Haven Divided (The Dragon's Brood Cycle Book 2)

by Josh de Lioncourt

  Haven Divided

  The Dragon’s Brood Cycle

  Volume 2

  by Josh de Lioncourt

  Cover illustration by Max Naylor

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2018 Josh de Lioncourt

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real events, locales, mythical creatures, or actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental or are used fictitiously.

  To fallen heroes…

  “Our judgment ripens; our imagination decays. We cannot at once enjoy the flowers of the Spring of life and the fruits of its Autumn.”

  —Thomas Babington Macaulay

  “Forever is composed of nows.”

  —Emily Dickinson

  Remember Your Friends

  Once, the world was full of magic.

  It flowed through the rivers, lakes, and oceans; it sank deep into the soil and bedrock of the Earth; it waxed and waned with the cycle of the seasons; and it traveled beneath the stars on the wings of dragons.

  But then came Man, caught between the creatures of magic and the mundane, and never fully part of either. He feared magic, even as he craved its power. There were those among his number who caught hold of it, wielding it to ends both good and ill, but these successes were met with envy and anger by those who failed to understand.

  In time, the gods of Man were born—a shield against magic and a vessel by which to harness it. They were the prism through which Man could seek to know; they were the path by which the mystery was laid bare. For a time, there was peace.

  But it could not last. Fear of the magic came to dominate the hearts and minds of the people until it blossomed into hate, and the hate consumed Man from within. He sought to destroy that which he hated—that which he feared. He burned the witches; he slew the dragons; he forsook the knowing…

  But the Mermaids of Avalon had foreseen that a savior would come.

  When all seemed lost, a man rode out of the smoke and ash of a dying world, holding aloft the legendary sword Excalibur like a shining beacon of hope. At his side came the greatest of his knights—Lancelot the First and Galahad of the Blood. Together, these three were destined to unite the world and end the war that threatened to destroy them all.

  …Or so it should have been…

  Standing on the very brink of victory, the king and his knights were betrayed, and the chance to secure peace was lost.

  In a final desperate act to save themselves and the other creatures of magic, the Mermaids of Avalon cast the single greatest work of magic the world had ever seen. It could have destroyed the world; it nearly did. On the very eve of their destruction, the sorceresses tore the world asunder, and between the newly formed halves, a veil was woven—a curtain lowered.

  And thus, there were two worlds—the one of ordinary things…and the Haven.

  This separation could not last forever, they knew. The breath of life could not go on without both the magic which had birthed it and the mundane that fed its flame. They had done nothing more than buy time…time until the king and his knights walked the worlds in fellowship once again…time until they could prevail where once they’d failed.

  Years turned to decades…

  Decades became centuries…

  Centuries flowed into millennia…

  …And the veil began to crumble…

  Prologue

  Interference

  Outside the wind howled, and its miserable, plaintive cry was driving her mad. Autumn was coming; it was only weeks away now, and it seemed that, here in Coalhaven at least, it was determined to move in before summer had even packed its bags. Already the leaves were beginning to fade from lush greens to the dull shades of red and orange that heralded the impending fall. On some nights, when the chill of the wind bit especially close to the bone, it brought with it the sweet aroma of woodsmoke and thunderstorms. Another autumn…another year…

  With a scowl, Paige snapped the book she’d been reading closed, adjusted her fedora, and rubbed her eyes. Perhaps she should try to get some sleep. She wasn’t going to get anything more done listening to that racket anyway. The sound made her flesh crawl and her antennae quiver as it rose from a low, piteous moan to the insane shriek of a cornered and desperate cat. It was the one true failing of this particular safe house, but it didn’t seem to bother anyone else.

  Grimacing at the pain in her lower back, she rose, stretched her wings, and made her way slowly across the room to the study’s only window. She pulled the drapes apart and stared through the grimy glass and out into the darkness beyond.

  There was just enough moonlight to make out the skeletal outlines of the tree limbs that dipped and swayed as the wind rustled through their curling leaves. Folds of black velvet shadows fell from them, pooling on the ground below. Another couple of weeks and it would be Samhain, and the streets would be full of fiddlers and bakers and laughing, playing children. Revelers would be crunching their way through the carpet of brittle leaves, emptying their purses and filling their bellies. Her lips curved slightly as she remembered the festivals of her own youth, nearly always spent in the company of Garrett and Mona. Those were some of her happiest memories—some of her only memories of her adolescence, come to that.

  She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool glass. If she cleared her mind for just a minute, she could almost smell the sweetbreads and the popcorn; she could hear the snaps and crackles of the firedancers; she could almost see her sister once more—almost.

  A sharp rap at the study door brought her out of her reverie with a start, and she straightened, letting the drapes fall back into place to hide the moonlit trees.

  She moved back to the table, absently repositioning the fedora on her long dark hair as she went.

  “What is it?” she called, sinking down into her chair again and folding her wings over its low back. She turned the oil lamp that burned beside her on the table to face the room’s only entrance.

  The door swung open, and a young girl scurried inside, blinking in the lamplight and nervously fingering the ties of the apron she wore over a plain, loose-fitting dress. Though Paige was sure she’d seen her before, she could not bring the girl’s name to mind. Samantha, was it? Something like that, she was sure.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, I know it is late, but there’s a man who came to the door and we’re not sure what to do with him.”

  “Send him away. You know the rules. Tell him your master and mistress are away, and you were left with instructions that no one should enter until their return.”

  The girl swallowed and looked down at her feet. She was twisting the fabric of her apron now, rolling it back and forth between her fingers, and Paige was surprised to see they were shaking.

  “Aye, ma’am, we tried that. That is what we always do. But beggin’ your pardon again, ma’am, he’s askin’ for you…by name.”

  Paige’s own fingers slipped in the act of turning down the lamp. Who would be asking for her? Who even knew where they were?

  And then, with the suddenness of a bolt of lightning, it came to her all in a rush.

  “Garrett? Is it Garrett?”

  The girl blushed but raised her face to meet Paige’s gaze again.

  “Beggin’ your pardon again, ma’am…”

  “Jesus Christ!” Paige snapped. “Just show him in, then.”

  The girl bobbed a clumsy curtsey and then darted from the room, her relief at being excused evident in every movement of her scrawny frame. As she disappeared into the hall outside, Paige sat back, forcing her muscles to relax and trying to slow the poundi
ng of her heart. It was Garrett; she just knew it. It had to be him. Who else could it be?

  The seconds slipped by with painful slowness. She shifted in her chair, straining to hear the low rumble of Garrett’s voice coming toward her. In her mind, she rehearsed for the hundredth time what she’d planned to say when he’d inevitably returned and apologized for the humiliation he’d caused her. She would not accept it—not at first, anyway. No, she would let him suffer. He deserved to suffer that much at least.

  When the figure appeared in the door to her study, she was halfway out of her seat before she realized it wasn’t Garrett. The man was too small and slight, and he shuffled into the room with his shoulders hunched and his head down, a mop of greasy gray hair hiding his face. He looked more like a deader than a man, and she felt a moment of irrational fear as he staggered across the threshold.

  Warily, Paige sank back into her chair and watched as he came into the light of her lamp and approached the table. He walked with a pronounced limp, and his coat and trousers were stained, little more than rags. The harsh aroma of cheap ale and stale tobacco preceded him, and his ragged beard was streaked, like his hair, with gray.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. As though startled by the sound of her voice, the man stopped abruptly and lifted his head to look at her through a pair of mismatched eyes. One was bright, blue, and bloodshot; the other was dark and covered in a thin film that frothed slightly each time he blinked.

  “Paige, then, is it?” he asked, squinting against the lamplight to study her. Constellations of gin blossoms and sores around his mouth rippled and shifted as the muscles of his face worked beneath them.

  “I’d say you’ve got me at a disadvantage, old man,” she drawled slowly, and her hand fell instinctively to the dagger at her belt. She did not like the feel of his eyes on her; she didn’t like it one bit.

  The man laughed. “Oh, well, my friends all call me Jack. And we’re all friends here, aren’t we? Of course we are.”

  With a grunt and a sigh, he seemed to almost tumble into the chair across from her. He lifted his right leg, resting his ankle on his knee, and began massaging the muscles with a grimace.

  “Damn leg,” he muttered, but his gaze never left her.

  “What is it you want?” Paige asked. “I’m not predisposed to welcome unexpected guests.”

  The man cackled, his face creasing into lines of genuine, if malignant, mirth, revealing a mouthful of uneven teeth the color of sawdust.

  “No, I don’t suppose you are. I’m not here because I want anything.” He chuckled again, and the milky film overflowed from the corner of his eye and ran down his splotchy nose. He batted it away absently, still laughing. “Not exactly, anyhow.”

  “Then I suggest you…”

  “I’m here,” the man went on, as if Paige hadn’t spoken, “because I have something you want.”

  They sat, the silence spinning out, as each took the measure of the other.

  “I seriously doubt that,” Paige said at last.

  “Do you? Oh, well, that’s fine then. I’ll just be on my way and leave you to it, shall I?” He put his foot back on the floor and made a show of dusting off his filthy trousers. It was a useless gesture, but his intent could not be more plain.

  It was all an act, and yet Paige found herself responding to it even as she understood what he was doing.

  “All right,” she sighed. “Say what you’ve come to say.”

  The old man sat back comfortably in his chair, and the lamplight gleamed in his eyes.

  “Oh come now,” he said. “You don’t really expect me to give up such valuable information for nothing, do you? I may be old, and my clothes may not be as well kept as yours, but I’m not a fool, either.”

  “I’m not interested in playing games. Say what you have to say, and if it’s worth something, I’ll make sure you’re compensated. If that’s not agreeable, you can go.”

  Her visitor studied her with benign curiosity for a long moment, then shrugged and got back to his feet.

  “Good evening to you, then, Miss Paige.”

  He turned from her and limped toward the door, the tails of his miserable coat waving jauntily at her from his emaciated backside.

  Paige watched him go with some trepidation. She listened as the uneven rhythm of his tread faded away down the hall. Had she been too hasty? Could he have something that would be useful to the Brood? What if she was wrong to dismiss him out of hand. He was a drunk, but drunks were often the ones in the best position to overhear whispered conversations from the shadows of corners in crowded taverns. No one notices them; no one ever realizes they are there. They are the ones the well-to-do try to ignore while stepping over their motionless bodies lying in gutters; they are the unseen ones calling out for a coin—unseen, but not unheard—the coins come in the hopes that a flash of gold or silver will drive their miserable forms back into the shadows.

  What if he did have something?

  Paige rose and made her way quickly through the dark and sleeping house.

  She caught up to the man who called himself Jack in the foyer, where he was waiting for the servant girl to open the door for him.

  Sanista, that’s her name, Paige thought distractedly. The girl’s parents had been part of the Brood in Ravenhold. How could she have forgotten that?

  The man heard her coming and turned, one eyebrow raised. Both his eyes were clear now—the film gone from the darker of the mismatched pair. Had she only imagined it before?

  “Leave us,” Paige told the girl, who had a hand on the bolts that secured the door. Sanista snatched her fingers away as though the cold metal had burned them.

  “Aye, ma’am,” she murmured, and she hurried away, unconsciously reaching for her apron ties once more. Paige watched her go.

  She doesn’t like this man, Jack, any more than I do.

  Slowly, she turned back to the stranger, troubled but determined not to show it.

  “What is your price?” she asked without preamble.

  “Oh, now you’re singing a different tune, are you?”

  Paige said nothing, only watched him. She may have changed her mind about wanting the message, but her opinion of the messenger himself remained the same.

  “My price,” he said softly, “is reasonable enough, I think. Merely a holder.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A holder,” the man repeated. “Just a holder for a drink. Telling tales is thirsty work, ain’t it? And a man’s got to have a drink, don’t he? And it takes a bit of coin to get a drink.”

  Paige frowned. “You’re going to tell me some ‘valuable’ information in exchange for a single holder?” she asked, unable to mask the sarcasm in her voice.

  “My, you’re dim. Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Miss Paige?”

  Without expression, Paige wordlessly pulled on the drawstrings to the pouch at her belt and fished out a large gold coin. For a long moment, she clutched it in her fist and studied the old man, who simply watched her impassively. What was this? Some kind of joke?

  But she’d come too far to back down now. And anyway, it was only a holder.

  After another moment, she held the coin out to him. He snatched it from her palm with ill-disguised glee and dropped it into a pocket of his coat.

  “Thank you, Miss Paige.”

  Paige did not respond; she simply waited, watching.

  “There’ve been a lot of attacks on Seven Skies, haven’t there?” the man mused. “The slaughter at the square last winter was the first. Then the trap set for the hunters when they were out east of the city last spring. A few weeks ago it was the explosion at the Stay Inn. That one was the worst, wasn’t it?”

  Paige winced involuntarily. Jacob had been blamed for that, and then executed—just one more coal to feed the flames of the war that was brewing. She didn’t believe for a minute that he’d had any part in it. Jacob had been a good man—but who was she kidding? He’d barely been a
boy, and he’d been one of her charges. She should have never sent him to Seven Skies to retrieve Corbbmacc; she should’ve waited it out, she should’ve trusted the wizard.

  “Yes,” the man breathed, leaning closer. The rancid smell of his breath enveloped her in a melange of old ale and cheap smoke. “That one still stings, doesn’t it? Disgruntled Broodsmen, impatient with how the resistance is going, because it isn’t going anywhere, is it, Miss Paige?”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” she snapped, taking a step back from him. She reached up and massaged her temples where the dull throb of a headache was beginning to form.

  “Disgruntled Broodsmen,” he said again, “only it wasn’t Broodsmen at all, Miss Paige.”

  She glared at him, unable to look away, but not wanting to stare into those weird, mismatched eyes any longer than she had to.

  “If not renegades, then who?” she asked, surprised by the calm steadiness of her voice. “You’re surely not suggesting that someone in the Brood authorized…”

  Paige broke off as the man’s lips twitched, but there was no mirth behind this smile.

  “Why, it’s Marianne, of course.”

  “Marianne? You suggest that she’s killing her own citizens in her own city?”

  “Just so.”

  “But why? What possible reason could she have…”

  And then it hit her. Marianne wanted to wipe out the Dragon’s Brood. What better way than to convince her subjects that the Brood was responsible for these atrocities and make their rebellion an inviting target?

  The man—Jack…his name is Jack—grinned at her, displaying those rows of jagged and broken teeth again.

  “I see you understand. Not as dim as I feared, then. Very good.”

  He turned away from her and moved to the door.