by Jean Winter
Muse Book 1: Khari'na Made
a novel by
Jean Winter
Copyright © 2016 by Jean Winter
[email protected]
ISBN 978-0-9985365-0-7
Cover by Emily Womble & Carrie Hertzog
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Planet Earth pop culture “Easter eggs,” however, are not. (Will you catch them all?) This work is also fat free, sodium free, gluten free, sugar free, MSG free, dye free, cage free, completely organic, and a byproduct of a totally overactive imagination. No animals were harmed in the writing of this book though it did demand many treadmill miles and many, many cups of homemade hot cocoa, as well as the eternal patience of the author's husband and children (free-range, of course, with no artificial growth hormones). Enjoy!
To Heidi, Tilila, and Mr. David Morris,
my saintly first beta readers tasked with the
challenge of teaching me how to write.
Table of Contents
Part 1—Prelude in R
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
Part 2—Healing Dissonance
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
Part 1—Prelude in R
CHAPTER 1
Lyra hummed a familiar tune as she tended to a cut on Jon's scalp—just like Grandmother did when Lyra would help her with patients as a young girl. The old practitioner was quite incapable of working without some soothing melody waltzing in the air about her. But people seemed to like it when Lyra did it, too. They said it helped them feel better.
Jon would enthusiastically agree. “I'll say. The voice of an angel, hands of a surgeon, and face of a goddess all wrapped up in one? The plague wouldn't stand a chance! In fact, I think I'm coming down with something right now. (cough, cough) I may need her to work me over all night.”
He was biased, of course. Husbands often are. And this one was no exception, intentionally switched me's and over's and all.
That was her Jon. A mild reprimand from Lyra about the demerits of boasting of one's wife in public he would take as an invitation to continue the husbandly encomiums in private … whispered … in her ear … the phrasing sometimes devilishly delightful as his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of her lobe.
Lyra couldn't help but respond. Laughing, she'd invariably turn to him for a kiss or two, and when the kids weren't looking, a much longer three.
The tale of the newly acquired gash—Jon had come between an unruly nannabie and its newborn in the midst of the final roundup—was more dramatic rhetoric than anything else. The cut wasn't that big. Scalp wounds just bled more. Consequently, a note or two hung undecided as Lyra carefully foraged through reddish brown curls to continue her cleaning of the site. Jon sat patiently before her, a day old hardroll at his mouth and his twinkle of hazel gazing into her brown.
The red afternoon sun winked across Lyra's bottle of antiseptic salve while two of Geniven's moons observed the proceedings through a cloudless lens. Lyra breathed in more of the Forkor mountain range's crisp air of blossoming spring, and took a moment to gaze wistfully around at the colony's stripped wood pole housing frames that ambled at regular intervals through the wide meadow encircled by tall stands of yellow-shagged pines. She would miss this place. It had been home for the last four years.
The clucking of someone bringing in a final quartet of scrappy, bleating sheep, a cow, and a nannabie interrupted her reverie. It was Tempet, the youngest of their reserve tail group chosen to stay behind to scour the hillsides and gather up the last of the straggling animals capitalizing on the new sprouts and tender greens peeking up through rocky, mountain soil. Having just celebrated his nineteenth birthday, Tempet was of age to have his name drawn in the lottery as one of the “lucky” ten.
Not what he'd had in mind for a special coming-of-age birthday present.
He had been planning to ask pretty, little M'liza Grenthum to marry him. That was the rumor anyway—a rumor he was substantiating since the rest of the settlement and his M'liza had gone ahead a few days ago. He was uncharacteristically grumpy.
A peevish push of one more reluctant rump into the corral and Tempet practically slammed the gate shut behind the animals.
“Easy there, lover boy. That poor gate needs to hold up for a whole twenty more minutes until we are ready to hit the path,” Jon called out good-naturedly.
Tempet sighed. “Sorry, Brother Woodrose. This whole thing just bites.”
“I know,” Jon said, understanding written in his grin. He briefly ducked his head from Lyra's grasp to pick up a shiny pulm'lon from the fruit basket at his feet and toss it to Tempet. “And it's Jon,” he reminded. “You're an official adult now, remember?”
“Yeah.” Tempet regarded Jon's offering grudgingly, but eventually took a bite.
Around them, the rest of their company were also either eating or packing up the last of their things in anticipation of the departure. Tempet casually strolled closer.
“Just a few more days and you'll be with her again,” Jon said with a wink, his arm curling around Lyra's back. “And not long after that, you, too, will be privileged to begin your first thirteen years of marital bliss.” Lyra felt a playful tug at her dark waves that hung to her hips.
She rolled her eyes and thumped him on his shoulder. “Fifteen, my love. It's fifteen this year.”
“Fifteen,” Jon echoed without so much as a blink. “I was just seeing if she was listening.” That roguish grin appeared and Lyra huffed despairingly. “But thirteen … fifteen … fifty,” he quickly added, turning to gaze up at her, “it doesn't matter, because when I look at you, my sweet little Twitterbug, it is with the same eyes as the day we wed.”
“Nice save.” And with a smirk she gave him a quick peck on his dusty forehead.
Tempet half hopped up into the open back of a nearby wagon. “Do you think our new settlement will finally be far enough away to make the blasted Caldreen'n army forget about us?” He avoided Jon's disapproving eye at his questionable choice of words. “I hate all this moving every time they come close. Why can't they just be satisfied with the empire they have and forget about us?”
Jon's haughty snort diced the afternoon's calm. “Furgayt aboot th' Believers?” he said in a comically robust Caldreen'n accent. “Thoose 'Peculiars' who
surely moost be schemin' somethin' awful against our Grahnd Repooblic else they would be clamorin' tuh cast away their stuffy morals, their suspicious god, and coome crawlin' on hands and knees, beggin' tuh be ruled by th' magnanimous High Lord D'Pendul?”
Lyra snickered at her husband's caricature of a Caldreen'n lord, but Tempet only harrumphed and ripped off another substantial chunk of pulm'lon flesh. “It just makes me so mad. We 'Percs,'” he spat out the popular derogatory slang (and a bit of pulp with it), “can't ever build permanent homes or gardens or pastures and … and we keep getting pushed up higher and higher against the mountains. Eventually we are going to have to learn to live above the treeline or figure out how to make it through the glacier wasteland all the way to the other side.”
Lyra exchanged glances with her husband. The Forkor range imposed its dominance from north to south along the continent. Reports of seasoned mountain men who survived the journey described only harrowing terrain and digit severing blizzards ending in a steep jaunt down to narrow beaches nearly swallowed by immense ocean. It wasn't encouraging.
“We just need to have faith in God that everything will be all right,” Lyra offered with a shrug. She refolded her damp rag to a cleaner spot and continued to gently wipe away more grit around her husband's cut. “As long as we keep the commandments and follow the prophet, Heavenly Father will protect us.”
Another sigh from Tempet. Restless fingers began to pick at the skin of his half-eaten fruit.
“Well, I hear the new place has a great lake nearby with some choice fishing,” Jon tried. “The other colonies are going to be jealous.”
Lyra grinned. Rorn, the eldest of their three children—a teenager, and Jon had already been making big plans for fishing trips together. It was their father/son “thing.”
At the mention of the other two Believer colonies likewise living for anonymity, Tempet looked up. “Do you think that, maybe, the time for Brother Oubwyn to gather everyone together and … you know …?” He gave a meaningful glance toward Lyra's backpack, resting innocently on the ground beside her, and let that finish his thought.
“I doubt it,” Lyra said quickly. “People have been speculating on that old prophecy for generations already, and it will probably be generations more before anyone ever sees what it's really supposed to mean. Besides, things have to get a lot worse, first, before it would be the right time to do anything so drastic. Until then, our creeds are 'turn the other cheek' and 'blessed are the peacemakers.'” Lyra set her rag down and picked up her salve to finish.
“Some of us think things already are pretty bad—”
“Oh, we have a lot to be thankful for, I think.” Jon was done with the young man's useless doom and gloom complaining. “A beautiful world to tame and explore, good friends, the scriptures and our knowledge of the Plan, and last, but most certainly not least …” His gaze returned to his wife, and his finger traced a line down her throat until it met with the silver chained necklet he had given her on their wedding day. “… wonderful people to love.”
Binding threads of security wound tighter around Lyra's heart as she grinned back, saying, “Ah, something we agree on!”
Honestly, it still surprised her sometimes, Jon's greater propensity lately toward sweet sentimentality. Lyra just chalked it up to years of maturing and mellowing that causes a soul to spend more time pondering life. At thirty-eight, Jontrell Woodrose was not quite the same vigorous, take-life-by-the-horns, bounce-back-from-anything youth that he once was, but Lyra quickly grew to appreciate the change. It had its perks.
A call for assistance led Tempet away and, somewhat alone again, Jon fondled a few wisps of hair that had escaped from the braid at her crown then gently brought her head closer for a kiss. “And thank you, by the way, Mrs. Woodrose, for agreeing to marry me—however many years ago that was.”
“Well, you were pretty charming back then. How could my naive, innocent, little teenage heart resist?”
“Oh, I was just lucky enough to snatch you up first.”
“First?” Lyra pulled back, making a face. “Try 'only.'” She plopped her salve into her medicine kit and ruffled his hair back to its previous untamed state when he had approached her with a sheepish grin and a bit of blood trickling down the side of his head. “As I recall, you were the one with scores of members of the opposite sex lining up for you. I was just awkward.”
“You mean the wild hair, big bug eyes, and intimidating talent?” he smirked, his eyes glowing with fun. “More like … unrealized potential.” Jon pulled her down on his lap and gave her thigh a squeeze that said mine—body and soul. “And besides, it wasn't scores, maybe just … three or four.”
“Or nine or ten.” Lyra continued drolly. She knew better. Jon's outgoing, upbeat nature paired with his husky, athletic build had always made him popular with, well, with everyone.
He gave her his best, dangerously charming smolder. “Okay, fine, maybe it was a few more, but they were only suckers for my straight teeth.” A parting of his lips unveiled the wide, brilliant grin that had made Lyra's stomach flutter at the tender age of sixteen. He laughed and shook his head. “No, Twitterbug. I never had your gifts.”
Throwing his head back, Jon suddenly started singing. Loudly. And off key. “And so I looovve yooouuu! My Leeeeeee-ra-Lyra-Lyra-Lyra. I see ya, believe ya, wanna be ya! I loooooooove … yoo-hooooooooo!”
His last note resembled the mating call of a drunk howler leopard—a drunk, deaf leopard.
Squealing, Lyra flapped out of his lap and turned on him, hands on hips. “'Wanna be ya?' Really?” The disparaging cock of her head was followed by a string of guffaws and whistles from their companions.
“Well, it rhymed,” he insisted as he popped the last of the roll obstinately into his mouth. He hadn't even quite swallowed yet when he added, “See? My singing would more likely kill whoever I was trying to treat.”
“Well, that singing certainly would.” But Lyra's attempt at a disapproving frown wasn't making it past a coy pout. So instead, she whipped around, hair defiantly flying, to stow her medical kit at the back of the wagon. “But you were trying to sound horrendous just now. Your real singing voice isn't …” Jon wasn't paying attention anymore. “Jon.”
He stared beyond the village boundary toward the copse of pines at the far end of the meadow. His smile—vanished.
A distant shout made Lyra turn, following Jon's gaze, and she saw someone running toward them, his arms waving frantically in the air.
Jon jumped to his feet. He slit his eyes against the sharp afternoon sun. “Is that … Dunhop?”
A crack of gunfire suddenly echoed through the clearing and Dunhop dropped like a rock into a patch of papery wildflowers. Lyra gasped. Her husband's face turned white.
From out of the tree line exploded a half dozen soldiers astride scaly zethrin bedecked in Caldreen'n red and green. Like ravenous fleas, the saddled mounts bounded toward the settlement in gliding, fifty yard leaps. Feathered wings sliced the air. Clawed feet grazed the tops of the low growing vegetation, skipping over Dunhop's already forgotten carcass. A weight like lead dipped to the pit of Lyra's stomach.
“Oh, God,” was Jon's bated whisper, “it's today.”
What?
With an urgent grip at her arm, Jon spun her around to face him. The hardened glint of determination that transformed the lines of his face caused any questions that may have been forming on her tongue to evaporate as, swiping her backpack up with one hand, he thrust her forward to start running.
Too late.
A zethrin landed in their path, hissing and squawking, daring them to take a step farther. Another landed off to the right. And another to the left. Spinning, Lyra was horrified to find their little group entirely and efficiently surrounded. The involuntary action of breathing suddenly wasn't so effortless anymore.
No, no, no! How did they know where to find us? They wouldn't have just wandered this far out so quickly!
For the last week there had bee
n sightings of the Army of the Republic scouting the area, but the last word was that the nearest company was still miles away. The Believer colony's small militia had always been so vigilant about monitoring random travelers and troop movement. Dunhop on his watch must have been ambushed somehow.
Livestock gathered in the corral bleated and lowed in fear of the colorful, lizard-like creatures. Fence posts rocked and swayed under the pressure of the nervous animals' shuffling. Nobody moved to calm them.
“Good day, people o' the Grand Republic o' Caldreen,” a disembodied, amplified voice rang over the shell of a village. “You will no' be harmed if you make no aggressive movements.” The male voice was thick with the accent of a city dwelling Caldreen'n. Normally, Lyra liked listening to the charmingly lilting, earthy pitch of the Caldreen'n upper class in her infrequent visits to the towns for necessary supplies, but this person made it sound stuffy and condescending—not far off from Jon's mocking impersonation, in fact.
Ten foot soldiers jogged into reinforcing positions just outside the cavalry ring. Stark faces prepared to follow orders. Stock infantry rifles gleaming in the sun. Starched uniforms appropriately pretentious and chafing.
Lyra's senses registered the solid weight of her pack inconspicuously settling into her arms. Jon's eyes bore into hers as he let go of it there. No. No, Jon! She knew what this meant. Don't make me do this!
The hotter flare of his gaze chided back that she had better get a grip on herself and remember her sacred stewardship wrapped in linen inside. With a gulp—and no small amount of guilt—Lyra threaded bumbling fingers through the leather straps.
Another zethrin glided toward the circle. This female of the species was larger than the others with a deep, red crest of feathers running from her head along the ridge of her back all the way to the tip of her forked tail. Her wings ended in powerful claws. Her underbelly scales shone ebony, with more dark of night running down powerful legs finishing in dagger-size talons. Making small clicks and grunts, her sharp eyes studied them all like prey.