Quest of the Dreamwalker (The Corthan Legacy Book 1)

by Stacy Bennett

  The spirit nodded, her eyes the glimmering green of sunlit moss.

  “Ask anything of me and I’ll do it, just save Khoury.”

  “Be warned, my child. If he lives, he cannot be part of your destiny. You must do this alone.”

  “Even so. I would do anything to keep him from death,” she said, knowing that nothing could keep her from Khoury’s side if he were alive.

  “Show me.” The spirit gestured to her left and there stood Khoury though he didn’t appear to see them. “Send him away.”

  The woman nearly rushed to him, but the spirit was watching her closely. She walked up to him slowly. His haunted face pulled at her. She wanted to touch the angled jaw, soothe his pain and make his stormy eyes laugh. Reaching out a hand, she laid it over his heart. Power glowed around her and shimmered in the forest.

  “Khoury,” she said and his eyes focused on her then. His lips moved but she couldn’t hear his words. He reached for her, his eyes alight with affection and need. But she knew to save him, she must be cold.

  “I renounce you,” she said, setting her will to the inevitable loss of him. “Now go.”

  And she must have disappeared from his sight because his face fell as he searched the forest with hungry eyes. He waved frantic hands through where she stood, passing through her as if she were the ghost and not him. Her heart broke, seeing his desperation. She backed away, conscious of the spirit’s scrutiny, as he stumbled into the trees where the fog gobbled him up.

  “Remember, my child,” said the spirit, “love is the root of your power. But you must guard your heart.” The spirit reached out then and touched the woman’s forehead. Energy shot down her limbs, radiating out her fingers and the top of her head. “The gates are opened to you. Your power awaits your call, but you will need to be strong and focused to wield it.

  “And now, Raenna Alythenine, for your task.”

  “Tell me,” the woman said, feeling strong and steady for the first time since the joining.

  “Journey south. To Corthantir. There is a castle on the edge of the sea. Find the Ironwood Sword and return it to its rightful owner.”

  “Is the sword in the castle? And who should have it?” she blurted out. But the spirit woman had already faded away.

  HE FLOATED IN the void after the blast, the emptiness a balm for his pains. The blissful oblivion contained no sound or light or touch. He simply existed, ignoring the urgent thoughts that waited beyond the quiet.

  Time had no meaning to him. Shapes appeared, moving around and through him, reminding him what form felt like. If he concentrated, he could sharpen the shadows and paint pictures of places he vaguely remembered from another existence. But as he grew aware, the world took the shape of a round room where shadows wandered. It had an evil chill and dread shuddered through him. Echoes of his past suffering drove him out of the room to a stairway spiraling downward though he didn’t remember using the door. He followed the memories backward in time, from the twisting stair to a hallway where his memory sharpened.

  He recalled a battle, an urgent quest.

  Find her.

  The yearning echoed through him, leading him to a great shadowed hall where ghostly fires glowed darkly in the pits. Wraiths wandered around as if a corps of men were camped there, but he couldn’t touch them or hear them.

  How long he wandered among those familiar shadows, he couldn’t say. Eventually sound returned, bringing the low murmur of voices, and with it—haste. He was running out of time.

  Find her.

  A glow from a room off the hall drew him. When he crossed the threshold, his worldly form returned. The room remained vague and insubstantial, but he had hands and feet again. His blue and silver tabard gleamed over a chain hauberk. More memories returned, bringing strength and hope. Details sharpened but so did his urgency.

  In the room, a fire burned darkly in the hearth. A man lay before it, anointed and dressed with funerary care. And there sleeping with her head upon his chest was a young woman who glowed with the warmth of a sunrise.

  Her sorrow had drawn him. He’d seen many men die. Perhaps he knew this one. He leaned over to peer at the face, willing the details to emerge. When the fog cleared from his eyes, he recognized the warrior and the shock of it tumbled him forward. He disappeared into a heavy darkness full of pain.

  SHE AWOKE TO sounds of alarm, her dream scattering into hazy pieces. Bradan’s voice echoed in the hall, calling for her by both her names. She had fallen asleep on the captain’s silver and blue tabard. Her arms tingled painfully, but the chest beneath her hands was as still as stone. Whatever miracle she had hoped to find was nothing more than a dream. He was gone.

  She stood to leave, the ruddy firelight flickering over the closed eyes that might only have been sleeping. His skin held a rosy illusion of health. She paused to memorize every line of his dark strong brows and broken nose. Better to remember him in the golden glow of the firelight than with the deathly pallor he’d had in the tower room. She blew him a kiss, afraid to touch his cold flesh and ruin the fire’s deception.

  “Good-bye, Mason Khoury. We thank you.”

  Bradan called for her again, and she went into the great hall where the men were camped for the time being. He met her by the long tables.

  “Cara,” he began. “I mean, Falin—”

  She held up a hand. “The spirits say we had a name once. We are called Rae…” But suddenly part of her wasn’t sure she should share what she’d heard. It had sounded royal, and she couldn’t believe it truly belonged to her.

  “Rae?” he asked.

  She nodded still unsure, but it would do for now. “What’s all the noise about?” Her heart didn’t dare to hope.

  “There’s someone to see you,” Bradan said, smiling. He led her to the door where a huge white bear with a torn ear waited for her.

  “Gar!” She rushed to him and threw her arms about his neck, burying her face in his warm fur. And she wept. A soothing rumble emanated from somewhere within the furry body, and the bear sat down to wait for her tears to stop.

  I can still hear him, she thought, bursting with gratitude that she hadn’t lost that. She relaxed into his soothing animal nature, sending him images of the battle and Khoury’s death. The black nose pushed at her neck, commiserating with her pain. His simple wordless compassion eased her sorrow as nothing else could.

  She heard Bradan behind her and stood, drying her eyes with a sleeve. Turning around, she was glad to see Archer with him.

  “In the morning, I’ll take you wherever it is you want to go,” Bradan said. “But you are always welcome with us.”

  “Yes,” Archer echoed. “Come home with us.”

  “Thank you, Bradan, Archer.” Gar’s presence gave her strength. “But we’re leaving tonight.”

  A startled look crossed the older man’s face. “But you might need—”

  “Yes,” she cut him off. “We will need many things. But it is time for you to get back to your own life. Your people wait for you. You already taught Cara everything you know.”

  “But…” Archer began.

  “And Maura has waited far too long for you,” she said sternly, punching him lightly on the arm. He nodded, embarrassed.

  “Where will you go?” the shaman asked.

  “Where the wind takes us,” she said not wanting to tell them more.

  “If you ever need help, you know how to find me,” Bradan offered.

  “Yes,” she said, “in our dreams.” Though she wondered if that power had disappeared as well.

  Archer gripped her shoulders and then pulled her into a smothering hug. “Thank you,” he said, “both of you. Promise you’ll come to see us soon.”

  She nodded awkwardly. “Perhaps.”

  She placed a hand on Gar’s head and told him to wait. Then she went through the hall and up the stairs with more energy than she felt she had a right to. From the room where she’d been sleeping, she gathered the few things she wanted: Cara’s medicine
bag, the white staff, Falin’s talismans, the green dress, her weapons as well as the wolf-headed dagger that had been Khoury’s gift, which Archer had found and returned to her. She threw the small pack over her shoulder and returned to Gar.

  “Take care.” Bradan hugged her good-bye.

  “You too.” She squeezed him tightly, blinking back tears. “We just want you to know that we tried our best. For Khoury.”

  “No one could have helped him,” Bradan assured her.

  Then she and the bear walked out of the Keep. The moon had set and the night was pitch.

  ARCHER SAT IN the room where Khoury’s body had been laid out, staring at the dancing embers. Bradan sat with him, lost in his own thoughts. A cough startled both men. He looked at Bradan who was staring curiously at him. When another wet cough echoed in the empty room, he leapt to his feet. Then Khoury rolled to his side.

  “Captain?” Archer reached him first.

  “He’s alive?” Bradan asked as Archer gently shook the dark-haired warrior. The body beneath his fingers felt more warm than cool. The captain didn’t respond, but his chest rose and fell weakly. “He’s…he’s breathing.”

  “Breathing?” Bradan whispered, disbelieving. “It can’t be.”

  Archer fell to his knees. “He was dead. There was no heartbeat. I swear it.”

  “It’s a miracle,” the shaman said.

  “Or Cara,” whispered Archer.

  How long had she sat with Khoury that night? Had she tried to heal him again?

  “Could she have…?”

  Both men stared at each other with shock. “We need to find her,” Bradan said. He rushed to the door and yelled for the best tracker. When the young soldier appeared, Archer sent him out to find the woman who had just left in the company of a sledge bear.

  They kept trying to rouse Khoury but, despite their best efforts, the mercenary only murmured deliriously. They removed his armor and weapons and wrapped him in warm furs. Bradan coaxed the hearth embers back to life and soon a roaring fire warmed the room. Archer and Bradan both sat with Khoury until the sun rose. Bradan brewed a tincture for him, and the shaman tried to get Khoury to drink a little every time he murmured in his sleep.

  When the sun was near its peak in the sky, Khoury still had not opened his eyes, but he was very definitely alive. The good news of Khoury’s survival spread quickly through the small contingent of men remaining in the Keep. Since Baron Wallace had agreed to pay the men if Khoury failed to return, Archer decided to send the men to Wallace for their compensation. Khoury was alive but whether he would fully recover remained to be seen. Archer talked to each man in the company and requested that they not say anything about Khoury’s condition to the baron or anyone else. Each man promised but in their eyes was the awe that said they’d be unable to keep this gossip to themselves.

  “We’ll take him to Seal Clan and see what can be done,” Bradan said, as he coaxed Khoury to swallow a few sips of water. Archer nodded and left to make arrangements to take horses and the wagon with them.

  As the afternoon wore on without news, the men dispersed. The company of Elite Guardsman from Iolair left with the mercenaries who survived. It was nightfall before the tracker returned. And he returned alone.

  “I followed the trail,” he said as he dropped into a seat by the fire in the great hall. “They turned west across the tundra.”

  “You found her, then?” Bradan asked eagerly.

  “No,” the man said. “The tracks disappeared, as if someone had plucked them right from the ground.”

  Archer felt a suspicious chill. It was too strange.

  The tracker continued, “On my way back, I did see someone. You won’t believe me but it was a woman. In armor. But it wasn’t Violet or Falin. She stopped me near the road at dusk.”

  “Did she have a bear?” Bradan asked.

  “No. But there was something unnatural about her, like a chill in my bones.” The man’s face was pale. The meeting had spooked him. “She gave me a message. For the captain. Made me memorize it.”

  “The captain?” Archer felt a cold dread.

  “He’s delirious,” Bradan said.

  “I told her that might be the case,” the tracker said. “She said to tell him even so.”

  “This way, then,” Archer said, motioning for the young man to follow him. He led him to the small room where Khoury lay murmuring in his sleep.

  Obviously discomfited, the tracker gave Archer a pleading look. “Her words exactly, mind you. I’d never speak to the captain like this.”

  Archer frowned and gestured to the captain. “Go ahead.”

  The tracker swallowed hard, embarrassment written in every line of his face. He crouched down by the bed and spoke, but the voice that came out was a woman’s voice, full of command and derision.

  “I see you, Barakani cur. You owe your life to Rowan kindness. But be warned. She is not for likes of you. Do not try to find her, Dunhadrar.”

  At the last word, the captain’s eyes flew open. He grabbed the tracker by his shirtfront. “What did you call me?’

  The tracker’s face was pale, and he shook his head refusing to answer lest his words not be his own again.

  But Khoury’s eyes had already lost focus. His grip loosened. “You can’t tell me what to do,” he said, before he fell back to the bed. “I will find her. I swear I will.”

  THE END

  Dear Reader,

  This story’s journey has been long. Very. Very. Long. Epic, in fact. I got the idea for Cara and Falin at the end of high school. Now, over thirty years later, their story is finally published.

  And yet, in retrospect, the book you’re holding in your hands is a completely different beast than that first story I wrote. The title has changed at least five times, the characters’ names nearly as often. The scenery has morphed and shifted with each successive revision and rewrite until only the footings they stand on are recognizable from the original. But more importantly, I took a story originally envisioned with a questionable and definitely Tolkien-esque sense of apocalypse and turned it into a more intimate tale of courage, growth and finding your own path.

  They say in writer communities that you should toss out the first stories you finish. When I first heard that, I was offended thinking it meant professional writers considered all early writing ‘trash’. Of course, my first draft was trash, and immature, but I still loved it deeply. I didn’t disagree in public forums, but I always knew Quest of the Dreamwalker would be my exception to the rule. I knew I could write it better given enough time and practice. Something in me didn’t want to give up on the heart of Cara’s tale. I kept thinking it had something worth saying. And so I stubbornly refused to let it go.

  Or maybe, the real truth is that it refused to let me go. You see, I didn’t intend to be a writer. I wrote it because the story in my head wanted to be written. And then I put it in a drawer and lived my life. But I never lost these pages. The events relayed here seem as real as memories sometimes. Cara and Falin’s story stayed in my head, whispering to me. Sometimes, out of the blue, I’d get ideas for how events could play out better and I’d pull the story out again and redo it, cringing at how bad the previous version was.

  Over the years, it’s become clear why authors say not to revamp your old stories. There is so much hard work involved in revisiting the stories and bringing them up-to-date with your current skill level and with the culture. Writers do outgrow their stories sometimes. It takes brutal cutting, revamping and even re-envisioning of the text and the plot to make it acceptable to your maturing senses. And the more you grow as a writer in between drafts, the more work needs to be done.

  But I’m glad I didn’t give up on this one. I still love the story and the characters. They are like family to me after all this time. I’m content knowing I did right by them.

  And so, dearest reader, here at the end of this leg of Cara and Falin’s journey, I want to thank you for coming this far with me. I’d love to hear wha
t you have to say about this experience: the good, the bad and even the indifferent. Hit me up on my social media to let me know what you think. Or, leave a review if you feel motivated to do so. I appreciate all your input. Thanks again, for taking this journey with me.

  Blessings,

  Stacy Bennett

  www.stacybennettauthor.com

  I have had a veritable cast of helpers given the amount of time it has taken for this project to come to fruition. I suppose doling out thanks chronologically would make the most sense. So, thank you first of all to the boy I loved in high school, college and beyond, my first helper, editor and sounding board, someone who helped me grow this story from its tragically awkward beginnings to a much more presentable adolescence. And thank you to my friends, Amy and Annie, who tolerated me telling you about this story over and over and over again. For reading it in its various stages and encouraging me to keep going, I have nothing but love for Shelly, Joe, Mom, Dad, Valerie, and Amanda Makepeace ( a lovely artist who has done some gorgeous art for the series). Thanks to Mindy McGinnis and Emmie Mears for help with the dreaded query letters, and to Marco Palmieri for my first professional edit.

  Finally, thank you all of my writerly friends, for helping out with advice and editing and discussions, including Dorothy Sanders, Revo Boulanger, Ailsa Abrahams, Daniel Swensen, Ruth Long, Cara Michaels and James Whitworth Hazzard. And of course I have the fondest love for my beta readers: Steven Paul Watson, A.D. Trosper and Drea Damara who were unfailingly supportive and excited about the project. I couldn’t have done it without your love but honestly the butt-kicking was the most help. I’d also like to say how grateful I am to be part of the Blue Harvest family. Thank you Joni and Vern and the rest of the crew at Blue Harvest Creative and BHC Press. This book turned out more beautiful than I ever thought it could.

  ~ Stacy