by J D Abbas
Birth of Innocence
The Innocence Cycle
Book 4
by
J D Abbas
© 2017 by J D Abbas
Editing by P.N. Hopkins
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Tamak Books.
Tamak Books supports copyright laws. Copyrights protect authors, which allows them to continue to share their creativity, promote the free expression of thought, and be fairly compensated for their work. Thank you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission.
A Pacific Northwest Company
Cover art designed by Janiel Escueta via Fiverr.com
The Innocence Cycle:
Shattered by Shadows
Behind the Third Door
Journey to Queyon
Birth of Innocence
Power of Innocents (Summer 2018)
Dedicated to
my six grandchildren.
You bring me such joy and
inspire me with your
imagination and creativity.
Mackie,
I expect that you will soon
follow in my steps.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Coming
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Prologue
“Where are the other Alraphim hiding?” The question came from a human-shaped void that wavered in the air.
Sophe’s body jolted at the blow that followed. She swung on the chains that trapped her deadened arms above her head, her legs so limp they could no longer hold her upright.
“We ... at this ... for months. My answer ... not changed.” Sophe heaved breaths between words. She tried to wipe blood from the side of her mouth, but the shackle yanked at her wrist, pulling her hand back just shy of her face. She brushed her chin on her shoulder, the fabric stiff from the dried, rusted film already there. “I do not know. I have never known.”
“That’s what the others said as well, but I don’t believe you any more than I believed them. You must have kept some sort of mind-link so you could reunite one day.”
“No, we knew there would be a time when you would be defeated, and we would find each other then. There was no plan beyond that. No one is lying to you.”
“Perhaps I should bring your daughter”—Anakh’s elusive form turned and spat as if the word tasted bad in what should have been her mouth—“here and use our fine blades to encourage your cooperation.”
Sophe let out a weak laugh that sounded more like a wheeze. “If you had her, I have no doubt she would already be bleeding in front of me.” She struggled to lift her head and gaze at her captor. “What happened to you, Anakh, to cause such hatred toward your own people?”
“My own people?” There was a fire-like flare where her eyes should have been. “My own people? The ones who exiled me? Who left me as prey for Rhaz—?” She caught herself, and the flames became thin red lines. “Stop playing with my mind.”
Sophe’s eyes widened. From the top of her scalp to the ends of her toes, a tremor moved through her like an earthquake. It was not from the pain; it was recognition. “Khana?” The name erupted from her lips with a sob.
“Don’t speak that name!”
“Oh, dear child. We should have believed you, should have realized what he was doing, but we were too ignorant, too innocent. We had never faced evil before.” Sophe rushed to get the words out before anyone could stop her.
Anakh moved to the side and waved her wispy arm toward the guard behind Sophe. The flagrum hit her back with a thud, knocking the breath from her body. When the wielder yanked it back, the shards of rock tied to the ends of the leather thongs pulled her flesh along with them. Her knees gave way again, and she dangled by her wrists, feeling as if her shoulders might dislocate at any moment. The pain blurred any thought, even how to get her feet back beneath her.
Sophe smelled Anakh’s putrid breath as her wavering form moved closer. “Don’t you pity me,” she whispered into Sophe’s ear. “Don’t you dare pity me. I was fortunate. I learned power. I discovered how easy it was to pull the zhadhar from a man through his lusty little head. I embraced the Zhekhum so I didn’t have to live like the rest of you. Naïve. Spineless. Helpless.”
“Khana …” Sophe murmured, using every ounce of strength she had to push out the word. Tears blurred the visage of death that stood before her. “Khana … do you not … know … who I am?”
“Silence! Don’t repeat that name. That one is dead. My own people killed her.”
Another sweep of an arm, another blow across the back ripped Sophe’s words away. She slumped, and as the pain split open her flesh, blackness swallowed her, bringing the sweet release of oblivion.
Chapter 1
Celdorn sat astride Malak, his gaze transfixed on the Pallanor pass where Anakh’s void had swallowed Elena’s life. When that gaping hole in the fabric of the sky had exploded and disappeared, a corresponding void developed in his chest, an empty hollow space where once a love for a daughter had hesitantly grown and transformed him.
He’d had no time to grieve her loss before Haldor, his dear friend, had destroyed himself in his efforts to stop Anakh’s eidola. The two griefs entwined in Celdorn’s chest, a weight that stole his breath.
The Pallanors were bathed in a fiery glow from the setting sun, which made the snowy peaks look ablaze. Part of Celdorn wished he could burn them up, could punish the mountains for what they had taken from him, for allowing Anakh and her eidola to succeed. Hatred boiled in his belly even as he mocked himself for believing the mountains had somehow been complicit in the demise of Elena and Haldor.
Celdorn raked his hands through his hair and blew out an angry breath. They needed to get the children and the injured to the safety of Queyon, but he found it difficult to summon the energy or the will to act. His gaze drifted to the end of their company, where the children were mounting up with their Guardians. Among them was Waadar.
If the boy was to be believed, Elena was still alive. Celdorn scoffed at h
imself. Waadar? The timid, mute boy Mishon had taken under his wing—could he truly be Elena’s son? The boy was convinced of it, and something inside Celdorn knew it was the truth. He was Elena’s firstborn, their grandson. Silvandir had been right to rename him Terzhel, son of the light, and remove the scourge of a name he’d carried for four years.
Terzhel was so certain he’d heard Elena speaking to him from inside the void, determined they would soon be together again. A tear slid down Celdorn’s cheek. The child had such faith, such hope for one who had been so abused. He’d lost his tongue to his brutal keepers, and yet the boy shone with light—and fear, but radiant nonetheless. Much like Elena, their sweet daughter.
Elbrion brought his stallion alongside Celdorn’s and was quiet for a time. The light beneath his skin pulsed rhythmically, albeit more dimly than usual. “Dark will soon be upon us,” Elbrion finally said, and then paused as if his own words caught him by surprise. “We should move out.”
Celdorn eyed his friend sideways. “Lend me strength.”
Elbrion looked away. “I have none to share, my friend. I am a barren wasteland. I long to believe Terzhel, but all reason says it is a futile hope. Our daughter is gone, and nothing will bring her back.” His gaze drifted toward the distant sunset, unfocused.
Suddenly, Elbrion’s light flickered then flared. “And yet, we must proceed. The injured grow weaker, the children colder and hungrier. We cannot indulge our own grief right now, so we will do what we must.”
Elbrion urged Drendil closer and clasped Celdorn’s shoulder. “Once inside the privacy of our home, we will give ourselves ample time to grieve and express all the emotions we have fought to contain.”
Celdorn blinked back tears. As always, Elbrion brought clarity and truth. The promise of solitude and release for the pain pulled together his resolve more solidly than the need to be a good leader ever could.
“Move out,” Celdorn called and waved his hand in the direction of the gates of Queyon.
~
Mishon was glad they were finally moving. He wanted to leave the summit behind, wanted to forget what it did to Lady Elena.
And then-and then, Waadar goes and nearly dies on him. Falls flat on the ground like he’ll never get up. Mishon is sure there won’t be any light in the world ever again.
Then Waadar jumps up and goes crazy, runs to Celdorn and all of them, who they are supposed to stay away from because they are sad about the lady. And Waadar tells them, through an Ilqazar—Mishon has never seen anything like it. Waadar, who can’t talk at all since they cut out his tongue, talks to the Ilqazar with his mind!—and tells them Elena is still alive. And that she’s his mother. And-and they believe him. How can they believe him? She’s too young to be Waadar’s mom. And he’s Waadar. And she is, she was, like a princess or a queen, beautiful and powerful.
And besides, the lady was Mishon’s special friend. Not Waadar’s mother. And now Silvandir wants to be Waadar’s father, and the Lord Protector and the Prince of Light want to be his grandfathers.
Mishon’s hands curled into fists.
No! He’s Waadar. My Waadar. Not your Terzhel. I’m supposed to take care of him. Not you. Mishon glared toward the front of their company, where Celdorn’s men led the way.
Mishon took Waadar’s hand and pulled him closer. Charaq, who was taking care of both of them now, walked alongside, leading the Ilqazar. Waadar didn’t like to ride because they all had to squish together, and he didn’t like to be touched much—except by Mishon. So they walked or took turns riding. Waadar was pretty strong for a little guy. He could walk most of the day and never make a fuss.
By dark, they were getting closer to Queyon. Mishon had heard lots about Queyon from his father. Before he died. And some people said the healing power in his mother’s hands was because she came from Queyon. But that was before they cut them off. Before she died. Before his whole family died.
Charaq nudged Mishon’s shoulder. “Are you all right?” He asked it quiet, like he didn’t want the others to think he was a baby.
Mishon looked way up to see Charaq’s face. He wasn’t scowling like he was mad. More like he was worried. How did his father’s friend always seem to know when Mishon was remembering? “Sometimes walking gives a man too much time to think,” Mishon told him.
Charaq nodded and tugged at his beard. “Is there something in particular you’re thinking about, maybe something you want to talk about?”
Mishon thought back to what Yaelmargon, the loremaster, had told him when they were at Kelach. “So when people die, that’s not the end?”
Charaq let out a breath, hard, like someone had punched him. “I’m not sure what I believe, Mishon, but our faith says there is life after this one.”
“So is the lady Elena in the same place as ama and ada and the girls?”
Charaq shot a look at Waadar before he answered. “Yes, I think so. Maybe when we get to Queyon we can ask some of the Elrodanar elders that question. They’ve had more training than me on this. I’m just a soldier, Mishon.”
“My ada always said you were one of the smartest men he ever met. You always knew what others were thinking before they did.”
Charaq laughed, but it didn’t sound happy. “Well, I guess there are all kinds of ways to be smart. As for the lore and the teachings of the Qajh, I’ve just not studied it much. I was always more concerned with the now and keeping people safe ...” His voice drifted at the end, like he was remembering too.
Remembering just made them all sad. Better to focus on walking.
~
The company traveled east for over an hour. The setting sun had slipped away behind the mountains at their backs, leaving them in a dim twilight, which befit Elbrion’s mood. As they neared Queyon, Elbrion galloped ahead, drawn by the ever-increasing, preternatural glow of the trees and rocks which lit the way.
“Welcome, weary traveler,” a sentry called from the gate tower.
Elbrion waved to his kinsman, dismounted, and stepped forward to greet the Elrodanar who hurried to unlock the gates. Something twisted in Elbrion’s belly as he studied the coiled silver bars of the ancient ingress. It had not been closed since the end of the war, half a century ago.
“When did Queyon become a stronghold?” he asked.
A familiar voice replied, “When the forces Elena foresaw began to stir.” Yaelmargon, the loremaster, strode toward them as the gates swung outward. The glow of his flesh fought back the encroaching night. Yaelmargon held his arms wide in welcome.
Elbrion fell into the elder’s embrace and cherished the soothing peace of his presence. “It is good to see you, Master.”
Yaelmargon drew Elbrion into his chest with strength and tenderness. “You as well, my Prince.” As they parted, the master’s gray eyes searched Elbrion’s face. “We have been expecting you for some time.”
Elbrion dipped his chin. “There have been some painful delays ...”
Yaelmargon clasped his shoulder. “I am aware of your losses.” He stepped back to survey the rest of the approaching company. “I know your hearts are wounded. May you find comfort, rest, and a renewed joy within Queyon’s embrace.” The master spread his arms as if to extend the sentiment to Celdorn and all who followed him.
Elbrion sighed. Joy was a word that had left the vocabulary of the company some time ago. Celdorn dismounted and joined Yaelmargon and Elbrion at the side of the road. His inner circle pulled their mounts to the side and waited a short distance away, under the shimmering trees. Celdorn waved the caravan through the gates, and the three watched in silence.
The loremaster’s brows arched as the children rode by with their Guardians. “So many...” he murmured.
So many and so weary, Elbrion thought. The children were exhausted, and their Guardians did not appear in much better condition. Even the wonders of Queyon sparked little interest in any of them. Elrodanar guides appeared to lead them to their new homes.
“Your injured will be taken to the healing hous
es straightaway,” Yaelmargon said to Celdorn, who nodded his silent agreement. “As for the rest of the children, the apprentices have vacated two of the training academy’s dormitories in order to accommodate them. I believe we made up sufficient beds so that their Guardians may sleep among them to offer continuity and a sense of security in their new environment. As for the rest of your inner circle, your homes have been prepared.”
“Thank you, master. That was considerate,” Elbrion replied.
~
“Kordan’s balls!” Mishon exclaimed as they rode through the gates of Queyon.
“Mishon!” Charaq flushed red as he glanced at the side of the road where Celdorn and his men watched their company pass, then he scowled over his shoulder at Mishon.
“What’s wrong? That’s what my father’s men always said when they saw something amazing.” And who wouldn’t think this place was amazing? Even at night, the trees and the rocks sparkled and glowed. And the people, they were all like Elbrion with light pumping through their bodies. “Look!” He elbowed Waadar, who was behind him on the Ilqazar, and pointed to a waterfall. It was lit up like the sun was hiding behind it.
Charaq cleared his throat. “We must be respectful, Mishon. We’re in Queyon, not in the practice yard. Kordan was a mighty warrior of old, worthy of honor. One we aspire to be like.”
“And he had big balls, right? He wasn’t ascared of anything. At least that’s what Nordam told me.”
“Thank you, Nordam,” Charaq muttered. “It would be more appropriate to say ‘incredible’ or ‘amazing’ when in general company.”
Mishon wrinkled his nose. “It’s only me, you, and Waadar.”
“Mishon, just obey me,” Charaq snapped.
“You’re just like my father,” Mishon grumbled to himself.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Charaq said.
Mishon’s mother used to get mad at him too when he repeated what he’d heard from the Guardians in the training arenas. Some of the words he didn’t even understand. Then his father would sit him down for a talk about not saying those things without really explaining what they meant. But Mishon understood about Kordan’s balls because of the gesture the men used with it. That was part of the reason his mother wanted to move the family out of the keep, so Mishon wasn’t with the men so much. It was his fault they moved to the village, the village where his ama was hurt, where she and the girls were taken away. An ache squeezed Mishon’s chest. He missed his mother, his sisters, their home, his father’s men ... but he missed his father most of all.
