-Emerald Hunt-

Byron happily waved goodbye to Winsom and his crew at the Trucesan harbor. He had left the vicious-looking lifter cloak to its rightful owner and had been more than willing to relinquish his hold on the Rustedheart. He stood before Callan and the others now, a broad-brimmed hat donned which perfectly showed off his lazy, handsome dark curls and bright blue eyes.

Bowing deeply at the waist, the man straightened and whistled, a clear, low note that reminded Callan of mountains. A few moments later, a slender rowder with vibrant violet eyes and speckled plumage descended, her long wings bringing up gusts of wind.

“Until we meet again,” Byron said with a grin. As he mounted the rowder, his eyes met Callan’s.

“I can sense your eagerness to return to Deporta. I would be more than happy to provide you with safe passage.”

As much as the overly attractive man bothered Callan, a free ride to the Forlorn capital would make his research into Rew that much faster. He looked over at Winsom. The captain of the Wanderlust merely nodded his head. “I only specialize in sea voyages. If this pretty boy wants to shuttle you to Deporta, feel free to take him up on his offer.”

Smiley was quick to add, “I like Byron. He smiles almost as often as I do!”

Berren groaned, rubbing his forehead. Darr had been subdued after their encounter with the lifters, but Yinc unexpectedly strode over to Callan’s side and crushed him in a rib-breaking embrace.

“You break things almost as well as I do,” he said begrudgingly, but Callan saw the gleam in the large man’s eyes and laughed.

“Not as well as you, Yinc.”

“Take care,” Winsom said. “Your people are in good hands. The sooner you return to them, the better. We’ll meet again.”

Callan nodded, clasping the captain’s hand and giving it a warm shake before joining Byron on his rowder.

The handsome man gently rubbed the rowder’s head and murmured, “Elithia, rise.”

The creature beat her wings and soon the Trucesan harbor was little more than a patchwork quilt of bright colors, the only detail Callan could make out the general outlines of the many stalls lining the city and its bustling docks. Winsom and his crew were nothing more than impressions now, a small stream of black beads rolling into the black body of the Wanderlust.

Callan brought a hand up to his forehead and offered a simple salute.

Until we meet again.

The pounding of the wind in his ears became more manageable when Elithia stopped climbing and started cruising, cutting a path toward Deporta. He could see the faint outline of the towers even from this distance, and swallowed his apprehension and indignation with difficulty.

Returning to a throne he should never have taken in the first place. Fighting for a broken people, growing smaller and smaller with every passing year. And now the looming threat of Forlorn insurgents, this Rew force. If the obstinate man riding in front of Callan would provide even a single name, a single hint as to the rebels location… but no.

The man wanted to talk fashion.

“You’ll have to explain the newfound craze with shadow cloaks,” Byron said conversationally as they flew over the rest of Trucesa and began passing over Ananth. “As far as I know they’re rare and do nothing but cover whatever else you’re wearing at the time. It was bad enough having to wear the filthy garb of that lifter.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Callan said curtly. “I obviously don’t have one.”

“Which is fascinating, given your lineage.”

“My lineage?”

“You descend from the Shadows line. Unless I’m mistaken, some great-great-great someone of yours invented shadow cloaks in the first place. A way to remain unseen. Keep secrets. Get places without alerting others.”

And here I thought the fool just wanted to talk dress-up.

“And you would know that how?”

“You look quite a bit like your mother,” Byron said casually.

“My mother?”

“Yes, very bright woman. Good leader. Haven’t seen her in years unfortunately. Your dad is decent looking as well. You resemble him in build and Orenda I’ve heard.”

“From who?” Callan was close to bursting, partially from anger and partially from excitement. Why was he hearing about his parents, especially his mother who he had no memories of, from Byron of all people?

“My brother,” Byron replied. He glanced over his shoulder at Callan, his wavy brown locks blowing perfectly in the harsh wind whipping around them. Callan blew his own curls out of his face in annoyance—his hair didn’t have the same divine properties as his current companion.

“The brother who wants to destroy the Forlorn.”

“Yep,” Byron said cheerfully. “If you knew the full history of the Forlorn you might have different feelings yourself. But the academy never held books of any value in my opinion.”

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“The Forlorn Academy has the only library in Ealias,” Callan retorted.

Byron chuckled, a soft sound. “Come now, Callan. The only library? Next you’ll be telling me that the Forlorn also breathe the only air available on our great world.

“Not only is there more than one library in all of Ealias, as shocking as that apparently is to you, but you’ll find that the histories have been greatly obscured.”

“And where would someone find these other libraries?” Callan was decisively irritated now.

“Where would someone intent on hiding the past shelve the true histories? Histories, mind you, too precious to destroy but too dangerous to leave unprotected. The history you are searching for is Forlorn, so it would stand to reason that the Forlorn would have kept their dirty laundry close to the chest.

“But that’s all I’ll say. My brother will be even more irritated if I hand you the keys to his precious uprising. But who knows, after you find the answers you may join him.”

“Never.” If Callan hadn’t been hundreds of feet in the air on a stranger’s rowder, he would have socked the man in the face.

“It’s no skin off my back,” Byron said cheerfully, guiding Elithia expertly toward the setting sun that made the growing towers look like glass swords, infused with golden Orenda. Orenda of the divine, like Flage’s blazing power.

“Say hello to my niece when you see her,” Byron added as Callan dismounted the rowder just outside of the gates leading to Deporta. The man’s features were cast in shadow in the swiftly falling light, and as Callan fumbled with a response Byron murmured something indistinguishable to his rowder and the pair became little more than another hazy cloud in the heavens.

***

“I need to pay a visit to Sur,” Callan informed Ryn Ashten. “It’s urgent.”

“You just got back,” she pointed out, “and after being temporarily replaced as Forlorn lineal. I’m surprised your highest priority is visiting a bakery, even if Sur’s goods are easily the best in Deporta.”

“Not for the food,” Callan said impatiently. Learning of the imposter who had taken his place as lineal before vanishing in Whisten had eaten away at his already frazzled nerves, even if the man, Drew Thorne, had ran off to Whisten.

“You and I both know that that little baker knows more about Deporta than the rest of the people living here combined. I don’t know how, but if I don’t have answers I know the first person to ask, and it’s Sur.”

Ryn only nodded and said with a smirk, “Bring me back a poplick, Daddy.”

Rolling his eyes, Callan donned a simple emerald cloak and rushed down the many stairs and out of the Octurn. The living, breathing streets of the Forlorn capital became little more than blurs and shadows as he stalked to Sur’s Bakery. The little man would just be opening his shop for the day, stroking the forges and preparing his goods for the coming day.

In fact, as Callan approached the familiar building, he saw the bakery’s proud owner unlocking the front door, his well-tailored clothing as immaculate as always—even Byron would be intimidated.

“Lineal!” Sur exclaimed, his large eyes made even larger by his massive, round spectacles. “When did you return? I haven’t seen you in Deporta for many weeks now.”

“Last night. Sur, I need to have a private word with you.”

Sur instantly detected Callan’s unusually somber mood and straightened, even though he still only came up to Callan’s ribs.

“Of course, Lineal. We can talk as I prepare the forges.”

Callan nodded, following the short man into the bakery and down the stairs in the back to the mighty furnaces that churned out every kind of delicacy imaginable. Callan heard his stomach rumble in protest and sighed.

“Not to worry, I think I can address both of your concerns,” Sur winked as he scurried to each of the three forges. Where most bakers would have baked their goods using a traditional oven, Sur considered his pastries as important as the weapons forged for Forlorn warriors. He’d insisted on forges and had fought the builders until they had finally relented and provided the superior furnaces.

“Food is a science and an act of love,” Sur said as he began preparing the dough at a large, worn wooden table in front of the forges. “Now, what’s eating you?”

Callan couldn’t help but laugh at the quip before taking a seat on one of the chairs, straddling it backward and resting his tired head on his folded arms.

“During my journeys searching for the sun I ran across a man who claimed rebels are preparing to strike at the Forlorn.”

“Fascinating.” Sur looked up from his preparations, flour coating his hands, but his clothing was still pristine. The man was such a perfectionist and so proud of his craftsmanship that he didn’t bother with an apron or anything to keep his clothes from getting dirty. He was talented enough to bake everything by hand without getting even a pinch of flour on his face or tailored apparel.

“The organization goes by the name Rew. That’s all the man, Byron, would tell me.”

“How did you run into this Byron fellow?” Sur asked, breaking the dough into smaller pieces and beginning to fashion it into different intricate designs and shapes.

“I was accompanying Captain Jarred Winsom and his crew on a job to capture the lifter vessel Rustedheart. This man, Byron, had somehow taken charge of the ship and was going to shuttle the stolen goods back to Rew to aid in their preparations to rise up against Deporta and her people.”

“I’ve never heard of a group by the name of Rew.” The short man was now using a large flat pan connected to a rod to feed his creations into the snapping fires coming from the three forges.

“I haven’t either, but Byron gave me one more clue as to where I could discover the origins of the organization.”

“Why would someone loyal to Rew’s cause give you any information at all?”

“Honestly, I think the man was just bored. Even after we incapacitated the man’s entire crew, he insisted on dueling our captain, just for the fun of it.”

“And did he win?” Sur was removing the pastries and retrieving various jars and brushes, where he began to paint various sweet mixtures onto the baked treats.

Callan grumbled out a “yes” before adding, “But what I really wanted to ask you about was this. You know Deporta better than anyone else, maybe in this whole city.”

“I doubt it,” Sur challenged, but his eyes gleamed.

“Do you know about any hidden libraries in Deporta?” Callan asked abruptly. “Libraries the Forlorn wouldn’t want anyone else to know about? Even their leaders?”

“What a specific, strange question.” Sur fiddled with his glasses, wiping them on a satin handkerchief he pulled from his breast pocket before replacing the spectacles and fixing Callan with a powerful, inquisitive stare. “And what makes you think a humble baker like me would know about such a specific, possibly imaginary location?”

“Let’s call it a feeling in my gut,” Callan said as his stomach protested once more.

“Here, try one of these,” Sur said, handing Callan one of the finished delicacies. It was covered with a thin, glossy coating of something that smelled like yellowtangs.

“And I have one more thing you should try,” the man said, and the mischievous grin was unmistakable this time. “The current Forlorn lineal will be guided by his Orenda to knowledge from his people’s past.”