A Charm for Draius: A Novel of the Broken Kaskea (The Broken Kaskea Series Book 1)
Read A Charm for Draius: A Novel of the Broken Kaskea (The Broken Kaskea Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Laura E. Reeve
Tags: #fantasy, #female protagonist, #unicorns, #elementals, #necromancy
Contents
Third Kingday, Erin Two, T.Y. 1471
Third Fairday, Erin Two, T.Y. 1471
Third Ringday, Erin Two, T.Y. 1471
First Markday, Erin Three, T.Y. 1471
First Hireday, Erin Three, T.Y. 1471
First Millday, Erin Three, T.Y. 1471
First Millday, Erin Three, T.Y. 1471
First Kingday, Erin Three, T.Y. 1471
First Farmday, Erin Three, T.Y. 1471
Second Markday, Erin Three, T.Y. 1471
Second Hireday, Erin Three, T.Y. 1471
Second Fairday, Erin Three, T.Y. 1471
Also By Laura E. Reeve
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A Charm For Draius
A Novel of the Broken Kaskea
Laura E. Reeve
Cajun Coyote Media
MONUMENT, COLORADO
Copyright © 2015 by Laura E. Reeve.
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, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Cajun Coyote Media
P.O. Box 1063
Monument, CO 80132-1063
USA
www.ccm.ancestralstars.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Interior Layout by BookDesignTemplates.com
Cover by Laura E. Reeve
A Charm For Draius/ Laura E. Reeve — 1st ed.
ISBN 978-0-9891358-5-6
Dedication
For Dee
Acknowledgments
I began creating the world of the Phrenii when I was in college, long before the character Draius existed, so I apologize if I forget anyone in these acknowledgments. First, I thank my parents and my sister for having the patience to read my many stories. In addition, thank you, Wendy, for doing early copyediting on this story and others. Thank you, Dad, for working with me on the logical progression of technology. In the decades that followed, I began to piece together the first book that would be the story of Draius. I am grateful for the critiques and encouragement from many writing groups: Jim Ciletti’s workshops, the Pikes Peak Writers, and the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. Thanks also go to the many writer friends who gave up their time to critique parts of this book or its entirety: Daniel “Bear” Kelley, Jodie Kelley, John Britten, Robin Widmar, Summer Ficarrotta, and Scott Cowan, who also wrestled with the final editing of this version. I’m grateful to my agent, Jennifer Jackson, who had faith in the initial manuscript and championed it in a market where it just wouldn’t fit; and to my husband, who has forever been my steady advocate and supporter. Finally, thank you, Dee, for giving me kind encouragement to publish this while suffering through your own tragic loss.
CHAPTER ONE
The North Dibrean Valley
Death magic and life-light are antagonistic; neither can suffer the other to exist. When Nherissa created
necromancy
, it was turned against the five elemental Phrenii, the life-light creatures who protect our children and our spiritual path to the Stars. This is why King Kotiin made the practice of necromancy punishable by slow death on the wheel and ordered all written research and records destroyed. In hindsight, many consider this a superstitious overreaction.
—Royal Librarian Pettaja-Viisi Keri, in Tyrran Year (T.Y.) 1109
Draius ached to be home, yet couldn’t face what waited there. Maybe she shouldn’t have let her pride take lead. Maybe she shouldn’t have filed that formal complaint. Had she been a coward, to push it under Lady Anja’s door just before leaving on patrol? Her jaw tightened.
She put the spyglass to her eye—
for the twenty-seventh time
, her mind whispered—and examined the maelstrom sitting on the mouth of the Whitewater. From her vantage point high upstream, she saw starlight reflecting off the top of the dark whirlpool of clouds hiding her home cities. Lightning flickered at its edge.
That can’t be natural
. She shook away the profane thought as she watched lightning erupt from the storm, rippling and pushing mist through swollen-budded birches and pines up the valley toward her. She sat more than two days ride away, yet she felt the sound of the storm’s thunder hit her breastbone and travel through her body to ground itself in the boulder behind her back.
Sixty-seven
…
Sixty-eight…
Her mind, without encouragement, ticked off each surge of thunder during the watch.
A boot sole scratched on gravel.
She jumped to a crouch, knife in one hand and spyglass in the other. The figure, barely visible in the dawn drizzle, answered her challenge and proved to be Bordas, the leader of this tedious rotation.
“Going on your morning constitutional? Or, perhaps, checking up on me?” She adjusted her oilskin before sitting on the damp ground again.
He waited as another thunderclap washed over them. “Neither. I thought I’d check on Henri. Why are
you
pulling a double watch?” He squatted beside her and watched her face, frowning.
She stayed silent, enduring his regard with tight lips. Although she was the same rank, she was technically under his command; Bordas was King’s Guard and she was filling the auxiliary City Guard position on his patrol. He could order her to speak but when she agreed to take Henri’s watch, she’d promised her silence. A promise she regretted.
“As long as Henri didn’t pull his old dodge of gripes and pukes. Remember, I’m Meran-Kolme. I watched him in lessons. I’ve seen him heave up his food, without purging brew, just to be excused from schoolwork.” He waited.
When she shrugged, Bordas sighed and held out his hand. “How’s the storm?”
“Exactly where we left it six days ago.” She slapped the spyglass into his outstretched palm.
He did exactly as she had done, focusing tightly upon the sister cities, or rather the darkness that engulfed them. He jumped backward when fingers of lightning spurted and strained northward toward them. She silently counted to twenty before the thunder pounded them, then incremented the number of thunderclaps.
He handed back the spyglass. “It can’t be the same storm. If my opinion mattered, I’d say it’s—”
“Don’t.” Her throat tightened, but not from the cool air. “If it’s natural, the Phrenii can nudge it out to sea. But if elemental magic can’t move it…” She swallowed.
Necromancy
.
An evil that exists only in nightmares and children’s stories
.
“Whatever it is, it’s beyond this poor soldier’s grasp. If we push the horses, we can check the northern villages and get to the sister cities in two days.” He stood and scraped mud off his boots before climbing up to the campsite.
Bordas rousted the sleeping patrol while Draius stayed in her spot, leaning against the boulder. From behind, she heard jingling, flapping, boot steps, hooves stamping, all punctuated with brusque calls and the puffing of horses excited by the frenetic breaking of camp. She was already packed, so she continued to watch the vortex as daylight pushed in from the east. There was little wind at the top of this valley, and she could see her breath in the chill morning air. The gentler weather of false-spring was held in abeyance while that whorled grey and black chaos sat at the mouth of the river.
Seventy-one…
Seventy-two…
Down in the cities hidden by the maelstrom, her son Peri and her husband Jan waited. Thinking of them twisted her stomach. Was Peri safe? He was protected by Lady Anja and sheltered inside her house. How would Jan turn the storm to his advantage? She could hope that he was too busy to whisper in his matriarch’s ear or visit his lover.
Worry and humiliation swirled inside, nauseating her. She felt ready to vomit bile onto her boots. Just like Henri had.
CHAPTER TWO
Third Kingday, Erin Two, T.Y. 1471
I bound the old man’s wrists and ankles, because I was the only one who accepted what had to be done. I felt the lodestone’s desire, like the fleeting touch of a lover, as I attached the pulley hook to the bonds around his wrists. After I hoisted him to hang with his toes touching the floor, I moved to stand behind him, where I could no longer feel the lodestone.
Then I spoke into his ear. The roar of rain on the warehouse roof hid my words from my cohorts, but not from the old man. His eyes widened as he heard me recite the customary blessing to relieve dumb beasts of their souls before sacrifice. I looked away from the fear in his faded eyes, which were nearly blind from rum and suffering. My chest tightened. I told myself he was
less
than a beggar, because even panhandlers had names, family, and lineage. This man was
nunetton
, one of the “forgotten nameless” who would never be missed. In the eyes of the Tyrran matriarchs, he didn’t exist.
I pushed his quivering body, using the overhead conveyor, to within an arm-span of the lodestone’s crate. Careful to keep him between the crate and me, I gave one final push and stepped back. The others huddled several paces behind me. We watched the lodestone take his mind. He whimpered and drooled, imploring to be freed, until his cries turned to mad babble. Still we waited, listening for a change in the storm outside.
“By the Horn, put that nameless bastard out of his misery.”
I knew the voice, but I dared not name any of the cloaked figures, even in my thoughts. My employer nodded his agreement, but his eyes flickered in the shadow of his hood. Perhaps the oath angered him, or perhaps he feared a mere reference to the Phrenii might attract their attention—as if the lodestone’s antagonistic magic hadn’t already put us at risk.
“The documents were clear,” I said. “Satiating the lodestone should sooth it, help hide it from the Phrenii.”
We all flinched at the crack of thunder and flash of lightning radiating from the narrow windows above us. A pounding roar on the roof heralded the return of cherry-sized pellets of ice which had broken windows all over the sister cities. I glanced up at the mullioned panes, hoping their narrow shape and the overhang of the roof would protect them.
“Let’s not argue about theory while we drown. Finish this,” my employer’s fingers twitched to indicate the beggar. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.”
Holding down my resentment, I stepped behind him and sliced his throat. A surge of hunger, no longer just hazy desire, clutched at me. I jumped backward to safety.
Silence. The deluge stopped, as if a sluice gate fell before the source. Behind me, I heard breaths drawn in hope—
maybe the storm will end
—and trail into sighs of disappointment as a light patter began again. This was an expensive price, paid in blood, for such little effect.
Even though the experiment failed, I still had observations for my journal. I couldn’t examine the lodestone because it was hidden inside a crate and we carefully avoided shining light into the opening, for
our
protection. After losing several workers during the excavation of the stone, we’d learned to be careful. As I watched, the beggar’s body had its life sucked away, and soon, all I’d pull away with the rack hook would be a wrinkled husk.
Behind me, the tired argument began again.
“It’s going to tear apart the cities. That’s if the Guard doesn’t find us first.” The voice was panicked and I didn’t recognize it, although the sentiment that we were mere minutes away from a death sentence under the King’s Law was becoming a common refrain.
“It’s the Phrenii.” The wine merchant, with her exotic and cultured voice, wasn’t afraid to identify the problem.
“They haven’t detected us—”
“As far as we
know
. They’re the embodiment of life-light magic; we might as well try storing gunpowder beside a furnace. We must put distance between them and the lodestone.” The woman’s logic was flawless, and punctuated by a ground quake that caused the entire upper level to tremble.
“The Groygan offer is generous. Their payment would finance more experiments and research,” the politician said. My employer called him a traitor, but never to his face.
“Sending the lodestone east will risk the attention of pirates,” said the dry voice of the gentleman scholar.
The members of our secret society continued to debate whether to send the lodestone south or east, and if east, how we might avoid the piracy around the Auberei Archipelago. I walked to the edge of upper level and watched the water rising on the lower floor of the warehouse. A surge of mildew and rot overwhelmed my nose. Whatever was in the bottom layer of crates was now worthless, although that wasn’t my concern. Below, the accountant stepped carefully in the ankle-high flood, but dropped his robes into the fetid soup drink to grip the ladder.
“What about the Sareenian desert tribe?” my employer asked. He was still loyal to Tyrra and resisted sending the artifact to our traditional enemies.
“I told you, they are treacherous and too poor to come through on their offer.” The Sareenian ship owner had a thick accent that made him as recognizable as the female wine merchant.
I ignored the discussion. I don’t carry a thirst for revenge, as does my employer. He’s a dangerous man with deep, hidden passions that are unseemly for this venture, but as long as our goals coincide, I render my services to him in a professional manner. Neither am I influenced by Groygan gold, as are the Sareenian ship owner and the traitorous politician. I hope, through study and experiment, to recover the roots of magic for mankind. Wherever the lodestone goes, I will find the means to follow it.
“The storm isn’t moving.” The accountant panted as he finished the climb to our level. “The Phrenii are protecting the dikes about the river and the bridge, but the canals are rising in the lower city.”
The bass rumblings of a rebuilding storm followed his words. Obviously, there weren’t enough nunetton in the sister cities to keep the lodestone satiated—and I knew no other method of preventing its magic from clashing with the Phrenii. I turned to face my cohorts in their soggy robes.
“Gentlemen.” My address was general, considering our motley membership. “We have no other avenues. If we don’t want a disaster, we should move the lodestone away. Perhaps arrange a temporary situation?”
My employer’s barrel chest deflated with defeat, but his voice was implacable. “I won’t allow the Groygans to have it, even for a short period.”
“Perhaps that desert tribe can be useful, after all. We might be able to ship it south tomorrow.” The Sareenian ship owner glanced at the traitor.
At the time, I was the only one who noticed the surreptitious look they exchanged.
