Elle has a choice…or so they say.
After being kidnapped, what reason would she have to stay in Caetera?
She doesn’t know how she got here. She doesn’t know why. Worst of all, she can’t figure out how to return to Earth on her own.
Just give it a week…or so they say.
How can she? Something about Caetera is just not right.
Come along with Elle as she discovers Terrináe, Caetera, and the fact that everything she thought she knew may have been a lie. New characters come into play that will shape Elle’s journey and thwart Javine’s plans.
Will Elle choose to stay in this new world?
Here is a link to buy the book on Amazon.
Please enjoy the first chapter of Sixth Induction:
Tribal Market
Gregor Phillary
Tienne h’Ìosal, Caetera
10 de Lares, c.3683
Astride a steed, cavalback, was as natural as breathing for Gregor Phillary. In the expanse of the red-gold grasses of Tienne h’Ìosal, he released the reins and gave Ashe the lead. Gregor tensed his legs to protect himself from the initial blows but released his hold as the caval eased into the magical gait only possible on the plains. Once up to full speed, the ride smoothed, and Gregor closed his eyes—savoring the wind in his face.
The tribes had named the gallop kav-astahr tienne—caval speed of fire in Terrináe’s tongue. Riding this way was no more difficult than resting in a favorite chair. Gregor reached for the caval’s silvery-white neck and for their cengal—their shared connection. Ashe’s emotion coursed back into him, and the joy of the run through the fiery grasses vibrated the very bones in Gregor’s arm. He grinned.
Alongside Ailig, leader of the Suebhi, Gregor rode and massaged his wrist; the bones had healed from his final fettered duel with the Suebhian Mor, but pain echoed. Ailig’s invite today was the long-awaited signal that Gregor had been adopted.
An unusual tightness formed in Gregor’s chest as the market’s tents grew and Ashe slowed his gusting gait. Ailig and his caval, Néül, drew to a halt. Unclear on the reason, Gregor peered at his friend. Ailig leaned forward over Néül’s haunch, elbow on a knee clad in lightly tanned-leather. As he studied the market and surroundings, a muscle ticked, rippling the woad tattoos along his jawline that marked his position as Dion’Mor.
“Is all well?” Gregor asked, following Ailig’s gaze.
“Jha,” Ailig affirmed. “Is good to measure.”
“Anything unexpected?”
“Ne.” Ailig sat straight, shading Gregor from Caetera’s star. “Yer sure?”
“At your side, as one of your own, all should be well. You said as much yourself.”
“I’ve ne to bring a crith.” Ailig arched his double brow, challenging Gregor with hard amber eyes.
Gregor held his poise but flinched inside. It was only one of the derogatory words that the stahmen called Terrinians. It didn’t reach the insult level of gneàrp, but it was close. Gregor still fought back his bristle at being called a worm. Ailig was only being forthright. He’d hear those words and likely worse within the market.
Gregor steeled himself. Through force of will, he’d developed the Suebhian guttural dialect, and he was ready with the customary bow of obeisance and proper greeting. “As I’ve said before, this is a good first step. Hard, but good. I can’t open trade if I can’t develop relationships.” Ailig was the sole reason Gregor had been able to bring the cavali trade into Terrináe. “How many stahmen are here?”
“Three. Small.”
“Have I met any of them?”
“N’jari, Nekhar—jha.” He nodded, then twisted his lips sideways before adding, “J’thungi—ne.”
Gregor swallowed, steeling himself. “Are we ready?”
Ailig swung from the saddle. The cavali were of a height significant enough that Gregor needed four rungs to Ailig’s two simply to mount. For Gregor to step down as Ailig had done was impractical. Instead, Gregor slid his legs to one side and leapt, landing in a graceful crouch. He stood and said mentally to Ashe: I’ll call when we’re ready .
Gregor placed a hand on his caval’s neck; Ashe agreed through wordless cengal and wandered away with Néül. Ailig and Gregor strode through the red grasses to the market in silence—each adjusting their stride to match the other’s speed and meeting somewhere in the middle.
As trading went, the gathering was small. Fewer than fifty tribespeople milled around inside the large tent. Blankets were spread with fresh fruits and vegetables, salted meats hung from wood-crafted stands, and a mound of pelts rested in a corner. One of the Nekhar from the northern plains near the great forest offered a wide selection of stäben, the favored weapon of the stahmen.
Toward the rear of the tent, a group towered around unknown goods, hiding what was offered. Within the cluster, coloring and attire distinguished the tribes. Nekhar—dark brown, hairless on every inch of exposed skin, duster-length vests of fur over fitted dark leather leggings with exposed chest and arms. N’jari had an alabaster, ghostly tone and thick snow-white hair that resembled what Gregor remembered of an Earth-lion’s mane. They wore sections of their manes in banded braids to mark stahmen position as their beards hid the normal jawline symbols. The J’thungi resembled Ailig’s Suebhi stahmen in hard-lined bones, bare scalp along the sides and backs of their heads, but a crown of long, straight hair tied into a tail. Their marked difference—deeper sun-kissed skin and darker hair than the Suebhian yellow.
Ailig circled and perused the uncrowded offerings—Gregor at his side as they’d discussed. The Suebhi Dion’Mor received sneers from the vendors, and a low growl rumbled from one of the N’jari. None—not a one—looked down in his direction. In their eyes, he was chattel.
When they reached the weapons dealer, the dark, hairless Nekhar Suebhian barked to Ailig in the plains’ native tongue, “Dion’Mor, your slave’s place is outside.”
Ailig glanced down as Gregor said, with native fluency, “I am no slave. I seek trade, just like your brethren.” He motioned around the room.
The black eyes of the Nekhar pinned him momentarily. His nostrils flared, then he looked back to Ailig, “Your huïre then?”
Gregor cleared his throat. Call him a worm—all right. Call him a weasel—he could deal. But a whore? He took a deep, cleansing breath, readying his rebuttal, but Ailig’s hand landed on his shoulder before he could speak.
“Mo Bekänte,” said Ailig, boring amber eyes into the offending tribesman.
The Nekhar shrank under the formal declaration of a stahm leader’s respect and hospitality for an honored guest. The tribesman’s black eyes widened, and his jaw hung. Gregor stood straighter and met the gawking stare, radiating competence.
When the Nekhar stuttered an offering of stäben, Gregor declined politely, requesting instead to meet the Nekhar’s Dion’Mor on the morrow at Phillary Vineyard. Gregor’s property on the east facing slope of the Idris range was just to the west of the path that the Nekhar would use to return to their northern territory.
With Ailig’s support, Gregor had finished the arrangement for the meeting as the crowd to the back of the tent dispersed. Another tribesman, J’thungi by the deep tanned skin and dark tail swinging from his crow, dragged a girl from the tent. Short. Shorter than Gregor by a head. Blonde. Cream-skinned.
Terrinian.
Gregor stopped breathing and tensed every muscle in his legs, gluing his feet in place. Balled his fists. Gritted his teeth. He found Ailig’s amber eyes, questioning.
What the fuck was that? Gregor projected, but shit. The Suebhian couldn’t hear. He repeated the words aloud.
“To be calm,” Ailig said, less acclimated to Terrináe’s tongue than Gregor to the Suebhian. “You to know of—”
“Ailig, mo Brüàthr!” A voice resounded from the now abandoned area where the crowd had gathered. Marked by jawline tattoos, another Dion’Mor stalked in their direction. J’thungi by his sun-browned Suebhi likeness, but otherwise a near image of Ailig.
“Sigrün!” Ailig’s amber eyes lit with recognition.
As the pair locked forearms and pulled into a loose embrace, light reflected from a blood-red patterned cuff wrapping Sigrün’s wrist. Gregor tilted his head and squinted, wondering if the material was metal. If so, it meant that the J’thungi had significant resources and trade with this tribe could be profitable. When the greetings finished, the Dion’Mor turned his head slowly down to Gregor—air of superiority written all over his face and the graceful appraisal.
Gregor sank to his right knee, right hand on the ground, left arm rested across his thigh. He focused his gaze on the ground at Sigrün’s feet. In the customary bow and formal greeting, he said, “Ar vaschen d’ehrlichen, Dion’Mor Sigrün.”
Gregor waited.
The release from his obeisance didn’t come.
Instead, Sigrün’s approval and mild admiration—misguided though it was—resounded in his voice when he said to Ailig, “You, Brüàthr, own a well-mannered slave.”
Grateful that neither witnessed his flaring nostrils, Gregor held his position as Ailig answered in their native tongue, “He’s no slave, but my distinguished guest. He wishes to discuss trade with the Mors der Stamen.”
“I see no goods for trade,” said the J’thungi leader, bellowing a laugh.
“Release him, Brüà Sigrün, then we may discuss.”
A silence ensued in which Gregor could only imagine the looks that passed between the Mors der Stahmen. At length, Sigrün answered, “Ne. He may rise when I leave, and he may send his offer in writing if he wishes to trade with the J’thungi. I will see you another day, Brüàthr.” His boots rustled in the grass, and Gregor let his eyes follow as he marched from the tent.
Ailig’s arm reached into his field of vision, releasing him from the obeisance. Gregor stood and kept with the Suebhian, asking, “Aside from slaves, what does Sigrün trade?”
“Pteryx scales and eggs.”
“Whatever is a Pteryx?”
“That is hard to describe.” Ailig looked up, away, then back to Gregor. He held a hand at his mid-thigh—Gregor’s waist level, and added, “Small animal about this high, flys, but not far. The J’thungi raise them in the forests far to the east.”
“Sigrün’s cuff—is that made of the scales?”
“Jha.” Ailig rubbed his eyes and started for the exit. He switched to Terrináe’s tongue, and said, “Write yer proposal. I to send.”