Breathe (The Destiny Series: Book 1) (2 page)

Hours had passed since her father’s pronouncement, and Dearra found herself wandering the hallways of Maj Castle. She wasn’t in the habit of drifting aimlessly, but she didn’t want to stray too far for fear of missing some new turn of events. After the initial shock had worn off, she found herself tense and mostly in the way, as her father and Daniel started to make plans for the upcoming battle. Her father had listened with interest to the suggestions she offered, just as he listened to all of his people, but her inexperience with the Breken and her youth made it difficult for her to provide valuable insight. When she could no longer sit still, she walked until she found herself standing outside a door that was seldom ever opened. She grasped the handle and memories flooded her mind; the sound of laughter, the smell of lavender, and the feel of a warm, crackling fire in the hearth. Pushing the door open slowly, she slid inside the now mostly empty room, and drew a deep breath trying to recapture something that had been lost, but there was nothing. No laughter, nor hint of lavender remained. The room was slightly musty and a little damp. The chilled air of the stone room settled over her like a cloak. Even in summer this room cooled quickly, and there was no fire ablaze to warm her.

The last rays of the afternoon sun glinted through the small window she faced, though her eyes couldn’t really see anything beyond the glass. A small brown and white spider worked diligently in one corner of the window, wrapping his recently caught prey in layer after layer of strong silk. The fly wriggled weakly against a binding it had no hope of which to break free. Dearra thought she knew how that fly must feel, its heart hammering madly as the poison that had entered its system worked insidiously to end its struggles. There was no chance of escape, only a quick and merciful end to its pain.

How many times had Dearra stood in this room wishing desperately to be anywhere else? Her mother’s voice would softly encourage her to sit and pick up her needle, but Dearra never seemed able to keep still. Even after picking up her work, she would pace about the room as she stabbed the needle haphazardly again and again into the abused cloth. On those occasions, the time seemed to stand still, and minutes seemed to last hours. She would, inevitably, find herself edging nearer and nearer the door, yearning to break free and run to the practice fields where Daniel and her father would be training with the others, the distant clang of steel and raucous laughter pulling at her.

And now, years later, all she longed to do in moments of pain or doubt was return to this empty chamber and seek the comfort she could no longer have from a mother who was no longer there.

She sat in her mother’s long abandoned chair, her fingers tracing idly over the delicately carved wood, while her thoughts tumbled one over the other, vying for her attention.

“They are coming,” her father had said. Dearra had been an infant the last time the Breken had set foot on the shores of her homeland. Now it was her turn to face them. She had practiced for this her entire life, but as any seasoned warrior would tell you, practice and battle were two very different things.

Oh, she had certainly faced danger before, like the pirates who came up from the south to raid stores of grain and livestock from the outlying farms. But with them it was more like a game. They were so much more at ease on the sea that coming ashore to pilfer goods was mostly done under the cover of darkness. Stealth and cunning were their weapons of choice, and if they were caught, they were more likely to run than fight.

Then there was the winter, two seasons past, when the wolves had ventured out of their homes to the north, and one had tried to make off with Meggy and Dafyd’s youngest son, Devon, while he was happily at play on the frozen pond by his home. The wolves were usually content to keep to their part of the island, and they grew fat on a diet of squirrels and rabbits. Their population remained in check as they did not breed every season, as most wolves did, but only every fourth year, seeing as the Alpha female was content with one or two pups, and as life could be cruel, there were no guarantees of even those few seeing adulthood. Dearra still barely suppressed seething rage over the fact that she had been unable to kill the Alpha female. She had tracked her for more than two days, in frigid temperatures. Only Daniel’s influence had kept her from pursuing the she-wolf until either Dearra or the wolf was dead, but this was so much worse than one rogue wolf. She thought of the Breken here, in her home, fighting her friends and family. The golden fire in her eyes burned brightly at the images her imagination conjured. She could not allow those she loved to be harmed. Slowly, she reigned in her temper and brought her breathing under control, until finally, at length, the fire in her eyes cooled to embers.

Dearra put her hands firmly on the arms of her mother’s chair and pushed herself up. She shook her head briskly as she tried to clear her troubled mind. Brooding in the gloom of a dead women’s sitting room wasn’t going to do her or anyone else any good. It was time for action, not for pity. Squaring her shoulders, she left her sanctuary, and made her way to the one person she knew she could count on for wise counsel and to give her something to do other than feel sorry for herself.

“Daniel?” Dearra called. She strode into the massive chamber that was the domain of Maj’s weapons master and scanned the room for her friend.

The weapons room of Maj Castle was smaller in size only to the Great Hall. A long rectangular room, it was unadorned, but still stunning. Rack after rack of every conceivable weapon lined the walls. Swords of every design glimmered and gleamed in the torchlight that lit the room. There were axes, polearms, maces, and clubs, almost too many to count. Along another wall were longbows and crossbows, as well as box after box of finely made arrows and bolts for those weapons. Several large tables filled the center of the room, offering a place to work on weapons, or repair the mostly leather armor that was favored by the people of Maj. Leather offered less protection than heavy chain mail, but more freedom of movement. It was thought that too much armor was likely to make you complacent, relying on the thick hide to save you from attack, rather than your own skill.

Daniel emerged from behind a rack of swords carrying an old and badly scarred wooden box. The leather hinges on the box looked as though they had not been opened in centuries. The case was long and narrow, and it appeared quite plain and dirty in comparison to the rest of the immaculately clean room and gear. Dearra cocked a quizzical eyebrow as she watched Daniel set it down on one of the tables, with gentle reverence.

Daniel was not only weapons master of Maj, not only trusted friend and advisor to Hugh, Lord of Maj, but also Dearra’s friend and teacher. Standing at only 5’9”, he was not tall, but he was built like a bull, thick-necked and barrel-chested. A crown of flaming red hair was on his head, which was as unusual as Dearra’s own white blonde. The people of Mirin Tor tended to have brown hair of varying shades. His eyes were green, and a hint of freckles were scattered across the bridge of his nose. Gruff and dangerous when provoked, but never rash, he was not a man to be crossed. His quick mind assessed every situation, and though he tended to choose his course with speed, he also did so with thought and good judgment.

Dearra tore her gaze from the strange box perched on the table. In truth, she was more than a little curious about the contents of that box. She did not remember ever seeing it before, but she knew that if Daniel wanted her to know what was in it, he would tell her. If he did not wish her to know, well then, she could sooner defeat an army of Breken single handedly, as make him reveal his secrets.

She spoke quickly, trying to keep her eyes from drifting back to the mysterious box. “Daniel, I came to see if you needed anything, or more truthfully if you had anything I could do. I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin!” Dearra shrugged. A blush tinged her cheeks at the admission.

Daniel pretended to take great interest in a crossbow that was not quite straight on its stand. He knew how she felt, and the notice of her blush would only embarrass them both. “I was just on my way back to the Great Hall to speak with Hugh. You may as well come along, or I’ll just have to repeat everything to you again later.”

Daniel strode from the room a few paces ahead of Dearra. She took a last, questioning look at the grubby, wooden box left sitting silently in the center of the table, and sighing to herself, ignoring that her fingers were itching to lift the lid and peek inside, she followed Daniel from the room.

Entering the Great Hall at any other time was usually a joyous occasion. Whether for the winter solstice, Harvest Celebration, or just to share the evening meal with family and friends, laughter was a frequent visitor. One could always count on storytelling and friendly banter that would invariably lend itself to competitions and verbal sparring as to who was the best fighter or farmer. As the men were sure to remark, time and time again, it took far more skill to wield a hoe than to wield sword. A sword would have but one death at the end of it, while a man would find a thousand tortures at the end of a hoe if his wife was displeased with his day’s labor.

The hall was massive. It was large enough to hold everyone at one time, so long as you didn’t mind having a toe stepped on now and again. During the day, light streamed from dozens of towering windows that ran along the sides of the room. Thick, wooden shutters could be closed in a time of need, but were currently thrown back to let the light in. Torches were set into the walls and used to give light in the evening. Long trestle tables and benches filled the room to be used at meal time, or pushed back against the walls for celebrations and dancing. At the far end of the room stood a gigantic fireplace. It was tall enough for Dearra to stand up in, with room to spare. It offered light and heat to the sometimes chilly room. A large chair, Hugh’s chair, stood at the center of the head table. It was where he would preside over the festivities, or simply partake in a meal with the good people of Maj. Today, however, the Great Hall was being used for a completely different purpose, and forty of Maj’s best and bravest warriors stood, sat, or paced around the room.

Hugh leaned over one of the large tables and hastily finished the letter he had been writing to King Jaymes, warning of the Breken’s approach. Carly, Dearra’s best friend, would leave as soon as one of the skiffs could be made ready to travel with a small group to the mainland. Even though the coming attack was likely only a raid into their land for slaves and goods, the king needed to be informed and prepared in the event aid was needed, or it turned out the Breken were about to launch a larger attack against the mainland.

Such an attack hadn’t happened in over 300 years, but to be too complacent was to be dead, and the Maj were, after all, the guardians of Mirin Tor. If they fell, who could say what the Breken would try to do with their advantage? Those who fed on power would never let such an opportunity slip by.

Hugh rolled the parchment and tied it with a leather thong before handing it over to Carly and dismissing her with a curt nod. Wiping ink from his hands, he straightened, and approached his waiting warriors. “I think you all know the seriousness of our situation,” he said, “so I won’t waste words on that score, but we’ve spent a lifetime preparing for this, and many of us have faced this foe before. For those of you who have not, I will only say this: trust in yourselves, and trust in one another. Our advantage is that we are one. The Breken are only out for themselves, and that is their weakness. They will abandon each other without a second glance to save their own necks, and when they are alone, they are vulnerable. Don’t try to fight alone; you won’t win. Daniel, what is your advice? You remember the last time the Breken came here, though you weren’t more than a child yourself.”

Hugh knew Daniel was well liked and respected, and his words would go a long way to ease some of the stress he could feel radiating off the people around him.

Daniel stood slowly and turned to face his lord and friend. “Hugh, you know I fight by your side until the end,” he said, “but I fear for our younger warriors who have not been tested in true battle. We should first decide who will meet the Breken and who will go with the children to act as their defense, should things go badly.”

“I can fight!” Dearra said, leaping to her feet. She was overwhelmed by the sudden fear that she would be cast aside for older, more experienced warriors, while she was left to watch over the children.

“Sit down, Dearra,” Hugh said gently but firmly. “Everyone here knows your skill and your courage, and they will find hope in the fact that you fight with them, but be still and let Daniel speak.”

Dearra slowly sat on one of the wooden benches behind her, embarrassed, yet again, by the temper that flared within her. A soft flush of pink spread to her cheeks as she murmured her apologies to Daniel.

When Daniel spoke again, it was not as gently as Hugh, and his frustration with his young student was plain. “Patience, Dearra! Always I have tried to teach you to have patience, and all the while you seek to test mine. I taught you, myself, and I know you are ready, but remember, a true warrior must have skill and sense in equal measure, or she will find herself the bravest fool at her own funeral.”

Dearra nodded slowly. The pink flush in her cheeks turned to crimson at the rebuke from the weapons master.

“Lord, I suggest Rordan, Serah, Tiersa, and Eldan go to the ships to prepare the crews. They may be able to sound the alarm that much sooner, and give us a bit more time to get as many to safety as possible.”