It didn’t matter. Money had little value if you couldn’t spend it.
Raz moved to the front and knelt beside the old man seated there. It had taken a few days to track down someone willing to sneak him out of the city—not to mention a great deal more coin—since Raz had, in the course of a single morning, become the most wanted fugitive in the South. Still, he’d gotten lucky, though the man had refused to tell him his name.
Raz looked out over the moonlit sands. They’d been traveling for less than an hour, and he already knew he’d never been this far north before.
“S’far as the border,” the old man said suddenly, flicking the reins so that the two old mares pulling the cart picked up their pace a little. “I ain’t taken’ ya’ farther than that.”
Raz nodded. Looking over his shoulder, his amber eyes fell on Miropa once more.
“It’s far enough. Anywhere away from here is far enough.”
________________________
Adrion was throwing things again. Lazura could hear him screaming profanity from her place on the balcony, grabbing anything within reach of the bed he was stuck in and smashing it against the nearest wall. Night had fallen, and with it came a messenger from the newly appointed Captain-Commander of the city guard.
Apparently, the man hadn’t been bearing good news.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, ‘HE’S GONE’?”
Another crash rang out, and Lazura sighed, lifting a spoonful of soup from the clay bowl in her hand and bringing it to the Grandmother’s lips. There was a dull flash, and the old woman coughed, choking on the invisible force that pushed the broth down her throat. A moment later she resumed her statue-like stare.
“Did you hear that, you ancient hag?” Lazura crooned softly, repeating the process. “Your precious pet isn’t in the city anymore. He’s run off, tail between his legs. Probably heard the other fringe cities are sending their best to get after him, didn’t he?”
The Grandmother choked again, inhaling half the soup Lazura was compelling her to swallow, some of it dripping down her chin.
“I can never keep you clean for very long, can I?” Lazura asked with false concern, tsk-tsking. She reached up and dabbed the old woman’s lips clean. “Doesn’t matter, though, does it? Another year, and I’ll have what I need from you.”
The Grandmother’s eyes never moved, their dull gaze unwavering.
“If only I could hear your thoughts,” Lazura laughed, a sound like wind chimes. “If only I knew how you worked. It would be so much easier. Look.”
Putting the soup down, Lazura held out a hand. There was another dark flash, and a tiny flame appeared, floating above her palm, white like the fine ivories of Perce. She grinned in pleasure at the sight of the arcane fire. The flame grew and spread, building until it crackled around Lazura’s entire hand.
Then it sputtered, clung to life for a moment, and died.
Lazura cursed and tried a second time. The flash came, but little more than a spark rose from her palm this time, and she cursed again. Whirling on the Grandmother, she grasped both armrests of the old woman’s chair and leaned over until their faces were barely an inch apart, her blue eyes peering into those empty gray ones.
“I will have your secrets,” she crooned, searching the still gaze for any sign of motion, any hint that her words were comprehended. “My master is dead. The Mahsadën of Miropa are gone, but only for the moment. And when the other cities replace them, I will have my place there. I will carry your pathetic cripple of a grandchild on my back if I have to, but when he is the man I need him to be, my turn to rise will come. And by then, bitch, I will have my strength back. I will have it back, even if I have to cut it from your body with my bare hands!”
“LAZURA!”
Lazura groaned as Adrion’s voice rang out from the bedroom. The man had become insufferable since the surgeon ordered him to bed-rest for his injuries three days ago.
“LAZURA! MY TEA! NOW!”
Standing up straight and smoothing her black silks, Lazura replaced her charming smile.
“Coming!” she called back sweetly before bending down to pick up the bowl of cold soup. With a last glance at the old woman, she hurried back into the house.
If she’d stayed another minute or so, she might have noticed the movement. If she’d stayed, Lazura might have seen the Grandmother’s eyes come back to life, her pupils dilating and focusing.
If she’d stayed, she might have seen those eyes jerk upward, looking pleadingly to the Moon hanging in the sky high above, crowned by Her Stars.
At once a dry wind picked up, whispering through the alleys and open windows of the surrounding buildings. Dust was kicked up in the dark streets. Doors left ajar banged shut. The air rushed back and forth, seemingly moving on no set course until it rushed like a wave over the Grandmother’s frail, frozen body, washing through white hair and over mottled skin.
Muscles that had been taut for too many years relaxed. Willful breath rushed into the old woman’s lungs, and she partially collapsed in her chair. Gasping and wheezing, the Grandmother grasped the arms of her seat and pushed herself up, barely able to lift her own head. When she did, though, her eyes found the Moon again, and she smiled in content surrender to the call.
Reaching out, the Grandmother grasped the railing of the balcony to her right. It took everything she had to pull herself to her feet. Fragile knees shook under the strain, atrophied muscles struggling mightily to keep her standing.
Another breeze blew, and the woman suddenly found that strength reborn.
Standing tall, the Grandmother looked north. There, between the crowning towers of the two nearby estates, she could see the barest outline of the horizon, marking the land beyond the walls of the city. Her lips cracked open, and words formed gently in a whisper so low they were almost lost to the wind.
“Be safe, my child.”
And then the Grandmother tilted herself over the railing, plummeting from the balcony to the cobbled street below.
EPILOGUE
“There is no breaking such a bond.”
—exc. from the journals of Carro al’Dor
Syrah awoke so suddenly she jolted up, gasping. She was drenched in sweat, the dark night air digging a chill through her thin gown. She shivered, tugging the quilted furs of her bed to her chest.
Beside her, Reyn groaned groggily.
“Syrah? What… what’s wrong?”
“Shhh.” She turned to him, kissing his forehead and resting a hand on his cheek. He was warm, whereas her skin might have been ice in comparison. “It’s nothing. A bad dream. Go back to sleep.”
Reyn nodded, already halfway there. She ran her fingers through his shoulder-length dirty blonde hair until he was breathing deep again, lost to the world.
Sliding out of bed, Syrah stepped into her fur boots before stealing across the room to crack the door, slipping into the lantern-lit hall. Turning right, she started the midnight walk she’d done a hundred times before, but not in years.
For some reason, or perhaps by some strange chance, the terror of old dreams had returned.
She’d visited that house again tonight. That dirty hot hovel of which the memories had only just started to fade. Subconsciously she traced the spot at her side where strong fingers had gripped her, pinning her hands down with a thick arm. The faces of the men she’d finally started to forget returned in vivid detail, leering at her from the dark corners of the hall.
Syrah stopped. Putting her back against the stone, she slid down to sit on the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees. For a long time she stared at the narrow table of lit candles across from her, wishing the faces gone, wishing their wicked smiles and hungry eyes away. Slowly they faded, chased away by the soft light.
The one that took their place, though, most would have called more terrible and frightening.
Syrah had long since removed the black stain of blood from Raz i’Syul’s face in her memories. She could picture him, cleansed, amber eyes burning with the same glow of the candles. His strange reptilian features did not seem so harsh these years later. On the contrary, they were comforting, tangible details that were the only things she wanted to remember from that day. For so long she’d prayed to the Lifegiver that she wouldn’t forget…
His face was the only thing that ever made the nightmares stay away.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
[AKA: THE PLIGHT OF THE WRITER]
I must first extend to all who are reading this the most important message I have for you:
Thank you.
As a writer, I cannot accurately portray exactly how much your support and enjoyment of this book means to me, as there are no words grand enough to paint the picture. Child of the Daystar is a labor of love, a commitment to the creation of a story that will entertain, enthrall, and inspire, as so many other tales have done for me before. Your appreciation and enjoyment of my writing is a massive portion of the rewards of being an author.
It is with this note that I move on to a more personal plea, a cry for assistance from all of you who got to the end of the book and were even just a little bit sad it didn’t continue on:
Please, please, consider rating and reviewing Daystar on one or two major bookselling or book group sites.
Many people don’t know that there are thousands of books published every day, most of those in the USA alone. Over the course of a year, a quarter of a million authors will vie for a small place in the massive world of print and publishing. We fight to get even the tiniest traction, fight to climb upward one inch at a time towards the bright light of bestsellers, publishing contracts, and busy book signings.
Thing is, we need all the help we can get.
Your positive input into that world, however small you believe your voice may be, makes the climb just a little bit easier. Rating and reviewing books you enjoy—especially little known ones or self-published ones like Daystar—gives your favorite authors a boost upward.
With that all out of the way, thank you again so much for picking up Child of the Daystar. If you’d like to give me feedback directly, have a question about Raz and his adventures, or just want to chat, drop me a message on Twitter or Facebook.
It has been a pleasure entertaining you, and I vigorously hope you continue to follow The Wings of War series to see what becomes of Raz i’Syul Arro.
Child of the Daystar (The Wings of War Book 1) Page 33