by Lynn Egan
Lynn Egan
Michael’s Flight
Murudian Cycle 1
The Librarian of Nimium
© Lynn Egan 2017
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Beloved Son,
Do not come home.
The older woman sighed with regret and signed the brief note with her power sigil, which was immune to forging and unmistakable. She began to blow on the oil based ink she had used, willing it to dry faster. A sudden pounding on her stout oak door emphasized that speed was of the essence.
“Duchess, it is time. Open the door,” came the gruff but not unkind voice from the other side. She did not answer, but kept blowing on the ink with calm resolve. A cage of nervous messenger doves by the window shuffled and cooed at the barrage on her closed portal. It was late, and the house should have long been asleep.
This night there had been no sleep as the household gathered below.
The pounding and rattling at the door grew ever more insistent as the ink took its time to set. She was not afraid, and knew how long the door would hold against their assault. Once the note was ready, she rolled it up and slid it deftly into a tiny silver canister, sealing it with a dab of wax. She hurried to the birds and selected her most trustworthy and hardiest avian companion, clipping the canister to a hook on his leg. Leaving the cage door open so others of her flock could escape, she carried him to the balcony. The first panel of the door behind her began to splinter.
Outside her soon-to-be-defiled nest a storm was approaching. An almost-full moon shone through thickening clouds on the forest that had been her home for so many years. Home, and yet trapped away from her family and kin. A wave of sadness passed over her as her soul gave in to a silent wail. So many years lost to this false Duke. She gathered her strength and looked to the endless sky. It didn’t matter anymore. The greater moon was waxing large; it was a night full of the future, not of the past. She held the warm, soft bird to her cheek for a moment and whispered his destination to him in the language they both knew. Understanding sparked in his round black eye.
She cast him into the dark sky with all her might, turning from his whirring flight as the door behind her finally gave. Splinters littered the floor while an armored fist destroyed the lock. Four soldiers gained entry as the woman stood erect before the open balcony door, facing them. She had completed her most important task, and she knew her time was over.
A quartet of barrel chests heaved from the effort of climbing her tower stairs and beating down the door. Their red faces clashed with the trim on their gold-colored armor, which bore the lion-stamp of the King. Sweat beaded their foreheads and ran down in greasy rivulets.
Her slender birdlike features defied their gloating triumph as she stood before them, tiny and pale. She faced them down, calm and composed beneath her gray-streaked brown hair. They would not make her feel fear.
The leader of the soldiers stepped forward, brandishing a scroll in one hand. “Duchess of Ishald, you are under arrest.”
She raised one delicate eyebrow. “We both know that is a lie concocted by the one who sent you.”
The other men looked confused, as if they had expected her to plead or scream. Their leader simply continued.
“Your husband lies dead below. Do you choose to join him?”
Her breath came up against a lump she could not suppress. She redirected the feeling into one of anger. “I never chose to join him,” she hissed as her chin lifted itself a little higher. “Your chatter is delaying matters. You are here to eradicate the current Ishald House. Do so.”
Her dark eyes were steady on his, and communicated well her acceptance of what was to come. He nodded and pulled his sword, stepping towards her. Then he hesitated, about to speak.
The shock of a sudden sound filled the room as the head of an arrow thrust itself through the front of her bodice. She swayed forward with the force of it, falling into the man’s arms. All eyes focused on the slender gray shaft that pointed toward the ceiling from the curve of her back.
He barked orders at his men, who rushed to the balcony as he guided her body to the floor.
Their eyes met one last time, and she spoke with difficulty and conviction. A few feet away, birds flew out into the night, frightened and confused.
“You shall not have us all.”
~
Outside, a hard rain began to fall on a pigeon which cooled in death upon the forest floor, his most important journey cut short by a similar arrow.
Chapter One
The school had stood upon this spot for hundreds or perhaps thousands of years. None of the pure-blooded Aelden would tell half-breed Michael what its real age was. They shrugged their distinctive rolling half-shrug and said, “Since the Dispossession,” and that was that. Aeldhind - those of mixed blood - couldn’t be privy to such secrets as that.
That was the attitude here on the mainland. Racial mixing was taboo according to the prophecies, and segregation was prevalent. But Michael was from the Island of Murud in the Eastern Sea, where the view about one’s bloodline was a little more relaxed. Michael himself was more than half mixed, but here on the mainland no one knew his heritage so he chose not to bring it up. There was no need to borrow trouble.
By his looks, most assumed he was Aeldwu, with one parent Aeld and the other Pahat, the one non-magical race of Nimium. Aeldwu were common enough, unassuming and usually without any magical talent at all. Nimium College was kind to half-breeds and allowed almost any race or mix into their corridors of learning. Michael, the son of a Duke, dodged any stigma with the deference that money can buy. He preferred, however, to earn respect through work and an open mind. He had done so, and taken advantage of every class that didn’t require having magical ability. His lack of this one talent was the one thing that kept him out of the college’s inner circles.
He knew many people of various races and mixes, and was well liked by all of them; even the aloof Aeld didn’t look askance at the extra finger on his hands. His pinky marked him as second-class, but his curious and amiable personality opened many doors that were otherwise closed to “the ‘Hind”. His appearance was another advantage; with shaggy black hair and an average build he could blend in most places. The only physical feature that stood him apart was a pair of large golden eyes, which he tried to hide behind his hair.
It was the end of his final year and his trunks lay on the bed half-packed. As he rummaged through his things, a gentle scratching at his doorpost distracted him. His attention turned to the arrival of his best friend.
“Qilian! I expected you’d be long gone!” he crossed the small room in two strides and clasped both of his visitor’s furry arms in his own. Qilian’s coat was short, glossy, and sand-colored with bold facial striping, and his ears stood straight up on his head with delicate tufts of hair at the tips. His long tail swayed behind him; he was pure-blooded desert Rochat - the cat people - and Michael had grown to love him like a brother.
“It would not be expected of me to leave my friend with
no farewell, I hope,” was the teasing admonishment he received as reply. The feline man’s voice was thick and low, with an accent that softened hard sounds and purred on others. Both young men grinned at one another; one with straight white teeth and the other with sharp strong fangs.
“Will you attend the Senior Jubilee?” Qilian continued.
“I don’t know. It’s a week’s journey to the coast, and another few days by ship depending on the winds. I wanted to start as early as possible.”
“They heap honors upon my ears and to have my one friend there would soothe me.” The cat-man’s archaic speech echoed the structure of his people’s language. Michael knew enough of it to have a decent conversation, having spent time in their vast deserts the previous year.
“I’m honored by your request.” He let his curiosity get the better of him, “Why didn’t you make more friends, Qilian? Lots of the students would like to get to know you.”
“Too many for too few reasons. One does not gather friends lightly. And few of them smell correct.”
“Smell correct?” Qilian’s grasp of the common tongue was good and he rarely misspoke in it.
“Yes. The Aeld smell bland, the Aeldwu more so.”
Michael laughed, “I’m Aeldwu, Qilian! I’m sorry I offend your nose.”
Qilian looked sharply at his friend. “That is not truth. I have known this from the start. As have you. It is not well for friends to speak untruth to friends.”
The smile faded from Michael’s lips. The Rochat flicked an ear thoughtfully and spoke again, “You have hidden your nature well here. It is likely few even suspect. We have not spoken of it until this time. If secrets you wish to keep, there is no better to have know them than a Rochat, so long as it does not thwart Her purpose.”
“I follow the Goddess as well,” was Michael’s quiet reply.
“You are too inquisitive not to!” The Rochat grinned, “To be Hers is to question, as Qenali my father said often.” His eyes unfocused into a middle distance while his ears went back. “It is questions that you ask but the answers seek you back. It is a narrow road, my friend.” Michael blinked in confusion while Qilian’s eyes refocused and his ears came forward again.
“Your presence at the Jubilee would give me joy. We are brothers in all but ceremony these years. It feels right for you to attend. Your delay will do no extra harm.”
He felt as though something important had passed him by, but he couldn’t tell if the reason was what had been said or how it was phrased. It made him uneasy, but he didn’t question his friend. Qilian was going back to the desert to be a shaman as his fathers had been before him; strange things had come out of his mouth before. It was up to Michael to remember.
“It gives me joy to give you joy,” he said formally.
His reward was a sharp-toothed grin. “Good! Then it is on to duty.”
“And what is the duty?”
“I have that with me which requires me to give it to you.” From a satchel at his side Qilian pulled a silk-wrapped package and pressed it into his friend’s hands. His swift release of the object startled Michael into clutching at it and he immediately knew what it was.
“The Claw? Qilian, I can’t take this! We found this in the Catacombs! It’s yours, from your people, the first artifact found by a student for decades, possibly longer!” Before he could continue, the Rochat raised his paw to silence him.
“You and I together found it; your name is beside mine in the Record. Also, my name appears in the Record many times. Yours beside this one find only.” Qilian wrinkled his nose in the way of his people, to indicate a pleasant regret. “The object has power. It pulls in a direction I cannot go. You have freedoms I have not.”
Michael was about to speak, but something in the feeling of the bundle in his hands stilled his tongue. Even mixed blood as he was, he could feel the rightness of Qilian’s gift. “I thank you, friend-brother. I am honored that you would trust this duty to me. I will do all that’s in my power to pursue it. I… wish I had something to give you in return.”
“It is enough,” said the cat-man with his peculiar grin. “You will come to my desert and tell to me the adventures it brings you! Tonight is Jubilee, and tomorrow to our homes we journey!”
~
Early the next morning, both weary from the festivities of the night before, the two friends parted ways. One journeyed east to the sea and the Island; the other went south to the vast deserts that girdled this mainland.
It might be the last time he would see his friend, or perhaps any of this extraordinary desert-dwelling race of felines.
Michael of Ishald began the journey home.
Chapter Two
Michael hadn’t been home since leaving for school. His home life hadn’t been the best, and his mother had encouraged him to pursue whatever interested him on the vast mainland continent. The trip was long and his curiosity impelled him to wander wherever the wind happened to take him. They wrote each other often, and though her letters were affectionate, he’d wondered at times that they contained nothing of substance. She never mentioned any of the politics of the Island, sending only light and airy missives about the hunts and parties. He found that odd; she’d never been a socialite duchess.
It wasn’t a secret that her life in Ishald hadn’t been her choice. It wasn’t until he reached adulthood that he became aware of how unhappy her situation made her. His rosy perception of a mother who doted on him and a father too busy with duties to notice him had dulled somewhat at the realization. In hindsight, he could tell that his absent father hadn’t wanted to marry the victim of his lust, and the young woman was doting on her son because the rest of her world had been ripped away. He was an unwanted bastard.
He knew the observation was unkind, and that his mother had taken great comfort in his existence, but it was true his father had not wanted him. Michael represented a side of Richard Pahairren that the Duke of Ishald could not face in himself.
But Michael’s mother had been good to him, had taught him what she could of nobility of spirit and instilled in him a love of the magic of the natural world. It was she who had guided him through his uncertain youth and the discovery that one of her line’s magical abilities presented itself in her son. She held him close when the confusion of his father’s dark bloodline took hold. There was no other comfort or advice she could give, as her nature had nothing but goodness in it.
Lately his mother’s letters had grown less frequent and contained more nothing. This troubled the young man a little, and on his journey he pored over them for some clue as to Ellia’s meaning and mental state.
He had tried every type of code he could think of on them, every number sequence, every letter substitution, even translating them into other languages to glean some hidden meaning from between the lines of her careful script. Every try come up empty. Each blithe and inane sentence seemed to be just that - empty.
Finally, he gave up in disgust and tucked the letters into his satchel with the Claw and sat back to enjoy the journey East.
~
The country around Nimium College was pleasant and bustling. Having been home to such a cosmopolitan school for so long a time, several towns had sprung up around the main complex. North and West were Bookton and The Woods. The Woods was less a town and more a well-developed forest wherein nature-loving Aelden made their homes. Bookton traded with The Woods to get the materials for their one largest product: books. Not only did they supply the College and its student body, but they made the finest papers and inks anywhere, and shipped them far and wide.
In the opposite direction was Southewick, the beginning of the roads around the massive inland mountain chain. It was a thriving merchant town, full of anything one could want to buy, and several things which shouldn’t have been for sale.
East was the capital of the Kingdom of Ameer.
Ameer was the name for all the lands between the mountains and the Eastern Sea; it stretched north to the Cold Wilds and South
to the deserts of the Rochat. Aelden in population, it was a land of peace, for the most part. Its history was full of petty kings and minor wars, with a few notable battles against evil forces sprinkled in. Right and good always seemed to prevail somehow, or perhaps the bad guys kept themselves busy enough in the shadows to pass unnoticed.
The caravan Michael was working on wound through this idyllic land at the speed of the slowest mule. Though he could have asked for - and gotten - a private carriage, he preferred to make his way home with honest labor. He had put himself forward as a spotter, and his job was to watch at night for anything suspicious. Here in the populous areas it was not a difficult duty, though dark and lonely. Once they got into the emptier country between Nimium and Ameer City, it would suit his nature more than anything else.
If one had Aelden blood, there was a chance of being able to shapeshift into an animal. Some flaunted the ability and some hid it. It was well known that no Aeld anywhere, no matter how pure their blood or how powerful their magic, could change into a bird.
Michael knew better.
~
The pale, skinny lad had been a sad failure for the resident Arcanus of Ishald. The Arcanus was a teacher, a mage, and a scholar of power of all sorts. It was his duty to discover the magic in his noble patron’s brats and to cultivate it.
Michael’s pointed ears were too short, which shouldn’t have mattered, but it was the excuse the Arcanus used to explain why Michael couldn’t do the most basic of spells. Often, he fled the Arcanist’s room in tears from the disappointment on that ancient Aeld’s face.
One sunny morning had been more disastrous than usual, as Michael had picked up some object of power left unattended on workbench. Following some inner prompt, he had twisted this knob here, run his finger up that, puzzled out the inscription and said aloud some word of command; half the books in the room tore themselves off the shelves and began to flap around the room like mad! His surprised yell had brought the Arcanus running and yelling himself. The boy ducked inkwells and curses all the way to the hall, unable to explain how he had caused such chaos. His running feet took him far out into the forest.