Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3) C.J. Aaron (mobi reader .txt) 📖

excitement, the anxiety and the anticipation weighed on him, driving his mind into overdrive. With difficulty he managed to close his eyes, concentrating on his breathing enough to quiet his racing thoughts.

The short respite, though it included no sleep, was enough to restore his energy. In truth, he hadn’t noted signs of fatigue throughout the day even in the wake of the previous eventful week. The creeping darkness of early night had descended upon The Stocks as he silently slipped from the group of sleeping tributes. Ryl marveled at the ability of many to slumber given the circumstances. The flickering light of the small fire they’d built for warmth illuminated their bodies with the flickering orange glow of the flames. He noted the steady rise and fall of their chests and the consistent, rhythmic breathing that signaled that sleep had come. He smiled as he noted Rolan with Faya curled up beside him, her head on his chest. Along his other side, Aelin lay in a mirror pose of his daughter.

Ryl pulled his hood up over his head as he stole from the group into the gloom of the early night. His destination led him across the narrow hard-packed dirt road up the hill on its opposite side. He nodded his head at Andr as he passed. The mercenary leaned against the edge of the black wagon, his hand resting at the ready on his hip, his fingers only inches from the hilt of his sword.

A quick visual survey of the area told him that the tributes they’d pulled from the facility all still slumbered. Whether their sleep was restful or consumed by torturous nightmares, he was yet to know. He was at least partially reassured that they appeared comfortable. None cried out in agony or fear. The involuntary spasms and twitching had seemed to subside.

He scanned the area with his mindsight, marveling at the depth of information his vision provided. The combined light from the volume of tributes and phrenics was overwhelming, though he could make out the individual glow of each. The phrenics burned drastically brighter than the rest. He could tell the slight variations in the glow of their signatures as easily as he could recognize their faces.

Ryl slowly trudged up the gentle slope of the hill at Thayers Rest—where it met the horizon, the sky burned with a brilliant array of dark reds. The growing deep purple of the quickly approaching night worked to force the color of the day from view. The small copses of trees that dotted The Stocks appeared as blackened silhouettes against the lighter landscape and the jagged, charcoal peaks of the Haven’s stabbed into the sky to the north. Along the Palisades on both sides, signal fires were burning from every tower as word of the morning’s events had swiftly spread. He could see the tiny pinpoints of light from torches moving rapidly between the evenly spaced lookouts. As far as he could recall, there had never been a call for the signal fires to be lit before.

Then again, not since the escape of the founders of Vim, over one thousand cycles in the past, had there been any sort of armed uprising.

No phrenic had walked within these prison walls for nearly as long.

Ryl closed his eyes, relaxing for a moment, letting the cool breeze from the sea wash over him. Standing atop the hill, there was a wild stirring in his blood the likes of which he’d never experienced. His mind sifted through the nearly infinite shreds of information; sorted the countless memories in an instant. The sensation of the full extent of the vaults of information opening was still staggeringly disconcerting. It was like trying to drink but a sip of water from a tidal wave.

He sank to a knee, his head bowed, his right hand falling to the ground.

Inadvertently, his fingers found purchase, sinking their tips into the softened earth of the field. He felt a profound connection with the soil. Blood had been spilled here.

Phrenic blood.

Thayers Rest was one of the few named locations inside The Stocks that had stood the test of time. It was rumored to be named after a soldier who fought in Taben’s army. None knew the truth behind the claim. The answer flashed into his mind.

Thayer was a phrenic. A scout tasked with investigating the coming of the darkness; the approach of the Horde. He was the first to fall. His blood had drenched the soil on which Ryl now kneeled. He closed his fist, collecting a handful of the dark, rich soil. The heavy scent of earth assailed his nostrils. How many times had he dug in the soil atop this mound of earth? The feeling now was unnerving. The alexen in his blood mourned the loss. He could feel it in every fiber of his being.

Without warning his mindsight painted the picture of the surrounding landscape. The majority of the tributes were relatively still, though some moved about idly. A single glowing signature approached from his rear. Brighter than the others, he recognized it immediately.

“Are you alright, Ryl?” Kaep’s voice was soft and melodic, though it was flavored with a hint of concern.

Ryl rose to his feet, letting the dirt slip slowly through the gaps between his fingers. He felt every grain as it passed, heard every miniscule impact of the granules on the ground.

“Do you feel it? Do you feel the connection with this land?” he asked quietly without turning his head, his gaze still locked on the mountains to the north. “Phrenic blood has soaked the ground here.”

The silence stretched on as she stopped at his side. The feeling of welcome that every phrenic, every tribute carried washed over him. He could feel the warmth from the proximity of her uncloaked, tattooed right arm on his skin.

“Aye, it feels strange,” she responded in a whisper. “It’s almost as if I know this place. The sense of familiarity is potent. Part of me still can’t believe that we're