The Familiars: Circle of Heroes. Adam Epstein

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      The blue jay fluttered over to the desk. When she saw the anklet, her face filled with surprise.

      “People said Kalstaff had once been a member of the Noctonati,” said Skylar. “I just never believed it.”

      She took the anklet in her talon and pointed at an inscription: KGM.

      “Kalstaff’s initials,” she said. “So it was true.”

      Beside a nearby bookshelf, Gilbert sat on Marianne’s shoulder. She was flipping through one of Kalstaff’s handwritten diaries.

      “Do you think you should be reading that?” he asked. “It’s private.”

      “Did you know that Kalstaff and Queen Loranella were once romantically involved?” asked Marianne, rapt. “Until the Mountain Alchemist came between them!”

      “It really feels wrong to be snooping like this,” insisted Gilbert. He paused for a moment, then curiosity got the better of him. “Well, what did the Alchemist do?”

      “He stole her away for himself,” said Marianne.

      “Listen to this,” said Dalton, interrupting them. He was reading a different journal. “Here, he writes about taking Galleon on a trip into the dream world. It’s one of the final tests of a graduating wizard.”

      Aldwyn was less interested by the personal revelations in Kalstaff’s diaries; his attention kept getting drawn back to the helmet, which was now sending plumes of cold air out through its nostril holes. He watched as a wisp of chilled vapour slithered through the still air and wrapped itself around a book with no title on its binding. A slight gust swept the book open to a spot in the middle. Aldwyn looked at the page in front of him and saw words written on the parchment in a shaky handwriting. Most of the time, Kalstaff had dictated to Scribius when he needed something to be written, but on rare occasions he wrote notes to the young wizards himself. Clearly, it seemed whatever had been recorded here was so personal Scribius hadn’t transcribed it.

       I have become troubled lately by a great fallacy that many Vastians have taken to be truth: that all prophecies are divine and certain. My studies are beginning to uncover that this may not be the case at all. Take Eradeigh Wallus, the young goose farmer destined to wield Brannfalk’s sword against a herd of tunneller dragons. He tried and failed, and all of the northern villages fell to the beasts’ mighty horns as a result. And he was not the only one. The Flora Sisters never built the Sapphire Temple. No legendary hymns could be written about the prophesised warriors of Marth, since they never even rode into battle at all. History only seems to remember the prophecies that come true and turns a blind eye to the ones that do not. A warning to those with a destiny of their own: just because it is written in the stars does not make it so. These words will surely cause great worry among all who depend on the fates protecting them. I must think long and hard before choosing to share them.

      Another sudden swirl of cold air ruffled the pages, and then the book was closed once again. Aldwyn jumped back. He knew the evil helmet had played a role in his troubling discovery, but there was no denying that the words had been written in Kalstaff’s hand. A sickly feeling crept over Aldwyn. Was the prophecy of the Three as false as the ones that Kalstaff had uncovered? His confidence had grown since he had learned that he did in fact possess magic powers, but were he and Gilbert and Skylar really powerful enough to save Vastia? He looked at his friends, wondering if he should share Kalstaff’s warning. But why, he thought. What good would it do to fill their heads with doubt?

      Through the iron cellar doors, Aldwyn could hear the unmistakable chirping of dawn crickets announcing the arrival of the morning sun. Even though he needed no reminder, the sound spurred Aldwyn back to the mission at hand.

      “Come on,” he said to his animal companions. “We should go.”

      Skylar looked like she was on a shopping spree, filling her satchel with small spell scrolls and rare dried components. Dalton handed her Grimslade’s Olfax tracking snout, which he’d detached from the hunter’s belt, along with his small leather pouch.

      “These aren’t going to do us a whole lot of good down here.”

      Skylar opened up the bounty hunter’s bag and peered inside. “It’s a Mobius pouch!”

      Aldwyn peered inside. Although small from the outside, it was enormous within, big enough to hold gear ten times its size. Aldwyn spotted a noose stick, dispeller chains, and some traps inside, similar to the one that had snared his tail when Grimslade first tried to catch him, back when he was an orphan cat in Bridgetower.

      Skylar placed Grimslade’s pouch within her own just as Gilbert beckoned Shady out from his backpack.

      “I’d love to take you along, boy,” Gilbert told Shady. “But I think Marianne, Dalton, and Jack might need you here, to help keep them safe.” Gilbert turned to Marianne. “He’s really easy to take care of. You just need to walk him, once around midnight and again a few hours before dawn. And he has to be hand fed. Grubs are his favourite. But you have to chew them up for him first. Now, bathing him can be a little tricky. You know, maybe I should make a list.”

      “I think we’ll be OK,” said Marianne, trying to reassure her familiar with a smile. “Be careful out there.”

      Jack got down on one knee before Aldwyn.

      “I feel like we’ve been saying goodbye a lot lately,” he said.

      “When this is all over, you and I are finally going to go on an adventure together,” replied Aldwyn.

      “Pinky swear?” asked Jack.

      “If I had one, absolutely,” said Aldwyn, nuzzling up against Jack’s leg.

      The boy gave him a final pat under the ear. Then Aldwyn headed for the stairs that led out of the cellar. Dalton climbed to the top step and pushed open the iron doors.

      “Send my regards to Galleon and Banshee,” he said.

      “We will,” replied Skylar.

      And with that, the three familiars left the underground chamber. Aldwyn looked back as Dalton began closing the cellar doors and caught a glimpse of Jack. In front of Aldwyn, the boy had put on a brave face, but now he appeared overcome with worry. Then the doors slammed shut, and Aldwyn heard the clang of the latch falling into place. Once again, it was down to the familiars to save the queendom from certain ruin – but what if, as Kalstaff had feared, prophecies didn’t always come true?

      “We should arrive in Split River by nightfall,” said Skylar, who was leading the way across another long and monotonous stretch of the Aridifian Plains.

      “Yes, if we journey by foot,” replied Aldwyn. “But we’ve made this trip much faster once before.”

      “Oh, no,” said Gilbert. “There is no way I’m jumping on the back of a moving horse wagon again.”

      “You’ll be fine,” said Aldwyn. “Besides, this way, we might get there in time for lunch with Galleon and Banshee.”

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