Shadows: Book One of the Eligia Shala
Read Shadows: Book One of the Eligia Shala Online
Authors: Gaynor Deal
SHADOWS
Book One of the Eligia Shala
Gaynor Deal
iUniverse, Inc.
Bloomington
Shadows
Book One of the Eligia Shala
Copyright © 2010 by Gaynor Deal
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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ISBN: 978-1-4502-8057-0 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4502-8058-7 (dj)
ISBN: 978-1-4502-8059-4 (ebk)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2010918786
Printed in the United States of America
iUniverse rev. date: 02/14/2011
FOR KEVIN,
ANDY & ELEANOR
Contents
Acknowledgements
Firstly, I need to thank my parents. Their willingness to let me “hibernate” with a good book, and Mum’s fairy tales, helped to develop a love of reading that has only grown stronger with time, and a mind open to the world of imagination.
To the wonderful, talented, Ms. Taryn Nida, a deep debt of gratitude for taking on the cover art project over such a short time frame.
To the ladies of WIP – Betty, Donna and Lynda. They were there for the start of the book, have added their thoughts, ideas and criticism to it, and will be here to see it completed. I couldn’t ask for better friends.
The creation of Jenevra Couressime owes a lot to watching hours of classes at Katy ATA. The group of young people who trained and taught together for several years, with my own children, Andy & Eleanor, showed that leadership and responsibility can be handled by teenagers with a degree of kindness not seen too often in martial arts. I will always remember and be grateful for the friendships we made there. Particular thanks go to the ladies: Taryn Nida (of the art work), Whitney Borgman, Angie Stubler, Morgan Brasier, Sarah Woods, and our dear friends Beth and Kelsey Roberts.
Thanks also to Carol, Gerry, and Chris Frentz, owners and instructors; Louis Mckay, Jeremy Pyle, Cliff Melody, Daren Fowler, Tyler Haugseth, and Mr. Russell Borgman.
Most of Shadows was written during my four years in Rio de Janeiro. The “cidade maravilhosa” provided much inspiration for the background detail of the book – especially the giant bamboo in Jardim Botanico. With no visa to work, I relied on the friendships I made there to keep me sane – so a huge debt of gratitude to all at Christ Church (the only English-speaking Anglican church in the city) - especially to Sue, Rachel and David Weller, Gaynor Smith, Roy and Noreen Smith, Carole and Ron Lees, and Ruth Watson; the Beney and Carter families, and every member of the choir!
For her many words of advice and hours of companionship at Posto 4 on Copacabana, I raise a glass to Dawn Whipp for getting me through that last year!
There are many others whose friendship and support over the years have meant so much. You know who you are, and I thank you all.
Most of all, I have to thank Kevin. Without his love and encouragement (in women they call it nagging) this book would never have seen print.
PROLOGUE
Thick, clotting blood covered her hands; dark, sticky, under her fingernails, on her face. She could smell the coppery tang in the very innermost core of her being. It was everywhere. Hundreds of faces turned their grieving eyes upon her. Widows and orphans cursed her name; sorrowing, accusing, haunting her forever. As she knelt in the center of darkness, surrounded by the stench of dead and dying, she cradled the body lying cold in her arms, raised her face, and howled in desperate anguish at the Gods.
Her sleeper’s scream emerged as a stifled sob as she woke suddenly. With a ragged breath, and a muted prayer of thanks that she hadn’t disturbed anyone with her nightmare, she rose and slipped past the silent forms sleeping on their mats around her.
In the Temple, she sank prostrate onto the cold stone floor, forehead resting on the backs of her hands. With the images of those accusing faces still before her, she prayed to the seventh God for forgiveness, for absolution for a deed as yet uncommitted.
In the chilled stillness of the early morning, even as she prayed for fate to pass her by, she knew. The future would be as it must; her curse or her salvation.
CHAPTER ONE
Cool breezes scattered the early morning mist in ghostly tendrils through the bamboo grove that covered the crown of the hillside: huge, primeval ferns bowed with dew flowed down the slopes, dappling the pale sunrise into lacy patterns on the soft ground. Only the hushed whisper of silk echoed the breeze as three gray robed figures slipped in between the trees, heading for the small rocky shore; silently waiting, as a gray ship with dappled sails rounded the jagged promontory that sheltered the harbor. With a deep, formal bow, the third gray-clad figure boarded swiftly and moved to the stern of the ship, standing there in silent salute to the two left on the island.
Jenevra Couressime pushed the deep hood of her cloak back and closed her eyes, remembering when this very ship had brought her to the island just over five years ago. Five years that had changed her life beyond anything she had ever expected. She had never imagined then that it would be this hard to leave again. With all her heart she wished she could stay.
The ship’s master was standing respectfully at her right shoulder. “Nimh’a”, he bowed. “A space is prepared for you if it is your wish to use it.” He stepped back, gesturing towards a small cabin near the back of the ship. “I will let you know when we approach.”
Jenevra bowed her thanks, walking into the bare-boarded cabin; her eyes taking in a small crate upturned to serve as a table, and several rather threadbare cushions scattered on the floor, leached colorless by sea, sun and wind. Sitting cross-legged, she pulled the gray cloak from her shoulders, revealing a slender figure in gray tunic and pants. Carefully checking the inside of the cloak for a pocket, she settled back satisfied when she heard a slight crackle of thin parchment. Her mind flitted through the torrent of information she had been given recently, and the bowl of cold fish and fruit sat untouched at her side, as she gazed out of the low window in the cabin. The long line of sea and sky at the horizon changed colors as they sailed; as Jenevra considered the journey lying in front of her: a journey that would take her back into the heart of the Imperial family of the Marissime Empire.
Jenevra thought of her last meeting with Dai’Nimh, the Master of the island she’d just left. Dai’Nimh had been her most senior teacher for much of the time she had been on the island, a significant honor she had been told. Dai’Nimh was old now, and rarely took on any new students for himself, preferring to let the younger masters train them. But Jenevra, well, she’d been different in so many ways. Dai’Nimh had always reminded her of how unique an opportunity she had been given, and the depth of the obligation that placed upon her. At that last meeting, Dai’Nimh had walked the gravel pathways of the stone sanctuary with her, his gentle voice finally explaining part of the reason she had been trained upon the island; why she had been only the second woman in five hundred years to be taken and trained in the ancient arts.
“Obedience to our aims, Nimh’a,” With her eyes closed, Jenevra could hear his voice as if he was walking next to her. “Now, above all else, you must understand that. You have spent five years learning our ways. If I had a choice, you would remain here, in safety, to continue your training. You have already mastered most of the martial skills we can teach you. To become a Master, you must learn the mystical arts. You have it within you, but you can no longer do that here.” Silencing her predictable argument with his raised hand, he had turned to face Jenevra; taking her face between his hands and looking directly into her eyes. “I have seen, Nimh’a. That is all you need to know. It is no longer safe for you to remain here…” He had added the one argument he knew would cut through any objection she thought to make, “Your presence here puts the entire Order in jeopardy. You must leave.”
She had sworn her Oath to the Temple before the three highest ranking Masters. There had been a second ceremony, with just Jenevra, Dai’Nimh, and another; a ceremony that bonded the three of them heart and soul, to death and beyond. Even in her sleep, Jenevra’s hand moved towards the light chain around her neck, and the beating pulse of the talisman she carried there. Every facet of her training on the Island had directed her toward an acceptance of what she was. Willingly, she would give her life for the Order or the Empire should it be required of her. That, she thought, with a wry twitch of her nose, would be the easy part.
The ship sailed on; silently slipping through the water like an aquatic predator. Jenevra spent much of the journey sifting through memories, trying to bring her mind back to her old home; trying to re-establish some mental connection with the girl she had been when she left the Empire. It wasn’t easy. So much of her training on the island had involved excising old thought patterns and behaviors. Yet now her future was bound into reviving those uncomfortable connections.
At sunrise on the seventh day after leaving the Island, the Captain tapped gently on the cabin door, to inform his passenger that they had arrived at their destination.
Jenevra rose to her feet in one fluid motion, gathered her few belongings, and joined him on the deck, glaring in disgust at the swirling sea mist that surrounded them; cutting off her view of the shore.
“A nice mist just off the shoreline, Nimh’a,” the Captain’s solid bulk next to her felt reassuringly substantial in the surreal light. “Good for not being seen by unexpected eyes, yes?”
Jenevra smiled slightly, appreciating the man’s different perspective. “Where exactly will you be putting me ashore?” she asked in the hushed tones people automatically assume in mist and fog.
“We’re just west of Anzaldua, Nimh’a,” the Captain waved his arm indicating the skiff being lowered into the water. “You have a few supplies in here.” He patted a small pack he held out to the princess and inclined his head towards the mountainous coastline just visible through the mist. “We were honored by your presence. Travel peacefully, Nimh’a.” He bowed a final time, deep with respect, and signaled his crew to take their passenger ashore.
With the sea mist already sneaking cold damp fingers through the thin silk of Jenevra’s tunic, she shifted her shoulders against the clinging wetness, and pulled on a heavier cloak offered by one of the sailors, stuffing the light cloak she had worn leaving the Island into the pack.
A few minutes later, the crew had brought the skiff expertly to the shore and, for only the third time in almost twice as many years, Imperial Princess Jenevra Couressime set foot upon Maressime Empire territory.
Never had it felt so unfamiliar, so alien…so very far from home.
Jenevra watched as the sailors were swallowed by the mist once more, then turned and faced into the shore, listening carefully for any sound of someone following. Satisfied that the beach was truly deserted, she swung the pack over her shoulders and began to walk steadily away from the beach. Like a shadow cutting the mist, she disappeared into the forest, and within seconds the foggy shoreline was deserted once more.
Striding upwards into a thick forest of tall dark, fragrant pine trees, Jenevra glanced about warily. As a small child she had grown up in and around forests just like this one, yet after the pale dancing light of the whistling bamboo groves on the Island, the thick branches and resinous scent suddenly felt gloomy and oppressive; the fog twisting, weaving through the trees, closing sight in to a short range. Consciously suppressing an uncharacteristic desire for sunlight, she tightened the straps on her pack and began moving at a slow trot, weaving steadily through the trees, the sound of her feet muffled by the thick litter of pine needles.
For two days she jogged the craggy mountain pathways through the forest; sleeping in brief snatches when a sheltered grove or cave appeared. She ate little and mostly while moving. As the sun slipped behind the sullen mountains, late on the second day, taking the little of the day’s warmth with it, Jenevra walked down the last southern stretch of hillside towards the Plain of Salan. Lake Salanova lay still as ice in the last low glimmers of sunlight, its deep azure reflecting the mountains to its north. Filled with memories, Jenevra paced by the lake’s edge; slowly stretching out her muscles before the evening chill settled into them; munching on a handful of light oatcakes and cheese. The twin moons hung silently in the sky; this early in the year they were as yet slim, silvered crescents, but provided enough light to see on this cloudless night. It felt strange to be alone in this huge space. On the Island, even if she had chosen solitude, there was always the knowledge that there were other people nearby. Silence was frequently preferred by most of the community, but it had been the gentle silence of nature, of tranquility. In this forest, she knew, it would be easy to just disappear. She could go and live a life of her own choosing with no Order or Imperial Court to force her allegiance. Tempting as it was, she knew that following Dai-Nimh’s instructions was part of the discipline she needed to master on her own.
The morning of her third day back in Maressia brought an unwelcome return to the cold of late winter in the mountains. Jenevra woke from her cramped sleep under a fallen pine trunk to find it had sheltered her from most of the snow that had fallen. Shaking her cloak out, she hoped it would stop the wetness from soaking through. It was years since she’d seen snow, but the novelty of the crisp, white flakes was tempered by the thought of traveling in it. She packed her few things together, gritting her teeth as her fingers fumbled awkwardly in the cold. Blowing on her hands, and wishing she had gloves, Jenevra set off for another day’s trek.
