Garren had just fallen into a deep sleep when Tadraem burst through his door. He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
Tadraem stopped just a foot from Garren. "They are all dead, my Lord. One, a mere boy, was left alive."
"You're going to have to be more specific." Garren rose from the bed, and pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders. He was so cold, his fingers felt numb.
"Jules and all of his men. They were returning from Ruiari when they were slaughtered. Michael spared only one of them."
Garren's eyes grew wide. No Adorian had ever behaved in such a fashion. They usually avoided bloodshed as much as possible – it was their greatest weakness. He knew Michael would be angry over the loss of his men, but he hadn't foreseen this.
"Are you certain it was Michael?"
Tadraem nodded. "The boy has said little else, but he was certain Michael was in command."
Garren started toward the door. "Take me to the child."
Tadraem led Garren to a smaller room at the end of a long corridor and down several flights of stairs. Pushing open a heavy wooden door, they passed the humans who were tending to the boy. One was putting away his armor; the other was preparing fresh clothing for him.
Garren looked at them, pointing to the door. "Leave us!" he barked.
The boy's clothes were covered in blood, though it did not appear be his own. Still, he shook violently in his chair.
"What's your name?" Garren placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, leaning over him as he spoke.
"Micah, my Lord." he stammered. He was so small. It surprised him that Jules had chosen him for any venture outside of Eidolon. As the boy looked at him, he began to recognize some of his features. He guessed the boy to be in his early teens. He had the same gray eyes that his father had, and same mousy brown hair that fell in curly ringlets about his face.
"Jules was your father?" The boy nodded weakly. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but was hesitant to open his mouth. "What happened to the other men, Micah?" Garren questioned him with as much gentleness as he could muster, but he didn't have time to coddle the youth. If the winds in Adoria were changing again, he needed to know.
"We surprised them after we found their horses tied behind a large set of stones. There were only three of them at first; a really tall one with huge wings and another with light brown hair. Michael, who spared me, was the third."
Garren assumed the other men to be Caedmon and Jareth.
"We had them surrounded, when out of nowhere there were hundreds of them, a thousand maybe. They came from the forest and fell from the trees." Micah drew in a deep breath, and then said in nearly a whisper, "He asked that I speak only with you."
Garren nodded and looked back at Tadraem, motioning for him to leave.
"You cannot be serious, my Lord. There's nothing that cannot be said in the presence of the High Priest."
Garren narrowed his eyes. "Do you need another reminder of how to bite your tongue?"
"No, High Lord," Tadraem bowed with clear reluctance and left the room.
Garren lowered himself to meet Micah eye-to-eye. "What happened?"
"He asked my father to choose one of us in exchange for his freedom."
Garren was surprised to hear this. "And he chose you?"
The boy's eyes welled with tears. "Yes, my Lord. When Michael pulled me back from the rest of the group, he told my father that he was freeing him not from death, but life. Then he asked me to deliver a message to you."
The boy pulled a small scrap of worn leather from his pocket. It appeared to be some shred of clothing. It had writing from coal upon it. "I wrote it down so I wouldn't forget.
"'I know not your reasons for sparing my sister, but continue to torment her and it will seal your fate. This is nothing in comparison to the judgment that will be dealt in the event any further harm is afforded to her at your hands.'"
Micah lowered his head and stared at the floor.
Garren was too shocked to respond.
No. She can't be.
He could feel pressure building in his head, his heart pounding in his chest. He placed a hand over his mouth, leaning into it while resting his elbow on his knee. He realized his knees had buckled and he was now sitting flat on the floor by the boy's chair.
"I'm sorry about your father."
Micah remained silent, fearful. It was a look Garren had come to expect from those who delivered bad news to him. This time, however, it grieved him to see it.
Garren lay back on the ground, placed his hands over his eyes and sighed. What had Michael meant by further torment? His emotions flitted wildly from fury over the death of his soldiers to an unwanted feeling of fear for her – the same fear he'd felt upon seeing her in the dream. He'd naively assumed that she was the source of the visions. She was obviously experiencing the same strange connection.
Michael's sister. The very thought of it sickened him. Their loathing for one another ran so deep, it was ironic that Michael's blood was leading Garren astray. He again wrestled with his anger. He'd never felt so lost. Everything that was once so simple had, in such a short period of time, grown so complicated. Though he wouldn't have dared to consciously acknowledge it, he'd developed a desire to somehow bring her to Eidolon to be with him. This desire now became a stark impossibility. The one thing he was certain of about Michael was his fierceness to protect those who were under his command; the ferocity with which he protected his own blood was even stronger.
Garren lay still. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as he tried in vain to push her face out of his mind. He remembered leaning over her, holding the blade to her throat – and yet she'd remained strong. He could still feel the touch of her skin as he'd lifted her from the ground, the look in her eyes as he retrieved his sword. She did not fear him. There'd been no hint of it in her expression if she had. He should have seen the resemblance. Now, knowing, he could place her cheekbones and the tenacity in her voice as almost identical to Michael's. It made no sense that she had been in Palingard alone, unless she'd been there without his knowledge. Even that didn't explain her reaction. She didn't appear to know that she was Adorian.
Then he considered Micah. Garren had thought a lot about his own father since discovering his brutal end. It pained him to imagine being sent by his own flesh to be slaughtered. He looked up at the boy.
"How old are you, child?"
The sadness in Micah's face was excruciating. "Thirteen this year, my Lord."
Garren nodded, he'd suspected as much. Micah's shoulders were narrow, his build not fully developed. He wouldn't reach his full height for several more years. The boy was far too young to have been on any battlefield. Most Ereubinians didn't make their first kill or take their first soul until they were sixteen years old.
"I have failed you, my Lord." Micah said. "I didn't fight them."
Perhaps the boy was braver than Garren was giving him credit for. "No. You've done no such thing. It would have been imprudent to make any other decision than to do as they asked."
The boy brightened as Garren spoke, but he could still see the beginnings of a deep scar forming. Micah would now be well acquainted with the burden of betrayal.
Then, from where he sat, Garren noticed a pile of cloth hidden behind the boy's chair. He reached out and pulled it close. It was a deep royal blue cloak, with two very distinct slits along the back for wings. "Did you take this from one of their fallen?"
Micah nodded. "Yes."
Garren could tell he was lying. "Then why is there no blood?" he quickly rose to his feet.
Micah looked at him with panic in his eyes, but said nothing.
"He gave this to you." Garren's voice softened as he spoke. "You were accompanied on the journey back here." Garren turned his back to Micah to walk toward the window. He peered through the glass.
Michael was out there. It would take little effort to summon his men and ride out after them. But he couldn't. A rare opportunity to avenge his men and kill his mortal enemy, and yet his feet were frozen to the floor.
Michael's sister.