Dragonshade (The Secret Chronicles of Lost Magic Book 2)

by Aderyn Wood

  “It's a busy time for me, Danael,” Ana said as she sorted her baskets. “Summer seems to come and go as quickly as a shooting star, and I have to collect the forest herbs before the wynter. Perhaps you can walk with me and my daughter and I’ll find somewhat to help with your headache. In return, you can help us collect herbs.”

  Yana stared at her mother with a scowl before turning and striding toward the path behind the rondhus that led to the forest.

  “Of course, Ana. I would be glad to help.” He clutched the basket Ana handed him.

  In the forest, it was cooler, and the air proved cleaner. No cook fires or work fires for forging weapons or smoking fish smudged the air. There was no stench from rubbish piles or night soil. It was fresh, cool, and cleansing. Danael found himself taking deep slow breaths, and it already seemed as though his headache had tempered.

  Danael followed a curve in the path. Ahead, Ana seemed to be having harsh words with her daughter.

  He stalled, not sure whether to busy himself while they sorted out their differences. It was clear Yana held a grudge against him due to the actions of his father, and he couldn’t blame her for it.

  “Danael, please come here,” Ana called.

  Danael approached. Yana stood with arms folded and her back to her mother.

  “I hope I’ve not caused any trouble for you, Ana,” Danael said as he glanced at her daughter.

  “Not at all.”

  Yana stomped her foot.

  “Yana! That's enough. You’re being rude,” Ana said with a frown. “If you can’t be civil and help your mother with the herbs, you can go wake your da. The bees need attending.”

  Bees. Danael’s stomach clenched with a memory. That day in the forest.

  Yana turned and look straight at him. “Yes,” she said with no stutter, and her eyes, already as black as a starless sky, seemed to darken before she stalked back along the path toward the rondhus.

  “I’m sorry about my daughter. Her rudeness is unacceptable. I will make her apologise later when she has calmed down.”

  Danael hardly heard Ana’s words, his mind focused on the childhood memory – that summer, so long ago. He’d followed the other children to the forest. The children had followed Simple Yana. They were in the mood for sport and Yana always proved an entertaining victim. The teasing started as soon as she was out of earshot of her parents.

  “Do you know what’s thicker than the oldest oak trunk?”

  “Simple Yana.”

  “Do you know what’s as dumb as a muskrat?”

  “Dumb Yana.”

  “Stupid Yana.”

  “Halfwit Yana.”

  “So, Yarner Yana, what do you say?”

  “C’mon, Yarner Yana. Why won’t you talk? We not good enough to talk to?”

  Danael’s throat went dry as the memory played out. The first of them threw a stone. Then another. It wasn’t till the tenth or twelfth stone that it happened. Yana had stopped running. She’d crouched, huddled over like a porcupine. For a single moment their teasing had intensified, and the stones rained down on little Yana. But only for a moment, for that was when the darkness fell. It wasn’t the shadow of a cloud crossing the sun. It was something altogether different, and when they looked up to see, the stones dropped from their hands and the children ran faster than ever before.

  A swarm of bees came for them. Their anger apparent in the preternatural drone that filled the air like demons straight from Hador. Evil scouts from Vulkar himself. It was a swarm like none they’d seen. A swarm of thousands. Many thousands. It seemed that every insect in all of Varg Isht had congregated and now drove a vicious attack toward them. And all the while, Yana mumbled her own strange words. Over and over.

  Danael blinked. They’d all been stung. Some more than others. Kiljad, their ring-leader, was completely covered in bee stings and Ana was called to treat the boy who came very close to meeting Vulkar that night. Only Yana had escaped the swarms’ wrath. The children all agreed she had summoned the swarms from Hador. That her grandmother was a witch, and she’d probably inherited her evil magic. But the adults brushed it off as childhood imaginings. Still, Danael had never forgotten that day, and he hoped Yana wasn’t about to summon any bees now.

  Ana bent to harvest a plant growing in the shade of an oak and brushed her fingers against it. A strong mint aroma wafted to him. She cut some of the stems with a knife and tied them with string before placing them in the basket.

  She pinched off two leaves and handed them to Danael. “Chew on these.”

  Danael did as instructed. The menthol flavour burst in his mouth and cooled his head, settling his stomach further. “Thank you.”

  “If you wouldn't mind doing what I did just now, and fill this basket with the mountain mint, that would be a help.” She handed Danael a length of string. “You have your table dagger?”

  “Aye.”

  “Very good. Chew on the mint. If your headache doesn't fade I'll give you something stronger in the rondhus.”

  Ana found a patch of a different herb close by and she sat to do a similar task, tying bunches of herbs with the string.

  Danael found a dry area to sit and began his work, chewing the mint as he did so. The headache eased even more. He glanced at Ana who remained focussed on her task. The mingling aroma of mint and other perfumes filled the shady space.

  Danael considered the questions he wanted to ask. He took a breath and opened his mouth. “Do you agree with your husband's eagerness for battle?” His voice shook a little.

  Ana paused her work to look at him, a worried expression on her face. “I… I find it difficult to agree with war. Though, I know my husband has a point. If we could send a strong message to the Halkan people, perhaps it would bring peace.” She shrugged. “But what if it does the very opposite? What if it vexes them the way bees are angered when their hive is threatened?”

  Danael turned his head sharply at Ana, searching her expression, but her gaze remained fixed on her task. He took a slow breath. “My father often seems to be at odds with Petar. I wondered if perhaps there is some history I don't know about.”

  Ana’s small hands stilled, her knife in one and the string in the other. “Is it your headache you came to see me about, or this so-called history you have imagined?”

  Danael accidentally swallowed the mint leaves. His eyes found Ana. Like her hair, her eyes were black and their darkness seemed troubled.

  Ana stood, brushed off her smock and placed the string and knife along with the herbs into the basket before picking it up. “If you could continue with the mountain mint.” She nodded. “I need to go further into the forest now.” She turned and took quick steps up the trail.

  Danael closed his eyes. He’d offended her. Whatever had happened between his father and Petar, Ana had no wish to bring it to light .

  Part IV

  Azzuri

  Sommer

  Eighth year of King Amar-Sin’s reign

  5,847 years ago…

  Sargan

  Sargan nudged his way through the bustling crowd. Pilgrims had begun arriving two days ago to partake in a new custom instigated by Sargan’s father-king. The grand celebration had been Qisht’s idea, one inspired from his homeland ‒ Urul, the enemy city. Their sacred festival paid hommage to Urul's patron god, Zroaras. It had become customary for the City of Gold to invite all leal cities to participate.

  Sargan's father adopted the practice, and all Azzuri's allies were invited to Phadite’s Long Night, a celebration that coincided with an astrological wonder in which three shining celestial bodies illuminated the night sky – the moon, Gayat’s star, and the blue comet that would return in a fiery blaze of indigo across the sky.

  Eight sommers past the first such celebration took place, Azzuri had hosted a grand Festival of Light, and opened its gates to thousands upon thousands of visitors. It was, after all, a worthy enterprise. A way to further cement political connections and build goodwill among their leal cities.


  Sargan had been seven sommers old, but he remembered it well enough. Singers, poets, actors, magicians, fire dancers and acrobats performed nonstop in the public squares, bazaars, streets and alleys. Food vendors from all over Zraemia, and even beyond, set up temporary stalls to trade exotic preserved fruits, nuts, dried meats and other morsels from as far away as Tarzyshta – a fabled land all the way to the southeast, and one Sargan hoped to see for himself one day. Likewise, merchants displaying treasures, like the exotic new cloth, silk – rarer than any gem and more expensive – also, the finest linens, dyes, oils, clay pots, vases, cosmetics and perfumes, had made impressive trades in the bazaar or wherever they could squeeze their stalls. It was the most wondrous few days of Sargan’s short life, and he eagerly anticipated a similar experience this coming festival.

  Messengers were dispatched moons ago and had ridden vast distances on camel-back over the harsh Zraemian desert, or boarded galleys on the river to bestow the official invitations on gilded tablets. All the Amar cities were invited – Gordas, Phaebia, Urk, Lavak and Tutenbad – and this festival, some of the minor cities had been rewarded with golden invitations, including Praeta, Sargan noted. The death city’s King Thasus had arrived two days past in his opulent river boat with golden gunwales that sparkled in the sunlight. No one built more impressive vessels than the boat builders of Praeta. Sargan’s father had greeted Thasus as though he were an Amar king, and spent an entire afternoon with the Praetan in private, discussing boat building Qisht had divulged.

  Of course, the enemy city Urul would also be present at the festival. Their royal delegation was due to arrive soon so that Prince Rabi of Urul, and Azzuri’s heir-prince Hadanash may be formally exchanged and reunited with their families after three years in diplomatic hostage. Their exchange had guaranteed a short peace for all Zraemians, putting a stop to border battles backed by the two giant cities. Sargan tried to quash his anxiety, wondering again how his father intended to ensure peace for the future. Would he really marry Sargan’s sister off to their enemy? His brother’s return also plucked at Sargan’s fears for himself. Rabi the rat was one kind of bull, his brother-prince quite another. Sargan pushed his worries down. He refused to let the imminent return of Hadanash dampen his excitement about the festival.

  Azzuri was already bulging at its walls. Many arrivals were from the wealthy classes, the kings, queens, and members of royal families, their retinues and military leaders, as well as the priests, scribes and officials that made up the nobility. Their colourful clothes and jewels bespoke wealth and status, like peacocks strutting among pigeons. It was the craftsmen, merchants and artisans who made up the bulk of the population, but now and then Sargan spotted a family of peasants. Their raw linen, and wide-eyed expressions gave their lowly status away. Sargan made room for them, they’d have sacrificed much for such a journey.

  Sargan did his best to weave through the growing tide of people, donkeys and camels, and wondered not for the first time, if the city could house all these people. The king had ordered the palace slaves to vacate their quarters and share floor space together. Poorer families were paid with extra grain tokens to sleep in the desert in tents so that nobles could take temporary residence in their vacated homes. Even the city’s river docks were being used as accommodation, with the royal fleet of galleys transformed into floating apartments and trade boats leased out for the event.

  The wave of new arrivals moved to the plaza at the foot of the palace where scribes were organising accommodation, tablets in hand, checking lists and names. After the last festival, the king had ordered the construction of five guest palaces, but only three had been completed and they were already filled with dust-ridden and exhausted travellers.

  Earlier, from his palace terrace, Sargan had watched the flow of new arrivals, his stomach fluttering with growing excitement. It wasn’t long before he'd spotted what he’d been looking for. A group of people, vastly different from all others, had entered the city. Rather than linen they wore tunics and skirts made of animal hide. They travelled on foot, a few camels and desert dogs their only animal companions. They were one of the few remaining desert tribes known as the Cassites. They still lived a nomadic lifestyle, but once every sommer or two they returned to Azzuri. Their leader was an aged desert seer named Zamug, and he’d promised Sargan they’d visit for the festival.

  Sargan had raced down the palace steps, and out the gates, easily avoiding the palace guards who were busy with the rush of people.

  He stretched his neck as he scanned the crowd for the Cassites. City guards stood to attention at their posts along the main street; their blue skirts unblemished and their swords gleaming in their belts. A sense of order and authority radiated from them and Sargan felt pride in his city – the safest and most orderly in all Zraemia. It hadn’t always been that way, but his father’s rule had made it so. The newcomers would be amazed, none of them had experienced the kind of peaceful law and order Azzurians enjoyed every day.

  Sargan paused to squint into the hot noon sunshine. Dust swirled with so many footsteps, but then he spotted them. By the time he reached the old desert seer, Sargan was breathless. Sweat dampened his tunic and he had to double over before the old man, to catch his breath.

  A dark wrinkled hand reached out and clasped Sargan's shoulder. “Prince Sargan. It is a great pleasure to see you again.”

  Sargan, his hand still resting on his knees, looked up at the old man and puffed. He spoke in desert speech. “Hello, Zamug. It's good to see you too.”

  “Here we are, my prince.” Kalban placed a steaming pot on the table. “Pomegranate and rose tea, and a sample of olives just arrived this morning from Xantia. Enjoy.” Kalban bowed and left Sargan and his two guests to attend other patrons in the little teahouse.

  “Very generous of you, Sargan,” Zamug said, his gaze fixed on the olives.

  Sargan realised Zamug and his novice, Enlil, must be ravenous after their travels. “Think nothing of it.” He picked up the pot of tea and poured a good amount into the little clay cups. “When Kalban returns I will order for us an Azzurian favourite – grilled moon fish.”

  Zamug inclined his head. “It would be most welcome.”

  The two desert men downed the tea in one gulp.

  “Refreshing,” Enlil said.

  Sargan refilled their cups. “Will you be staying for the entire festival?” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. He needed to be more princely and that meant sometimes concealing his excitement, or so Qisht had told him.

  “It is our intention to stay the full eight days, perhaps longer,” Zamug replied, scratching his bald head. “If it is your father’s desire.”

  “Oh, yes. Father is keen to see you.”

  “And your sister?” Enlil asked. The novice’s brown eyes burned with the same kind of eagerness that now stirred in Sargan’s stomach, though for different reasons, Sargan didn’t doubt.

  The young bard wore his dark hair cropped short, just as Zraemian priests did ‒ and male slaves ‒ though his hair lacked the neatness commonly seen on the palace servants' locks. Qisht ensured all male palace slaves had their hair cut by a trained barber. Enlil's hair was cut at various lengths by nothing more than a table dagger, in all likelihood, and it stuck out at strange angles. It gave him a boyish look, even though he was past sixteen sommers and a man grown. The last time the tribesmen had visited, two sommer’s past, Enlil spent a lot of time with Heduanna. Since then, however, his sister had spread her attentions to a number of admirers – servants, mostly, though her guards weren’t immune from her attentions either. She may not be interested in Enlil now. Though Sargan was the last person who could predict the actions of his sister. He cleared his throat. “My sister-princess is well… now.”

  Enlil smiled, revealing teeth that looked a stark white against his dark skin, but the old man leaned forward before Enlil could ask more. “Now? More convulsions?”

  Sargan nodded as he popped an olive into his mouth.
“Recently too, about a moon’s turn ago. This one took her a bit longer to recover from.”

  “She received a vision?”

  “She always does, and it seems my father found it useful. He’s planning something big.”

  “She is not yet—” Enlil stared at an olive. “She's not yet wedded?”

  “Not yet,” Sargan said. He glanced over his shoulder. Kalban had squeezed the tables and stools close to allow for more custom, and the teahouse brimmed with patrons. The prince lowered his voice and switched to desert speech. “It appears my brother wishes to negotiate my sister’s hand with the enemy king.”

  Enlil’s face fell, but Zamug leaned in further, also whispering in his own language. “Will your father agree to it?”

  “Who knows what my father's thinking. I, for one, do not. When I decide he will say one thing, it always turns out to be the very opposite. My father is difficult to predict.”

  Zamug dipped his chin. “He is. It is one of the many attributes that make him a great king. His enemies, also, cannot predict him. Still, it doesn’t surprise me the princess’s hand is being considered. She would have a thousand eager suitors at least. But—” His eyes narrowed. “Your father has not yet promised her to the King of Urul, or anyone else?”

  “Not yet, but he’d better hurry if he wants to settle her with Amar-Eshu. She’s already had King Amar-Nasir of Gordas request a private audience.”

  “Is that so? A worthy pairing, too.” The old man frowned, his eyes focusing on some distant point.

  Sargan shrugged. “That’s what I thought. Gordas is nearly as large a city as Azzuri, and I’ve always liked Amar-Nasir. He’s complemented my poetry on more than one occasion. But Qisht believes Father will only accept a suitor who is not already a leal ally to Azzuri.”