they wound down the mountain, twisting and turning in way that made the trek easier and less steep. The stone slabs disappeared when they reached a point two-thirds of the way down, but a dirt path continued.

  They reached the bottom of the mountain by noon, and Declan looked out at the long stretch of sandy land between them and the village. They had only traveled a few leagues, winding back and forth down the mountain, but the descent totaled more than six leagues in elevation, and Declan struggled to breathe in the heavy island air. The sun bore down mercilessly, and sweat soaked through his shirt and cloak. He stopped and packed the cloak away, reducing to a thin, long-sleeved white shirt that billowed in the ocean breeze. His wide-rimmed Ranger hat shielded the sun from his eyes as he donned it for the first time in weeks. He hated wearing anything over his unkempt hair.

  During his change, the owl hopped out and began exploring the island floor. She seemed as mesmerized by the sandy carpet as anything, pecking and scratching, making it scatter in every direction. She darted into the underbrush, returning with a small lizard in her beak, looking up at Declan with what he thought was a hint or pride before making quick work of her catch.

  Looking back toward the village, he guessed they had six or seven leagues of hiking to reach the town. The land before them was lush, a mixture of sandy patches and vibrant green fauna. The path stopped at the base of the mountain, and Declan feared the hike would be slow in the thick underbrush.

  “Little one, standing here won’t get us there any quicker. It’ll take us all day and probably some of tomorrow to reach the town.” The owl peeped and dutifully accepted his outstretched arm, making the trip from the ground to his shoulder in a blink.

  The rest of the day was hot, humid, and uneventful. The sounds of gulls cawing and distant waves crashing filled Declan with an odd peace he often found when on patrol in the mountains. But it was different here, somehow rawer and more natural. That didn’t make any sense as the mountains of his home were equally natural and untouched, but something about the island felt more . . . wild and untamed. And he loved it.

  The sun moved slower in the island sky than it had over Melucia but finally slipped behind the mountains, leaving a stunning halo reminding Declan of a dying flame above the peaks. They found a small patch of sand and made camp for the night. The oppressive island heat remained long after the sun faded, so Declan decided against a fire. After eating the last of their cold, dried meat, he unfurled his bedroll outside the tent’s opening, stretched out, and stared into the tropical night sky. The owl hopped onto his chest, looked down, and pecked at his sweaty shirt with a tiny look of disgust, then scurried down to nest beside him on the sand. He chuckled at her finicky dance and smiled when her eyes closed and the coo-purr began. Something in his heart filled when he watched that little creature.

  As he stared at the stars, his mind wandered to his last days with Atikus and Keelan. He hadn’t meant to sound so bitter, to even talk about his pent-up frustration. But something in the easy way the Mage and Keelan interacted, in his brother’s calm, commanding presence, pushed long-held resentments to the fore. When they were young, Declan couldn’t get enough of his big brother. He’d followed him everywhere, watched him train with the Guardsmen, even tried imitating how he’d wave his arms when he got excited telling a story. He’d idolized Keelan.

  When had that changed? At sixteen, Keelan graduated from the Guild Academy and joined the Guard. Declan remembered standing on the step of the Mages’ Quarters, a ten-year-old boy, watching his brother walk through the Guild arch for the last time. Atikus was there, large hand on Declan’s shoulder, ready to comfort and guide his last adopted son. In the years that followed, he remained one of the most popular figures throughout the complex, Mage or student. But through it all, that feeling of abandonment and loneliness shrouded his thoughts. First his parents, whom he never really knew, then Declan, the brother who had become his world. A seed of anger and pain secretly planted itself deep within him, only to surface fully matured over the last few days.

  Added to all of that, he felt completely adrift. He’d joined the Rangers to get away—to get far away. He liked the job well enough, but the green coat represented more than just a chance to serve; it was an escape. Escape from the expectations of the Mages. Escape from those ridiculous golden collars and the piteous looks of the people wearing them. Escape from all the talk of “the great Keelan Rea” and his steady stream of accomplishments, all of which underscored Declan’s utter failure to even find a path, much less success.

  That failure weighed like millstone tied about his neck. Immeasurably heavy, unmoving, unforgiving. He’d felt that weight since he was a boy. But now, a man of the revered Melucian Rangers, he still couldn’t shake its grip. He felt undeserving and lost. Nobody even saw Declan, much less cared if he existed. His dreams were often filled with scenes of boys in the Academy, collars flashing, jibes stabbing, as he fought back tears and turned conversations with a joke or his easy smile. He’d learned how to wield that smile like a weapon, fending off hurtful attacks. But those attacks still bit deeply. He felt them then, just as he felt them now.