The Destiny Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Christine Grey

Dearra wrinkled her nose. Why would anyone want to get that close to them?she thought with disgust.

  “Night then, Daniel,” she said. As she left the chamber, she called over her shoulder, “Sweet dreams!”

  The comment was intended to irk the gruff weapons master, for no one who knew him would ever imagine him capable of having sweet dreams. Dreams of battle and victory, certainly, but sweet was pushing the limits of reason where Daniel was concerned. She did not see the pained look that came to his face as she retreated to the outer hall, or she would certainly have stopped and demanded an explanation of him.

  ***

  Daniel’s dreams of late had been very, very strange indeed. He would toss and turn, and wake restless and upset, never quite remembering the whole of it, but remembering enough to bother him. He was dreaming of the box and what lay inside of it: the Sword of Cyrus. It had been kept and cherished for centuries. It was an heirloom, an item of exquisite beauty and power. It was not left on display, but jealously guarded. The people knew of its existence, of course, but such was their respect and awe for the relic, one did not speak of it casually. Daniel had, for three nights now, been having the same, compelling dream, and he feared tonight would be no different. It was with heavy steps that he made his way, first to Phillip’s room, and then to his own. His bed waited for him, invitingly, but he feared all he had to look forward to was another, very restless night.

  ***

  Dearra made her way up the circular, stone passageway that wound round and round until she came to the top level, where a single, wooden door gave way to her bed chamber. Her room was large, round, and like Dearra herself, filled with contradictions.

  The walls were hard stone and cold. Even in summer, the bare stone emitted a cool chill if one reached out a palm and touched it. To remedy this, beautiful tapestries, put there to offer some protection from the drafts of winter, hung on the walls. Each one depicted a scene from the history of Maj. Some ancient, some more recent, like stories written in needle and thread, they adorned almost every inch of the room. Though unlikely to admit it to anyone who asked, the story of Cyrus was her favorite, which is why this tapestry was prominently displayed above her bed. She could imagine the handsome Cyrus in all his glory on the field of battle, his hair brushing the tops of his shoulders, his sword singing and whistling through the air as it struck down the fearsome Breken. The stone fireplace, worked into the curved wall across from her bed, crackled merrily, and cast dancing shadows about the room. Someone had thoughtfully slipped up here to ensure Dearra would have at least what little comfort the fire could offer. A mantle of gnarn wood held the greatest treasures from her childhood: a little wooden dagger, a blue hair ribbon that was her mother’s favorite, and a painting of her mother and father on their joining day. Beside the fireplace, on the left, was a chair carved with flowers, topped with cushions of the deepest blue. The carpenter who made it had said the color matched Dearra’s eyes perfectly, and after his wife had dyed the fabric, he knew it had to be used on this chair alone. The comment had made her blush at the time, but it was a very pretty little chair, and she loved it. To the right of the fireplace sat another chair. It was heavy and practical, hard backed, and with no cushions or carvings. It was here that she tossed her clothes as she undressed for the evening. First, she removed the soft, leather pants, which offered scant protection from the stinging slaps of the wooden practice blades. Next, a soft shirt woven from lamb’s wool, then a stiff leather vest, meant to keep her unruly curves under control while she worked, stockings, and a pair of high, leather boots that hugged her legs and ended just below the knee. Lastly, she undid the serviceable leather tie that held her braid, and as she slid her fingers through the tight knots in her hair, she felt it begin to fan about her. She brought the brush up, and pulled it through the long strands. For the thousandth time, she thought how much easier it would be if she’d just cut the stuff off and went about shorter haired, as the men did. Oh, but how her father loved her hair, and she loved her father, and so it stayed.

  She slipped her sleeping gown over her head. It was white and long, and brushed the floor as she walked. It was soft and frilly, with little bits of ribbon at the sleeves and around the gently fitted waist. It had a scooped neckline that seemed to accentuate her dreaded curves, but as there would be little to battle in her sleep, Dearra let herself enjoy the distinctly feminine garment.

  Dearra leaned over a candle that added its own gentle shadows to the room, and puffed a quick breath to extinguish the flame. She climbed into the bed, certain sleep would be a long time coming, as all the thoughts of the day insisted on chasing each other round and round in her head, and mixed emotions of dread, fascination, and excitement warred with one another for her attention. She pulled back the heavy coverlet that topped her bed and slid beneath the cool crisp linens, sure she would lie awake for hours, but sleep claimed her almost immediately. Dearra’s soft breathing was soon drowned out by the calming, night noises of Maj.

  ***

  Dearra was running and running, trying to find something she was certain she had lost. If only she knew what it was! A voice called to her. If she concentrated very hard she could almost feel the object in her hand. The voice came again, urging her to hurry before it was too late. She heard it more clearly that time, its crisp tone demanding, and…well…rude, really.

  Something didn’t seem quite right.

  Why was she running toward this arrogant, demanding, insulting whatever it was?

  Girl child! it said. Girl child! I’m waiting! Tolah himself wouldn’t have had the patience to wait this long!

  Even in her sleep, Dearra’s temper pricked at her. Girl child? she thought, I am a woman of Maj! I am a warrior and protector of the people! You are just a disembodied voice, prattling on and offering no help, and with no direction! And who, or what, is a Tolah?

  Ignorant girl! the voice continued. Tolah is all! I have no time to bandy words with an infant. Come and find me, immediately! Isn’t it bad enough I have to wait for a child, and a female child at that? On top of that I have to put up with its little fits of temper…That’s asking a bit much, as far as I am concerned.

  Annoyed, but also a little amused by the strange voice, Dearra ran on and on, searching wildly in her need to find the object she sought. Her sword hand burned and ached, and a small yelp of pain slipped from her while she slept; it went unnoticed and unheard by any in the keep, save a passing mouse who did not even pause at the sound, but continued on its nocturnal quest for a wayward crumb.

  Where are you? In the name of Tolah, girl, be quick! There is no time for these games, the voice said, plainly agitated.

  Well, you could help a little, you know, Dearra snapped. I’m trying to find you, but some assistance would be nice. Can’t you just tell me where you are?

  No, I can’t tell you where I am, silly twit. I am in the dark. How could I possibly see anything to give you directions? I told that man to take me to you, but would he listen? He did not. He knows better than I, it would seem. I finally gave up and came to you myself, and you are little better at listening than he. What he saw in you I will never know, but he said it had to be you, so there’s not much I can do about it now.

  What who saw in me? The man who wouldn’t take you to me? You make no sense, voice. The amusement at the dream was gone at this point, and Dearra was back to being just plain annoyed. On top of that, the burning in her hand was intensifying. The voice sighed. No, it said, not the man who wouldn’t take me to you. I knew this was going to be difficult. He said I had to be patient and gentle, but it is proving such a burden on me.

  This is you being gentle and patient? Dearra sputtered.

  Certainly, replied the voice, as if the answer to that particular question should have been plain to even the simplest of minds. Wasn’t it beyond obvious that it was the very model of kindness and tolerance? If I have to keep explaining and repeating everything we aren’t going to get very far, do try to keep up, girl.
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br />   Humph! Definitely annoying, Dearra thought, and she continued to run, on and on into nothingness.

  ***

  In another part of the keep, Daniel wrestled with his own dreams. He knew he was dreaming, but that did little to dispel the anxiety he felt. The dream was stronger and clearer tonight than it had been in the nights past. The voice, as always, badgered him with demands to be taken to the girl child. It seemed to him that the voice had come from the wooden box that carried the sword, but of course, that was insanity. The sword was never meant to have another owner. How could a sword demand anything at all, besides? At first, he was confused as to which girl child the voice referred. There were many girl children on Maj, but the voice refused to be more specific than that, saying only that the dolt knew precisely who it meant, and that no further explanation was required, even for a simpleton such as himself. No one spoke to the weapons master in that way, that is, no one who wanted to remain standing for long. But as Daniel was not a hasty man, he kept his control. The fact there was no one to actually knock down in his dream was a detail he chose to ignore, and as the voice so emphatically stated, he did, in his heart, know who it meant when it spoke of the girl child.

  It could only be Dearra.

  Dearra had been special from the moment of her birth,her eyes proclaiming she was someone to be watched. As she grew, she excelled with the blade, and though Daniel would never tell her so, she exceeded even his skill with the sword. He let her believe her victories were those won from a benevolent teacher eager to encourage his pupil. She still had much to learn, though, and she never tired of practicing. She listened eagerly to every word Daniel spoke, and looked upon her father as a god to be obeyed and emulated in all things. She had pride in her accomplishments, but was never conceited, or considered herself above her peers. She knew where her faults lay, and she worked diligently to overcome them. Her skill with a shield was sadly lacking, though, and because she preferred the freedom of the swinging sword, she often neglected the practice needed to properly protect herself. Above all, her temper was the bane of her existence. If she could rein that in, it seemed to him, there would be no finer warrior. Her temper clouded her judgment, making her act too quickly, and without proper thought and planning. In spite of these traits, and maybe partially because of them, Dearra was special.

  Well, foolish man, the voice spoke scathingly, I’ve gone to her myself. Unfortunately, it seems she isn’t much brighter than you. Oh, how I suffer at the hands of you mortals.

  Daniel didn’t much care for the tone the voice used to address him, but he bit his tongue as best he could. I believe I know what you want. You wish me to give the Sword of Cyrus to Dearra.

  Well, praise be to Tolah! I knew you would get it! I told myself to be patient with you, and you would eventually get it! Fortunately, I had the foresight to keep at it!

  The voice sounded so sincere in its praise of itself and confident that it had been the sole reason for its own success, Daniel’s eyes rolled behind his closed lids. Unable to help himself, he let out a soft chuckle in his sleep.

  Why her? Daniel asked, serious now.

  That is none of your concern, little man. I have already lowered myself by speaking with you, even if only in a dream. I will not debase myself further by explaining myself to you.

  Then my answer must be no, Daniel said calmly.

  What? The voice sounded more stunned than angry, as if it were unable to comprehend his statement. Now that its wishes were known and understood, how could they be refused? It simply made no sense. It was…impossible.

  What’s not to understand? My response was plainly stated, and no further explanation is required, even for a simpleton such as yourself, Daniel said, mimicking the voice’s earlier words to him.

  For a moment, the voice could only sputter and stammer in startled rage. How dare this puny little man deny it what it wanted? But I…But you…Impossible!

  Peace! Daniel bellowed, and the voice paused in its sputtering. I will not endanger Dearra. If you will not tell me the purpose for which the sword is to be given, then I must, for her sake, assume you wish to do her harm. I may be wrong in this assumption, but it is a chance I will not take. She is more precious to me than even my own life, and to risk her safety on the mad ravings of a dream voice would be the very height of foolishness. On this point, I will not yield.

  The voice was silent while it took in what Daniel had said, and when it spoke again, it was resigned. Daniel fancied he’d detected just the faintest hint of humility in its tone.

  Very well. But understand, Weapons Master, that I cannot tell you all, and before I begin, I will have your vow never to reveal what I say to you now, or no words will be spoken at all.

  Daniel mulled the imperious demand. I can live with that. On the condition, you understand, that if ever my king or my lord should demand of me this information, I will be duty bound to give it.

  Agreed, said the voice. I understand all too well the obligations of loyalty, but as they should never have reason to know this conversation ever occurred, I doubt that will be a problem.

  And as Daniel slipped deeper into his dream, the voice continued to speak…

  Chapter 5

  When Dearra awoke early the next morning, she felt like she had not slept at all. She remembered a bizarre dream where a strange voice had been urging her to find something, an object, or something…it was all so confusing, it made her head spin. And then, for no reason at all, it just stopped. The voice had gone, but Dearra continued to run and search. She had woken exhausted, and with an odd ache in her right hand. She told herself it was just a dream and that it had meant nothing, really. Besides, with the Breken on their way, she had more important things to occupy her time than her dreams.

  Daniel woke to the same sense of sleep deprivation that Dearra experienced. Grim determination punctuated his movements as he dressed. When he was finished, he made his way to the sword that sat waiting for him in the weapons room. The dream, he knew now, was not a dream at all. It was a sleeping communication between himself and…well, let’s just say it was a being like none he had ever known in all his thirty-five years. While there were still many questions in his troubled mind, of one thing he was absolutely certain—the Sword of Cyrus now belonged to Dearra. The fact he had yet to hand the weapon over to her was irrelevant; it was hers. The physical transfer needed to take place as soon as possible, or the weapons master feared for his sanity. The voice was insistent, and it would not let another night pass where Dearra was not in possession of the sword.

  As Daniel neared the place where the box sat, his heart beat just a bit faster. Slowly, and with great care, he undid, first one latch, and then the other, holding the lid tightly sealed. His heart hammered in his chest as he peeled back the heavy, wooden lid.Anticipation of something to come ran like a current through him. He waited to hear the voice that had haunted his dreams, but there was nothing except the still silence of the room, and the beating of his own heart.

  Inside the box sat the Sword of Cyrus in pristine perfection, on a bed of silk. Though heavy clouds hung in the sky dampening the light, the sword still seemed to shimmer. This time there was no voice, no…nothing, just the sword, sitting as it had for hundreds of years, untouched and alone in its rough-hewn box of wood. Through the years, people had thought to place the sword in a more stately case, but it was believed safer where it was. It was hoped that any enemy who would make it past the Maj defenses would be unlikely to consider the box of any worth in their search for treasure, and pass it over for the more visible weapons around it, many of which were extremely valuable in their own right.

  The sword itself was a thing of tremendous beauty, but also an enigma. The people of Maj used steel blades, which were stronger than either bronze or iron. The steel was forged with the addition of charcoal during the smelting process, then quenched and tempered to strengthen the metal into a fine edged weapon, but the metal used to create the Sword of Cyrus was unknown to
Daniel. The blade was slightly longer than those used by the Maj, with symbols etched, skillfully, all along the blade. When lifted and turned slowly in the light, the ancient runes seemed to glimmer subtly, as if diamond dust were imbued into the blade. The hilt of the sword seemed almost plain by comparison, until one’s eyes took in the gem at the very end. About the size of a duck’s egg, and the color a vibrant gold, it had a single, onyx streak flashing through its center, giving it the look of a cat’s eye. When one deliberately turned the blade, be it to the left or the right, a subtle change occurred—the flaw in the center of the stone seemed to shift, moving slightly, as if scanning the room around it. After sitting for so long on the stone floor in Daniel’s room, the blade should have been cold, or at least cool to the touch, but like Majin so many years ago, Daniel felt an almost uncomfortable warmth emanating from the hilt of the great weapon. He gently replaced the sword to its previous position in the box, shut the lid, and went in search of Dearra.

  ***

  Dearra strolled through the gnarn trees, following the well-worn path deeper into the forest at a leisurely pace. She scolded herself that she should be preparing for the upcoming battle, but really, what more could she do but wait? It might be weeks yet, before the Breken arrived. Her friend, Carly, had already left for the mainland. The caves were stocked and ready for the children and the few adult Maj who would not be joining in the coming fight. Weapons were polished, and armor was oiled and repaired.

  Dearra walked steadily toward the towering pine. It was hard to imagine it as the pretty little tree from last night’s story. It loomed over her, pushing its way through the gnarn trees around it, until it broke past their canopy of twisted branches and flew heavenward. Little animals scuffled and scurried through the ground clutter, searching for the hard cones that dropped from the tree, and plundered the nuts held within.

  Dearra wrapped her arms around the trunk of one of the nearby trees, resting her head against the comforting and familiar feel of the bark. She took a deep breath to steady herself, knowing this was where she belonged, but the tension within her continued to build, nevertheless. On top of that, her hand still ached and burned uncomfortably. She almost wished she were with Carly so she would have someone with which to share her thoughts.