CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Quinlan could only stare after Asterin as she vanished into the trees’ embrace. The others departed in her wake, and even their horses spared him pitying looks. He longed to call her back, but his pride smothered his voice.

A hand squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll let you sulk in peace,” Rose said with a knowing look as she, too, turned her back on him. “Till ’morrow, cousin dearest.”

“Till ’morrow,” he echoed.

As their footsteps faded away, Quinlan slumped onto a chunk of broken limestone, bracing his elbows on his knees.

Pathetic, came the taunting laugh of Gavin Holloway. You are pathetic.

“Go away,” Quinlan hissed at his father’s voice, squeezing his eyes shut.

Look how easily she broke you. Pathetic!

“I’m not!” he roared to nobody. His horse skittered back, tail flicking, but all else remained still. “I’m not,” he repeated raggedly.

A clump of bushes rustled a few feet away from the dirt path Asterin had followed into the forest. Quinlan’s hand shot to the dagger at his thigh.

Lord Conrye emerged from the bushes, the soft thuds of his massive paws nearly soundless. The wolf came to a halt before him.

The first time Quinlan had seen the God of Ice was in the Eradorian palace’s Throne Hall, the day after his father had killed King Bernard. However, unlike the sculpture that adorned the ceiling of the palace of Axaria’s Throne Hall, it had been Lord Tidus’s weathered face that greeted him at the forefront of the sculpture, as the powers of the House of the Serpent descended from the God of Water. Similar sculptures of the Council of Immortals could be found in the Throne Halls of all the nine kingdoms, with each House’s god or goddess featured in the center. But no stone monument could ever come close to the actual weight of an Immortal’s ancient presence, which Quinlan now found himself bearing.

They stared at one another for an uncomfortable minute—uncomfortable for Quinlan, at least. He tried not to squirm beneath the intensity of Lord Conrye’s gaze.

Of course, he caved first and blurted out a nervous, “Nice to see you again.”

Your sulking is childish.

Quinlan blinked. The god’s words rang through his mind, clearer than if he had spoken them aloud. His father’s voice was nothing but mist in comparison. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but the wolf cut him off.

There are no excuses, Lord Conrye growled in a tone so severe that Quinlan couldn’t help but flinch. Act like the fine warrior you have proven yourself to be.

Quinlan scowled and ran a hand through his hair. “Did you seriously come here just to lecture me? You disappeared quickly enough back in Aldville.”

Conrye snorted in displeasure. The Council called me back to the Immortal Realm. And besides … we are not supposed to meddle with the lives of mortals.

“Why return, then?” Quinlan asked.

Princess Asterin is a fine warrior as well. She helped train you back at the palace, yet you look down upon her.

Quinlan snorted. “I most certainly do not.”

Your actions speak otherwise, Conrye insisted, tail twitching. And the demon … you are right. Perhaps it just might be in the forest, lying in wait. What happens if it takes Asterin and the others by surprise? What use are your powers if not to protect, Quinlan Holloway?

He froze, the question triggering a deluge of memories that flooded into his mind. His father, leaning over him with an expression twisted in disgust. His father, kicking him in the stomach, over and over, while Quinlan cupped a bird in hands smaller than the bird itself, refusing to kill it, protecting it even when he couldn’t protect himself. Especially when he couldn’t protect himself. His father had taught him that his powers were meant to manipulate, to hurt, to kill. Anything else was a waste. Quinlan swallowed. “I …”

You are not your father, Conrye snapped. The powers you possess are not just a coincidence, or some accidental gift. They come with enormous responsibility—to protect those who need protecting, which you have done all your life—until now, of all times. Look at yourself. Are you a coward?

“No,” Quinlan growled with a ferocity that caused his horse to whicker beside him.

Then why are you running away when the others need you most? When he didn’t reply, Conrye cocked his furry head to the side and asked, How far would you go to help Princess Asterin? Could you teach her to wield magic without the use of the omnistone?

He frowned, taken aback at the change of topic. “I—yes, I suppose so, if she lets me.”

It will not be easy, the Immortal agreed, and time is short. You must teach her. The wolf looked to the sky. With what lies ahead, I fear that her reliance on the stone may be her undoing.

Quinlan’s stomach twisted. “And what lies ahead, exactly?”

That, I cannot say for sure. But with the Immortal Realm in unrest, dark times are coming for both Asterin and the world as you know it. If the stone fails her and the demon attacks …

“Do you know where the demon is?” he asked.

I do not. Unlike that lesser wyvern, this demon is extremely powerful—powerful enough that it can mask its dark scent and aura, even from me. Conrye’s eyes glinted. It could be anywhere … it could be attacking the others at this very moment, and neither of us would even know.

Quinlan’s blood ran cold at the thought. He looked toward the thicket of trees in grim apprehension, the leaves rustling like phantom music. Then he grabbed his horse’s reins.

Conrye dipped his head. I must leave you here. Hurry. There is no time to waste.

Quinlan gave Lord Conrye a final nod of thanks and guided his horse through the grass that separated Corinthe from the woods. When he reached the dirt path, marked by the ghostly prints of the others, he glanced back toward the God of Ice—but no trace of the wolf save for the mist in the clearing remained.

With a sigh, Quinlan plunged into the forest.

He had a princess to find.