Dawn (Society of Dawn Book 1)

by Dan O'Brien

  Athena grimaced. “It made me who I am today. And I rather like who I am, heiress. I do not feel sorry for the limp men of the West, just as I do not feel sorry for the collared wretches we have here in the white city. I told you this story because I wanted you to understand that your difficulties are slight compared to those experienced by other women. The Lordess will force you to ascend, but she will not have men chase you down in the streets and rape you. She will take away your options, but you will never feel the pressure of truly being forced to ascend, to lose a piece of yourself that cannot be reclaimed.”

  Aurora bowed her head, but spoke defiantly. “If you hate men so much, then why keep them around?”

  Athena smiled wickedly as she took another sip of tea.

  “It is nice to have something to kick around.”

  Doren

  South of Secundus Urbs lay the open plains of knee-high grasses and rolling hills where the Drift Knights lived and trained. Beyond their proving ground lay the Great Rift, a massive scar on the land where the ancient, floating city of Fatum collided with the earth. Before Scythia, before Pa’ngarin, the Drift Knights were known as the Altus, and together with the warriors and practitioners of acritudo, they brought down the great city and committed it to the Void.

  In Scythia it was believed that the city of the blood mages still existed deep in that endless canyon. Thus, it was the duty of the Drift Knights to watch the darkness of the Rift for signs of the apocalypse reborn, a task that required them to range across an area the size of a small continent. Constructed along their patrol routes were squat, stone castles that overlooked the Rift’s gloomy depths.

  Among the castles stationed throughout the area, the keep at Permaneo Tutaminis stood closest to the Great Rift and overlooked a single bridge that spanned its cavernous depths and girth, a monumental structure that was built before the Agatheon Wars by the women of Pa’ngarin. Among the Drift Knights, it was widely believed that being assigned to Permaneo Tutaminis was a form of punishment, for they feared that the great bridge would be the linchpin of an invasion by the blood mages of Fatum, at least, if the legends were to be believed. The Drift Knights were revered for the length of their service and discipline. The men who took their oath vowed to abstain from life and love as long as they served, a tour of duty that could last as long as several decades. Since it was difficult to find men to take the oath willing, their ranks were often filled by conscripts and men who had been traded from Pa’ngarin or fled from it.

  In the mess hall on the second floor of the Permaneo Tutaminis, Doren, son of Dominus, and rightful heir to the Crimson Throne, sat quietly and looked out a stone window. In the light of the slowly setting sun, his brown eyes seemed to reflect green and his cropped dark hair made his thick neck look larger beneath his shadowy beard. The plate in front of him was wiped clean; only streaks of dried sauce remained.

  The castle itself was three stories high and composed of stacked, stone buildings that were built piecemeal as the size of the garrison increased; thus, the halls and corridors connecting the rooms on each level did not necessarily align, a situation that created treacherously inclined floors and halls that lead nowhere. Adjacent to the stone buildings, there were broken stalls and corrals for sheep and horses.

  With a loud creak the far door opened, and a man entered, depriving Doren of his solitude.

  Thin as a rail with unevenly placed, blonde hair, the man remained standing in the doorway. He was called Longede and was nearly a decade younger than Doren.

  “Sir Doren, you have a visitor.”

  Doren rose slowly, pushing himself from the table and stepping over the bench on which he sat. He was wearing bracers, a leather breastplate over his wide shoulders and strong back, and thick leggings, stained from blood and dirt, to protect from the cold weather that was ever-present so close to the Rift.

  As the heir to the Scythian Empire crossed the distance to the door, a head popped up in the far corner of the room and perked up its long, misshapen ears. Its dark black fur was matted down in places, and its gray eyes glowed from beneath a flat, oval-shaped skull.

  It was an econtra, one of the fabled war animals of the blood mages that had appeared from the darkness of the canyon following the destruction of Fatum.

  “Umbra, come,” barked Doren to the econtra.

  As it padded toward Doren, the long, razor sharp claws on its feet clicked against the stone floor. Upon reaching his master, it flicked out its thin, serpentine tongue and touched his wrist. Doren touched the animal along the side of its head and it emitted a low, flat sound. “Very good, Umbra.”

  “Sir Doren, your visitor?”

  Doren looked at Longede stoically. The son of Dominus was not outgoing or forthright as Craius was, but instead silent and inquisitive. “Who wishes to speak with me, Longede? A legatus from Primoris? A villager who believes a blood mage is stealing his sheep?”

  Longede had the ability to always look nervous. “Chancellor Malius, Sir Doren. He seemed like he was in a hurry, something about a long road ahead of him.”

  “Malius? What business would he have so close to the Rift?”

  Longede shrugged. His hazel eyes were half-closed as he spoke. “He did not say, sir. He simply said he has come on behalf of your father and brother, Craius. He’s waiting in the meeting room.”

  Doren brushed past Longede and stepped into the adjoining hallway. Longede did not follow him; rather he hurried down another hall toward the barracks, hoping to gossip with his friends about the presence of the Chancellor and his aide.

  Two doors and a slanted hallway later, Doren pushed open the door to the meeting room. It, like many of the other rooms in Permaneo, had both an inclined floor and a declining ceiling. Malius sat behind a strong oak table in a wooden chair farthest from the entrance.

  A wide-hipped and comely woman stood beside him, a robust aide who followed the Chancellor wherever he went. Agrona had been a Maiden in Pa’ngarin who had not ascended, but she was not taken as a wife for a Scythian man, as was the usual custom, because of her troublesome temperament. Since she had been indentured to Malius, she had run away a half dozen times and stabbed him in the shoulder and hand on more than one occasion.

  But Malius did not want a wife.

  He simply wanted someone with whom to talk.

  The Chancellor concealed his bony frame, which was even thinner than Longede’s, beneath a black robe and a gray beard that dropped to his chest. He did not comb and oil it as many men of Scythia did, but instead let it wander and grow like brush lands. His blue eyes watched the son of Dominus enter with some interest. He clicked his spindly fingers against the table as he addressed the young heir to the Blood Throne.

  “Doren, son of Dominus and heir to the Crimson Throne, I am humbled that you have given me an audience so far from Primoris. I trust that the winters here have been kind to you and that you and your men are in good health and spirits.”

  The son of Dominus sat down across from Malius.

  His serious demeanor did not abate.

  He knew the Chancellor well enough and did not care for his politics. Agrona’s eyes drifted to the younger man and she winked as he spoke. “We are underfed and do not have the manpower to protect the Rift, but we survive.”

  Malius tucked his thin fingers into the wide openings of his robe and scrunched his nose. “It is cold here, though. Even in the heat of summer, you are freezing. It is the blight of the Great Rift no doubt, the revenge of Fatum a thousand-thousand years later.”

  Doren reached forward and grabbed some stale bread that sat in a bowl at the center of the table. “Why have you come to the Rift?”

  Agrona smiled again. “You seem quite stressed, son of Dominus. Would you like me to relieve your strain as I do for your father?

  Doren looked at her with a stern stare. “I will be fine without your intervention, meretricis. Is my father ill? My brothers?”

  Malius shifted uncomfortably on his cold, hard chair. �
��Your father is in good health, and your brothers as well. Delius’ wife is pregnant again, a boy they think. And Craius has returned from his studies at Bellum Domus. I have not come to discuss the weather or your family though. I have come to ask for your help, Doren.”

  “How could I possibly help you, Chancellor? Are there not more suitable candidates in the cities who could assist you? I am no assassin or bodyguard.”

  Doren did not wish to be Lord of Scythia.

  The Drift Knights were his family, not the Throne in Primoris.

  When he was very young, his father demanded that he become a warrior, a grand murderer and butcher, so he could have the ice in his veins that was necessary to rule Scythia. He did not like politics and he did not like the intrigue of the court.

  “You judge me too harshly, Doren. I wish you to accompany me to Pa’ngarin, to be my guardian in the white city.”

  “You mean that you want to display me before the people of Pa’ngarin to show the strength of Scythia,” replied Doren heatedly. He detested being used as a pawn in others’ schemes.

  Malius looked shocked. “That is not my intention at all, Doren. If I wanted to show Scythia’s strength, I would simply bring a contingent of soldiers with me. It is your father’s wish that you formally introduce yourself to the Lordess of Pa’ngarin and ask for a wife in order to continue the peace between our two nations.”

  Doren was not convinced. “This has nothing to do with the raid on Duedonia and my father’s crusade to abduct the heiress of Pa’ngarin?”

  The Chancellor shifted conspicuously on the bench.

  “The attack on Duedonia…”

  “Was not sanctioned. That is what you wished to say, is it not, Chancellor? I would expect nothing less from my father and Craius. They are quite adept at deception, whether it is to others or themselves.”

  “Your concerns about your father’s politics…”

  Doren stood suddenly, frustration and irritation boiling over. “Enough talk, Chancellor, I will do as my father has asked and travel with you to Pa’ngarin. I am a Drift Knight and we serve the Empire whether its intentions are truth or fiction.”

  Malius remained quiet as the son of Dominus moved toward the door of the meeting room, then stopped beneath the doorframe. Doren turned and looked back at the Chancellor and his aide. “Be on your horses and ready to go in an hour, Chancellor. It is quite a journey to Pa’ngarin. Longede, another Drift Knight, and I will meet you at the stables.”

  The Chancellor stood and bowed.

  After Doren had disappeared into the hall, Malius sat quietly, lost in thought.

  Aeschylus

  Far from the districts and houses of the women of Pa’ngarin, Aeschylus watched grimly as a young girl convulsed her sword at a wooden dummy, which deftly defended itself. Her hazel eyes glared at the dummy as she swung her sword wildly at it, her long, blonde hair coming undone from its bun with each successive swing.

  “Acruica, stop,” commanded Aeschylus with a wince, the wounds along his back prickling fiercely. It had been three days and still the long gashes ached with each movement.

  Acruica was daughter to Lady Aegle, one of the kinder Ascendants of the realm and a Junior Minister of Education, who specialized in Fatum lore. The child dropped the tip of her blade into the dirt at her feet and responded with irritation. “I do not like to be commanded, slave.”

  Aeschylus bristled.

  “Do you want me to instruct you as your mother wishes?”

  Acruica dragged her blade as she approached the guardian. “Yes, I want to be able to split the head of a Scythian before year’s end. That is, if your instruction allows me to best a sod farmer.”

  “I will not suffer your insolence. You will address me as Aeschylus or guardian of House D’naia,” cautioned the Pa’ngarin slave. He stepped closer to her, his head blocking out the sun behind him and casting a long shadow across Acruica’s torso. Even though she was tall for her age, the guardian still stood a head taller than her. “If you disrespect me again, child, I will send you home to your mother. Do you understand me?”

  Acruica nodded vigorously and stood silently.

  “Now, pick up your blade. Do not drag it in the dirt like it is a stick. That blade is your life, young lady. Would one of the Altus walk with his shoulders slumped and drag his sword on the ground when he faced down the blood mages of Fatum?”

  Aeschylus knew that talk of the knights of old and ancient battles would bring back the girl’s enthusiasm and focus.

  Her hands looked small as she solemnly held her sword in front of her.

  “Were the Altus not filthy men like the Scythians? Should we revere them as we do Lady Juno and her Inquisitors?”

  The guardian and his student played this game often, debating what was right and wrong, just and unjust, but he was not feeling up to it today because the wounds on his back hurt too much when he talked. He unsheathed his sword and held it lightly in his grip. “Parry.”

  He thrust forward, and the child obeyed.

  “Parry, then angle change.”

  Again Aeschylus lunged forward, though more clumsily than he would have done if it been a real battle. And Acruica parried and stepped to the side so that her body was at an angle to his shoulders.

  “Parry, angle change, parry, slash.”

  Aeschylus lunged quickly and Acruica moved deftly to the side, twisting her blade to deflect the blow. Then he slashed at her throat and the young girl parried by lifting her blade above her head. Sweeping her blade downward, she leaped forward to slash at his neck, but her motion was interrupted as Aeschylus grabbed her wrist and lifted her into the air.

  “I sad slash, Acruica, not swing your blade like you are cutting grass.”

  Acruica threw her blade into the dirt and kicked wildly at nothing, almost losing her footing. “This is stupid. I want to have adventures. I want to go out and do something, not stay here and practice with you,” she groaned as she plopped down in the dirt with a huff.

  Aeschylus re-sheathed his weapon and stood over the sullen child. “Adventure is not as pleasant as you imagine, Acruica. Only girls who have lived easy lives think it will be entertaining.”

  Acruica frowned. “My mother is one of the poorest Junior Ministers, guardian of House D’naia. I have had to accept hand-me-down things from other children, and my mother and I have to buy second-hand materials for our robes when we shop in the Mercatus. Does that sound like an easy life to you?”

  Aeschylus did not wish to get cross with the child. “There is a difference between not having new things and having a difficult life. You are the daughter of a woman of station, regardless of how low you think your mother’s rank is, and this grants you certain privileges that many of the people of Pa’ngarin will never have their entire life. Can you not see then, young lady, that your struggles are slight compared to those borne by a slave or the poor of this realm?”

  Acruica stood, picked up her sword, and swung it wildly as she charged Aeschylus, who drew his own blade and parried her strike. Moving with a precise form marred by anger, the child lunged and thrust at his abdomen. Aeschylus twisted away and deflected the blow, allowing the girl to vent her frustration with her sword.

  As Acruica continued to attack Aeschylus, an elderly man approached the patch of dirt and shrubbery that served as their training ground. His long, white ponytail hung over his gray robes and his face showed the long lines and deep crevices of age.

  Aeschylus turned toward the old man and a small smile crept to his lips. Thinking she saw an opening, Acruica thrust at him as he turned. The guardian merely stepped aside and used his free hand to disarm the child. Holding the girl’s sword, he took the few short steps to where the elderly man stood next to a wooden bench. With muted anger, she followed her instructor.

  “Mensaus, is it that time already?”

  Acruica sat down on the bench––catching her breath and rubbing her hand where the guardian had disarmed her. “You should not have hi
t me so hard, guardian. Your blow will leave a bruise. My mother will not be pleased.”

  Aeschylus looked at the girl with a raised eyebrow. “Perhaps I should tell her about the disrespect you show your instructors. She might suggest I bruise you more often, young lady.”

  Mensaus extended his hands and Aeschylus accepted them, shaking them both heartily. “It is good to see you, Aeschylus. I was concerned that you would not have your lesson today with young Acruica.”

  Aeschylus’ smile dispersed. “I am still sore, but not so much that it would impede my duties. It is not their way to harm us so badly that we cannot be of use. It seems news of my punishment has reached all the ears of the realm.”

  Mensaus nodded. “I am afraid so, old friend. The abduction of Lady Aurora and the burning of Duedonia have raised concerns about relations with Scythia. Scythia’s High Chancellor arrived just today to speak with the Lordess Ascendant about the terms of the peace between our two nations.”

  “I hope the Lordess Ascendant puts his head on a pole in the Court of the Nine Blossoms, him and all his men,” spoke Acruica. “My mother says the vanity of men caused Fatum to rise to power and that their fragility nearly cost the realm. Were it not for Lady Juno we would all be knee-deep in horseshit.”

  “The truth may not be far from that…” continued Mensaus.

  “It is the truth. My mother says so,” interrupted Acruica.

  Mensaus looked at the young child with wide eyes. His silky voice wavered as he spoke. “We have talked about this before. History is a matter of perspective, young lady. While your mother is learned in the scrolls and scriptures of Fatum, those documents were written by someone. And that someone chose what to include in his writings based on his own plans and wishes and the constraints placed on him by society at that time.”

  Acruica scowled at the old man, but did not speak.

  Aeschylus chuckled, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “You have managed to silence her despite her disagreement, which is much better than I have been able to do. Did the Chancellor come alone?”