by Lou Hoffmann
Han had stopped arguing. He stood up from the table, swallowed the reminder of his coffee and put his cup in the dish tub, and said, “Luccan, how about we go fishing?”
Luccan looked at Thurlock, who shrugged. “As long as you’re ready to go….”
Lucky was ready—everything he’d packed before the battle happened was still packed. So he followed Han out the door and across the green, heading toward the kitchens to pick up some snacks to take with them.
“Does it help, Han? Olana being here?”
“I don’t mind it,” Han said, though he didn’t sound very committed to the idea that she’d ease his burden any. “She’s an amazing person. Strong. Her magic—the way she works with light—it’s powerful but gentle. And she helped me fetch you back from the dark. I like her.”
Lucky said, “She was a little creepy with the Terrathian, though.”
“You were a little creepy,” Han answered.
“I couldn’t help it.”
Han smiled and squeezed his shoulder as they climbed the porch steps. “I know you couldn’t. Besides it wasn’t just creepy, it was also… cool—that’s the word, right?”
Lucky laughed while he wiped his feet on the doormat. Holding the door open for his uncle, he said, “Sure, or you could say awesome, or maybe totally badass.”
“That might be overstating it a bit.”
Lucky’s mood veered over toward lighthearted as they bandied words. With a genuine smile, he accepted the basket of food Shehrice put in his hands, thanked her, and turned to go back out into the summer sun. But after a couple of steps he felt like his own personal dark cloud was hanging overhead. He stopped. Han, a step ahead of him, stopped too and turned back to meet his gaze, looking both puzzled and concerned.
Lucky looked into his uncle’s sharp, red dragon eyes. “The Terrathians, Han. I know they are behind all the terrible things,” he said. “I know they are making it happen—the children, my mother, Mahros, all of it. I know that. But it’s like they never meant to. Like a long time ago they made a mistake and because of that…. They’re desperate, Han. And sad—at least some of them are sad.”
Han sighed. “I’ve got a couple poles all set with tackle behind my house. Let’s grab them and get down to the creek while we have time.”
“You fish a lot?”
“Yeah, but I hardly ever catch anything. On purpose.”
After a couple more steps, without preamble, he responded to what Lucky had said about the Terrathians, giving Lucky something new to think about.
“Mistakes are the way most bad things happen. Sometimes, things seem good and we think that can’t be a mistake, right? But, well, Thurlock can explain this better, but I’ll just tell you what he’s told me. Lots of times. Lots and lots of times. Hundreds of freakin’ times.”
That bit of nonsense picked up Lucky’s fallen spirits, as surely Han had known it would. Lucky laughed, and Han told his story.
“Thurlock says all the bad things, like even Mahl for instance, he’s the flip side of Behlishan, and the pair of them are the result of some mistake somebody at some point made, and things just got worse from that time on. Even the worlds. We love Ethra, and I suppose Earthborns love Earth, but according to the wizard, the split between them happened because of some accidental thing, some intention gone wrong. So yeah, his words, ‘People make mistakes and bad things are born into the universe.’”
They’d arrived at the creek, and Lucky thought about that idea as he accepted the pole Han had been carrying for him, already rigged with a line and hook, and sat down to dangle it in the water—without bait. “Thing is, Han. I feel like I should hate them—the Terrathians, I mean—for what they’re doing, but then I think of how awful it must have been for them to stand by helpless and watch their world die, and I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Hate them. I feel sorry for them!” He looked over at Han. “Have you ever had that happen to you, like in a battle or something?”
Han looked down into the water, nodding slowly. After a moment he said, “Often. Nearly always. But usually, I know I have to fight the ones I feel sympathy for anyway. Because not fighting them will make things end up worse.”
They fell silent, and Lucky started to relax into just feeling easy for a few minutes. He watched a pair of blue damselflies dance around in the reeds, listened to a more melodious than usual bird song, let the water at the stream’s edge tickle his toes. He couldn’t hear the fish, but he could see them, and got a laugh out of Han’s shared thoughts as he warned them away from the hooks.
Then Han cleared his throat and said, “The wizard doesn’t see it quite the same way, though—about sympathizing with the enemy. In my time, the Sunlands has never gone to war except when there was no other way to defend our people against harm, and Thurlock says no matter the present circumstances, people—the ones who end up being our enemies—could choose not to do the sorts of things we end up having to fight them over. He admits the same is true of our side, sometimes. Regardless, according to him, whether or not a bad thing is a mistake doesn’t really matter, because what comes after has to be dealt with one way or another. Of course—don’t ever tell Thurlock I said this—but just because he’s a very aged wizard doesn’t mean he’s always right.”
“I heard that, Han Shieth,” Thurlock said, stepping out of the thick brush growing between the path and the stream. “Good thing you’re right about that or I might have to show my displeasure.”
Truthfully he seemed quite pleased with himself, laughing as he conjured a cushion on top of a flat rock and a table that somehow managed to sit levelly on the sloping creek bank. He pulled a bottle of honey-colored liquid from the deep pockets of his robe, and when he set it on the table, three wooden cups appeared beside it.
“Time for Shahna’s gold, the parting cup, my friends. Han, would you pour?”
Han pulled his fishing line out of the water and laid his pole aside. Lucky followed suit, then he moved to stand next to where Thurlock was sitting, watching while Han stood to pour the traditional Cup of Gold.
When they all had their cups in hand, Thurlock raised his and, rather formally, said, “With this Cup of Gold we remember Shahna, warrior woman who with her sacrifice saved the Sunlands for those who would come after. We are grateful for her gift and her example of honor, which we, as we go our ways, will strive to match. We part now to meet our separate battles, fighting for the day when we will meet again in peace. And,” he concluded with the simpler words that had been all he’d said the last time Lucky had shared the Cup of Gold, “here’s to a good end.”
Han muttered a “Behl eth Dahn,” Lucky copied him, and then they drank.
Lucky coughed a little as the drink burned a fiery path to his belly. Otherwise all three of them stood silent by the stream bank staring at the water, which, Lucky saw, passed by like time: hesitating here and there, catching in eddies and whorls, shifting course, but always going by and always drawing near.
The future loomed large in his imagination, a mystery, and a scary one at that. In battle, he’d seen people die, and he knew the real fight for the Sunlands—and for all of Ethra—was just beginning. Brushing shoulders with death had taught him something, though—no matter whether you’re sixteen or six hundred years old, every breath could be the last one you take. The only sensible thing, then, is to make sure you won’t be sorry you did what you did while it lasted.
Tomorrow’s troubles would come. He had no say in that. But he hoped he’d live up to the faith others had in him. He would try.
Those were grim thoughts, no denying it. Life wasn’t rosy. Lucky grieved for the parents he’d never really known. He still missed Hank George and the simple life he’d lived with that kind old man in Black Creek Ravine. He worried about Maizie and Zhevi and L’Aria, not to mention the fate of his whole country. He pined for Rio, the sweet, strong boy who’d become so precious to him in so short a time.
Maybe the idea of trav
eling to Nedhra City should have excited him. He’d see new places, learn so many things. But despite grief and responsibility and the dark door to the future, he was still sixteen. Not a boy, but not quite a man, either.
Honestly, when he imagined the wizard Thurlock droning on, lecture after lecture for the whole long ride to the city, the only thing he really wanted to learn was how to doze in the saddle like Han Shieth.
Exclusive Excerpt
Dragon’s Rise
The Sun Child Chronicles: Book Four
By Lou Hoffmann
Five days after his sixteenth birthday, Lucky—or Luccan, as he’s known in the Sunlands of Ethra—fought in a battle where he and his magical obsidian blade Ciarrah cut down a horde of wraiths. Then he put a stop to the worst undead of all—the evil creature his mother Liliana had become. Now he figures he’s done enough for a while, but otherworld invaders want to take Ethra for their own, so Lucky can’t catch a break. Liliana is easily replaced in the enemy’s schemes, and one defeat hasn’t even slowed them down.
Ancient wizard Thurlock continues to help Lucky learn about his unique magic as they travel together to the capital city, but once there they find little help and face openly hostile Sunlandian traitors. They leave in a hurry, discouraged, but their spirits lift when they’re joined on the road by an old wizard friend of Thurlock’s and some new young allies. Lucky has armies, friends, family, shifters, dragons, a faithful dog, a winged horse, and magical tools on his side. But when war comes like a great storm, hurling everything at him from zombies, to hateful wizards, to twisted drakes, can he hope to prevail—or even survive?
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Prologue: Two days after the Battle of Hoenholm
Luccan Elieth Perdhro, Mannatha
AN HOUR, Lucky thought. Two days ago I fought in a battle with aliens and dead people and… ended my mother’s nightmare. Yesterday I went to a meeting where I found out people still hate me. Today I had a bit of non-fishing with Han, a game of Skippers with Cook, and a game of Skies with Aunt Rose, and now I have one hour before I have to leave. My boyfriend’s gone home, one of my best friends is missing, my other best friend is on a mission, and my dog isn’t even here.
Lemon Martinez apparently had taken pity on him for once, though. He purred comfortingly—and uncharacteristically—curled into a loose spiral of gray fluff next to Lucky on a sun-washed flat rock in a quiet corner of the Behlvale. Not far away, a worker was singing a rhythmic song, maybe keeping time with the movements of rake or hoe in the Sisterhold’s kitchen garden. Much closer, a pair of hand-sized golden dragonflies flashed in and out of the sunlight, their wings making a droning hum over the splash and bubble of the creek.
“Springborn.” Lucky had just that day learned the name of the creek, and now he announced it to Lemon, who didn’t seem to care.
The whole scene could, Lucky supposed, be called “idyllic,” a word he’d also recently learned. Be that as it may, he wasn’t in the mood for peace and country sunshine. He didn’t want to leave the Sisterhold. Not yet. He had questions he wanted the answers to, and he felt pretty darn sure that at best he’d come back from Nedhra City with more questions instead. At worst… he didn’t want to think about it.
Fidgeting, he drew the Black Blade from its sheath, which was hooked to his belt at the moment, and squinted at the violet gleam echoing the sunlight deep inside the obsidian. It brought to mind another afternoon in the sun, and he realized one of his questions could be answered then and there.
“Ciarrah.” Lucky called the blade’s name and waited no more than a second for her response.
“Blade-keeper?”
“Remember when we were playing… um, I mean practicing sword stuff?”
“I’m a rock, Blade-keeper. Memories are embedded in me.”
“Is that a yes?”
There was no way to know for sure if Ciarrah was doing the equivalent of an eye-roll, but somehow Lucky thought she might be. He smiled at the idea before communicating, mostly just being stubborn, “Well? Is it?”
When Ciarrah answered, her “voice” had a lilt that might have been laughter. “Yes, young Light-wielder, I remember all that has happened to me and all that I have been told or shown over these last thousands of years, beginning with the day I first met our great ancestress Naht’kah.”
“Naht’kah, the dragon? The one I read about in that book? Isn’t that just a… story?”
“Oh, but there is no such thing, Luccan, as ‘just’ a story! In stories lie the greatest truth. Sometimes it’s hidden in fictions, but sometimes at the core of a legend is the true account of what has come to pass. Naht’kah is quite real.”
“You mean was?”
“She lives. You may meet her one day.”
Why that idea should freak him out, Lucky wasn’t sure. So many crazy impossible things had happened in the last year, what was one more? Still… He began his usual comforting chant out loud. “Normal, normal, nor—” He stopped and shook his head, then gave himself an order. “Never mind! Nothing is normal. I mean everything is normal. I mean whether it’s normal or not, it is what it is, and no use pretending different.”
That settled that, he figured, once and for all time. Remotely he thought admitting that truth might be some kind of sign he was growing up, but the idea didn’t interest him in the least, so he got back to the reason he’d started the conversation with Ciarrah in the first place. “So, when we were doing the sword stuff, Ciarrah?”
“Yes?”
“You said you could tell me about the twelve-rayed sun symbol. Han told me it’s part of my emblem. I want to know what it means.”
“Ah, yes. I can. But it is a very long and complicated story if you are to know the whole truth. I wonder…”
Lucky waited, but Ciarrah seemed lost in thought, and he pictured her scratching her beard like Thurlock, which of course made no sense at all. This time, he rolled his own eyes. “You wonder what, Ciarrah.”
“Since I’ve become acquainted with the magic of the Key of Behliseth, something might be possible that wasn’t before. Perhaps you can enter into my mind if you Wish it. Then I can open the door to my memory of the tale I was shown, and you can live it with me.”
“The Wish can’t work that way, I don’t think,” Lucky said, letting a bit of disappointment slip into his mental tone. “Unless I’m about to die or something, it has to be something for the good of others.”
“Oh, but Sun Child, it will be. Now do as I say….”
Though it couldn’t be more than an hour after noon, As Lucky focused on Ciarrah’s hypnotic flash and hum, dusk fell over the Behlvale like a feathered blanket. In a matter of seconds, the moon frosted the Oakridge’s granite face, limning the leaves of the great Oak on its summit as they shimmered in a sudden wind. Lucky heard Ciarrah call his name from somewhere below him. Shaking with either cold or fear—because this was a lot like falling into the dark world his mother’s shade had taken him into—he let himself descend into the mind of the Blade.
In moments, as if awakening he came to another world—a world Ciarrah painted for him. It wasn’t Ethra, Lucky felt certain, though he had no idea how he knew that. And, he realized a split second later, it wasn’t Earth either.
“This is before, Blade-keeper. The worlds you know as two remained as one through these eons. Fear not. You are safe, shielded in my stone.” After a few seconds, sounding much more practical and possibly slightly annoyed, she added, “Please remember to breathe.”
Lucky had indeed been holding his breath, though he hadn’t realized it, and now he let it out and began to breathe in a natural rhythm. He relaxed, felt almost sleepy, and to his relief, the blue, gray, and violet dark she’d led him into lightened, first showing traces of red, then streaks of orange, then the gold of a dawn in a world long vanished, the first he would experience there of countless many. He watched that sunrise brighten as the sun rode the hilltops until it came to a solitar
y obelisk, a nature-born spire of stone capped by a massive clear crystal, weathered smooth and—he could tell even from where he stood atop the ramparts of his city’s walls—without a single flaw.
He labored in fields, bathed in pools, slept in huts and palaces. He ate fresh-killed roasted meat, drank mead and wine, gathered grain and toasted flat cakes on hearthstones. He was a babe in a mother’s arms, a child riding a cart behind her father. He was a man, worked a trade, cared for a child, grew old. He was a girl who fought in a war, he was her brother, who grieved her death. Lifetimes and centuries passed and every day of it that same sun rose. Every Midsummer day it crept along the tops of the hills until it lay centered in that perfect crystal, and for the time of less than forty breaths, twelve hard-edged rays shot forth from its center to dominate the sky. And through the many lives and countless years he still felt Ciarrah’s dark hum in the grasp of his hands, and the Key of Behliseth still sang its light and heat into the center of his chest, and he was still Lucky. He was still Luccan Elieth Perdhro. And especially, above and below and throughout it all, he remained Mannatha.
So much time passed that the shapes of the hills and valleys changed, seashores and river channels shifted, cities and kingdoms rose and fell, and the end came quick in comparison. In the space of a single life—that of a palace guard—Lucky watched the sun change. One Midsummer, a black seed appeared at her heart, a corona of pure white surrounding it, and each of the twelve rays broke into a spectrum showing gold only at its center, flanked by bands of violet, green, magenta, and blue. Each year the sun’s gold grew less while the black and white flaw grew larger and the rays flared as if the colored lights were at war. The guard—Lucky—stood atop a watchtower just outside the palace of a great queen, a witch, most said, yet he believed in her goodness, admired her in a distant but loyal way. She believed the world would change forever the next time the Midsummer sun met the crystal, and her magical preparations grew frantic as the day drew near.