Page 46 of The Ninth Element

A shiver of apprehension runs down my arms. “That seems risky. They’re not known for their forgiving nature.”

Faelas scoffs. “Risky? Everything in this forsaken trial is risky. Besides, we came here to find information about the trials, didn’t we? A little information could give us the edge we need.”

I hesitate, torn between the potential rewards and the undeniable risks. Spying on the Martysh is a dangerous gamble, as I learned the last time I foolishly decided to break into the Martyshyar wing, but the stakes are high, and we can use all the help that we can get.

After a moment of contemplation, Darian speaks to me with a hint of reassurance in his tone. “I agree with Faelas. But it’s your choice, Arien. No pressure.”

Bahador nods in agreement, surprising me with his uncharacteristic sensitivity. “We won’t force you into anything.”

A heavy silence descends on us as I weigh their words against the weight in my gut.

“We’ll tread lightly,” Faelas says. “Just a quick listen. If it’s not trial-related, we’re out.”

Darian’s smirks. “Who could turn down a peek behind the curtain, right?”

“Don’t pressure her,” Bahador says with a frown.

I glance at Faelas, then at the cloaked figures, and a gamble starts to take shape in my mind. The risk is a beast, but the reward might be its tamer.

“Fine,” I breathe. “But we’ll be like ghosts. In and out.”

Faelas’s smile is sharp and victorious. “Like shadows.”

I place my hand on the table. “You need to touch my skin with your bare hand.”

Darian places his large palm over the back of my hand. Faelas touches my forearm, and Bahador, almost reluctantly, places a finger on my wrist.

I mumble a whisper of sorcery, and a silver thread as thin as a hair stretches toward the shadowed table. As the thread touches their space, hushed words of the Martyshgard crash on my ears, and by the power of the Izadeonians’s touch, theirs too.

“…all over the black beaches. Just like in the deserts. There were maps everywhere.” She’s not talking about the trials. Just tales of some mission gone wrong. I prepare to sever the connection, but what comes out of Martyshgard’s mouth snags my attention. “Emmengar’s lapdogs, the lot of them. Every last one a liar and a cheat.”

I frown. Are they talking about Ahira Emmengar? The head of Firelands’s council? I tighten the thread.

The Martyshgard’s voice seethes with frustration. “And now Martyshbod wants to cozy up to the Ahiras, of all things? Trust those vipers? Hah! I’d sooner welcome a scorpion’s sting.”

Martyshyar Kamran’s reply is a balm of calm against her heat. “She doesn’t trust them, Mitara. But she’s pragmatic. She’s worried they’ll beat us to find the Star’s fragments.”

Star! That name… again… I look up, searching the faces of the Izadeonians, and find the same question on their tense faces, too.

The Martyshgard, whom Kamran called Mitara, scoffs, “We’re centuries ahead of them. They won’t catch up.”

“They’ve been crawling all over the red sands and the stormy beaches,” Kamran counters, “They’ve amassed centuries’s worth of our knowledge in less than a decade.”

“We’ve held our own for centuries! There’s no need to go begging for their help now!” Mitara grumbles.

Kamran’s sigh is audible even through the spell. “Mitara, sorcery is a potent weapon when your searchissorcery. For centuries, Firelands and Martysh shared a vital alliance; their leaders always sent us their best, theirbrightest, because they understood our crucial role in their security. That understanding has crumbled in recent decades. They’ve become drunk on their own power and influence, imagining they no longer need us to shield them from larger provinces. We need more of their truly strong sorcerers to make any real headway. The three-ringed mages we’ve received these last fifty years are a pale shadow of the strength needed to find the Star’s fragments. And now, since Bernold’s death and their discovery of the Star, recruitment from the Ahiras has all but dried up. They don’t trust us anymore, knowing we concealed the existence of the fragment from them, and so they no longer send their people to Martysh.”

I feel a ripple of shock passes through the three men beside me at this name,Bernold. Darian’s hand tightens around mine. Faelas mirrors the gesture, his fingers digging into my forearm, almost to the point of pain. Even Bahador’s single finger, resting lightly on my wrist, moves a little. Their faces are etched with a blend of utter shock and apprehension.

Who is this Bernold? And why did the mere mention of his name elicit such a reaction? And what is this Star and its fragments that everyone chases after? I want to ask, but the conversation presses on, and I hold my questions to keep listening intently.

“Because they want the Star for themselves. Mark my words. They want it to do what the Daevas couldn’t.” Mitara’s voice drips with venom.

“Careful now… " Kamran cautions her.

“Why should I? Those sorcerers hide their true motives behind veils of silken words and false smiles. They want the Star’s power to wield against men!”

“Or perhaps they simply believe men cannot be trusted with a power that can bend each of the elements. A power that can shake the very foundations of the world. Just as we do not trust the Ahiras with it.” Kamran says with a measured voice.

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