The Arclight Saga

by C. M. Hayden

  THE

  ARCLIGHT

  SAGA BOX SET

  Book 0: Why Dragons Hide

  Book 1: The Reach Between Worlds

  Book 2: The Stars That Form Us

  Book 3: All the Gods Below

  C.M. Hayden

  http://www.arclightsaga.com

  Copyright © 2018 by C.M. Hayden.

  All rights reserved.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  First Printing, October 2018

  BOOK 0: WHY DRAGONS HIDE

  - 1 - Not Quite Human

  - 2 - Ghostwood

  - 3 - Dragon Eyes

  - 4 - The Magisterium

  - 5 - The World Tree

  - 6 - Beneath the Soil

  - 7 - Liatou, The Hidden Village

  - 8 - Assurances

  - 9 - Forgotten Languages

  - 10 - The Treetops

  - 11 - The Corruption of Syseril

  - 12 - The Lost

  - 13 - Sith-Narosa

  - 14 - The Warden

  - 15 - The Climb

  - 16 - The Fall

  - 17 - Dragonfire

  - 18 - Explanations

  - 19 - Goodbyes

  “From the deepest fathoms of the void, the great reach between worlds, Nuruthil called. His seething malice bubbled forth and from the darkness crept his dread-lieutenants: Isaroth, Suborgath, Cthurihl, and Sith-Narosa, eager to fulfill his dark design.”

  -Syseril, page 104

  - 1 -

  Not Quite Human

  Dear Uncle Cassin,

  From the moment I met him, I knew there was something different about Kurian. At first, I thought it was his happy-go-lucky demeanor. Even amongst the eclectic blend of personalities at the Magisterium, he stood out. Always bright-eyed, always jumping through the hallways like an acrobat with a wide, sly smile on his face.

  Kurian never seemed to take much of anything seriously. Not our lessons, not our workshops, and certainly not our instructors. But even before he and I became friends, I’d heard of his skill with templary. While the rest of his recruit year were taking basic courses, barely drudging along, he was getting private tutoring from high-ranking magisters.

  Besides his magical affinity, there were physical differences, too. If you were patient enough to catch him while he wasn’t jumping around, and the light caught him at just the right angle, you’d notice there was something not quite human about his eyes: the insides were yellow. A hard, unnatural yellow that seemed to reflect the ambient light around him. They reminded me so much of a dragon’s eyes that I began to wonder if the stories milling about the Magisterium were true; maybe he really was the great grandson of some wandering dragon lord.

  Sometimes, I look back on those days and wish I’d left well enough alone. I’d like to say I couldn’t help myself, but that wouldn’t be the truth. Maybe if I’d left him alone, my friends would still be alive.

  I’m not sure if I can bear to stay at the Magisterium anymore. This place that once filled me with such joy now reminds me only of the friends I’ve lost. I can see the judgement in my instructors faces. I can hear the accusing whispers of my classmates. I’m not sure if it will ever end, and despite my best efforts to explain it to him, Father doesn’t seem to understand just how much it gnaws at me.

  Even as far away as you are, Uncle, I’m sure you’ve heard bits and pieces of what happened. But nobody but me knows the real story. Not entirely.

  These letters are my confession. If I don’t tell someone, I fear I’ll go stark mad.

  I hope the courier finds you well.

  With Love,

  Kyra

  - 2 -

  Ghostwood

  It started two months ago, just on the eve of midsummer. Being in the Magisterium meant a lot of traveling, especially in the warmer months.

  It was around this time that Magister Briggs said he wanted his artificers to have a more ‘rounded’ view of the world, and he encouraged us to get more field work. He moved our combat training to just one session a month, and instead he had us gallivanting around Arkos, poking through musty dig sites, searching for ancient artifacts left by the Old Gods.

  The work wasn’t especially tedious, but I hated being away from the Magisterium for weeks at a time. I had projects to finish, gears to inscribe, machinery to test and, after a short while, brushing off clay pots became more than a little monotonous. The one saving grace was seeing the many different towns and cities scattered throughout Endra.

  In some of the more out-of-the-way villages, they treated us like gods. It’s easy to forget that most people outside of Endra Edûn go their whole lives without seeing even a hint of magic. Having groups of young magisters-in-training flood into their towns had to be overwhelming. Nevertheless, wherever we went, we were treated exceptionally well. Free drinks, free food, and plenty of polite passes from gentlemen who were either very drunk or very brave (which, being the lady I am, I politely declined).

  Last summer, Kurian and I were sipping some of our free drinks in an upscale tavern in Dorwick. The teams for our Magister’s Trial had already been assigned, and we’d been trying to get to know the other two on our team: a blonde-haired Helian girl named Kadia, who was friendly enough, and a cantankerous little shit by the name of Fenn.

  We were short on time, but we had been caught up listening to an old gaffer’s story as he sipped from a tall, frothy tankard. His wrinkled skin was covered in tattoos of scantily clad women, and his muscles were such that he looked as though he’d once been quite well-built in his youth. Even in his later years, he looked like someone you wouldn’t want to mess with.

  The tavern had gone quiet, listening to his story, and he spoke with the unwavering certainty of a man that was thoroughly drunk.

  “I’m tellin’ you, I saw it!” he said indignantly, some of his beer splashing out of his tankard. “Eyes like the Devil, it had. Long fingers, and when its eyes met mine, the air went cold. The water on the lake turned to ice, and the leaves on the trees started to wilt.”

  “There ain’t no such thing as undead, y’old codger,” a man said, laughing so hard that it became a gurgle. “Something’s either dead, or it’s alive, Pern. You were cracked then, you’re cracked now.”

  “I tell you, I saw it with my own two eyes,” Pern said. “Not only that, I felt it.” He tapped his chest, just over his heart. “Felt like all the color in the world drained away. It stood by one of the Ghostwood trees, not moving. Just standing, like it was asleep. But its eyes were open and glarin’ like I was starin’ into the pits of Hell.” He ran his hand alongside his face. “The flesh was rotted, maggots down to the open breastbone.”

  I leaned in as Pern told his story, trying to get a better seat but not wanting to leave our table. When I did, Fenn pushed his knuckle against my back.

  “C’mon,” he whined. “The airship’s going to leave without us.”

  I shrugged him off. “Just one more second.”

  Old Man Pern finished off his tankard in one enormous gulp and wiped his beard with his already wet sleeve. He was beginning to tilt, involuntarily, and his speech slurred. Still, his eyes were distant and serious, as if he were trying to bring forward some long-forgotten memories.

  He looked up. “Our eyes met across the clearing and, for a moment, I thought maybe it hadn’t see
n me. Then, it moved. You’d think that with half its muscles rotted and the bones fallin’ apart, it would just shamble along.” He shook his head and gave a disgusted look. “But no, whatever dark magic bound that sack of flesh and worms together gave it speed. The clearing was a half-mile across, but I swear it was an arms-length away from me in seconds.”

  The burly men surrounding Pern now looked almost like schoolboys, waiting with bated breath to hear more.

  “I ran,” Pern said with a shiver. “Oh, gods below, I ran like I ain’t never ran before. I ran ’til my lungs felt like they’d explode. Knocked one of my shoes off on a sharp rock, but didn’t stop for what felt like miles. Finally, I came to rest by the riverside, thinkin’ I was safe. My throat burned, and I knelt to get a drink. I heard a rustle in the trees. I turned, and saw—”

  I was listening intently, turned fully toward the old storyteller. Pern noticed this and stopped his story, momentarily.

  “Y’know, you don’t have to sit way over there. There’s a seat.” He pointed to a spot on a bench beside him. “You’re one of them magisters, ain’t ye?” He patted the seat with the palm of his hand.

  “Training to be one,” I said, not moving.

  “We don’t get many travelers from up north these days, let alone magic-folk. How’s the—”

  “Wait,” one of the men said, slamming his drink down. “What about the geist? What happened? You can’t just stop in the middle of a story.”

  Pern hiccupped. “I thought you didn’t believe me?”

  The man gave him a look of profound annoyance. “That’s got nothing to do with it. I don’t believe in mermaids or faeries either, but when I’m halfway through I story, I want to hear the God-damned ending.”

  Pern wobbled in a drunken stupor. “Which part was I on?”

  “You were kneeling by the river,” I said gently.

  Before Pern could continue, the door on the far end of the tavern opened and sunlight flooded into the dark room. Magister Ross stood, partially silhouetted in the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest, and her eyes glaring furiously at us. She motioned for us to leave, and we did so, apologizing to Pern for the disruption.

  Kurian was the last to exit the tavern. He stretched his arms behind his head and cracked his neck. His eyes fluttered a bit as they adjusted to the light. “Oi, Amy,” he said flippantly. Amelia was Magister Ross’ first name. “Must’ve lost track of the time.”

  Ross’ eyes bore into him in a way that would’ve made me shrink. “Magister,” she corrected. “Magister Ross. And if you ever want to be a magister yourself, I’d suggest you learn to follow orders. Briggs has been waiting at the Eventide for almost an hour.”

  “We’re sorry,” Fenn said, shoving Kurian before he could dig us into a deeper hole.

  “I’m sure you are,” Ross said. “I trust you four can find your way to the airship without my escort?”

  “Yes, magister,” I said.

  Ross pulled a silver pocket watch out of her uniform and checked the time. When she looked up, she adjusted her spectacles and her eyes narrowed. “Fifteen minutes. If you’re not aboard by then, enjoy the thousand-mile walk back.”

  She left without another word.

  Fenn tried to shove Kurian again; but Kurian moved gracefully out of the way, and Fenn fell forward into the muddy road.

  “Can you please, please, please stop trying to sabotage our trial before it even begins, you blithering idiot?” Fenn barked, standing and wiping dirt off his blue artificer uniform.

  Kurian shrugged easily. “The old bat doesn’t decide whether we’re magisters or not. Imperator Briggs does.”

  “You’re an idiot if you think she can’t make our lives a living hell,” Fenn said.

  I put a hand on Kurian’s shoulder. “He’s right, you know. You’ve got to pick your battles. We’re not recruits anymore. We need to exercise some…where are you going?”

  Kurian sauntered off in the opposite direction of the Eventide. “Whatever you say, princess.”

  I stood there, dumbfounded by his comment. I ran to catch up with him, but Kadia and Fenn didn’t follow. Despite his casualness, Kurian moved like a lightning bolt through the crowded streets of Dorwick. People passed like river water, punctuated by the occasional mounted horseman or merchant wagon.

  The midsummer festival was a week away, but already the town was decorated for the occasion. Bright buttresses of orange and blue lined the buildings, and wires tied between buildings stretched overhead, bearing the many sigils of the Old Gods on long, triangular flags. Midsummer was the best time for fresh fruits and vegetables, and produce carts packed the sides of the road.

  When I finally caught up with Kurian, I was panting like a dog. He, on the other hand, seemed perfectly fine. He glanced back at me and grinned like a wolf.

  “You’re getting quicker,” he said.

  “We need to get to the airship,” I said. “They’re going to leave without us.”

  Kurian scoffed. “They’re going to leave the Sun King’s daughter thousands of miles from home?”

  I fumbled over my words. “I’m not…”

  Jutting out from the side of a crumbling launderer’s building were wooden poles connected to roofing tiles. Kurian jumped a full four feet off the ground and grabbed one, swung to the next, then swung to the next as casually as if he were strolling through a garden. He whistled, occasionally looking back at me as I struggled to keep up. When he finally landed, he gave me a moment to reach him.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Let’s hear the denial. Are you saying you’re not Princess Kyra Termane?”

  I gave him an incredulous look. “How long have you known?”

  Kurian scratched his forehead. “Eh, a few months. Why go around pretending to be a commoner?”

  I started off speaking much too loudly and slowly lowered my voice to a more reasonable level. “I don’t want to be treated differently because of my father, okay?”

  Kurian nodded. “I guess I can respect that.” He started again in the wrong direction. “Can’t change who we are though, can we?”

  I continued to follow. “Where are you going?”

  “I want to show you something. It’s not far. I promise it’ll be worth your time.” He winked at me. “But I’ll understand if you want to head back to the ship, princess. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

  I fumed a bit, but continued with him. He stopped running ahead and, instead, walked beside me. We walked for several minutes until we left the town proper. Circled around Dorwick were wide, sloping hills that covered the landscape all the way from mountains to the north and south. There were a great many boulders and jagged rocks strewn about, and ten thousand trees scattered like an ocean of green as far as the eye could see.

  Kurian and I ran into a patch of woodland. The ground was uneven and cluttered with twigs, leaves, and varieties of small life creeping and crawling through a tangle of overturned branches and rotting logs.

  I could tell he was trying not to get too far ahead, though he continued to jump and hang from branches in a way that made me dizzy. At first, I thought he was showing off; but the more I watched him, the more I realized that this was as natural to him as breathing. He would’ve been doing it whether I was there or not.

  It wasn’t long before I heard a faint sound on the air. It followed a swift, cool breeze that made me shiver. It wasn’t particularly cold; but when contrasted to the hot, oppressive heat of midsummer, it was noticeably chill.

  He stopped over the edge of a gulch. There was water at the bottom, little more than a rivulet, but it cut through a small base filled with strange trees. From a distance, the trees appeared to be tinged white. Not just the leaves, but the wood of the branches and trunks as well.

  Kurian climbed down the edge of the rocks effortlessly, almost gliding. I had considerably more trouble, but he caught me just as I lost my footing.

  As we approached the rows of white trees, I could see that they weren
’t just a strange color, they were slightly see-through, like looking through foggy glass. I touched one, and the bark felt smooth and polished like a marble. The roots of the trees dug into jagged crystals sticking up from the earth, and these crystals glowed with a rainbow of strange colors.

  When the wind moved through the gulch and touched the trees, I heard the most amazing thing: a soft, subtle song ringing through the air. It was like a melody, quiet at first, but growing louder the longer we were there.

  “I couldn’t come all this way and not stop by the Singing Gulch,” Kurian said, sitting on one of the large crystals. He seemed to anticipate my next questions, and motioned me to sit beside him. “There’s something special in ghostwood trees that cause them to soak up minerals from the ground. Over the years, they take on the structure of whatever material they soak up. In this case, these crystals. There’s something about the angle of the gulch that causes the wind to whistle as it passes through. Hence, the Singing Gulch.”

  I sat, and for a long moment just listened to the faint song drifting through the air. It was like a thousand small voices, speaking in some foreign language. I listened, trying in vain to single out one of the ‘voices’ in the trees.

  A moment passed, and I noticed that Kurian was staring at me with a smile. “Worth it?” he asked.

  I looked around at the colors and nodded. “Yeah.”

  Kurian settled into his seat, stretched, and removed a half-harp from his pack. He plucked one of the strings, tightened, and plucked again. Then he sang, long and sweet. It was as if he and the wind were singing together.

  I wish I could tell you the words he sang, but I can only remember how they felt. They felt the way sunlight feels after a long summer storm, just as the rainclouds move on. I imagine him singing about something so beautiful that words can’t do it justice. I imagine him singing about love, and loss, and joy, and everything that spills out of your heart in the late hours of night.