Page 28 of Keldori By Daybreak

I faltered and frowned at her. “What?”

“My magick!” she chirped. “If I used it right now, you’d probably all go blind. Or you’d suffer heat death.”

I tried to remember when I’d ever seen her use her magick before. I’d spent most of the summer traveling with her, keeping her safe, but had never so much as seen her wear Skal-goggles.

“Oh.”

“It’s because we’re Sovereigns, and our ancestors built Skalterra!” She brightened. “I’m descended from Sir Fireld, and his magick created Skalterra’s sun. I’m the last of my family, so there’s no one left to teach me how to control Skal, but every time I feel the sun, I know that’s my family’s magick. It’s my magick.”

“Great,” I sighed. “And when the volcanoes destroy everything north of the mountains including my grandma, I’ll know that’s mine.”

Fana laughed, which wasn’t quite the reaction I’d been expecting.

“The Saergrim created more than volcanoes. She made all the land and all the seas. Sir Quill,” she nodded at Orla’s back, “he made the air and the winds, and Lady Lyria made the moons and the cosmos.”

“And do their descendants also have unusable magick?” I snorted.

“I’m not sure,” Fana admitted. “It’s just Orla, but she seems to get on okay.”

“What was that?” Orla looked back at us. “I heard my name.”

“Wren is sad she can’t use magick without waking up volcanoes.”

“That’s silly.” Orla tilted her head at me. “Of course you can.”

“But Ciarán said—” I started.

“I didn’t feel any earthquakes last night.”

“I wasn’t using magick last night.”

“Yes, you were. I saw you healing yourself like Sorcha does.”

I placed a hand over my ribs. She was right. I’d been healing my ribs as we rested around our campfire, but there hadn’t been any earthquakes.

“Maybe it’s because healing magick is quiet and intentional rather than emotional and outbursting?” Orla suggested.

“I’m not emotional,” I shot back. Ciarán snorted up ahead, and I pressed my lips together.

“Of course not!” Orla hooked her elbow around mine to walk side-by-side. “But now that we know your magick can agitate the mountains, we know to be careful.”

“Agitate the mountains” was a nice way to say “initiate a cataclysmic chain of volcano eruptions”, but I tried to smile my thanks at Orla anyway.

“And don’t worry,” Fana whispered through a giggle. “If Ciarán is rude to you about it, I’ll blind him.”

We had no way of knowing just how far under the glacier we were when we finally stopped to set up camp. Ciarán and Orla melted out a cave in the ice wall so that we could eat and sleep away from the mist that sprayed up from the rushing river. We piled our bottles of Skal in the middle of the cave and ate our food in the pale blue glow of the liquid.

Ciarán offered a piece of dried meat to Fana. She shook her head and shrank back against the wall, but Jonquil padded out of her hiding spot behind a pack to take Ciarán up on the offer of food.

Orla turned her bread over in her hands, chewing slowly.

“There’s a baker at home who makes the best bread you’ve ever had. And it lasts for days without going stale.”

“Orla,” I sighed. She tensed next to me.

“I know.” Her voice tightened. “We’re going up there to find Iseult, not bread. But we’ll have to restock our rations eventually, and—”

“We get the Lyrian and then we leave,” Ciarán asserted. “In and out.”