The Dragon Star (Realms of Shadow and Grace: Volume 1)

by G. L. Breedon

  The man had screamed and screamed and thrashed around the room, everything he touched lighting with flame. Then he had found the door and run away, along the hall, setting the whole inn alight. Luntadus had sat in the bed crying, the fire swirling around the room, not knowing what to do until Mommy appeared to scoop him up and grab his sister in her other arm.

  Luntadus sighed as he thought about the inn. He missed the piglets in the shed in the backyard. They always made him laugh. The horse that pulled the wagon licked his hand and made him giggle, but it wasn’t the same as piglets. His sister had named the horse Ooshoo. She said it was the noise the horse made when he farted. The horse farted a lot.

  Luntadus listened to Mommy and Daddy talking as Ooshoo plodded along the road. They talked about the book again. He liked the book. It made his hands tingle to touch it. The little paintings looked like things he saw sometimes in his dreams. His old dreams. Before the dreams of the star and the fallen down stone house. He fell asleep, staring up at the tiny lights circling the wagon, wondering what they were thinking as they buzzed around, wishing they would go and bother someone else, hoping Mommy and Daddy would never find out about how he had talked to them and burned down the inn.

  To continue reading the Seer story arena follow this link.

  THE TEMPLE

  JUNARI

  NIGHT-BLACK WINGS soared between azure skies and a valley of summer green crops and verdant trees — a heptad flock of ravens chasing along a winding line of humans below, following the curve of the road out of the mountains and down to the city rising up in stone and brick and clay where the white-crested waves of the ocean met the rocky shores of the land.

  Junari shielded her eyes as she tilted her head upward, watching the seven ravens swoop through the sky, their v-shaped formation never wavering. An omen? A portent of some manner? A coincidence of avian curiosity? As with most things in her complicated life, she would not know until she knew, which might prove too late, or merely reveal useless knowledge obscuring more helpful information.

  She lowered her eyes to the road. The steep descent out of the mountain path and through the valley left the free city of Tanjii yet another a day’s journey ahead. High stone walls enclosed the metropolis, mimicking the mountains encircling the valley beyond, both providing a bulwark against invasion from either of the warring dominions that might wish access to Tanjii’s docks and shipyards. She saw temple prayer towers rising up above the ramparts, their gold-plated caps glimmering in the high sun. A few estate houses rose to a height above the wall, but none higher than the temple spires. From the vantage of her elevation on the road out of the mountains, she saw the city streets twisting and turning on themselves, creating a maze of bleached white brick homes, shops, workhouses, and inns, each with red clay-tiled roofs jutting up at varying heights.

  It had taken the pilgrim band, now grown to nearly two thousand, three days to travel through the wide mountain pass, more a valley of its own, sunk between twin razor-edged walls of granite. As they marched, they had crossed numerous military stations carved into the mountainside. While the soldiers did not impede the pilgrims’ progress through the canyon channel, neither did they interact with them. History told of several armies attempting to force passage through the ravine, only to have rocks and troops brought crashing down upon them. One town sat in the valley, a small nest of a hundred-some people making a living selling supplies to travelers and providing a place to rest on the journey through the mountains. The town did not welcome the pilgrims, shops and homes closing their doors as the band of believers passed. Between the constant presence of soldiers at a distance and the cool reception by the locals, Junari did not wonder that the knife blade lodged in her stomach for three days began to dissolve as the last of her flock entered the vale.

  Raedalus walked beside her. He rarely left her side these days, fearful that he might miss some goddess-inspired verses to capture in writing. He had bound the loose sheaves of paper from the first visitation into a red leather volume with many more blank pages. The Goddess spoke through her six times since that night, each instance longer than the last, words rushing forth, emanating from someplace beyond her mind, formed by her tongue, and uttered through her own mouth. When arising from the fever of the trance state, she would remember her utterances, but they faded, dreamlike, as the minutes passed. Had Raedalus not faithfully recorded Moaratana’s missives, they would have been lost to the ether of forgetfulness.

  Raedalus’s fervor and passionate belief concerned her. She worried that he put too much faith in her and not enough in the Goddess. She also felt concerned that his long held desire for her had transformed into something beyond a passion for her body or heart. Now, when she might find comfort in having a lover she trusted as a friend, she dared not breach that barrier between them for fear of the ramifications not merely to herself or to him, but to the entire flock. Raedalus had gained, through his steadfast faith and pious actions, a place of prominence among the pilgrims. He stood as the first and most respected priest of the new faith. The chronicler of the Goddess’s words, spoken through her chosen vessel. Junari could not risk that balance of personal and spiritual dependency coming undone. She needed him, she knew, more than he or the new faith needed her. The Goddess Moaratana could speak through anyone. She doubted anyone but Raedalus could fulfill the role he played.

  It took the entirety of the day to march through the valley to the sprawling town of mud and stone and wood houses surrounding the city fortifications — the overflow of a population confined yet still growing year after year for ten centuries. Outer Tanjii, the residents called it. As the sun dipped behind the walls of the city proper, Junari and her pilgrims came to the ceremonial wooden gates marking the official entry to Outer Tanjii. A battalion of soldiers, each armed with swords and shields and spears, stood abreast of the road. She had expected a welcome but not one such as this.

  Seven ravens cawed and called to one another as they dove down to alight upon the frame of the wooden gate, staring at the humans amassed below. Junari looked at them, wondering again if they represented an ominous sign or were instead a symbol of the Goddess’s protection.

  A soldier, a commander by the plumage on his helmet, stepped forward from the others to address Junari and the pilgrims stretching along the road behind her. He raised his hand as he spoke in the Shen language.

  “The Circle of Elders has decreed this city closed to all pilgrims and wayfarers.” The soldier looked at Junari with his next words. They sank into her heart — hooks weighting down her spirit and her hopes.

  “You must leave this valley or be driven out.”

  To continue reading the Temple story arena follow this link.

  To continue reading Junari’s storyline follow this link.

  INTERLUDE

  SUNLIGHT RAINS down through wind-shattered clouds, scattering shafted light across the Juparti coastal city of Tanlassa. Seagulls call to each other and dive into churning salt water as ocean foam laps against storm-weathered docks of wood and stone.

  A human stands near a pier pylon. A wyrin stands beside him.

  Curious this should come to me now when I need it most, the wyrin thinks. The sea gods favor me.

  “It is not the original.”

  “It’s a copy. That’s all he gave her. And I copied her copy. I can read it to ya.”

  “I can read Shen.”

  “Then ya knows what it says.”

  “I do.”

  “And now we’re even? We’re done? ‘Cause I gots to go. She wants to set sail as soon as can be.”

  If he says no, the human thinks, I’ll gut ’im like the water rat he is.

  The wyrin looks up at the human. If he moves for that blade, I’ll slice that bald little manhood from him and feed it to the gulls.

  “Yes. Your debt is repaid.”

  And provides me the means to repay my own, the wyrin thinks.

  The human grunts at the wyrin and stalks away down the time-smoo
thed boards of the pier.

  The wyrin turns to look at the trading vessel docked nearby. He runs a paw along the railing.

  If she’ll accept this in return for her patronage, I can keep my beloved from the maws of the moneylenders.

  To continue reading the storyline of the Interludes follow this link.

  EPISODE FOUR

  THE TEMPLE

  TAKSATI

  THE SMELL of stale urine and festering feces rode the heat-churned breeze across the camp, making noses twitch and faces sour. Taksati ignored the odor as she sliced a large apple and a hunk of hard cheese for Junari’s breakfast. She had smelled worse things over her many years of service in the Pashist temple back in Juparti. It made no difference, as the scent would pass as soon as the wind once more shifted away from the latrines dug at the edge of the camp.

  Junari had not heeded the Tanjii soldiers’ warnings to leave, instead setting up a pilgrim camp in the fields beyond the shacks and huts ringing the city walls, the town they called Outer Tanjii. While the pilgrims were not permitted to pass through the flimsy wooden gate of the shantytown, as soldiers guarded it night and day, the townspeople were allowed to come outside to trade and sell their food and wares. The farmers from the valley also proved happy to put coin in their purses by selling vegetables and fruits and eggs and sacks of grain left over from the winter months. A few chickens made it into pots and even an old sow and a bone-thin cow. Nearly a thousand pilgrims provided a welcome influx of sudden wealth, but such a sizable itinerant population needed considerable supplies to survive.

  Taksati considered these issues in more practical terms as she carried the plate to her mistress — how long could they hold out against the threat of the soldiers to push them off before they ran out of things to eat? They could not steal from the locals, could not force them to sell their provisions. The Goddess surely frowned on such things. But they were not allowed to enter the city and make preparations to travel the great ocean without the permission of the city leaders. The Circle of Elders had sent only one message since the soldiers greeted the pilgrims two days prior. A simple, single-word note written on a sheet of parchment in three languages: Leave.

  Taksati frowned at the memory. The city elders reminded her of the high priests of the Pashist temple — bound so tightly by the past that they could not raise their arms to embrace the future.

  Her short legs quickly brought her to Junari’s tent. She looked up at the two guards — a man and woman, Jupterus and Kantula — grunting a morning greeting to them as she pulled back the canvas flap and entered the tent. She stood just within the entrance for a moment, letting her old eyes adjust to the dim light. It would do no good to trip over one of those ugly cushions Junari insisted upon and spill the breakfast to the floor. As the room brightened to her eyes, she noticed Raedalus standing beside Junari. She bowed slightly to the two and placed the tray of food on a low table nearby.

  “Breakfast, Mistress.” Taksati used the old, customary address. Raedalus and the others insisted on calling Junari Mother Shepherd or Voice of the Goddess or some other such nonsense, but Taksati persisted in referring to Junari as she always had. Carrying the burden of all the pilgrims’ hopes and fears and dreams and desires weighed on her mistress well enough. She did not need the added load of heavy names.

  “Thank you, Taksati.” Junari smiled at her, and she returned the gesture.

  As Junari bent to pluck a piece of cheese from the tray, the sleeve of her robe slid back, revealing the pink, scarred flesh of her forearms. Taksati frowned. She needed to lengthen the sleeves of the new robe. Junari had wanted something that did not make her look like a Pashist priest heading for the temple in the traditional red and yellow garb. Taksati had purchased cloth at a larger town they passed through and sewn the garment over several evenings. Fashioned from a single sheet of white cotton cloth, the robe fitted tight around the torso, flaring wide below the waist, with a lone vestment trim of lapis-blue at the collar and the sleeves. Maybe she could extend the length of the blue trim by two fingers. She knew how Junari hated for people to see her arms. Hated to see them herself for the memory of how they had come to be disfigured.

  FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

  SMOKE ROILED, black and viscous, through the air — a thousand caustic snakes seeking to slide into lungs and poison them. Taksati screamed for her mistress trapped within the flames. The strong hands of a fellow servant held her in place as she watched the fire blazing skyward from the pyre-temple, wood turning to char and ash before her eyes. Movement from within the entrance sent the smoke and ashes curling in wild currents as they rose upward. A figure stumbled outside, flames lapping at legs and arms and shoulders and hair. Junari collapsed to the ground, coughing, her limbs still held up to protect her face.

  Taksati broke free from the fingers restraining her and rushed to her mistress, using her shawl to blot out the flames, casting dirt from the dusty ground onto those that flickered stubbornly before being exhausted. Others came to help her carry her mistress away. Junari moaned in pain and anguish. Taksati gently held her soot-smudged head.

  “Must go back.”

  “Quiet now, my child. You could not know. It is not your doing.”

  Junari groaned again and passed out. Taksati guided the servants helping to bear her mistress through the temple grounds and to the healer’s chambers. An older woman with gray-streaked hair and pale skin looked up from concocting a vile smelling herbal remedy. She blinked in surprise for a moment, then hurried into motion, giving orders to Taksati and the others, guiding Junari’s burned, unconscious form to a cot in the corner of the room.

  The temple healer prayed as she worked, carefully stripping the cloth of Junari’s robes from her wounded flesh. Taksati moaned in sympathy with her mistress as skin came away with the fabric in strips along her forearms. The healer possessed a limited ability with The Sight, and she used it to repair the worst of the blistered dermis on Junari’s body. She combined prayers and salves with her seeing, bandaging the burns with thin pieces of muslin.

  Hours later, Taksati sat on a stool beside the cot, pressing a cool, damp cloth to her mistress’s forehead. Junari’s eyes fluttered. She had regained consciousness several times since the healer departed for the night, but each time, slipped back into fitful slumber.

  “Rest now, my child.” Taksati ran her thumb across Junari’s brow with a soothing touch.

  “Where am I?” Junari looked to the clay jars stacked along the wooden shelves around the room.

  “The healer’s chamber. Sleep now.” Taksati refreshed the damp cloth with cool water from a wooden bucket at her feet.

  “I failed.” Junari stared at the ceiling. “I failed her.”

  “It is not your failure. You did not know. No one knew.” Taksati wrung the water from the cloth and placed it on Junari’s forehead.

  “I failed through my ignorance as much as my actions.” Junari blinked the tears from her eyes.

  “Hush now.” Taksati wiped the salt-laden drops from Junari’s eyes with her calloused fingers. “All will be well once more. The healer says, in time, she will be able to remove the scars from your arms.”

  “No.” Junari looked down at the bandages wrapping her limbs. “The scars will stay.”

  “No.” Taksati frowned as she stared into her mistress’s eyes. “You must not inflict punishment for a thing you have not done.”

  “That is exactly why.” Junari stared up at the ceiling. “So I will remember my failure to act.”

  THE PRESENT

  TAKSATI LOOKED away from Junari’s arms and pushed the memories of them back down from where they arose, focusing on her mistress in the present. She noticed Raedalus nod to her. She spared him a thin grimace, as close as she could come to a smile in his direction. She did not like the man and never had. She trusted him and did not fault his faith and his dedication to Junari, but his obvious and long held desire to become her mistress’s lover soured Taksati to him. Junari had never had
a lover who met with Taksati’s approval, but that did not mean she did not see the depth of her mistress’s needs. However, a woman like Junari needed more of a man than Raedalus would ever be. Surely the vessel of the Goddess could not bed a mere priest, a glorified secretary.

  Taksati had read the writings of The Red Book of Revelations, as Junari’s channeled teachings were known. They were inspired words, offering guidance in all manner of life, from birth to courtship to marriage to worship and even death. Sacred words. But not Junari’s words. Not Raedalus’s words. The words of Moaratana. In the depths of the trance, Junari became the horn amplifying the voice of the Goddess and Raedalus merely a clerk, recording it for posterity.

  Taksati bowed again and made to leave the tent, finding her path blocked by Kantula, the female guard.