1 year ago

The first time Ivo saw Locke Amory, he didn’t know who he was. Ivo watched as the tall, curly-blonde boy moved through the crowd at the party. And later when dinner was served, Locke held court as people drank him in. Ivo did think he was arresting, but he kept his distance.
“Why do you never enjoy yourself?” His father, Soler Veremond, was just laughing at a joke Locke had told when he glanced over at his son. Soler’s face dropped and he glared at his son. It was a look that Ivo was used to—a disappointing son. Delicate, sensitive. Unlike the great, bulky Soler Veremond—a legend in his own right.
“He is our host!”
“The last time I checked,” Ivo placed his elbow lightly on the table and pressed his fingertips into his temple, “the Amories didn’t have these luxuries or obscure crests.”
“Legacies,” Soler hissed, “family magic!”
“None of these pass through Amory—they’re too strong. Amories are healers,” Ivo only lifted the tip of his finger from his head and circled it around.
“What do you know about strength?” Soler turned back to the table.
“No one ever cares about details,” Ivo muttered to himself, keeping his gaze on his father.
But just past his father’s shoulders, he watched Locke walking away from the dining table and disappear behind the heavy velvet curtain that encompassed the whole room.
The curtain flew behind him. Ivo rose swiftly from his seat, before his father or anyone could notice. Not that he would be missed. Ivo often occupied the margins of any room or anyone’s thoughts. It was an advantage most of the time, Ivo believed. Especially now as he pushed the velvet curtain aside. But before him was a strange colored wall. It was iridescent with black pockmarks as well as streaks of red and veins of gold. Ivo hesitantly held his hand up to it and breathed. The words poured from his lips and the incantation was complete—the wall melted and revealed a corridor ahead that was dimly lit. Another advantage to being overlooked was how easy it was to learn how to bypass enchanted walls and doors.
But Ivo slowly, hesitantly moved down the hall. The tips of his shoes feeling for whatever was in front of him. It was drafty and dry, as though it were a secret, dusty shaft into another part of the house, and when Ivo heard a cry from the door at the very end of the corridor, he knew that that was exactly what the corridor was.
Suddenly, a cold, rough hand clamped down on the back of his neck. The next thing Ivo knew was his cheek slammed into the gravel floor and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Then there was silence as the door slowly opened. There were people already inside. Ivo was carried in by, what he assumed to be a guard, without attracting anyone’s attention. When Ivo’s eyes finally adjusted to the light, he recognized Locke’s tall, handsome figure leaning over something. Something that Ivo couldn’t quite make out as human… nor anything else really.
Locke was about to pour something into this shape.
Then there was another horrific scream. And Ivo was hoisted to his feet. When he staggered up, he got a better look it.
It was ghost. Or a spirit. Ivo squinted at it.
It was being held down by several ancient amulets from what Ivo recognized from afar. It seemed to have been conjured.
“Impossible…” Ivo breathed as he saw the ghostly figure’s face: it had been Sage. A reclusive, dangerous heretic.
“Where is it?” Locke’s voice sounded different—it wasn’t warm or charming. It was sharp and filled with disgust. Poised over the ghost’s open mouth was a small pitcher with gold dripping from his spout.
“What’re you doing?” Ivo was so carried away with what was in the pitcher that he forgot that he never meant to be caught in the first place.
Locke whipped his head around. His eyes narrowed only briefly, until his eyes grew round with recognition. He seemed to have forgotten the ghost behind him as he set down his pitcher and slowly made his way toward Ivo.
Ivo’s heart dropped.
“Veremond,” Locke said each syllable slowly. “Very clever, indeed.”
Ivo’s chin lifted slightly: Had he heard of him?
But Locke’s eyes were glittering ideas, Ivo could tell, and he struggled against the grip the guard had on him.
“You’d be instrumental—” Locke gestured to the ghost with his hand, “since I know you’re quite the historian and scholar.”
“The amulet,” Locke walked back to the ghost, “was specifically created by this soul.”
Ivo turned pale. So, it was true. Locke had conjured and trapped a soul. And it seemed to be done with chilling ease.
“An amulet to end all amulets. But it has vanished. At least, according to him.”
Locke paused as he lifted the pitcher again, and Ivo could see the wizened soul begin to tremble. Souls could still tremble and show fear, Ivo noted faintly to himself.
“I know where it is…” Ivo said faintly.
Locke smiled at him, “I knew you’d be useful.”
“Please release him,” Ivo’s voice trembled, but he kept his eyes fixed on the soul.
“Why?” Locke asked softly, crossing his arm in front of Ivo to put the pitcher down again. It broke Ivo’s gaze, but he looked away from Locke.
“I know where it is,” Ivo stated more clearly, more firmly.
Ivo heard Locke speak a dark, language—a forbidden language that even Ivo could not speak without feeling pain. How did Locke do it? The ghost melted away into the air. The amulets that manacled it fell with a sharp clang to the ground.
“Where?”
Ivo’s lips pursed when he looked up at Locke.
“The Tariels looted those mountains. It’s…” Ivo pressed his eyes shut then opened them, “… it’s only a legend, but…” Ivo breathed.
“A legend?” Locke’s eyebrows lifted with disbelief.
But Ivo knew it that if it was true then it was a secret.
“Lautaro Tariel would know.” Ivo finally admitted.
