by M. K. Adams
Child of Destiny
Book 1 of The Rising Saga
M.K. Adams
Copyright © 2019 Mitchell Adams
All rights reserved
First Edition
Map Illustration: Exoniensis
Cover and formatting: EbookLaunch
Editor: Kim Chance
For my parents, who believed in me even when I did not.
And for Rachel, always.
Contents
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
Intermission
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
Epilogue
Thank You
Book 2: Betrayal of Destiny
Chapter 1
The carriage turned a corner and the polite chatter of Gemstone Avenue turned into a more raucous fanfare, signalling their arrival on Merchant Street. Lyvanne peeled back the curtain of the carriage ever so slightly for confirmation and proceeded to eye up potential targets down the street. The bakery was always a favourite, but the baked goods weren’t the easiest to grab in a hurry. The fruit seller was easiest but least filling, and the butcher, despite having hanging meats outside for people to view as they pass by, had the hardest goods to conceal during her journey home. So more often than not, Lyvanne turned her attention to the wandering merchants, those who rolled trolleys down the street filled with different offerings. Usually from a store situated in the lower level of the city, trying to entice rich customers down to see their wares in person.
Lyvanne had spent most of her life invisible. Just another nameless urchin wandering the large and busy streets of Astreya stealing food to survive. But at only fourteen years old, Lyvanne was fast approaching the expected age where she would have to make a decision about her future.
“You can’t stay here forever,” her friends had warned after one particular encounter with a stubborn lord. She was becoming too old, growing too tall to remain invisible on the busy streets for much longer. Soon her unkempt clothing and ungainly nature would single her out among the wealthy and proud of the kingdom’s capital.
Many children chose the path of least obstruction, to migrate towards the lower levels of the city, where blossoming gated communities and mansions were quickly replaced with sewage and slums. Others chose servitude in the gemstone mines below the city; it offered a small wage and warm food, but it was dangerous and there were more children who never returned from the deep underground caverns than there were those who did. Then there were those who fled the city entirely, escaping into the vast world that lay beyond the city walls and rolled with whatever cards life dealt them. Lyvanne had no doubt that some had gone on to lead peaceful lives, maybe even start families of their own… but maybe not. All she knew was that none had ever come back to help the other orphans, the ones remaining in Astreya.
Lyvanne didn’t want to abandon the friends she had lived beside all these years since her parents died. She didn’t want to simply give up on those who had effectively raised her. So every night before she slept, Lyvanne said a prayer, not to the Goddess of Creation or the God of Death, but to the Angel of Destiny.
Dear Angel watching over us, please lend me your sight. Please show me what I am to do, and show me what is to come.
Lyvanne lacked the upbringing to fully understand religion, nor did she know the formal pattern of prayer that the adults would talk about so nonchalantly on the streets. As in most situations in life, she did the best she could with what knowledge she had acquired from others. But the nights came and went with no sign or message from the Angel of Destiny. So Lyvanne had decided long ago that she would take things into her own hands, that she would be the master of her own destiny and forge her own path.
The carriage was steady, its large gilded wheels unfazed by the cobbled floor of Marchant Street. The aim was the same as usual: ride a carriage unbeknownst to the owner through the bustling traders, stick her hand out, steal as much food as possible, and then ditch the carriage at the earliest opportunity. Lyvanne had stolen from merchants thousands of times, but the older she grew, the harder it became. About a year ago, people had started to turn their heads with repulsion as she crept down the streets, her small burlap sack tied to her waist. Not everyone, but enough to warn her that she needed a new method, one with better cover.
Fortunately, there was a reason that Merchant Street was always so busy. It was as close to the centre of the wealthy sectors of Astreya as a high street could get. So Lyvanne hadn’t wasted much time in figuring out her new way through. Just beyond the northern end of the street were gates that led into one of the many residential districts in the Upper layer of Astreya. A collection of glistening communities of polished white houses and spiked walls. An escape for the rich, noble, and lucky.
Luckily for her, the rich didn’t like to walk anywhere they didn’t have to, but they also didn’t take too kindly to the smell of horses mucking up their picture perfect homes. So stables had been built. They were owned and funded by the king, a gesture of goodwill to those who contributed so much wealth into the kingdom’s coffers. Just far enough away that a carriage could be summoned with relative speed and on a person’s whim, but not close enough that it interceded with the residential gardens and water features. The quickest route for these carriages to get to and from the residential districts? Merchant Street.
She reached out her long skinny arm through the velvet curtain of the carriage and quickly grabbed a small cinnamon bun from one old man’s trolley. For years Lyvanne hoped that the guilt would one day pass, but it never had.
“Sorry,” she whispered under a breath as she watched merchant pass by. What made it worse was that she knew the old man saw her do it, but just like the rest he wouldn’t say anything. Not if it meant angering whomever else was in the carriage with her, of bringing the City Watch down on their business for upsetting the wrong person.
Regardless, she still had to be careful. If she reached out too frequently then there was a chance the driver of the carriage would notice. She had to only take the risk when the opportunity was too enticing.
Just an hour previously, Lyvanne had wandered down to the Anya, the pale blue river that ran through part through the city. Whilst there, she had done her best to wash off the mud and clean up any cuts that adorned the olive brown skin of her arms. If merchants saw a battered and muddied arm reaching out from a carriage then they’d be more likely to question what was happening. If she kept herself clean, then it’s just another spoiled rich kid taking what they don’t own.
After filling her sack with just enough food to get by for a couple of days, Lyvanne took a moment to peer out of the corner of the carriage’s curtained window. Her brown eyes and curled brown
hair ever so slightly visible to the outside world as she peered out. Beyond her hiding place the street was littered with people who had never known a hard life. People adorned in coloured silk clothes, thick leather boots, and feathers gathered from exotic birds from far off continents. She was used to seeing the luxury of others by now, but to this day she struggled to understand how those with such money failed to help those without it. None of the street dwellers had enough money to get off the streets, and none of them were welcomed if they tried. Every year, Lyvanne would have to say goodbye to another friend, whether they were young and alone or old and weary. The streets of Astreya didn’t care who you were, if you weren’t careful they would claim your life without hesitation.
Lyvanne smiled as she peered out at the affluence of Merchant Street. She took note of every person that her carriage rolled by, their faces, their clothes. She made up their histories, their lives away from the street that they shared. One woman in particular caught Lyvanne’s interest; she was unlike anyone Lyvanne had seen before, different even to the thousands of people she used to pass every day whist aimlessly walking the city streets as a young child. She had long flowing hazel hair and her coat was made of fur, as was common among the wealthy, but hers was colourful, as if made with the fur of a thousand different animals.
The woman’s face told a different story than everyone else. She held her nose high in the air and had an aura of indifference to everyone else she passed, as though she despised the rich almost as much as Lyvanne did. Her exuberant and brightly coloured coat was a rare choice of clothing under the baking sun, but there was something else. The woman’s gown, which fell gently beneath the coat, was cut short just above the knees, and Lyvanne noticed that hers wasn’t the only gaze the hemline attracted.
As the carriage began to leave the woman behind, Lyvanne noticed two heavily armoured guards, walking 10 feet behind the woman with their eyes firmly fixed on her back. They weren’t from the City Watch, which meant they were her personal security, a luxury even for the rich.
Who are you? Lyvanne wondered as the carriage carried on towards the end of the street. Her mind began to race with possibilities. She’d never seen a member of the royal council before, or maybe she was even a lesser-known member of the royal family?
Then Lyvanne made a mistake. She shifted on the backseat of the carriage, moving towards the rear window eager to know more about this extravagant and colourful woman. She wasn’t discrete enough. The movement caused the carriage to shudder, not much but enough to catch the driver’s attention. The driver called out to the horses and the carriage stopped.
Lyvanne knew that her time to make a decision was fading away fast. Like grains of sand trickling through a sieve the seconds washed over her with every step the driver took in her direction.
He sat on the right, Lyvanne told herself as she remembered back to first sneaking onto the carriage.
Giving the driver just enough time to make his way down from his perch Lyvanne opened the door to her left and darted out onto the busy street. Her sudden appearance drew the attention of a few bystanders. Some looked down distastefully, and others looked into the carriage quizzically. A glance to her right and Lyvanne caught the eyes of the woman who had thrown her off kilter in the first place. The woman and her two guards watched on, not with the distaste of the others, but with intrigue.
“Oi!” The driver called after her, spying her through the open doors of the carriage.
Not wasting anymore time, Lyvanne clung on tight to the straps of her sack and raced down the street. The quickest way to her hideout was back down Merchant Street, but for now, the focus had to be on finding somewhere less crowded. The driver gave pursuit, but after a few short metres, he was holding out a sweaty hand in a vain effort to close the distance. As he tried to push his weighty figure past a steadily growing horde of pedestrians the distance between them began to widen.
As suspected, the driver didn’t bother chasing her for long, but up ahead there was a pair of City Watch guards who had noticed the commotion. Lyvanne knew she would have less luck there. Placing one hand on the hilts of their swords and another outreached as if to signal her to stop, they made for a formidable sight, but it was nothing that Lyvanne wasn’t used to. Their steel-plated armour, brightly polished and adorned with gold and silver fortunately made them stand out like sore thumbs among the crowd. Lyvanne had ample time to plan her response.
The City Watch wasn’t known for their mobility. The armour, whilst useful in a battle, was only a hindrance on the busy streets. Lyvanne dove to her left moments before running straight into the reach of one of the guards. She rolled under a market stall, making sure to keep her sack of food from being squashed underneath and carried on past the guards as if they were nothing. Unlike the driver of the carriage, these two did try and pursue, but it was wasted energy and before long the end of Merchant Street was in sight.
Another happy adventure, Lyvanne thought jokingly as she slowed her pace and moved out onto the quieter streets where she could more easily find a hiding place.
Lyvanne took the usual route home, the long way via the docks. Taking what food she felt could be spared, Lyvanne approached dock workers and crew from all manner of ships. Some were regular customers, others she risked approaching fresh. Every time she went to Merchant Street she would come back this way, sell small morsels of food here and there for horribly low prices. The people she sold it to knew that it was probably stolen, and so she didn’t have much room to budge when it came to the price.
Tucking the bronze and silver coins away in a small pouch that she carried around her tattered cloak, Lyvanne counted as she went. Nearly enough to trade for a gold coin, she noted. The money wasn’t for pleasure, and she’d had to keep it a secret from everyone else around her. It was her dreams made real. One day Lyvanne planned to make it out of the city, to bring her friends with her and to live their own life free from the city walls, and this small bag of savings was going to be how she did it.
It was a few hours before the young commoner made her way back to the dingy entrance of her hideout. The rise in guards asking around about “some street rat” had given her cause for caution, and she didn’t want to bring any unwanted attention back to her friends. Moving aside the moss-covered wooden crate that hid the child-sized hole in the wall of a long abandoned house, Lyvanne began to hear the echoes of voices coming from within. Walking through the hole, Lyvanne glanced back into the damp and dilapidated alley that served as the front garden, just to make sure no one was around, and re-covered the entrance.
“I’m back!” she called down into the hideout.
The echoes of childish replies travelled from within in response. The house was small, but it had a basement and it was in there, she knew, that she would find the others. Upstairs was little more than charred wood and ash; a fire long ago had seen that there was no comfort left there and little in the way of viable living space.
Footsteps came racing up the hollow shell of a staircase that remained. Turning a corner and facing the descent into the darkness of the basement below, Lyvanne saw Oh’s beaming face as he threw himself into her open arms.
“You were gone long, Lyv,” The young boy said, as he bounced on the spot in eager anticipation. There weren’t many people she would let get away with calling her that, but he was one.
Returning from her adventures out on the streets of Astreya was often the first time in the day that Lyvanne saw the others, and she usually arrived with food. Oh was younger than Lyvanne and significantly shorter. His skin was even darker than her own, a trademark of the people from the Shimmering Isles who lived their lives under the searing heat of the sun.
Kneeling down so that she was at similar height to the young boy, Lyvanne reached into her sack and pulled out the cinnamon bun she had comandeered earlier in the day. She handed it over to the boy who was visibly drooling at the mouth, whilst placing a single finger over her lips.
“Go share thi
s with Lira, but keep it secret. You know Abella doesn’t like you having sugar,” Lyvanne whispered as she ushered Oh back down the stairs.
Lyvanne heard Oh announce her arrival as she followed him down the stairs, one hand on each railing as the wood creaked and bent under her weight. The staircase opened up into a large, dimly lit room. When the house had first been built there was no doubt in Lyvanne’s mind that the basement had been the largest feature. Its stone walls and floor made it a cold room but sturdy. It had been virtually the only place to escape the fire unharmed, as the blaze had woven its way through the largely wooden house above. It was a sign of luxury and was no doubt a lifetime investment for the owner, whom just so happened to be sat in the centre of the room, candle by her side, asleep.
Abella was old, very old. She’d been old when the house had caught fire over a decade ago, and when Lyvanne asked why she stayed here, she had insisted that there wasn’t enough life left in her to move elsewhere. So she sat here, every day, caring for and loving the young children who came and went, homeless and alone. Lyvanne had her doubts about why Abella remained. She would have had friends who could have helped her move. No doubt all those friends thought her long dead by now, the shell of her former home all that remained of her memory.
Oh had taken a seat on the floor by his toys, a pair of handmade wooden soldiers and a very poorly crafted horse, all of which Lyvanne had stolen to keep the young boy occupied. The fourth and final person in the basement made her way over to Lyvanne as she stepped out from the shadows of the stairs.
“I was worried,” the young girl said flatly as she pulled Lyvanne in close for an embrace.
“No need,” Lyvanne replied, a reassuring smile on her face.
Lira, who Lyvanne noted was now discretely biting down on a small chunk of cinnamon bun, was only a year or so younger than Lyvanne, but unlike her elder, she had yet to mature beyond her age. Lira helped where she could, especially when there had been more people living among the ruins of Abella’s house, but in large the role of mother had been left to Lyvanne. It was she who went out to find food most days, and it was her who made every effort to keep their location hidden from those who would want to remove them from the city’s Upper Level.