Enchanted Bookstore Legends (5-book complete epic fantasy romance box set)

by Marsha A. Moore

  “Not sunbathing, child, merely enhancing my immune functioning to bolster my health after the harsh winter. Sire Drake instructed me to not permit your passage. He and all of us fear you will fall ill.” He lifted extensions of his roots into a spiky barricade, one of his gate-keeping defenses.

  “Perhaps I can help,” she maintained, hands on her hips.

  “It looks to be a horrible disease—elevated fever, chills, vomiting blood. Some are dying. Please stay here, Adalyra.”

  “I’m not like any from Dragonspeir. I won’t get it.” Lyra hoped what she said was true but couldn’t turn her back on thousands who were ill.

  “Well…you most certainly are unique.” He folded his leaves and tipped his trunk forward to look at her directly. “The Alliance relies on your special scribal abilities to battle the Dark Realm. Losing you to illness would risk too much. Be wise and stay back.” He smoothed down his bark and held out a twigged hand to her.

  She stepped beyond his touch. “The entire Alliance is my family, and I need to help them.”

  The gnarled tree let out a sigh and lowered his roots. “Very well. You have your own mind, and it is one of a leader. That is your inheritance from the four female Scribes in your family. But, I expect you to use every caution available. Sire Drake is in the Meadow. Stay with him.”

  “I promise.” Lyra hurried toward the crossroads, which connected dozens of trails. There she selected the short path leading to the Meadow.

  Pluch trees lined the trail. Their weeping branches, active with new sap, swept after Lyra in attempt to caress her golden hair, now grown almost to her waist. Flower buds on the bell flowers peaked out. The air held gentle notes of fragrant jasmine from the vine’s first purple flowers. She took a deep breath as she sped down the familiar walk. She had missed Dragonspeir.

  Along the way, Lyra thought about her action, entering the land without permission. Although she recently passed sorcery training for all crafts except powerthrowing, Lyra only elevated her immortal status. In Dragonspeir, they used the term afflation—having received divine impartment of knowledge and strength to endure more physical hardship than a non-magical. Until gaining enough afflation to become fully immortal, she needed to be invited by the Imperial Dragon to be his guest in Dragonspeir.

  As a new Alliance sorceress, the Imperial Dragon decided when he needed her. Lyra clearly broke his established protocol. But she often bent Alliance customs to suit her needs while working for the greater good. So far, she had only raised eyebrows, and no one troubled her. She hoped this time would be the same, but entering a plague-ridden land against orders was a bit different than wearing jeans or hugging dragons.

  Lyra heard a chorus of low wails carried on gentle breezes swirling above the Meadow of Peace. Flowers stood tall with new light green growth, ready to burst into color. Their buds tinkled sprightly songs in hushed voices, as if they read the solemnness in the community. A small group of non-magical villagers carried empty pails toward a well in the gathering area. Heads down, none bothered to enjoy the gay tunes or delicate spring buds.

  In the Meadow, she passed between tiny cottages tucked under overhanging trees. People bustled along the main trail from house to house, but she didn’t see Cullen. One familiar person approached Lyra and she asked, “Wingold. Have you seen Sire Drake? Or the Imperial Dragon? I’ve come to help.”

  Leaning on his wooden staff, the old sorcerer looked up and straightened his posture from a bent stance. Dark circles ringed his eyes. “They’re both here. All of us sorcerers are here, since it seems an advanced level of magic gives immunity. Glad you’ve come to join our efforts.” He turned and pointed behind him. “The leader is in the next glade. I think I saw Sire Drake in the following clearing, the third dwelling on the right. Many took ill there.” Facing Lyra, he continued, “But, do you have enough afflation yet to protect you? I don’t think—”

  “Thank you.” Not wanting to defend her need to help, Lyra patted his shoulder to show her gratitude as she slipped past.

  She scurried along the path, head down to avoid eye contact and possible corrections from other high magicals. In the clutch of a dozen thatch and clay houses, she couldn’t help glancing at the weary expressions, masking the faces of those still-healthy who were relegated to porches and sheds. In the central gazebo, children whimpered for their sick parents and abandoned their toys to cling to older siblings or relations. Lyra paused to look into their eyes, feeling their confusion and fear. She tore her gaze away. Holding onto hope that the Imperial Dragon had pieced together some clues about the illness, she forced herself onward.

  Lyra raced along a narrow shortcut, through the stand of trees separating glades. When she entered the next clearing, she rose too fast from the undergrowth and collided with the stumpy leg of the Tortoise, Guardian of the Water.

  The Imperial Dragon loomed above her, smoke drifting from his nostrils.

  The Tortoise contorted his face with more wrinkles than usual. “Scribe Lyra, why are you here? You—”

  “Adalyra! You are not permitted to be here.” The booming voice of the leader shook the ground under her feet. His pupils glared, shifting to an intense yellow hue. “You may be at risk of contracting the disease. Return at once!”

  She bowed low. “Head Guardian, I’m sorry for entering Dragonspeir without your permission, but I want to try to heal the people. They are my family—all I have now. Please, let me stay.”

  His broad tail thumped the ground. “You are only partially afflated, not yet immortal. We cannot risk our Scribe. Go back!”

  “I wasn’t born here and should be immune,” she maintained, standing tall. “Let me use my scribal powers to help.”

  “Lyra! Why?” Cullen strode toward them, shoulder-length brown hair flying, sleeves of his tunic rolled up, cloak pushed behind his shoulders. “I directed you to stay and everyone else not to let you enter.”

  “I can help.” She looked squarely at him.

  Cullen’s steel-blue eyes shot her a piercing glance. He turned toward the Imperial Dragon and spoke in a hushed voice, “My lord, sad and urgent news—a dozen of the first stricken have perished this afternoon, those who were afflicted two days ago.”

  A flame shot from the leader’s snout, charring leaf litter on the ground to ash. “This cannot be!”

  The Tortoise hung his craggy head.

  Cullen continued, “In my estimation, one quarter of the Meadow residents are now ill. I’ve ruled out the local food and water supplies, since many have used them and remained healthy. The only commonality is they’re all mortals or lower magicals. Many of our sorcery students show onset.”

  “Can you tell how it spreads? Do the symptoms give any clues?” Lyra asked.

  Cullen shook his head. “Marked fever, scarlet hemorrhaging just underneath the skin, but no open lesions. In later stages, vomiting blood.”

  “Any cough or mucus?”

  “No. I can’t determine its path.” Cullen clamped a hand around his sorcerer’s staff, sparking the blue topaz eyes of the dragon wrought on his bloodswear ring.

  “Has there been an illness like this here before?” Lyra asked.

  The huge golden dragon shook his head, and whiskers raised straight out from his jaws. “Not during my reign, which has been three centuries.”

  “A similar instance occurred during the service of Scribe Nareene.” The Tortoise cleared his throat. “From my readings, I recollect the Alliance was nearly decimated, allowing the Dark Realm to dominate for an arduous century.”

  The leader paced back and forth across the clearing before he addressed Lyra and Cullen. “Lyra, since you’re determined to help, I wish you and Sire Drake to travel north to Versula in hopes of finding Sire Tarom at his residence there. The Alliance needs his assistance.”

  Cullen grimaced. “True, he is my friend and recently did Lyra a huge favor on my behalf, but employing aid of the Dark Alchemist is—”

  A dark shadow passed overhead. Dragon wi
ngs beat against the air, pushing a black cimafa down for a landing.

  Lyra jerked at the sight of the soul-stealing creature, her heart beating in her throat. But it wasn’t driven by the mystery rider who hunted her to steal her scribal aura three months ago. Instead, Symar sat on the stealth dragon—better, but still not trustworthy. The Lord of Tempestas, governing weather in all of Dragonspeir, chose to ride his personally trained cimafa on rounds—the only such beasts allowed to freely pass through the Alliance. Both realms depended upon his services and accepted him. He didn’t declare allegiance to either. She suspected he was actually the unknown rider, plotting against her, but had no real proof.

  With agility, Symar flung a leg over the spine of the sleek beast and slid down its shimmering black scales to the ground. A shiver coursed through Lyra as she met his gaze. He dressed in the darkest charcoal, not Alliance blue or Dark Realm red. His cloak ended with an enchanted hem, split into hundreds of undulating tentacles. A violet pendant decorated his broad chest. Symar brushed long dark hair out of his face and bowed low. “My lord, Sire Drake, Lady Lyra. While forming rains in the northern sector, I laid over during passage of that storm at a Qumeli tribe encampment on the fringe of the Dark Realm. An avril scout bird delivered this message for me to relay to the Imperial Dragon.” He withdrew a scroll of parchment from inside his cloak and handed it to the leader. “It was rumored among the tribespeople that the Alliance is suffering a plague. I returned promptly to offer my services.”

  The Head Guardian broke the wax seal, imprinted with a dragon head, and unrolled the page. While he read, his pupils changed from yellow to red, and smoke seeped from his nostrils. Golden scales along the spines of his massive back lifted on edge. He looked over the edge of the paper at them and spoke in a quiet but firm tone. “Come nearer.”

  As each stepped closer, he met their gaze. “By proclamation of the Black Dragon, the residents of the Alliance shall bear the price for the murder of his heir. A curse of the blackest magic has been set. When your masses have died gruesome, tortured deaths and your community lies in ruin, his son will be avenged.” He passed the scroll to Cullen, who held it low for both the Tortoise and Lyra to read. “We expected his vengeance after Lyra killed his heir during her bloodswear quest. He’s found our weakness—lacking an alchemist. We must find a cure!” the Imperial Dragon spat out. His sixty-foot tail thwacked saplings lining the glade, sending them toppling like dominoes.

  Lyra scanned the document and glanced above the scroll at Symar. His expression appeared flat, without any element of surprise. His cold manner was unreadable, but something sent a chill through her.

  The Tortoise held both his head and tail out, stiff and shaking. “Sire Drake, when a curse was placed on the Imperial lair, you and I made a concentrated study of black magic. During your bloodswear quest, you lifted that hex.”

  “That was long ago…about one hundred sixty years back. Let me think.” Cullen raked a hand through his hair. “We didn’t learn any reversals…only basic incantations, which I used to coerce the Dark Sorcerer into lifting his curse. After he perished in our battle, a successor was never named…as I know it. Tarom served, best he could, as their head sorcerer.” He gulped. “If Tarom set this—which I doubt, given his preference for certain crafts—I cannot fight a dear friend to the death.”

  “The welfare of the people here may rely on your will, Sire Drake.” Symar raised an eyebrow, and one corner of his mouth lifted into a half smile.

  Lyra clenched her fists and leaned toward the Tortoise. “From your library references, is there any way to learn more black magic?”

  “Alas, I have no craft books beyond what Sire Drake and I studied, and he is correct. They are basic.” He lifted his shell high on extended legs and craned his neck toward the Head Guardian. “There was one idea you and I discussed at that time, which you forbade—Terza. I think it is warranted now, to find one who knows the black magic cure.”

  The golden leader reared his head back, rippling the wingsails along the sides of his back. “No! I do not want to send any into that underworld.” He shook his head as if to rid himself of some troubling thought. “It is a place without rule. Any vile deed is allowed: treachery, deceit, cold-blooded killing, rape, pillaging. Dark power abounds. Monsters of all sorts have made Terza their home. I was taken there before appointment to my position, to teach me to fully appreciate fairness and order. There is no certainty that venturing there would secure knowledge of a cure.”

  Cullen stood tall and looked at Symar as he spoke. “If there is a chance, I will go. The challenge is not too great to save my friends.”

  “Your bravery is commendable,” the leader said, lowering his face to their level. “But, Sire Drake, you alone are no match for the evils there. Not any one of us in the Alliance is powerful enough.”

  A silence followed while heads turned toward Symar. He dropped his gaze to the ground.

  “I will go,” Lyra stated as firmly as she could, her insides shaking. She knew Cullen detected the emotional chaos of her thoughts, understanding her love and desire to help him, as well as fears of losing their lives. Thankfully, no one else knew her internal turmoil. She wanted to give them hope and confidence, not more worry.

  Cullen stared at her. “Even though I can read you, your strength bewilders me.” He took hold of her hand and gave it a squeeze. “But, I can’t allow you to go. The danger is too great.”

  The Imperial Dragon set his gaze upon her. “Sire Drake is correct. Terza may not support your powers, putting you at immense risk.”

  “Scribe Lyra, Terza is affected by magnetics deep within the Earth. That magnetism is mostly unknown to us. You may find yourself defenseless. Are you certain you make a wise decision?” the Tortoise asked, tilting his neck in her direction.

  “I’m willing to try.” Lyra clamped a hand onto her pack to stop the shaking she felt inside. “If my magic doesn’t operate, I’ll do my best to escape. Please, let me go.”

  “Adalyra, your powers are indeed remarkable.” The Imperial Dragon hesitated, his eyes now yellow once again. “Coupled with Sire Drake’s experience—I have some hope. And there is no other alternative to save the Alliance. I am again indebted to your courage and dedication.”

  Lyra nodded.

  “Sire Drake, if her magic fails, help her find safe exit.”

  “Most certainly, my lord.” He lifted his staff toward the leader, although worry showed in Cullen’s furrowed brow.

  The leader faced Lyra, his golden aura expanding into the air around his body. “If this is truly your choice, then you must leave at once. Speed is essential, or many will perish.”

  The Tortoise followed suit, his silvery aura shining from the symbols decorating the thick plates of his huge shell. “Indeed. We Guardians will protect the Alliance while you’re away.” He turned toward the Imperial Dragon. “I’ll find the other two and alert them.”

  The Imperial Dragon nodded. “Thank you. Sire Drake and Scribe Adalyra, if you have all necessary belongings, transport at once to the Crossroads. There lies a sealed portal to Terza. Its existence is the reason Cranewort serves as Gatekeeper. I will meet you there.”

  “Ready?” Cullen asked Lyra, gripping his wizard’s staff in preparation to transport them.

  “Just a minute.” She opened her pack and felt for the bloodswear quest document to give to the Tortoise for safekeeping. With her hand on the draft, her eyes met Symar’s, watching her movements. Swiftly channeling her clairvoyant sense along her skin, she sampled his emotions—anxiety and greed. Intuition made her release the papers back into her bag. Silently, she conjured some trail mix and bottles of water, in case her magic failed in Terza. With forced calmness, she closed the pack and straightened her posture. “Ready now.”

  The Imperial Sorcerer gave a wave and pulled Lyra to his side. With the other hand, he twisted his ornately wrought staff. The sapphire gem at its apex glinted. Blue mist rose and covered the two of them.

&nbs
p; Not yet able to possess a staff, it bothered Lyra to be dependent upon him. But holding close, weightless and floating in the still peacefulness of space, always reminded her of what she wanted most—a safe place where she and Cullen lived together. Last summer, when he encouraged her to open her lost childhood copy of the Book of Dragonspeir, the crush she felt for him as a girl sparked into love. Since then, they had worked hard to bring their lives closer.

  Still, they lived in separate worlds. Alliance magic kept Cullen alive, defying death for over two centuries. It bound him to the source, only allowing him to be a guest in her world, working as a part-time bookstore owner. With each course of sorcery study and each mission completed, Lyra awakened the inherited Dragonspeir magic she possessed. She worked diligently, committed to finding a way to become one with Cullen. The power of the Alliance that kept him alive must not fall.

  When the vapors settled, the Crossroads appeared before them. Cranewort’s branches hung over them, the bark at his eyebrows pinched together.

  Chapter Two: Effluvial Magic

  Even as the mist still swirled at Lyra and Cullen’s feet, wing beats sounded above the tree line. The magnificent gold leader soared into the Crossroads.

  “Hello to you all,” Cranewort called out. “I wish this was a happy gathering, but my clairvoyance warned me of the grave matter which brings you here.” His voice wavered, and he finished with a croak.

  The Imperial Dragon’s claws dug into the soft loam. Banded straps of his thigh muscles bulged, braking his rapid momentum. Without a pause, he continued his forward motion into a long stride. “Over here,” he directed, his eyes fixed on an inconspicuous outcropping of rock between marked trails. “Gatekeeper Cranewort, guard the area against any who may approach.”

  “Yes, I will indeed.” The tree’s limbs groaned, reaching their fullest spread and height.

  Lyra and Cullen followed the Head Guardian. “Shall I clear the leaves away?” she asked, moving closer.

  “No! Disturb nothing,” he roared.