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

by G. L. Breedon

  THE PRESENT

  “HE FOUGHT well and died with honor.”

  Yeth heard Tarak’s voice but did not look to it, keeping her eyes on the slender, breathless chest of the wyrin.

  Shifhuul’s death — her choice.

  Patience.

  “We must build a pyre.” Yeth looked up to the faces of Leotin and Palla. “The wyrins burn their dead within the hour.”

  “A militia is still outside the gate wanting in.” Pi-Gento spoke from where he stood by the wall, a bow clutched in his hand.

  “It is their custom, and he saved my life.” Yeth rose to her feet, looking down at the human soldier. “I will tend to his pyre and make the preparations.”

  “I will assist you.” Tarak made to stand, his black lips pulling tight across his muzzle, teeth glinting in the dim light as he winced with the pain of the arrow in his back right shoulder.

  “I will help as well.” Palla stepped forward from the others. Among all the humans, she had always been most comfortable around the outlanders.

  “No.” Yeth scooped up the wyrin’s limp body in her arms. She looked to Tarak. “You are injured. Tend to your wound.” She turned her gaze to Palla. “Help him remove the arrow. Stich the wound. And Pi-Gento is correct. The militia has lost their leader and the battering ram, but they still can do much to attack us, and we have much work yet to set our defenses. Help the others. I will tend to the wyrin’s funeral pyre. I am familiar with the rituals from my travels.”

  Palla and Tarak nodded. The other humans looked on in silence as Leotin placed a hand on her shoulder, the first time he had ever made physical contact with any of the outlanders.

  “Thank you for what you have done.” Leotin placed his other hand on Tarak’s massive forearm. “You have saved us at a great cost.” Leotin took his hands from Yeth and Tarak to briefly hold Shifhuul’s paw as it dangled from the side of his lifeless body.

  Yeth said nothing, walking back along the wall with Shifhuul’s corpse in her arms. She had made her choice, and she would live with it and all the consequences that arose from that decision. She would because she had to. Because she did not follow laws and did not obey customs. She did what needed to be done in the moment for the greater good, for the good of the whole, a wider vision that could not be embraced from the confinement of a single pod or a scout pack. She did what she knew to be right, even when it felt as wrong as every evil she had ever encountered.

  Yeth carried Shifhuul down the stairs of the tower, bearing the wyrin’s dead body and her own dark thoughts into the castle cellars to find what she required.

  To continue reading the Carnival story arena follow this link.

  THE SEER

  KELLATRA

  “HE WILL come for you soon.”

  “I hope to be gone by then.”

  Kellatra brushed a firefly from her arm as she watched the stars slowly dance across the black night sky, a cotillion of constellations outshone by a lone luminous ruby light pirouetting among them. She sat on the porch of the cabin in an old chair beside Tamateraa, her former mentor, as she had each night since her arrival three days prior. Each day, she and the old woman pored over The Unseen Codex, attempting to pry the book’s secrets into the open. Tamateraa had spent much of her fifty years of study at the Academy of Sight investigating the codex, reading about it in dusty tomes, hunting down scraps of rumors in far dominions. Kellatra had studied under her for three years before her retirement. While rumors had always persisted that the Academy of Sight held The Unseen Codex in secret, neither ever found evidence of its existence in the library vaults.

  A friend in the City of Leaves had sent the elder scholar a night jay detailing the publicly known and alleged events of Kellatra’s departure. Most of these allegations focused on her and the fires that killed the council members. Tamateraa had been surprised and elated beyond expression when Kellatra presented The Unseen Codex. Days of fruitlessly examining the book’s 108 pages turned that elation to annoyance. She knew her father had teams of seers searching for the codex. He no doubt already had men out searching for Tamateraa’s cabin. Only the fact that she enjoyed her privacy and never publicly announced the location of her retirement helped conceal them, for the moment.

  “You should consider leaving soon.” Tamateraa sipped at a warm cup of tea. “We are making no progress together that you cannot make alone.”

  “You’ve helped greatly.” Kellatra looked back through the window of the house. Jadaloo and Abananthus cleaned up from the evening meal by candlelight while Rankarus told stories to Lantili and Luntadus, lulling them to sleep on rolled blankets near the dead fireplace. “And the respite has been good for my family.”

  “I have given you nothing but the same history lesson I offered fifteen years ago.” Tamateraa frowned at her tea as though the taste had grown suddenly bitter. “My knowledge helps you little.”

  “There may be a clue in the history of the book that breaks the cipher.” Kellatra frowned as well. She had hoped Tamateraa’s knowledge of the text would assist in unraveling its secrets. It became clear after the first day poring over the pages that the key to the codex lay in decrypting its writing.

  “We have been assuming it is a cipher for a common language,” Tamateraa said. “It is possible that it is written in a language never heard of, or one so old no record of it survives. Or, worse, that it is a cipher of such a language.”

  “There must be a key to understanding it within the book itself.” Kellatra sipped at her own cup of tea, relaxing slightly as the warmth ran down her throat. “Why write something in such detail if you didn’t want anyone else to read it? We need to find a Kanhalla Stele.”

  “We must consider what I always avoided contemplating.” Tamateraa looked to Kellatra, her eyes sad, the wrinkles of her face creased with concern. “The book may simply be a jest. An elaborate hoax to coax a ransom of coin from a gullible rhaga.”

  “I don’t believe that.” Kellatra had not confided her suspicions that the book had something to do with the dreams and the new star. “The codex first shows up in the personal library of Rhaga Toranachlee more than six hundred years ago, but there is no suggestion he paid for it. The records show his father, Rhaga Koranachlee, a man of reputedly great learning and even greater frugality, acquired it somehow. I doubt such a man would fall for a hoax.”

  “We all see what we want to see,” Tamateraa said with a sigh. “I waited all my life to hold this book, thinking I would view some deep secret of The Sight revealed in its pages. Now that I hold it, all I see is sadness. Sadness to know I will never live long enough to understand the meaning of these strange words and images, and sorrow knowing you may lose your life attempting to clasp on to it for the same reasons I should have released my desire for it long ago.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I lost myself in investigating a mystery, turning away from the greater mysteries of life.” Tamateraa glanced over her shoulder toward the cabin and its occupants. “I became so obsessed in my quest that I abandoned my other desires for love and family. You have found both love and a family, yet you risk them all to pursue the unknown knowledge of a book you cannot read.”

  Kellatra watched clumps of plum-colored clouds obscure patches of stars across the night sky — all save the brightest and reddest among them. Tamateraa’s words stung at her for their truthfulness. Did she risk too much?

  “I am a danger to them.” Kellatra looked to see Rankarus stroking the children’s hair as he wooed them to slumber with some fantastical tale he no doubt invented as he spoke.

  “No.” Tamateraa’s voice sounded firm. “The codex is a danger to them. You are their protector.”

  Kellatra thought about this. What it implied. What she wanted to do. What she needed to do. What would be possible. What would be necessary.

  “Two more days,” Kellatra said. “Two more days to study the book with you and then we’ll leave.”

  “One day.” Tamateraa sipped her t
ea again and grimaced at the flavor. “One more day, and you leave at sunset and you take that damnable book with you.”

  Kellatra looked to her old mentor, feeling a sadness birthing within her heart at departing from the woman. Tamateraa spoke the truth. She could not stay. Could not risk the lives of her family as a target for her father’s anger. Could no longer rekindle the lost friendship interrupted by a decade spent hiding in another land. Could no longer hear the comforting and encouraging words of a woman who became a mother to her with her true mother’s passing. Could no longer look into the eyes of one of the few who had supported her when she sought revenge on her mother’s murderer. She had to leave, but she would do her best to depart with happy memories for them both. It would be the last time they saw each other in these lives.

  “Come.” Kellatra rose and offered her hand to Tamateraa. “A last game of koris.”

  “Ah, good.” Tamateraa stood slowly, sighing with the creaking of her bones, her smile wrinkled but broad. “It has been years since I have taken all your cubes from the board.”

  To continue reading the Seer story arena follow this link.

  To continue reading Kellatra’s storyline follow this link.

  THE PHILOSOPHER

  KADMALLIN

  THE SONGS of crickets and cicadas competed among the forest trees, the night shadows of the road spreading outward — ink spilled upon the land, soaking in for the night. The light of a lone fire fought back the blackness. Kadmallin walked toward the flames, noting the position of the men gathered around them. He did not need to count the men. He and Sketkee had scouted the camp an hour ago. There were ten bandits left from the group that had attacked their pilgrim band and stolen the artifact.

  He approached the bandit camp slowly, giving the men time to hear his footsteps along the road, making certain he did not startle them. He kept his hands at his sides, away from the hilt of the sword at his waist. He wore only one blade that evening, Sketkee holding hers elsewhere. The bandits talked and laughed among themselves, eating pheasants roasted over the fire and drinking wine from a shared skin.

  “Evening,” Kadmallin called out in the Shen language well before they could see him in the shadows. It seemed they felt it too early to post a guard.

  “Who’s there?” one of the men yelled while two others stood to their feet, drawing swords.

  “A traveler with a proposition.” Kadmallin raised his hands as he walked into the flickering light. “Nothing to fear but opportunity.”

  “Whatcha want?” The man who had called out stood up and stepped forward. He appeared to be the leader of the bandit band. His beard held remnants of the pheasant he had been eating. He still clutched a leg bone in his hand.

  “I come to offer a trade.” Kadmallin spoke evenly in soothing tones. The conversation would get tense all too soon.

  “We look like tussin’ merchants to ya?” One of the seated men laughed.

  “Aye, we’re merchants.” The bandit leader gave the seated man a hard glare, and the laughter died away. “Whatcha lookin’ ta trade?”

  “A few nights ago, you attacked a pilgrim band and you took something I wish to acquire.” Kadmallin kept his eyes on the leader, but let his vision take in the rest of the men, noting how they tensed at the mention of the pilgrims.

  “Ya must be confused, friend.” The bandit leader smiled, revealing yellowed teeth.

  “I am not confused.” Kadmallin remained where he stood, hands in the air, resisting the urge to grab his sword as several more of the men rose to their feet. “You stole something from one of the tents. A large crystal.” The men traded murmurs and cautious looks at the mention of the artifact. “I wish to purchase it from you. I will give you twenty gold coins for it. A fair deal.”

  “Let’s say yer right.” The bandit leader pulled at his greasy beard. “Let’s say we got a crystal ball like ya says. What’s ta keep us from takin’ the coin from ya and keepin’ the crystal ball?” The bandit leader smiled his yellow smile again.

  “Two things.” Kadmallin raised his voice slightly to make sure all the men heard him clearly. “Firstly, I do not have the coin on me. Only a fool approaches known bandits with coin in his purse. Secondly, you are familiar with the individual from whom you stole the crystal. You will, no doubt, remember a large rakthor, a lizard woman who killed your companions, who breathed fire and roasted them like pheasants on a spit.” Kadmallin pointedly turned his eyes toward the fire and the remains of the bandits’ meal.

  “Aye. We remember.” The bandit leader fingered the hilt of the dagger in his belt.

  “She is in the dark.” Kadmallin glanced back over his shoulder. “She wanted to wait until you were asleep. To attack in the night, kill you all, and take the crystal from your dead hands. I convinced her it would be best to negotiate and buy the crystal back.” Kadmallin saw a shadow move by the bandit’s stolen wagon but ignored it. The shadow did what it needed to do.

  “We ain’t got it.” The bandit leader stepped back a pace, looking around Kadmallin, down the night-shrouded road. “We sold it.”

  “When?” Kadmallin asked. “To whom?”

  “A day ago.” The bandit leader eyed Kadmallin, clearly reappraising the danger the stranger represented. “We sold it to a merchant we know. Big man named Lan-Dal. He was in a town called Pai-Jowdee. Don’t know where he’s at now.”

  Kadmallin stared at the man, judging his prevarication. He did not doubt the story; the fear in the bandit leader’s eyes gave weight to the truth of his words. His men seemed to share that dread. None wanted to face a fire-breathing lizard warrior to defend something they didn’t possess. Kadmallin reached into the narrow pocket of the vest he wore and removed a single gold coin. He held it up in two fingers and then tossed it to the bandit leader.

  “For your trouble and the information.” Kadmallin did not wait to continue the conversation, turning and walking back into the darkness of the road. The bandit men did not call after him or make to follow. The coin insured that. They would feel compensated for their fear.

  He walked for a thousand paces before a coal black shape a head taller than himself emerged from the woods to walk beside him.

  “That worked quite easily.” Sketkee pulled the hood of her cloak back as they approached the tree where they had tethered the horses they purchased two days prior.

  “I liked my plan better.” Kadmallin stroked the neck of his horse.

  “Attacking to kill them in their sleep would have posed an unnecessary risk to both of us and wasted considerable time.” Sketkee’s horse shied away from her, and she raised her hood again. “Moreover, had we not managed to keep one alive to interrogate, we would not now know where to look for the artifact.”

  “It doesn’t feel right to leave those bastards walking around.” Kadmallin put his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself into the saddle. “They’ll only kill more pilgrims. Rape more women and children. It’d be better if they were dead.”

  “Did you not see me at the wagon?” Sketkee rose into the saddle, her horse nervously skittering sideways at her presence on its back.

  “Of course.” Kadmallin pinched his legs against his horse’s side, and the beast began to trot along the road. “You searched their things as we planned.”

  “Did you not notice the cask of wine in the wagon?” Sketkee brought her horse into line with Kadmallin’s with great difficulty.

  “I had other things to concentrate on.” Kadmallin glanced sideways, amused at Sketkee’s riding skills and her obvious discomfort atop the horse. The rakthors did not like horses and horses did not like her, but the need to travel swiftly demanded steeds.

  “The acuity of your observational skills seems to have diminished over the years.” Sketkee looked reprovingly at Kadmallin. “If you did not notice the wine then you clearly did not see me pouring poison into it.”

  “Poison?” Kadmallin’s head snapped toward Sketkee. “What poison?”

  “I discovered a bush near
where we camped two days ago of kerikt berries, called ni-diang berries locally.” Sketkee’s voice displayed no hint of the smugness a human’s would have. “The berries are very deadly to your kind. I distilled them down into a concentrated poison while you slept. I thought it might be useful to have another, more subtle weapon at our disposal. The men will drink from the wine cask tonight, find themselves quietly sleepy, and be dead by morning.”

  Kadmallin rode in silence for a while, considering what Sketkee told him. Why hadn’t she mentioned the full extent of her plan? Had she thought he might disapprove? Did she simply not think it important to explain that she intended to poison ten men? Even after so many years, he still did not know what she would do or why, even if he nearly always agreed with the result.

  “Your plan was better.”

  “Thank you.” Sketkee nodded toward Kadmallin. “Now we will need another plan to find this merchant Lan-Dal and retrieve the artifact.”

  Kadmallin wondered if that plan would entail poisoning a merchant caravan and whether Sketkee could find berries that merely induced sleep rather than death.

  To continue reading the Philosopher story arena follow this link.

  To continue reading Kadmallin’s storyline follow this link.

  THE CARNIVAL

  SHIFHUUL

  BLACKNESS, deep and seemingly eternal — an absence of light but not sensation. The musty aroma of subterranean depths. The fragrance of stale grain and aged root vegetables mixed with the pungent smell of rodent droppings. The distant sound of some indefinable action endeavored at by many hands echoing through corridors of stone. The taste of sour bile and blood. The firmness of wood beneath the spine, pressing into the bones and muscle weighing upon it.

  The elation of expected endless release faded as coherent thoughts coalesced in Shifhuul’s mind. This did not seem like death. He raised a paw in the darkness, seeing its vague outline before his eyes. He placed that paw upon his chest, remembering the sword that cut open his fur and flesh. He touched no wound, only the dull ache of a healing scar. His head hurt, but it still felt better than any of the long days on the ship from his homeland spent heaving his undigested food over the railing or shivering in his cabin as the intoxicating remnants of the loat seed oil he had smoked daily for months slowly left his blood.