The Broken Bow

by C D Beaudin

  “Hello, my sons.” She turns to the corner, where Adriel and Awyn sit watching her. Raea walks over to them, kneeling beside Awyn.

  She looks at Ethiah. “Ethiah, you cannot heal this, every mark Aradon made will have magic attached.” She places her hand on Awyn’s stomach, white light shining underneath it. Awyn exhales steadily and drifts off into sleep.

  Raea looks at her violet eyed daughter, tears in them. “My girl, it’s been a long time.”

  Adriel looks down. “You left me in that tower. You didn’t come for me.”

  “Darling—”

  Adriel stands, and runs out of the throne room.

  Raea looks after her, glancing at her sons.

  They look away from her, equally scornful.

  Raea’s enveloped in white light once again and vanishes.

  Aradon’s confused. “What the heck happened?” he mutters to himself. But he doesn’t have time to answer as he falls asleep.

  She stirs in the bed, the feeling of silk underneath her and atop her, the deep softness of a feather pillow under her head. A pain in her stomach and head.

  What happened?

  Awyn’s throat is dry, her eyes heavy with fatigue. They flicker open, unsure whether or not to expose themselves to the world outside her empty dreams.

  She’s hurt, in pain—she knows that much. Looking under the blankets, she lifts her nightgown to see a bandage around a purple bruise over her stomach.

  Who hurt her? How did they hurt her?

  But then that answer comes.

  Aradon.

  Tears in her eyes, Awyn makes her way over to the window. She is already healing, but every step she takes is laced with pain. Slightly surprised that Mora or Adriel aren’t at her bedside, she takes this moment to herself.

  She looks out onto the city. It shines with the colors of the sunrise. An orange glow settles over the white stone and snow-covered plains of Mera, both no longer in shadow. The mountains are black at their base but are lilac-washed as the rock stretches to the sky, and the sea is illuminated by the pink, yellows, and oranges that dance across the dawn.

  A cold hand on her shoulder.

  She lightly smiles. “Is this going to be a regular thing?” she asks softly, no longer fighting. She doesn’t have the energy, the will.

  She’s just tired.

  “Only if you want it to be.” Karak stands beside her and looks out the window with her. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It is.” Awyn sighs. “If only it wasn’t in the wake of one of the darkest hours of Meran history.” She shakes her head, looking up at Karak. “I’m afraid that it can only get worse from here.” Her feelings waver. “A bow has been broken, Karak. In more ways than any of us can ever imagine. And I’m afraid it can’t be put back together.”

  Karak doesn’t say anything. Instead, their gazes return to the symphony of colors the sunrise conducts. The sun dances across the sea, glittering white and gold and fiery red as the night becomes day.

  The sun will always set, but one day it might not rise.

  Book 3 Excerpt

  Book Three Excerpt

  No Man’s Land

  C. D. Beaudin

  Calzack hobbles toward the dock of the Tanea, the blanket of night covering his movements from the Tanean guards. A black cloak drawn over him, he’s just another shadow in the dark, and when his feet hit the creaky wooden dock, he’s lucky that his short and stocky frame doesn’t have any weight to it—wizard magic has its benefits.

  A wind brushes in and it rushes through him, as if he was only a ghost. Well, he is. At least he’s becoming one. While magic has kept him disguised for the past three years, it is also turning him into a ghost. It’s why he’s returning to his mentor. He needs the spell removed or he’s going to disappear forever.

  Though, at the rate Mortal is falling…that might not be such a bad thing.

  It’s awhile before the boat crosses the straight between the isle and the dock, but the passenger’s black eyes are just as cold and unwelcoming as they were three years ago.

  “Arin, lovely to see you again.”

  Her blank expression doesn’t change.

  Okay, then. He drops into the boat, the wooden vessel unmoving. This is when the slightest hint of emotion enters her eyes.

  “You are deteriorating. Disappearing from this world. Your true form is leaving you.”

  “Very insightful, Arin.” He’s very aware of what he risked when he took this assignment. He was close to being rejected by his mentor. Training has been hard and being known as reckless isn’t the best reputation he could have.

  They’re silent for the rest of the journey across the strait, so Calzack takes this time to look out onto the water, the usual blue blackened from the cloudy night above. Even the Everstar can’t be seen—a bad omen his kind has feared for many centuries.

  The Everstar. A symbol of Mortal, a symbol of hope. It is where the Spirits Sericia and Zyadar were born, though, not many remember that fact of Ardon’s history.

  The beginning of the legend always starts the same—Sericia and Zyadar were born in the Everstar, and then spread out and created the other Spirits. Of course, there is more to the story, but the old legends and poems have bored him since he first started his training.

  Much to his mentor’s dismay.

  When they get to the island, Calzack steps off the boat, and breathes in the dead air. He hobbles off the dock and spies the light of a fire in the distance.

  “My brother and your mentor are waiting for us to return.”

  “Nice to see you too, Arin.” He tilts his head. One good thing about Arin is that she doesn’t talk much. A nice change from the sorceress.

  They make their way up the ashy beach and into a forest of dead, black, twisted trees. Calzack jumps when a scream cuts through the eerily still air, but there are no ghosts anywhere. No souls to be seen.

  “They retreat into the air when night falls,” Arin starts. “Soul-eating beasts roam during the night.”

  Calzack nods. “No kidding.” His eyes dart as he hears another scream, this time followed by a roar. He picks up his pace.

  “They cannot hurt us. He has cast a spell to protect us from their gaze and bite.”

  The beasts she speaks of are no Dalorin, he remembers this much from his lessons. He just doesn’t remember their name. But they are much fiercer and more terrifying than a mere Dalorin. Their touch doesn’t ice over one’s skin and eyes. They don’t just consume one’s soul. No. These beasts burn it from within. They’ll set someone on fire. Cripple them. It’s harsh and cruel. Excruciating. And part of Crozacar’s soul that has kept these poor dead on the island.

  They hide in the dark.

  When they get to the cabin—a hut inside the forest, but able to look out on the ocean—Calzack can feel relief wash through him. He’s almost himself again. Just a few more minutes of being this disfigured malcontent.

  Arin goes in first, then Calzack follows, the light hurting his droopy eye. He’s a hobbled, scrunched, hunchback figure—and he can’t wait to be free of it.

  “Sister.”

  Before him another black-eyed, black-haired figure stands, this time a male. Arin approaches him, and they stand next to each other—the Awh twins, the Keepers of the Souls on the Isle of the Dead.

  His expression is as dead as his sister’s.

  “Aven, how nice to see you again.” He shudders, even his voice disgusts him. He needs to get back into his body—now.

  “Calzack, he should be here soon. He’s been meditating, communicating with the Spirits at the center of the island for days.”

  “Days?” He isn’t excited about that part of his future.

  When the door opens behind him, he turns. He’s met with the bald head, and the black arrow tattoo that points at his forehead, and curls along to the back of his neck. As always, the purple robe. The white staff.

  “Dreema.”

  “Nelka, you’re back.”

  �
��Not yet. Make me pretty again or I’m going to float off into oblivion.”

  Dreema’s hard face is amused. “All right.” He gestures to a back door. “This way.”

  Calzack takes a deep breath and follows him out of the hut while the Awh stay behind. Behind the hut, the glow of the Light Pool can be seen through the trees. It surprises him, really, that it survived when the island died. But Dreema says that there are not many things in Ardon more powerful than a Pool of Light.

  When they make it down the hill, the glowing blue surface of the pool illuminates the black forest around them. Calzack takes his clothes off but hesitates before entering the pool.

  “Are you positive it won’t burn my skin off? I’m not exactly an elf.”

  “No. You are an Arland. There are few things that can undo our magic, but a Light Pool can. The water presents no danger to you.”

  Calzack takes a deep breath, and with a shake of his head, he steps into the cool water. When he’s submerged to his waist, he can feel a tingle in his skin. A boil in his blood, and a painless break in his bones. His skin sparkles white, and he’s amazed as the water climbs up him, enveloping him completely. The light shines brighter and brighter until he’s peacefully blinded, and he can feel as he grows taller, his muscles tightening and his strength returning to him.

  His back straightens, his eye return to normal. He can feel his hair shorten, turning from a dark brown-black to his own sandy-brown hair. He feels a spark and knows his eyes are changing from a muddy brown to sharp green. He can feel his fair, ghastly skin, tan into an olive shade. He can feel as his heartbeat evens, no longer trying to support the unusual build of Calzack and Dreema’s magic.

  And all at once, Calzack is gone.

  And Nelka’s back.

  He’s been a spy for Dreema for too long. He’s been around Revera’s darkness for even longer. Now, he gets to become the Arland he’s meant to be. No more Nelka the Reckless.

  He’s going to be the Arland who saves the world.

  Nelka shrugs to himself. Or something less extravagant, but it feels good to think like himself again.

  “Nelka.” Dreema shakes his arms, the boy seems half-dead, he’s so deep in sleep. “Nelka, wake up.”

  He can understand why he’s so tired. Magic takes a lot out of a person, and Nelka has been cloaked by magic for five years—longer than he’s ever been. It’s a dangerous job they have, but they must do it with entirety or they’ll fail.

  Dreema looks at the sleeping boy. He rolls his eyes. I don’t have time for this. He takes his staff and bops Nelka against his side—the fleshy part between the ribs and the waist—and he flurries awake.

  “Ah—Spirits, I’m up!” Sitting up, Nelka holds his side, and glares at Dreema.

  “Good. We have work to do.” He turns and grabs Nelka’s clothes, throwing them at the young man. “And don’t take the Spirits’ name in vain.”

  The boy rolls his eyes. When Nelka is dressed, they head out of the cabin and into the forest, toward the center of the island.

  “I have been here for eight months. Searching, meditating. The Spirits are quiet, but the ancient Aia are speaking to me.”

  “The Aia?”

  Dreema pivots to him. “Darn, boy! Murder your forgetfulness before I burn it out of you.”

  Nelka gives him a face. “I’ve been trapped inside a lopsided body for five years! Your magic has scrambled my body and my mind. So, sorry if my memory has gone to the gutter.”

  Dreema exhales, jaw tight. “As a reminder…the Aia are powerful beings—more so than the Spirits, Sericia and Zyadar included. As Arlands, we are part of the Aia, but a lower and less powerful order—less than the Spirits.”

  “They were created by the Vaiur when the Spirits were banished into the Shadow World by Sericia, so the balance of the world would remain.”

  Dreema stops, looking at him, impressed and surprised. “Well, I see you do remember some things.”

  Nelka shrugs.

  “That is the original purpose of the Aia. But of course, while the world is balanced, the balance itself has changed.”

  “Rise, oh heroes of the East. Hear our call, hear our plea.’ And, ‘The balance of Mortal is unbalance, ever since the five kings won the war.’ Sited from the First and Third Prophecies. I remember more than you think."

  Dreema rolls his eyes. “Prophecies aren’t something to be forced.”

  “They’re boring.”

  He sighs. “Can you explain the passage from the Third Prophecy?”

  “While our world is unbalanced, that is our balance.” Nelka’s brow quirks. “How does that work?”

  “I do not know. But while we cannot do anything to bring back the Spirits to restore spiritual balance, we can open the Other World to achieve mortal balance.”

  “What will that require?”

  Dreema hesitates. Unless we can find another way…

  “I do not know yet, this is why I have been meditating, communicating with the Aia and trying to contact the Spirits in the Shadow World. With both our energies, someone should answer us.”

  Nelka nods. “All right. But is this a fasting project? Because I can’t give up breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day.”

  “There will be no more need for meals if Revera takes over.”

  Dreema can tell Nelka doesn’t like that much.

  “What will happen if Revera takes over?” Nelka asks, hurrying to catch up to Dreema.

  “Destruction. Death.”

  “So basically, the normal bad stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you plan on stopping her?”

  Dreema turns to him. “I cannot. You cannot. No one on this island can. There are only two people who can stop her, and that is why I’m querying those beyond Ardon.”

  “Why?”

  “So that they don’t have to die.”

  Nelka’s clearly confused, Dreema can see. “Who? So who doesn’t have to die?”

  Dreema pivots away from him. They shouldn’t have to bear this burden, and it’s why he’s doing this.

  “The blood of the destined. The blood of the doomed.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s what will save us all.” He cocks his neck. “At least until we come up with a better plan.”

  Nelka puts out his hand, stopping Dreema in his tracks. “You know, being cryptic doesn’t make me respect you more. It’s really irritating, so could you drop the mysterious-wizard act and tell me straight the meaning of what you just said?”

  Dreema sighs. “Fine.”

  Acknowledgments

  For me, writing acknowledgments is like algebra. I get the idea, but executing it is harder than I’d like to admit. I’m not great at writing thank-you’s. I’m not great at math. But just like my life (sadly) wouldn’t be complete without math, my book wouldn’t be complete without saying thank you. But the difference is I’m diving into this with a better state of mind than the hatred I have for algebra, so those I’m thanking are luckier than my textbooks.

  First things first, thank you to my editor, Meg Amor. She has been amazing during this process, she has helped me improve my writing in ways I didn’t even realize I needed to change. And she’s been a great pen pal, too.

  To my cover designer, Erin Dameron-Hill, thank you for creating amazing covers. You are the reason my book is noticed on a shelf. And to Kay P. Dawson, who has helped me publish when I had literally no clue what I was doing. You made sure I got my book out there for the world to read, and I thank you for that.

  Thank you to my family. I can’t thank you guys enough. Mom, you’ve supported me every step of the way, and have been there when I’ve been ready to throw my computer. Josh, you already believed in me before you even read my book, and that means more to me than you probably realize. Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, thank you for being my salespeople. When you bring up my book in front of people I’m a new shade of red, but I appreciate it. It’s just my introvert scre
aming.

  A thank you to those sleepless hours, where I’m tossing and turning, thinking about writing, my characters, and where my story’s going to go. They’re a pain, but this is when I get some of my best ideas flowing.

  And last but absolutely not least, thank you to my readers! My characters may have started me on this journey, but you have made it real. What’s a writer without readers? Thank you to all who take the time to pick up this book. I hope you enjoy this world as much as I enjoyed creating it, and I hope you enjoy my story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Thank you.

  P.S. That was way better than algebra.

  About the Author

  C. D. Beaudin

  C.D. Beaudin lives in Manitoba, Canada. Due to health issues, she has been homeschooled for a few years. This has afforded her greater opportunity to spend quality time immersed in her passion for writing, though, a new chapter presents itself as she will be entering the new school year as a freshman.

  While C.D. finds enjoyment in art, conspiracy theories, reading and music, her passion is for writing, and this permits her to enter into worlds beyond her own.

  When she’s not writing, she enjoys spending time with friends, rocking out to music, indulging in her passion for history and mythology, and occasionally horseback riding.

  C.D. would love to hear from her readers. If you have any comments about the book, characters, or the story itself, feel free to leave a comment. Reviews on Amazon are always very appreciated. Thank you.

  You can contact her on:

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  https://www.facebook.com/cassidy.beaudin.39

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  @cassidy.beaudin