The Shadow of Our Stars
Alexander Von Richter
Copyright © 2021 by Alexander Von Richter
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN (print): 979-8-5523-0924-5
Created with Vellum
For Angelica,
You are a far better person than I will ever be.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Author’s Note
About the Author
Prologue
Lonely in the darkness, an eavesdropper gazed in her turret through the rim of her iron spyglass. The stars burnt with oddity on this night. An ink sky of suspense companied with the mystery of the Frost Moon. It had been a thousand years since this last happened. And each passing year worsened in delay. Her nerves were starting to haunt her, but for due reason. She could not wait another thousand years. She would be nothing but dust by then.
The moon radiated off her pale skin and sent a sharp shiver down her spine. Through her lens, she continued to study the conversation above. The dots danced on their velvet stage from east to west. Her frail arms heightened with little bumps. It would be happening soon, and all of her quarrels would dissolve. She would reclaim what they stole from her.
As night pressed onward, the white disk rotated on its axis. She did not. Rooted to the spot, her fingers wobbled and clammed up with what was to come. What answers would be revealed? Would they be enough to mend her broken body? Time had been nothing but reckless to her. Her reflection filled her with disgust. What was there to live for while one's beauty faded? That, too, would be regained. All she had to do was find the solution.
The wintertime winds flooded her frozen heart as dawn slowly approached. Scanning down the lens of her spyglass, she swiveled once more east and west. Where was it? It was to be here underneath the northern Kalopsia Starclouds. But it was not there. She zoomed out from the region, nicking the side of her finger in the process. A stream of crimson dripped down her fingers until finally she saw it.
There. Light carved across the dark sky and shot over her turret south towards the coastline where the sun was sleeping. The star illuminated the pool of her iris before bursting into a brilliant ball of fire.
“Ahh!” she shrieked behind her spyglass shacking. It was precisely what she’d been looking for. It was the Adrian Star. As the legend goes, when an Adrian Star entered in the midnight sky, spectators had but moments to view it. Upon its arrival, they could ask any inquiry plaguing their minds. There was no limit to what kind of question you could ask, but it came at a tremendous price. Ask it when you will die, and you may not wake up again. Ask it when the sun will rise, and you will be shrouded in darkness for the rest of your days. There was one catch. When asked a question, the star gave you the answer in the form of a riddle. Only the most proficient individuals could unravel the puzzles of these riddles without succumbing to their death first.
While the sequin stretched across the entirety of the sky like a spider web, the eavesdropper finally asked the question consuming her mind. “How do I regain my heart's desires?”
There was a brief moment of silence as the starlight disappeared. Her enormously dark robe fluttered in the wind, passing through the openings of the iron railing she clutched to. Had she missed her chance? Had the thousand years of waiting been for nothing?
In a burst of gas, the star returned. Its silky web revealed a picture of a young man in green fields before it transformed into the canvas of a large sandy desert. The image shifted once again from sand into the physique of a woman wandering a set of ancient ruins. The Adrian Star shuffled through these three images at various times in no particular order like a flickering street lamp.
The woman sauntered unaccompanied. Her long flowing hair twisted between her bony fingers, and she wore a gown of silver. The identity of the man, however, remained a secret. The only evidence the Adrian Star gave was a glimpse of a spotted mushroom reflecting in a pair of green eyes. He was standing on the edge of a woodland, clawing through the soil, searching for something.
The portrait endured only moments longer before it vanished back into obscurity along with the star. It would be another thousand years before it was witnessed again in these lands. The woman stood perplexed. It would take her time to unravel these clues. Perhaps she did not have enough of it. The thought of dying in her current conditions terrified her. A tear slid uncontrollably down her grave face. She quickly rubbed it away. It was not the time for tears. Swift action was required if she wanted to keep her chances.
“Remus!” she called from the lurches of her diaphragm.
There was a clanking of steel and hustling of footsteps coming nearer to her chamber door.
“My Queen,” he said, slamming the oak door.
“Ready yourself for the road."
“Certainly, my Queen,” he said as he departed from her chamber.
She left her window to find a bit of old parchment and scribbled away with a raven feathered quill. The spotted mushroom reminded her of something from her childhood. It puzzled her to think about until she recalled an aged old memory from her youth. How had she not recognized it? The man, the fields of green, it reminded her of a place she had been many, many ages ago. A place that banished her to live in lonely exile. Where ever this place was now was far away from her castle. It would need to be re-discovered again.
An old leather scroll opened up upon her table. She spun across leaf after leaf until she found a concoction that may remedy her problem. An elixir. It was the key to passing through into another world, but it would take some time to brew. She needed to collect the ingredients first; wolfsbane, the tears of an innocent Yunigl, and the blood of a dragon straight from the vein of their tail spikes.
A thumping noise rang against her chamber door. Remus stepped inside once more, bowing with a kiss on the woman’s bleached hand.
“I will do as commanded my Queen.”
“There will be some preparations necessary. I will inform you when these have been finalized.”
The lady glide over to her balcony, leaning on its iron railing again, and in a language, not English, she called out to one of her loyal servants. A pair of round yellow eyes fluttered closer and closer with their crusted shadowy feet and landed on her outstretched hand.
“Vonik un der risen,” she whispered to the bird. “I want a repo
rt on every step he takes. Do not let them out of your sight. And each night before the moon ends, you shall return to me with your report.”
The black raven swung its head to gape into her eyes.
“Vonik un der risen,” she said once more and the yellow eyes turned a blood red. The wings of the raven flapped wild until it gave in to her power, surrendering its own will in the process. The bird perched, obedient, upon the bridge of her finger. “Keep a watchful eye on them,” she commanded.
There could be no dependence on her men. Even she recognized her likelihood was greater if she took matters into her control, but she needed to be careful. She was weak. Her powers were not as strong as they once were. It took all of her energy to remain alive thus long. If she could prolong death for just a short while longer, she would have all the life she could manage.
With a pleased look in her terrible eyes, she imagined what it would be like for her to convene on her throne, forever. The thought comforted her wicked anxieties.
The Divine Kingdoms would be hers to rule.
And anyone prohibiting her would perish in vain.
1
In another world away, where the rains plummeted from the heavens, the misty winds whistled between the crevices of forests orchestrating a composition to accompany the dismal scenery, this is where our story travels. Through meadows and farmlands, beyond woodlands and over brooks, and nestled in the sheep bearing hills was a modest village of about one-hundred and seventy-seven.
Woolbury took great pride in distancing themselves from the dealings of the outside British world. A place where people were born and buried. Woolbury was picturesque at best with its rickety stone cottages and fuzzing sheep, but it was beastly slow. Outdated candlestick lampposts with ancient styles of craftsmanship practically made the village medieval while at this time, the majority of England was already incorporating electricity in daily life. But not here. Woolbury was a time capsule sealed off from the influence of the industrial revolutions currently underway. It was a plain way of living. One could take a stroll down the old stone footpaths listening to magpie's chirp rather than be disturbed by loud automobiles. They could spend leisurely time planting a window-side garden of beautiful forget-me-nots, a tradition abandoned in the stone gymnasium. But above all else, one could adore the ways the rain fell on a Sunday afternoon from behind their window in the confines of a cozy armchair paired with a glowing fireplace. Oh, and not to forget the boiling cup of black tea— such luxuries lost in a modern era.
This distancing, nevertheless, caused a bit of complication from time to time. Rooftops collapsed into a state of disrepair, and stable food supplies were at the mercy of those courteous enough to supply them. Woolbury had indeed seen better, more prosperous days in its lengthy history. Although greatly valued by the people who called this place home, this separation was not without hardship. You could thank the Crown, as so many residences did.
Fine sheep fleece was Woolbury’s only source of income, hence its namesake. Queen Victoria of England spoke fondly of it, often using it to fill her lavish wooden wardrobes. On the day of her forty-fifth jubilee, she dawned an elegant turquoise wrap made from the furry creatures inhabiting these lands. The word for the order had spread two years prior straight to the village council. It was deemed a high priority for a potential tax reduction and the importation of luxurious goods. Wool was not, however, of large profitability. Nonetheless, year after year it covered the toll debts of all.
Few travelers knew of Woolbury's existence. It was known solely by word of mouth for peculiar reasons. The Woolbury Waxy Cap, as they were coined, contained magical properties, or so some had whimsically alleged. And they flourished secretly in the forest surrounding the town for a few days out of the year under the autumn moonlight. Bathing in pitch black, their gills sparked a greenish-blue or dazzling lavender as they hummed from the lichen they grew. Mesmerizing colors pulsated into the bedtime dreams of those who hunted them— making them sweet little promises if they found them. The truth was, they did not very much want to be found. Waxy Cap's were about the greediest mushrooms you will ever meet. That is, if you get a chance. They filled hunter’s head with all sorts of demented thoughts just so they might reconsider plucking them for their own greed.
There once was talk of a Waxy Cap turning a grown man into a small fish. He swam the length of a loch and was believed to be swallowed by an even bigger fish. Another account detailed a woman who turned into a bird. She flew the distance of the British Empire, but was never seen again. Strange things meet the hands of those who found these mushrooms.
It was only the locals who knew what true legend spoke about them. If a non-royal blooded man or woman consumed a Waxy Cap, then all kinds of unpredictable things were bound to happen. They knew that these things were concocted strictly for those with royal blood in their veins or the blood of the fairies who created them, but it was labeled as poppycock to most. There were no royals in Woolbury and neither were there fairies. And so these shrooms were marked as forbidden by the village council if found. But that did not stop the occasional nosey-nelly from wondering what kinds of trouble they could get themselves into with discovering the taste. Of all the people who called Woolbury home, there was none more curious than the less than proper, Abbott Bradbury.
Abbott was a lengthy boy who had a long narrow face with a crooked bridge for a nose. He had green, deep-set eyes that shifted under his arched blond eyebrows. This seventeen-year-old boy, who from time to time, went looking for these mysterious things against all of his Father’s wishes. It was the exact thing he was doing at this moment with his friend Billy, an auburn-haired boy of the same age.
“Last year Oliver found em’ under a Quinn tree. Can you believe that?” Billy remarked.
“But last year we discovered Oliver was a liar,” replied Abbott. “Lies aren’t good Billy. I don’t think you need to be reminded of that do you?”
“Well, he only lied so Violet would kiss him, remember? A kiss to the first boy to bring her a Waxy Cap. Lucky he was come to find out because he did get a kiss,” Billy said lifting a piece of rotten tree bark. “I would have lied too. A kiss from Violet would have been worth a thousand lies if I’m to be honest.”
“Lies are bad,” Abbott went on, casting his green eyes on his friend’s pleading freckled face. “Swear you wouldn’t lie this year?”
“Who would do such a thing?” Billy said shaking his head partly ashamed. “A kiss is a kiss; no matter what you need to do! Tell me, Abbott. What would you do for a kiss?”
“Swear you won’t lie?”
Billy’s head lowered as Abbott’s voice grew. “A kiss Abbott! It was a kiss. Have you ever had one of those?”
“I, Billy, will not lie under the face of all odds, kiss or not,” Abbott said aloud, ignoring the second part of his response. “Repeat the sentence!”
Billy let out a deep breath and with it escaped his pride. He repeated Abbott’s words for the sake of their friendship but it hurt. “All the boys toil over Violet. She’s quite dreamy,” he went on. “I had a dream about her last night, we were getting married. Although, I didn’t get to finish it. You can thank Ms. Menagerie for that! Old hen!”
“She may be,” Abbott scoffed reminiscing over her smile, "But there are consequences for liars."
"You're not going to get turned into a mouse or something!" Billy exclaimed.
Both boys laughed at the idea of growing a pink tail and enormously large front teeth. “I’ve never met the witch who could do that.” Billy lowered to his knees to scrape away at the undergrowth.
Deep down, a kiss from Violet may have been worth being turned into a mouse. After all, Violet was the prettiest gal in all of Woolbury. All the chaps wanted to wed her and the other gals wanted to be her. Her brown hair fanned under the wavering winds, and her freckles turned golden under the summer’s light. It made you happy on your insides. When she opened her mouth to talk, the world undoubtedly listened. There had alway
s been a soft spot in Abbott for Violet. Especially after the kiss they shared under Moore’s bridge years back. She made him swear never to tell a soul, and to this day, he had kept that promise. But he longed for another chance.
“If I do find one, I’ll be sure to go straight to her with it.” The dream illuminated nicely in Billy’s head; her soft lips pressed against his. Time would surely come to a halt. There would be sparks and butterflies floating in his stomach. He could hardly wait.
“Oh come off it,” Abbott said trying not to show the slightest bit of jealousy. “A Waxy Cap won’t grant you the victory alone. Only mutual affection will seal the deal with her.”
“Mutual what?” Billy asked as he paused his clawing through the roughage.
“It means she loves you back. I read it in a book once. There is no sort of gift that can grant you her love, even if it is the fruit of wisdom itself. She has to feel it herself.”
“You’re full of it mate. Mark my words, Violet and I will be under the stars kissing come sunset of tomorrow. And I’ll have to bore you with all the details.”
The image struck at the tender heartstrings in Abbott’s chest again. He wanted to dismiss the idea entirely and never hear Billy speak it again. A stream wandered between both of their paths like it was splitting a friendship down the middle. Both wanted the very same thing, but they could not have it at the same time. Abbott tried not to let these thoughts divide him. “I wonder where this would lead us if we followed it all the way,” he said looking down the pathway of a game trail.
The Shadow of Our Stars: The Tales of Evinar Page 1