The Lost Sun Series Box Set 1: Books 1 and 2 (Lost Sun Box Set)

by Riley Morrison

  AEMON

  Aemon neglected his weapons training with Minard to spend as much of the next four days with Kara as he could. Having been allowed to return to sleeping in her room, he kept her company as she rested and let her lean on him when she left the room to exercise. While unsteady the first few days, she quickly regained her balance and her endurance steadily increased. On day two since waking, she had walked no more than a hundred feet; day three, two hundred feet; day four, five hundred.

  “Soon, I’ll be running the Eryport to Gravelbank marathon,” she giggled through clenched teeth.

  He waited beside her as she leaned against the wall, clutching her wound and fighting to catch her breath. “I am glad you can find humor in this.” He gnawed at a nail. “I was so worried about you that I never left your side until they dragged me away.”

  She touched his cheek. “Thank you for everything, Aemon. Without you, I don’t think I would have survived. Your friendship means a lot to me.”

  Friendship? I love you, Kara. I want to tell you, but I am too afraid. I want to be more than friends. I want us to be together forever!

  She tottered about and he grabbed her before she fell. “I guess I overdid it today,” she said, clutching on to him. “Time to head back.”

  Kara’s speed of recovery never ceased to amaze him. He admired her bravery and strength as she battled through the pain, and wondered how she kept her spirits up when so many in the temple looked upon her with fear and loathing.

  During the long nights of Kara's recovery, listening to her softly snore in her bed, he indulged in his feelings of love for her. Even with white hair and gray eyes, he felt Kara was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He wanted to hold her and never let her go. Run his fingers through her hair and have her wrap her arms around him and kiss him on the lips.

  But not all the days were bliss, for to Aemon’s unending irritation, Minard continued to be stationed at the door to the infirmary and would frequently burst in to check on them. The monk often attempted to goad Aemon to anger by insulting him and making fun of the way he spoke. As if speaking properly, without lazy contractions and foul words, is a bad thing!

  Aemon refused to lash out at Minard and instead dug what little of his nails he had left into the palm of his hand. His dislike of the monk was better kept to himself. Kara had enough to deal with already, without him adding to her stress.

  But Aemon did get to see Minard taken down a peg, the memory of which still made him smile.

  A few days after Kara had woken, Minard had begun flirting with her and she had told him to go eat a dung pie. Oh, the look of indignation on the monk’s face... I would pay a fortune to see that expression again.

  But Minard soon came back, and it wore Aemon out keeping his mouth shut when the monk began goading him and flirting with Kara again. Worse than any of Minard’s insults were the jokes he would tell Kara, especially the one about the three pompous dandies entering a tavern that made her laugh until she cried.

  “You're really not what I expected of a holy man,” Kara giggled as she clutched her chest. “But please stop with the jokes, you're making my wound hurt.”

  Minard gave her a pretentious bow. “I shall do as my lady commands.”

  When the monk had left, Aemon remained in a sullen silence for a long time. Eventually, Kara asked him what was wrong. “Nothing,” he said, rather more grumpy than he had wanted.

  She lay back on her bed and closed her eyes. “You don't have to worry, Aemon.”

  He stopped digging his nails into his palm. “Worry about what?”

  His only answer was her soft snore.

  Striding over to the locked window, Aemon stared out through the metal shutter, his rage roiling like the lava far below. Never in his life had Aemon met such a vile, no-good scoundrel of a man as Minard. As insufferable as the inescapable heat could be, the monk was far, far worse.

  Aemon tried not to be jealous. But Kara was the first woman he had ever loved and to have some capricious knave like Minard come along and ruin it for him was too much.

  The fear of losing Kara made it impossible for Aemon to sit still. He paced back and forth, biting his nails or grinding his teeth; getting by on little sleep.

  Truth be told, he had not had a good night’s rest since arriving at the temple.

  Six days after Kara woke, Aemon managed to stop pacing and sit beside her as she slept. It had been over a day since Minard had last visited, and Aemon took comfort in being alone with Kara and helping her where he could. In sleep, she looked at peace, the stress and fear of her ordeal forgotten as she ventured into the world of dreams.

  To calm his thoughts further, he started thinking of a bright future where he and Kara were husband and wife. A future where he could hold her in his arms and buy her golden jewelry and expensive clothes and tell her how much he loved her. A future where he kept her safe, and made sure nothing bad ever happened to her again.

  I love you, Kara. I love you so much it makes my heart melt with joy every time I see your face. Nothing will stop me from seeing you through this ordeal. And when it is finally over, I will get down on my knee and ask for your hand in marriage. That way we can be together always.

  AT EIGHTH HOUR ON THE ninth day since Kara’s waking, Aemon took her to the healer’s herb garden. The plants grew under powerful sacred lights that radiated heat and increased the already stifling humidity. Though hot, the garden was quiet and still part of the infirmary, meaning she did not have to stray far from her room. In short, the garden was the perfect place for them to meet Wrynric.

  Aemon and Kara took a seat at a table covered in pots filled with seedlings and waited for the old warrior to arrive. They did not have to wait long for him to appear. “Nice to see you up, half-blood,” Wrynric said to Kara and gave Aemon a nod in way of greeting.

  Kara touched the passkey absently. “You haven’t come to visit me since the day you burst back into my life.”

  “I’m sorry. The patriarch has made sure he’s kept me as far from you as he can by busying me with incessant questions about the repository at Sunholm and of what I know of scions.”

  “You said there are ten or eleven scions still alive,” Kara said. “Why did you tell him that? What if he orders them hunted down and killed?”

  Wrynric snorted. “Little chance he’ll ever find Meridia. But if he did...” He grinned wickedly. “She’d use his bones for a toothpick. As to the rest, three are children and then there is Semira.” He paused to lick his lips, his jaw tightening. “Even I couldn’t find her.”

  “And the rest?”

  “I overstated how many scions still live. There are only three confirmed alive.”

  “So why bother telling him then?” Aemon asked.

  “I thought it might increase the half-blood’s chances of getting out of here alive. If Lucien knew there were other scions out there, he’d know that the threat wouldn't die with her. It was a slim hope, but in the end it mattered not what I told him.”

  Aemon supposed they were lucky there was an internal division within the Order. It still surprised him the Order had managed to keep it hidden. It might have been possible Rubin had kept the reports from him, but what motive would there have been for doing so?

  “I’ve been thinking,” Kara said. “You said Semira is my half sister. Do you think she is still alive?”

  Wrynric seemed taken aback by the sudden change of topic. His mouth snapped shut and he turned his back to them and knelt down. Removing a mailed glove, he ran his fingers over a row of herbs sprouting out of the moist dirt. “A few years back, I traded siruswort to a merchant at Celestial Rest. When the leaves are ground up and mixed with a mold that grows on stale mushroom bread, it helps prevent wounds from becoming infected.”

  Kara frowned. “Why are you avoiding my question?”

  He lifted his face from the herbs but did not turn around. “Yes, she could still be alive. I didn’t see her during the fighting at Sunholm.” His vo
ice had an edge to it now. “Before I fled, I searched for her in her family home but she wasn’t there. I took her mother, Meridia, and fled with her and a handful of others through the secret tunnels and escaped the slaughter.” He pulled his glove back on, then stood, still refusing to look at them.

  Aemon touched Kara on the arm and mouthed the word “stop.” The old warrior clearly did not want to talk about Semira, and Aemon found the old man more than a little intimidating. He had the hardened look of a veteran warrior about him, a man that had seen more than his fair share of blood, with the scars to prove it.

  It would be wise not to push him.

  Kara ignored the warning. “I want to find her. I’ve never had a family other than my late mother. I was close to Berda and the other courtesans, but to have a sister...” She stared at a row of shrubs with blue berries growing on them. “It’s lonely having no family anymore.”

  Tears wended their way down Kara’s cheeks. Aemon reached out to comfort her and she nestled against him, her hand still on the passkey.

  She sucked in a deep breath. “If I don’t end up being who you think I am, perhaps Semira might.”

  Wrynric spun to face her. “Why do you say that?”

  Kara shifted backward as the old man glared at her. “Well, she grew up with the other scions and would know what is expected of one. Me, on the other hand... You know what I’m good at; you saw me at work.” Kara sniffed. “I know nothing about fighting, battles, ancient, abandoned cities or divine prophecies. I can’t even read or write.”

  As she spoke her body deflated. Aemon’s heart ached to make things better for her. If he could take her burdens upon himself, he would do so in a heartbeat. She had the weight of Stelemia on her shoulders and there was little he could do to change it.

  Though he knew his words would bring her little comfort, he said, “You are strong, Kara, and you have me here to protect you.”

  She smiled at him through her tears. “Thank you, Aemon. It’s just hard being at the center of something so vast and so beyond comprehension that it makes you feel smaller than a flea. I feel like I’m being swept away—like back at that river with Veladan—but this time I won’t be able to swim ashore and will drown.” She closed her eyes. “It might be better if Semira were here. She’d—”

  “Shut your mouth, girl,” Wrynric snapped. “I don’t want to hear you speak that name again.”

  Aemon bit a sliver of nail while Kara stiffened. Wrynric glared at her, his whole body tense. Slowly, the fire in his eyes dimmed and a sad, weary grimace took its place. “I’m sorry, girl. I lost many loved ones at Sunholm. I hope Semira lives, I really do, but she cannot help us.”

  The old man shuffled forward a step. “The great heroes of the past often felt uncertain and struggled against their destinies. But like them, you’ll find it in yourself to fight on until your journey is at an end.”

  Kara did not look convinced but slowly nodded her head.

  Aemon cleared his throat. “The other day, you said something to the patriarch about hearing a voice in the Dead City. Who did it belong to?”

  Kara answered for the old warrior, “He thinks he heard the voice of the Metal Man from the old tale. He wants me to go there so I can talk to him.”

  The Metal Man... a character in a tale told to children about love being able to change the nature of a man. The story was clearly fictitious. No one could turn themselves to metal, let alone live for centuries.

  But perhaps Aemon needed to reassess this assessment of the tale. After all, the enemy at Deep Cave appeared to be made of metal. If they were real, and Kara truly was the Scion, then what was stopping the Metal Man from being real?

  Wrynric nodded. “Kara’s father, Arden, saw her go to a door within the Dead City and speak to the Metal Man. She enlisted his help for the coming war against the ancient enemy.”

  Grimacing, Kara said, “Which is unfortunately the exact opposite of what Lucien and Kahan believe.” She gently took Aemon's hand in hers. It pleased him that his touch could bring her comfort. “I know so little about the people who want me dead,” she lamented bitterly. “Who are the Knives of Dwaycar? Who is Kahan?”

  “Don’t let the fanatics hear you say Dwaycar’s name within their halls,” Wrynric cautioned. “We’re treading on slippery stone as is.”

  “So who are they?” Aemon asked. He had read about them once but could remember little.

  “According to our historians at Sunholm, they are an offshoot of those who worshiped Ibilirith’s twin, the Divine Dwaycar. His followers have been around as long as those of his sister and for many years they lived openly in Stelemia in areas not lit by the sacred lights.”

  The old man’s eyes followed the row of electrical wires running along the roof. “Their holy women, who call themselves the Luddite Council, long preached against the use of the ancient mechanical technologies of Ibilirith. Things like the sacred lights, computers and any other devices that survive from the time of our distant forbears that Stelemian civilization depends upon.”

  Wrynric scanned the room, making sure they were still alone. Satisfied no one was about, he continued. “That dependency on the old technologies, especially the sacred lights, is why speaking ill of them within Stelemia is considered an act of heresy. Humans, after all, are not apt at living in total darkness, and the glowing bacteria lacks the nourishing properties of Ibilirith's lights and only lives in certain areas. This means Dwaycar’s followers, with their—some would say counterproductive—views, have always been few but fanatical.”

  “So why do they care so much about Ibilirith’s prophecy if she is Dwaycar’s enemy?” Aemon asked. “Kahan mentioned the same prophecy as Lucien. It’s the whole reason he is after Kara.”

  “They are after the passkey and I don’t know why. Dwaycar and his followers have always hated Ibilirith, so why they’d believe fragments of a prophecy she supposedly wrote is beyond me.”

  “Because Dwaycar wrote those words, not her,” Kara said.

  Aemon caught his breath. “How do you know that?”

  Kara put a hand to her forehead and grimaced.

  “What is it?” he asked, heart skipping.

  “I’m dizzy all of a sudden. I think I need to go back to bed.”

  Wrynric took her from Aemon and carried her back to her room. When they arrived, they found Minard and two of his fellow monks waiting for them.

  “Who let you in? You were told to keep away from the Scion,” Minard said to the old warrior.

  “Your friend there did,” Wrynric replied, inclining his head at the monk beside Minard.

  The monk muttered an apology but Minard ignored him. “Why are you here?”

  “I came to check on her and found she’d gone for a walk,” Wrynric said. “I meant no harm.”

  Aemon took Kara from the old warrior and carried her toward the bed. He was surprised at how easily he held her. She had lost a lot of weight since the last time he had carried her into the temple.

  Minard moved to block his path. Stopping, Aemon glared at the dark-skinned monk, who stood over a foot taller than him. They stared unblinkingly at one another. No way would Aemon back down. Whichever one of them looked away first would lose face in the other’s eyes.

  Kara squirmed in his arms. Just hold on a moment longer. I do not want to move until Minard looks away. I cannot let him think I am weak.

  She let out a low moan, “Please, Aemon, put me down, I feel sick.”

  “Get out of my way so I can lay her on the bed,” Aemon snapped.

  Slowly, Minard moved aside and watched Aemon put her to bed. When Kara had settled, the monks escorted Wrynric from the room. After they had gone, another monk arrived to guard the door to Kara's room.

  Aemon went and sat on the bench along the wall and tried to bite his nails but found them all chewed down to the quick. Sighing deeply, he began to repeatedly thump the back of his head against the wall until it gave him a headache.

  By the divines, he
hated Minard.

  TWO DAYS LATER, AEMON and Kara began martial training under the watchful eye of Aemon’s nemesis. Minard had Aemon running around a large stone hall and lifting gravel-filled sacks while Kara did easy stretches to build her strength.

  The monk seemed to take perverse satisfaction in making Aemon suffer. By the end of the first day, Aemon was so exhausted he collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep in seconds.

  When he woke, he was sore and stiff and Minard had to all but drag him to the training room. The following day was worse and the day after that, he begged Minard to kill him and be done with it.

  The monk laughed in his face. “Stay in bed and be a weakling. In the days to come, the Scion will need strong men like me beside her. Weak boys who refuse to train have no place at her side.”

  Then he tried to tuck Aemon back into bed like a child. “Stop that.” Aemon shoved away the monk's hands. “I will get up.”

  “I can call for your mother to come collect you. We both know you’re going to wet yourself at the first sign of danger.”

  Aemon flew out of bed and shoved his clothes on while giving Minard an indignant scowl. When dressed, he stormed to the training room.

  On the way there, Aemon vowed he would not give the other man the opportunity to call him a weakling again. The Monk was right; Kara needed strong men around her, not coin counters and quill pushes who could not hold their own in a fight. He would build his strength and learn to wield a weapon so he could stand by Kara’s side and guard her with his life.

  Now was his chance to become what he always dreamed of being.

  A heroic warrior, like the ones of old.

  THAT NIGHT, AEMON GRABBED his bag of books that he had carried all the way from the capital and took them to the bridge, where Meglen had died. Thankfully, the bridge remained retracted and no one seemed to be about. Beyond the flickering glow of magma, the precipice on the far side of the chasm was eerily dark. Kahan had extinguished the sacred lights running along the road.