Alora: The Maladorn Scroll (Alora 3)

“Hurry!” she called. “We must warn everyone.”

A shrill shriek rent the air, sending a ripple of fear down Bardamen’s spine.

“What was that sound?” Meravelle froze at the top of the hill, in sight of the house.

“That was a wendt.”

“A wendt! I’ve read about them but never seen one,” she said with an airy rasp.

The hair-raising cry sounded again.

“Take cover in your house,” ordered Bardamen, setting off at a run. “I must reach high ground—your watch tower.”

Ignoring his order, she caught up with him.

“I’ll not cower inside while Vindrake destroys my shire and captures the Craedenza. Follow me.”

She raced ahead on nimble feet, following the path until it divided. Bending over, she gasped for air, waving her hand to the side. “The tower is that way.”

Without waiting, she dashed down the opposite path, heading toward the center of town where cries of alarm and confusion could be heard.

“Meravelle, stop!”

She halted, prancing impatiently from foot to foot. “What?”

“You mustn’t go. You have no gifting for battle.” His chest clenched, knowing she was headed toward certain death.

“Then I’ll fight with wisdom instead.”

And Meravelle was gone.

**************

Alora couldn’t decide which was worse—the humiliation of throwing up right there in Daegreth’s bedroom in front of all of her friends or the horrendous nausea that caused it. She sat on the floor, resting her head against the bed, afraid to move lest she vomit again. Though the nauseating object was only a few feet away, she didn’t dare try to move. The last time I felt this sick I was with my father.

Beth had dashed into the bathroom, returning with a towel, which Kaevin had used to mop up the mess, despite Alora’s weak protests that he would stain the fluffy powder-blue fabric.

“Was it something you ate?” asked Beth, with one hand over her own mouth as if she expected to likewise lose her dinner at any moment.

“No,” Alora answered in a feeble voice as she accepted a damp washcloth from Beth and wiped her face. “It’s right there. Markaeus’ backpack. Can somebody please move it away?”

Daegreth grabbed the camouflage-patterned pack and tossed it out the door. And judging by the cry of protest from the hallway, he probably hit someone with it. Sure enough, Wesley appeared, followed by his mom, armed with cleaning products.

“Don’t you worry, Alora dear, I’ll have this cleaned up in a jiffy.” She dropped onto her knees, scrubbing with so much vigor, Alora figured she’d wear a hole in the rug.

Alora glared at Markaeus, who kicked at the floor with the toe of his shoe. “What’s in that bag, Markaeus?”

“Nothing, really. Only something I wish you to deliver to Arista for me.”

“I assume you speak of the scroll you stole from her.” Kaevin loomed over Markaeus. “Why would you do such a thing?”

Markaeus shrugged, his lower lip protruding. “She bragged she was a better gressor than me, just because she’s older.” He crawled over to kneel beside Alora with pleading eyes. “I only wanted to show her I found her hiding place. I wouldn’t have kept it. I didn’t really steal it.”

Feeling better with the backpack out of the room, Alora opened her arms to Markaeus, and he flew against her, hiding his face.

“I missed you,” he mumbled, and the ice around her heart warmed, melting into a puddle. She knew what he meant. Even while both of them had been in Laegenshire together, she’d hardly seen Markaeus, and she really missed the troublesome squirt. She’d been trying to be a big sister to him since he lost his brother and moved into her uncle’s house, but in the end, he felt more like a son.

“Markaeus!” Uncle Charles strode into the room, holding up the camo bag. “You shouldn’t leave your backpack lying around. Someone could trip on it.”