Lost in the Dawn (Erythleh Chronicles Book 1)

by Catherine Johnson

  These facts from his studies paraded uselessly through Jorrell’s mind as he followed his father through the cobbled streets to their own prestigious address, barely a hundred steps from the palace gates. Their house was decorated externally in the same manner of all the houses in Thrissia. The walls were whitewashed to deflect the harsh rays of the summer sun. Most dwellings had flat roofs, valuable space in a city as crowded with structures as Thrissia. Only the houses of the wealthier people had domed roofs, painted the same hue as the sky, similar to that of the palace. The corners of the palace buildings were also buttressed with minarets, their spires painted to match the dome.

  Consul Sephan stalked through their home, leaving Jorrell no option but to follow him. Their house was not a noisy one, and the laughter of Jorrell’s seven-year-old sister, Elthrinn, floated up clearly from the garden and in through the open windows. When they reached Jorrell’s room, the consul opened the door and motioned for Jorrell to precede him. Jorrell entered, but did not sit. Instead he stood as his father followed him inside and closed the door behind them.

  Jorrell began to speak, to apologise, but his father interrupted him.

  “No. Don’t apologise again. I’m aware that you’re sorry.” The consul sighed heavily. The lines on his face seemed to deepen, and he ran his hand over the shiny crown of his head, which had been absent of hair for many years. “You’re to stay in your room tonight. You won’t be going anywhere near the palace tomorrow, either. Instead you’ll be going back to the barracks to shovel all the gryphon shit from the arena.”

  Jorrell remained silent. As far as punishments went, it could have been worse. His father, however, had not finished.

  “And then, since you seem to like the damned animals so much, you’ll be going to the isle for seven nights. You can shovel gryphon shit there, too. Or whatever else En Balamon tells you to do.”

  Jorrell guessed that En Balamon was the En Dek that he’d conversed with, although it was possibly the least important element of his father’s speech. “Seven nights?” Jorrell exclaimed.

  “I would have made it longer, but I don’t wish to interrupt your studies much more than I have to. I can do without having my ear bent by Remmah.”

  The diminutive consul, one of the four females in the Forum and their most frequent tutor, was indeed fearsome, but Jorrell’s father hadn’t understood that it wasn’t the thought of being around the gryphons that upset Jorrell, rather the thought of who he wouldn’t be around during that time. There was one last punishment, though, that Jorrell hoped would not be meted out.

  “Am I still to be allowed to attend the Twelfth Moon celebrations?”

  His father gave him a quizzical look, derailed from his exasperation by the change in subject. “What do you care for dancing?”

  Jorrell tried to search his mind for a bland answer that wouldn’t incriminate anyone. But before he could come up with a suitable excuse his father’s expression turned to one of comprehension.

  “Ah, of course, it’s not the dancing you care for. No, I won’t prevent you from attending the ball at the palace. But I think you and I need to have a talk about your plans for the future soon, son. You’ll be eighteen before long. The time is nearing when you should make your way in the world as a man, without silliness like your escapades today.”

  Since his father’s judgment had been pronounced, Jorrell went to sit on the edge of his bed, noting vaguely that he’d forgotten to straighten the covers that morning. “It’s not that I’m afraid of that responsibility, Father, I just don’t know what I want to do for the rest of my life. I know I don’t want to follow you into the Forum. I don’t have the patience for it, but I don’t know what other options there are for me.”

  “Then we’ll have a conversation about that.” His father’s expression turned wistful. “Your mother would have known what to do with you. She always did.”

  Jorrell’s mother had died giving birth to his sister. Jorrell had been a large baby, and giving birth to him had weakened his mother severely. She’d been warned not to have any more children. For ten years she had heeded the healers carefully, and then, for reasons that Jorrell did not understand, she had become pregnant again. The result was his baby sister Elthrinn. Although his mother had bled to death during the birth, Jorrell didn’t resent his little sister at all. He doted on her, and was as much of a parent to her as their father. It would sting to be away from Elthrinn for seven nights almost as much as it would to be parted from Serwren.

  He and Serwren had that in common, although she had never known her mother. Dimacius’ consort had died giving birth to her twin babies. Losing their wives in childbirth had formed a bond between the consul and the First Father that far exceeded their official relationship.

  Jorrell’s father had become more reserved, since his wife’s death. He had always been the sterner parent, but he had become even less quick to laugh over the years that he had been alone. He had never shown even the slightest desire to take another wife. If he did keep company with women, he never brought them to his home. For all Jorrell knew, his father was living as celibately as one of the priestesses of Doohr.

  Jorrell missed his mother deeply. He was frightened that his memories of her already seemed faded and unclear. Although there were times when he passed a Jasmine bush, redolent of the scent that she had favoured, that all his memories coalesced into crystalline precision. He missed the way that she had been the source of all the laughter in their home. He missed the way she would hold him to comfort him when he was sad, the way she could talk through any problem with him and help him find a path to navigate. He missed the way that she loved him unconditionally, no matter what he did, and that she had never once expressed disappointment in him.

  “We were only curious, Father.”

  “And if that vicious beast had mauled you, or Serwren? What then? Gryphons are trained for battle for a reason. They’re hardly kittens. They’re fast, and absolutely deadly. Just a nick with one of those talons could have had your guts spilling into the dust.”

  “I wouldn’t have let Serwren be hurt, Father.”

  The consul sighed, and Jorrell thought he detected a note of defeat in it. “Yes. Yes, I know.”

  A gentle knock sounded at the door. Jorrell’s father opened it to reveal one of their household staff, an older woman with greying hair, much the same age as the consul, who had taken over the mothering of Elthrinn.

  “Sir, if you please. It’s the young lady’s bedtime.”

  “Ahh, yes. I’ll be up directly, Morrith.” The consul dismissed the woman and turned back to Jorrell. “Remember, you are not to leave this room for the rest of the night. I don’t wish to treat you as an errant child, but if you will act that way, then you leave me no choice. If you disagree, then you need to decide on a way to earn a living so that you can be master of your own house. I will have your evening meal sent up to you.”

  Jorrell stared at the door long after his father had left the room. He wouldn’t try to disobey the edict about attending the barracks the next day, or the one about travelling to the Isle of Gryphons for such a painfully long time. But he’d be damned if he was staying put in the house for the whole night. He needed to see Serwren, to tell her about his impending absence, and to find out what consequences she now faced because of their escapade.

  Chapter Three

  Serwren had given up trying to distract herself as she waited for her father’s arrival. At first she had tried to wait patiently, but it had soon become apparent that her father was in no rush to deliver his judgement. She had tried reading, but after realising that she’d been staring blankly at the same page without comprehending a word, she had put her book aside. She had tried embroidery, but the threads kept tangling, so she packed the canvas away before she cut it into tiny pieces.

  In the end, Serwren had settled for brushing her hair. She’d released it from the braid that kept it away from her face and kept the lengths neat, and had drawn her comb - made
from a finely carved sliver of narwhal tusk - through it for a hundred strokes. She had then woven it back into a neat plait. She was retying the strip of leather that held the braid in place when her father knocked at her door, and entered without waiting for her admittance.

  Serwren was sitting at the table which did double duty as the place where she both studied and primped, although she paid vastly more attention to her schoolwork than she did to her appearance. The stand which held her quill pen and its pot of ink had pride of place. Her mirror, her comb and the carved rosewood box, which held the few pieces of personal jewellery that she wore, were set to one side.

  As her father walked into her room, she set her comb in its place by the mirror and stood to face him.

  She decided to pre-empt the inevitable before her father could speak. “It’s alright, Father. I understand that I won't be allowed to attend the Twelfth Moon celebrations. I can only apologise again for my foolishness today, and accept my punishment.” It hurt her to say the words; she really had been looking forward to the ball and the opportunity to dress up a little for Jorrell, but she was sure that this would be the punishment that her father would dole out, and it hurt less to hear it in her own voice than in his.

  Her father paused, his mouth still open to speak. He cocked his head to one side and regarded her for a moment. Serwren studied him right back, refusing to drop her gaze. Her father was the tallest man she’d ever met. He towered over almost everyone else, although a few people, Jorrell being one, came close to matching her father’s height. Her father's hair was dark and curled around his ears and neck. He’d told her once that her mother had been fair, and that was why she and her brother did not share his darker colouring.

  “Come, daughter. We should sit and talk.”

  Her father took a seat on the edge of her bed and patted the covers by his side, but Serwren did not wish to be seated so near while she was chastised. She retook her seat at the desk, but turned the chair to face her father.

  Her father watched her actions, and did not comment on them, but he sighed heavily before he began to speak.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Serwren. You disobeyed me. I specifically asked you to stay away from the gryphons, and you deliberately disobeyed me. Furthermore, you’re too old now for such childish stunts.”

  “I have no excuses, Father. I was curious, and I acted on that impulse. I hadn’t forgotten that you had forbidden me from seeing the gryphons. I did disobey you, and I won’t argue with any punishment you deem fitting.”

  “I do not intend that you should miss the Twelfth Moon celebrations, Serwren. I want you to attend the ball.”

  Serwren’s heart leapt, and then plummeted. She’d been certain that being forced to stay in her room during the annual celebrations would be the worst punishment her father could conceive of. Now she was truly scared as to what he might have in mind. He would never physically chastise her, that wasn’t his way. He would find out what she wanted most, and deny her, or make her wait, that was his way. She waited in silence for his verdict.

  “I want you to go to the barracks tomorrow morning. I will escort you. I do not want you to go alone. You will apologise, personally, to En Balamon for your discourtesy.”

  Her father always made her apologise in person, if there was someone to apologise to. At first it had been extremely humiliating, and Serwren had blushed and stammered through the words. But she had come to realise that humility was an important skill, as was diplomacy, and she had learnt both whilst making her apologies. Often, she ended up conversing with the person she had been sent to, and had learnt much from those discussions. She had come to see these once embarrassing episodes as useful opportunities. Because it was such a common punishment, Serwren knew that her father’s judgement was not yet exhausted.

  “It’s time you thought about your future, Serwren. You can’t remain my daughter forever. You have to make your own life.”

  That statement filled her stomach with a cold stone of dread. She had been thinking about her future, she thought about it all the time, but she was sure that her hopes and dreams were unlikely to be shared by her father. She was also sure that her father’s ideas about making her own way were confined to her becoming a wife and mother. Serwren wanted those things, but she wanted a portion of life for herself, too.

  Unlike Jorrell, she did not find the Forum tedious. It was true that discussions could be dry at times, but at others it was exciting, stirring. A consul needed a quick, sharp wit and a head for facts and details to succeed in the Forum, as well as the ability to say one thing, mean another, and to listen for the hidden meaning in another person’s words at the same time. Serwren found it interesting and stimulating. She wanted to serve an apprenticeship to one of the consuls, Remmah perhaps, or maybe Ellspith, either of the two more acerbic female consuls. And then, when she had built her knowledge and abilities, she wanted to run for election to the Forum herself. It was her ultimate dream to be the first female leader of Felthiss.

  “I have thought about my future, Father. I want it to lie in the Forum. I want to follow in your footsteps.”

  Her father couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d struck him. She wondered if he’d been paying any attention to her at all, inbetween running the country and around the succession of tutors and nurse maids. She had thought it would be obvious to anyone who had cared to look that she did not aspire solely to be homemaker. She would never have paid so much attention to her studies if she did not intend to use the knowledge. Not for the first time, Serwren wondered what her mother’s opinion would have been on the subject. But that was a pointless day-dreaming; her mother had never had the chance to express an opinion on her daughter’s life.

  “There has never been a First Mother of Felthiss, Serwren.”

  “I know, but there are female consuls, there always have been. There is no edict to say that a woman cannot lead the country.

  “Yes. There are women in the Forum, but it is unlikely that any of them will be elected to lead when my time is over.”

  The position of First Father was an elected one, but the holder kept the position for life, unless their appointment was called to a vote for a specific reason, but the agreement of at least six consuls was required for such a vote to be called.

  “You would not dissuade Erkas from that path.”

  “Serwren, you know as well as I do, that your brother’s destiny does not lie as head of the Forum. He doesn’t have the temperament to be a consul. He will never be First Father of Felthiss.”

  Serwren knew that her brother did indeed harbour the same ambitions that she did, but she did not plan to be in the middle of her father and her brother for that discussion. She also did not wish to hear any other thoughts that her father might have for her future. She needed to change the subject, and she had her own questions that she wanted answers to.

  “Why are you meeting with the En Dek, Father? Why did you have them bring the gryphons to Felthiss?”

  As always, when she asked an astute question of some political persuasion, her father regarded her as if surprised to see her in front of him before he answered.

  “The peoples of Naidac have apparently organised themselves into a revolution. I will be sending our armies there to quell the uprising. We have negotiated for the En Dek to support our troops.”

  Naidac was one of the western countries that Ekvit had conquered. It had been a loyal province of Felthiss for a long time. But if they wished to rule themselves, Serwren could not exactly see why that shouldn’t be allowed. What right did Felthiss have to command every nation it had touched? Naidac was a journey of a full moon's length to the west by sea. No one had known it had even existed until King Ekvit’s ships had landed on its shores.

  “Why can’t we just leave them in peace and let them decide their own destiny? Why must we have a Lord Protector in place if they disagree with it?”

  “It is the problem of all conquered countries, Serwren. If they had been left
to their own devices in the first place, they would never have become a problem for us. But they were conquered once, and if we simply withdraw, they might advance on us to ensure that it did not happen again. I cannot allow a country, however small, to threaten to wage open war on Felthiss and her realms.”

  “Do they not value trade with Felthiss too much to want to attack us?”

  “They see that we conquered them, and they have trade. They do not see why they cannot conquer us and have trade also.”

  “So, there will be a war?”

  “Yes, daughter. But it will be fought on foreign shores. The battles will not touch Felthiss.”

  They would, Serwren thought. When the armies needed to refresh their ranks and the men and boys of Felthiss were recruited to sail overseas, likely not to return, then Felthiss would feel this new war. But better that, perhaps, than the battles being fought in the very streets of the city she called home.