Emberhawk - Jamie Foley Page 0,9

cloaking his body in ultimate darkness.

“Anishé!” a young man’s voice exclaimed.

Ryon’s spinning mind slowed enough to realize the language was Malaano. The word meant something like, “He’s gone!”

“Wait,” said another voice in the same language.

Ryon slowed his panicked breathing. Only sound should reveal his presence—just as footsteps revealed someone’s presence at his side now.

He held his breath.

The rope around Ryon’s wrists yanked, jostling his shoulder and eliciting a strangled yelp. The Phoera element abandoned him, and light reached his eyes again.

A middle-aged man glared at Ryon over a pointed nose. His heavy silver armor bore a cerulean tabard crested with a white lotus—the symbol of the Malaano Empire. Overlapping shells, glinting with opalescent color, decorated his helmet and indicated a high rank.

Ryon tore his gaze away and glued it to the barn wall. That slim face looked like a snake’s—just as cunning, too. It could easily match the drawing of Lieutenant Sa’alu on the chieftess’ latest assassination order.

“An elementalist.” The man raised a hand, clinking the thin plates on his gauntlet. “Close the door.”

A younger soldier obeyed, shaking his head at a girl who whispered to him from outside the barn. He slid the door closed, shutting her out.

Ryon recognized the girl who’d shot him as her face disappeared into the fading light. Her azure eyes creased with something he couldn’t discern—perhaps guilt or worry. But neither of those made sense.

“What’s your name?” the officer asked in Malaano.

Ryon stared at a knot in the wood of the barn wall. He took a deep breath and braced for the worst.

The younger soldier stepped forward and repeated the question in Phoeran, Ryon’s own language. “I am Tekkyn’ashi of Navarro, and this is Sa’alu of Maqua. It would be wise of you to answer.” His accent was thick, but spoken with confidence.

Ryon closed his eyes and didn’t move. His mind choked on fear, not allowing him to remember the reason the chieftess had written an order for this lieutenant’s death. Ryon doubted it was for pleasant treatment of prisoners.

“String him up,” Sa’alu said in Malaano.

The rope around Ryon’s wrists pulled, eliciting blinding pain from his shoulder. A cry stumbled out as Tekkyn’ashi leveraged a rope over the rafters, hauling Ryon off the table. Ryon staggered into the center of the barn, kicking up dust as his vision darkened and warbled.

When the barn steadied, he was kneeling in its center. His arms were pulled above him, and hot liquid trickled down his stomach. In the far corner, Tekkyn’ashi tied the rope’s slack to a wooden beam like an expert lasso-handler.

Sa’alu stepped closer and flicked his dark gaze from Ryon’s wrists to his face. “Which tribe are you from?” he asked in Malaano, and Tekkyn’ashi repeated the question in Phoeran as he finished his knot.

Ryon steadied his breath and pushed off the floor on his knees, releasing pressure from his shoulder. He willed his legs not to shake as he got to his feet and gained a finger’s length of height on Sa’alu. Funny how the man could somehow look down his nose from an islander’s petite stature.

Ryon blanched his face of emotion and said nothing.

Sa’alu pointed at Ryon’s pack on the floor beside the table. “His bag.”

Tekkyn’ashi moved to retrieve the pack like a faithful dog. He handed it to Sa’alu.

The lieutenant sifted through the bag’s contents as if they were covered in pond scum. He pulled out Ryon’s painted mask and examined the silver and white streaks. They formed an intricate design, like a ghostly demon fixed in a permanent scowl.

“He’s the highest rank,” Tekkyn’ashi murmured in Malaano.

“No.” Sa’alu turned the mask over and inspected the smooth wood inside. “Second highest.”

Tekkyn’ashi was quiet for a moment. “I thought orange was for the foot soldiers, yellow for the village guardians, and white for their elite.”

“That is the common knowledge, yes. But blue is the hottest shade of flame. They are the chieftess’ personal guard.” Sa’alu raised an eyebrow at Ryon. “Isn’t that right?”

Ryon didn’t respond, lest they realize he could understand their language. No wonder the chieftess wants him dead.

“Cartographer’s tools and standard Katrosi equipment, save for this.” Sa’alu withdrew Ryon’s spyglass and handed it to Tekkyn’ashi.

The young soldier turned the golden metal over in his hand and furrowed his brow. “This looks Emberhawk.”

“So do his eyes.” Sa’alu inspected Ryon like a dragonfly pinned to a board. A sliver of nausea slipped through Ryon’s stomach, and he looked away.

“They could just be bright orange because he’s an elementalist,” Tekkyn’ashi said.

“No, he’s Emberhawk—I’m almost certain.”

Ryon