Illera's Darkliete: A Coming of Age Fantasy

by Gail Gernat

  Illera’s Darkliete

  A Fantasy

  Gail Gernat

  Darkliete Book 2

  Contents

  Copyright

  Editorial Review

  Lera’s Sorrow

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Message to the reader

  About the Author

  Lera’s Sorrow

  Shipwreck

  Darkliete

  Copyright © 2008 Gail Gernat

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, in whole or in part, or in any manner whatsoever including any form electronic data retrieval system or manual copying without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Published by:

  Andrea James Publishing

  Darkliete 2nd edition

  ISBN: 978-1-77520-901-0

  Gernat’s second book… yet another fantasy that keeps us turning the pages, wanting more. Gernat’s fiction is filled with life… believable fantasy… a good rainy day read.

  Maggie Lacroix

  Wynterblue Publishing

  LERA’S SORROW - (Darkliete Book 1)

  Lera and her cousin have completed their long childhood and their training as healers. Sent to their grandparents back in Madean, they must negotiate the strange new world, attain their werwinstans. Fate intervenes in the shape of handsome young Ian, very human and very poisonous to the elven. Trying out her independence for the first time in her life, what will Lera decide? Where will she discover her loyalty to lay, with love or with duty?

  Dedication

  First, in memory of Corbeau, joy given wings. I miss the brightness of your feathers and the pleasure you spread like sunshine. Rest in peace happy spirit.

  For Maggie who began the adventure with me. The candle flickers a lot, but it still burns.

  For Tabitha who helped me finish it. It will come around.

  Many thanks to Andrea James Publishing for taking a chance on me.

  Especially--

  For all the dear readers who start the journey with me.

  Human Towns, Swamp, Rivers, Mountains, Rolling Hills, Shul.

  Prologue

  The high, thin keening of the wind could not compete with the wailing of the male infants. King Korul clutched the two screaming babies awkwardly as the big dappled gray horse shifted restlessly under him. The waves slapped against the cliff, shooting plumes of spray that reached up to his position overlooking the path to the rocky beach below. He watched as the pikemen prodded the reluctant priestesses as they clanked down the steep and narrow incline. They often turned to look up to his position high above, one bare blonde head and one midnight-dark one twisting around, yearning for a last glimpse of their children.

  The blonde fell to her knees, grasping with all her strength on a sharp upthrust boulder on the edge of the path. The king could hear her screams, floating on the mourning wind. One of the pikemen prodded her from the hold, and she slid, tumbling down ten feet before she could regain her footing. Using the distraction, her dark-haired sibling made a break, scrambling back up the path to her child. The leg irons slowed her enough that the guards caught her with ease, brutally whipping her around and back down the path.

  Just offshore, a vessel lay at anchor, tall prow rising into the clear, cold sky. A small skiff awaited the priestesses on the beach, holding four burly rowers with oars shipped. The party reached the strand of pebbles. The head guard unlocked the leg irons, and the women made one more attempt to return to their children, but they were easily stopped by the pikemen across the only trail to the top. Defeated both women got into the boat, and it was pushed into the foaming waves.

  Halfway to the ship, the priestesses stood facing him. Korul snarled a smile back at them.

  “You wanted to go home, so go,” he bellowed down at them, stirring the infants to another storm of wailing.

  The women spoke in unison, their hands waving arcane patterns in front of their faces as they glared up at him.

  “Know this Korul, King of Frain, that cursed you be and cursed you are from this moment to the next world. We are the priestess dark; we are the priestess light. You befoul our very memory. We place your actions before all the gods of this world and the next. Hear our cry to the dimensions beyond ours. All your work will be in vain, and you will cause your kingdom to fail; to enter the darkest region of the netherworld where you will be imprisoned as you have imprisoned us. And a woman will lead the way to your destruction. Your throne will be maggots, and you will be king of only your hate-filled self. We pronounce the cursed of the damned upon you forevermore.”

  Korul bellowed a laugh. “You witches can’t scare me. I own your land. Your people are my servants, and you are nothing but my whores.”

  His laughter was rough and crude, smothered in rolling thunder from the clear skies. The thunder grew louder as black clouds boiled from the horizon, covering the sun. The King kneed his horse back from the cliff as the skies opened. Hail pounded down, drowning the cries of the infants in his arms. Lighting struck right behind him whipping his steed into a swift canter.

  A mile or more from the cliff, Korul saw the shack of the horse girl. He swerved his mount aside there and took shelter under the ragged roof. Timidly the girl crept from one dirty corner.

  “Come here, girl,” the King demanded. “Take these howling brats.”

  The girl reached up and took the babies, scuttling back to her corner with them. She soothed their cries to whimpers. The king dismounted and stood in the doorway watching the hail and rain pound down; flinching from the closer lightning strikes.

  The babies gradually quieted in the horse girl’s arms. As suddenly as it came, the storm abated. The king mounted and turned his stallion to the door.

  “My Lord, wait, the children,” cried the girl from the corner, struggling to her feet with the two boys.

  Korul looked down at her from his royal height. He gazed slowly around the hut, taking in the poverty and squalor of the surroundings. A slow smile spread across his cruel features.

  “You keep them. They are now yours to raise,” and lifting his hand he spurred his mount out of the door.

  The castle of Frain was dismal, damp in the aftermath of the storm and the chimneys didn’t draw well anymore. Dallia, the queen, was seated next to the best fireplace, squinting at the needlework in her hands. The firelight glowed on her copper tresses bound in green velvet. She dropped the needlework as he entered and rose to meet him.

  “My Lord,” she murmured in a voice sweet and low.

  “Dallia,” he laughed, “it’s done. The witches have been sent back to their own land where they can practice sorcery to their heart’s desire.”

  He picked her up and swung her around.

  “And the infants?” the Queen inquired as he placed her back on her feet.

  Korul bellowed a laugh. “I disposed of them. Gone. Vanished. Missing.”

  The Queen paled. “My Lord, you didn’t harm the children? The gods look ill on those who harm the innocent.”

  “Look,” he retorted loudly, “you nagged me and nagged me until I got rid of those women. ‘I won’t share your bed or bear your heir with them living under the same roof.’ Well, I got rid of them. I got
rid of their little bastards too so there will be no claims to the throne except for your children. You are supposed to be happy.”

  “But my Lord, they were just babies; they were innocent.”

  “By the Thunderer and his Bolts, there is no pleasing you woman. You will fulfill your part in this bargain and provide me with an heir. Now!”

  Korul grabbed her by the arm and dragged her up the stairs. Servants scurried to clear the room. She fought him, but her strength was useless against his battle-hardened muscles as he manhandled her up the stairs in spite of her struggle.

  “Korul!” she yelled as she managed to free an arm. “You cannot treat me like one of your concubine women! I am your queen, and you will treat me with the respect I deserve.”

  Korul turned to her, his face red and throbbing, “You are a woman, and you will bear my seed. I have waited long enough for your favors. Come now!”

  “I’m not some cheap tramp you can pick up at the town market. My father…”

  With a cry of incoherent rage, Korul raised his fist and struck Dallia on the side of her face. A piercing cry escaped her lips as she lost her balance and tumbled down the long steep stairway. Korul stood frozen at the top for long moments; galloping down to where she lay in a boneless heap at the bottom.

  “Jurgen, Jurgen you old quack,” he roared, “there’s been an accident, the Queen has fallen, somebody get Jurgen, quick. By the Thunderer and by my Sword if someone doesn’t come here immediately I’ll have you all drawn and quartered. Jurgen!”

  Chapter 1

  Illera bent over the grunting sow. The strong reek of the pigsty made her wrinkle her delicate nose as she ran her hands over the straining pig.

  “Please, my lady, can you help ‘er? We uns is really going to need those piglets if the raidin’ keeps up. Is there anythin’ you can do?” The pig girl, Shani, wrung her hands and wiped them on her tattered, dirty skirt.

  Illera went down on her knees in the soiled straw, oblivious of the damage to her long, saffron gown. With one hand on the pig’s head and another on the distended belly, she began to murmur to the straining animal.

  “Easy, girl, easy. You can do this, just a few more pushes and your babies will be here. Easy, easy, shhhhhhhhhh.”

  Her dainty hand on the pig’s abdomen stroked back and forth, back and forth. The sow relaxed, the taut muscles becoming flaccid and her eyes closed.

  “Okay, now!” spoke Illera in a commanding voice.

  The pig strained, and a small tail appeared. With a cry the pig girl fell to her knees at the pig’s rear, assisting the tiny piglet from its mother’s body. Illera took the tiny body from the pig girl’s hands. She wiped it with some of the clean straw and lay it beside its mother’s belly. Slender fingers massaged the small animal’s chest, and with a snort, it began to squeal. The sow raised her head and nuzzled it. With a grunt, she lay back down and another piglet, this one head first, appeared.

  For the next few triumphant hours, Illera and the pig girl watched as the sow presented them with twelve new babies, seven of them female. As Illera rose to go, the girl grasped her slender hands in her own thick and grubby ones.

  “My lady, ‘ow can I thank you. Without ‘elp Aquiwin would’a died with all her children. I can niver repay you!”

  “It’s okay, Shani. I’m very happy I could help you with her.”

  The pig girl glanced down at Illera’s gown. “Oh, my lady, I’ve ruined your dress.”

  The distraught girl fell to her knees, her face tight with sorrow and grief.

  Illera laughed. “It’s all right. I have many dresses and what value is a dress compared to thirteen lives, twelve of them just starting. Don’t be upset.”

  “My lady,” Shani muttered, turning back to the sow.

  Illera smiled and slipped from the pigsty. Dawn was streaking the sky with golden fingers, painting the seven tall, white towers of the castle with bright rose and yellow strokes. Her father’s dark blue and white pennant fluttered from the tallest turret of the donjon. The white griffin rampart, gilded with the sunrise, appeared to be flying as a lazy wind caressed down its length. Illera smiled at the illusion.

  The magpie sailed out of the sun, gargling a welcome to her. Illera raised her arm and the bird settled on her wrist. Immediately her feathered friend began croaking and bubbling in the most serious manner.

  “What is it, Maggie? What do you want me to know?” Illera asked the bird; her head cocked to one side in imitation.

  The rising sun struck the gold and copper threads of her hair surrounding her head with halo, but it didn’t impress the noisy bird who tried more and more urgently to convey the message. She launched from Illera’s wrist and flew towards the castle, scolding as she flapped. Illera squinted her eyes against the light as the magpie circled the castle twice, dipping earthward at the barbican. She arrowed back, aligning on Illera’s outstretched arm. A long series of magpie conversation burbled from her throat.

  “Is someone here?” asked Illera.

  The bird gave one loud squawk and lifted her wings overhead.

  “Is it a good visitor? Someone I want to meet?” she inquired.

  The magpie thrust its beak between its legs and made a strangling sound.

  “Hide?” the princess suggested.

  The bird leapt from her hand and flew warbling into the sky. Illera turned away from the castle and started towards the Royal River. It passed her home swiftly, but narrowly, stitched together by seven bridges giving the farmers and herders access to the warm, rich and fertile other side. The second bridge was not far, arching high out over the roiling waters. This was the path the herds took on their way to lush grazing pasture.

  Illera didn’t step foot on the wide planks of the bridge, but ducked under, slithering down the bank and then climbing up into the wooden supports. Wriggling her way to the middle, she prised open a square wooden panel. She flipped into the narrow tunnel thus revealed and sealed the panel back into its place.

  Long years ago, when her mother ruled here beside her father, the Queen had insisted that the secret passageways and tunnels be built into the castle. Illera often wondered if her mother knew that she would someday be in dire need of these escapes. People often told her of her mother’s uncanny wisdom; how she knew so many things and Illera again felt the pang of growing up without the woman of whom everyone spoke glowingly.

  She pattered down the dusty tunnel, burning with curiosity. The magpie had been her companion for so long, but was still so incomprehensible. Her father often chided her for listening to the bird, but when she understood what Maggie wanted, it was always the correct thing. So she hurried, anxious to discover why she needed to hide.

  The tunnel rose sharply and ended at a rough stone wall inside the rampart. Illera stood on tiptoe to peer out of the glass eye set into the stone. It gave her a good view of the outside. Dozens of men were practicing swordplay on the grounds of the outer bailey. They appeared fully occupied, so Illera slipped the catch and slid from her hiding place. She hurried across the short grass to the inner gate and trotted inside without notice. The stable was close so she escaped in there. The stabled horses greeted her with friendly whuffs. She stroked the soft, inquisitive noses as she hurried by.

  At the rear of the barn, she shoved aside some shovels and vanished behind the panel, snapping it shut just as a groom came to investigate the noise. The tunnels were dusty, and Illera sneezed, freezing in her tracks to hear if anyone noticed. The walls were very thin in this part of the maze, and she could hear the old groom moving around, whistling to the horses. He seemed undisturbed, so she rushed to her rooms, high in the middle tower.

  Closing the secret passage tightly, she crossed the floor and locked the door to her rooms. She paused; then stopped in front of the fancy glass mirror that had been her mother’s. She laughed as she regarded herself. Her dress was filthy, caked with pig dirt from the knees down, and smudged with horse dung at the hem from her passage through the stable. Dust a
nd cobwebs covered her from the top of her golden chestnut hair to the grime ground into the bottom of her soiled gown. But the widely spaced violet eyes sparkled with mischief, and the dimples showed deep in the cheeks of her delicate, pointed-chinned face. She laughed out loud once more, then slapped a hand over her mouth afraid that someone might hear.

  She stripped the filthy clothes from her body, leaving them in an untidy heap on the floor. A few steps brought her to the bathing room. The water jar was full, if cold. She sponged herself off with the chilly water and dried on the warm fluffy towels from the shelves. Turning to the dressing room, she chose a dark, sturdy dress, unlikely to be ruined by dusty passageways or well-used stables. She took her copper hair down and combed the dust from it, braiding it and piling it again on top of her head.

  Loud fanfares from trumpets heralded the arrival of the visitor and made her hurry. She ducked back into the secret passage and went down the winding stairs to the musician’s gallery. It was empty, so she tiptoed out, looking down at the great room through a loosely woven tapestry. Her father’s seat was beneath her, but the rest of the room stretched out sturdy stone walls and massive roofing beams ahead and below. Huge wallhangings decorated the perimeter walls depicting scenes of farmers, their lands, and livestock. Over the enormous, roaring fireplace the larger than life portrait of her parents hung. Tables lined the walls on either side, flanked by tall, ladderback chairs. The rushes on the stone floor were thick and deep, muffling foot sounds.