by J. A. Comley
Contents
The Falling Star
Prologue: The Return
Chapter 1: Celebration
Chapter 2: Make a Wish
Chapter 3: The Guardians
Chapter 4: The Royal City
Chapter 5: The Dungeons
Chapter 6: The Hall of Justice
Chapter 7: A Day of Peace
Chapter 8: Secrets and Silences
Chapter 9: Happy Birthday
Chapter 10: The High Lord
Chapter 11: The Trimoon Festival
Chapter 12: Decisions
Chapter 13: Grobblers and Spies
Chapter 14: Abyss Valley
Chapter 15: What the New Year Brings
Chapter 16: Within the Darkness
Chapter 17: The Dome of Stars
Chapter 18: The Orb of Sight
Chapter 19: Battle Plans
Chapter 20: Fool Me Once
Chapter 21: Allies and Traitors
Chapter 22: A Dark Victory
Chapter 23: Last Chance
Chapter 24: The Cost of Freedom
Chapter 25: To War
Chapter 26: Rain of Blood
Chapter 27: The Final Say
Chapter 28: The Cost of Victory
Epilogue: New Beginnings
BONUS CONTENT
The Falling Star
J. A. Comley
Copyright © 2019 by J. A. Comley
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any references to historical events, customs, or real places are used fictitiously.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to:
My brother, Miguel, without whom Father Joaquin Pedrosa would probably still be nameless.
My mother, who read the very first, and very bad, draft and encouraged me to continue.
Estelle, Elizabeth, Ana, Kath and Olivia, who have been invaluable beta-readers.
Thank you to the amazing SPS community. You all rock!
Thanks to those who helped create the book:
Cover Illustrator - Wickard (Eugene Chugonov)
https://99designs.co.uk/profiles/wickard
Editor and proofreader - Rob Comley
https://www.upwork.com/o/profiles/users/_~01cf60ad2c535e9ed1/
And finally, thank you to everyone who has bought this book. Don’t forget to check the back for FREE exclusive content. Happy reading!
This book is dedicated to Olivia.
Without you, The Falling Star would still be a manuscript gathering dust.
Prologue
The Return
The Destroyer absorbed the last trace of life and a deep silence smothered the land. With a dismissive glance at the now barren world, the conqueror flicked his staff and stepped through the swirling portal. Behind him, the planet exploded. Gormule, the last inhabited planet of the Hatrion system, was now nothing more than fragments of rock and fire.
Another planet fallen to my power, he thought, his silver-lined cloak flaring out behind him as he exited the portal to float in the void of space. Yet there was no pleasure in this victory, no sense of accomplishment. There hadn't been in any of the other nine galaxies he had crushed the life from.
Still, killing other Demilain was no small feat, limited as he was. His powers had become finite since the betrayal. He bared his pointed teeth as he thought of her. The other Demilain still had infinite powers but an imbalance between life and death would cause one's power to fade temporarily. It had been almost too easy to seed the other worlds with his own death magic and tip that precarious balance.
He took a deep breath, feeling the new powers gained by the deaths of all those who had fallen at his hand over the last century. He had killed ten pairs of his kind, swiftly followed by all life on their planets save those who had proven valuable. He smirked as he adjusted the silver circlet that crossed his brow, its sky-blue stone glowing faintly, a barren tree carved within, marking him for what he was. A Demilain Destroyer.
A faint feeling of satisfaction pulsed through him as he raised his left hand, casting the circlets he held before him. He snared them with his magic. Both held stones of jade green, one with a barren tree, like his, the other one with a tree in blossom. He resisted the urge to destroy the one that had been the Demilain Creator's. It was not this Creator he wanted to kill.
Soon, he reminded himself, twirling his metal-tipped staff. The circlets bound before him began to shrink until they could fit as bracelets. His dual-coloured eyes, mostly mauve, flashed in brutal triumph as he slid the circlets over his hands, Destroyer on the left, Creator on the right. There, they joined the others, trophies of his ten victories, rising nearly to his elbows.
For the first time, he glanced around him, to the ten small cubes hanging in the inky emptiness that surrounded him. Within each, a portion of his patchwork army waited in magical stasis. Some had been spared because they had turned to his side early, eager to serve, others for their sheer ruthlessness or cunning.
Yes, I am ready now, he thought, swiftly linking the cubes to himself with lines of gold, preparing to create the portal that would finally take him home.
The view of stars and uninhabited worlds flashed by and became a meaningless swirl of colours as the victor made his final journey, a complex cage of twisted gold encompassing them. Slowly out of the light-streaked blur, three planets emerged and took form in the star-scattered void. It was a tiny star system. To others, it may even seem insignificant.
He ran slim, golden fingers over his night-black robes. For one hundred years he had waited, using the time to strengthen himself. The billions of deaths he had orchestrated had supplemented his power and given him his army. The twenty of his own kind he had slaughtered had increased his magical store, though his body still hungered for more, for the infinite power that had once been his.
Trianon. Home. His gaze swept over the three planets surrounding their sun.
The smallest planet, closest to him, was a patchwork quilt of colours, as if made from a field of wild spring flowers. Islands of various sizes dotted a vast silver ocean, sparkling in the sun. The central, and largest, planet shimmered with dark-blue water. A single large land mass formed an irregular, vertical belt of glittering gold running from north pole to south, drawing the eye. The final planet was furthest from him. From this angle, it was almost invisible, lost behind a magical haze of slowly dying and newly forming stars that held his attention. That was where his betrayer was. Even from this distance, he could feel her.
Why hadn't she understood? He snarled. No matter. Ezira would soon pay for her lack of vision. She would be dead before long.
An uneasy thought, long suppressed, slid into his mind as he began joining the shields surrounding his army, the cubes expanding to reveal the thousands of creatures within them. He had heard tales among others of his kind. Tales told in screams of agony in their final moments before he destroyed them. Tales of a child, a Starborn and a true Soreiaphin. Its blood would hold each magic, combining it to their own once they activated their amulet. The child was expected to be born on the New Year, on the smallest planet. Such a child must be killed, or they could gain the power to overthrow the hold his kind had over this galaxy. It would potentially have the power to kill him.
But surely even Ezira wou
ld not have expended so much of herself on a fool's hope? As the final shield merged with his own, the troubling thought was replaced by another.
There were two other Starborn in this system. One, he knew was ancient, the other, little more than a child. Neither were true Soreiaphin. Still, he had to be careful where and how he spent his power. He would have to eliminate them first, without interference. Easily within his powers.
He smirked at a new memory, his waist-length, crimson hair blowing in the breeze created by the merging shields. The one who had betrayed him had also stolen an artefact of his. Perhaps the fool woman had thought she could use it. Whatever the case, through it, he had never been far from home. She had helped him spy on her all along and he would make sure she knew it before he killed her.
A hiss escaped through his pointed teeth in savage delight as a new plan took hold. The front line of the army, now visible, cringed away from his suddenly murderous gaze. One lone cube remained. In it were those who had fought well, bravely, but defied him to the end. They would be his test subjects now, help him to perfect his new plan.
For so many centuries, he had planned to return and attack the third planet directly, kill his betrayer and reclaim his home. His cat-like pupils, surrounded by a thin line of turquoise, dilated in anticipation of the horrors he would create. How terrified she would be to watch the other planets around hers fall first, to watch the hope she had put in this unborn Soreiaphin vanish as he crushed it, still within its mother's womb, before it could summon its Star or activate its powers.
Murder lit up his mauve-coloured eyes as he gave his commands to his patchwork army, mainly consisting of huge, winged beasts from the Hatrion System. The rest of his army was a mix of insignificant bipeds, with no magic or abilities of their own. He would soon rectify that. He climbed astride the alpha magmus he had tamed, casting his spells upon the bipeds. He saw their eyes widen at their increased abilities: strength, speed, intelligence, even a little magic. With each gift, their devotion to him was solidified and the bloodlust in their eyes rose to a peak, their new-scaled bodies rippling in anticipation. He gave a satisfied nod. His newly created grobblers would serve him well. The solitary cube shrunk and disappeared into his robes.
A sudden ripple of Demilain magic emanated outward from the planets. He paused, reading the magic.
A cold, mirthless laugh escaped him. The two other Starborn were now on the smallest planet.
How convenient. Clearly, Ezira had felt his magic and was trying to protect the unborn Soreiaphin. He crafted his first spell and held it ready. As soon as he set foot on that planet, no travel between the worlds would be possible unless he willed it.
His red hair whipped out behind him as he rode at the head of his horde towards Cosmaltia, the smallest planet. It would be the easiest victory he had had in centuries and the Soreiaphin would never see the light of day.
Chapter 1
Celebration
1680, Arreau, France, Earth, Solar System.
Starla stood at her attic-room window and sighed, watching the dawn break. She always loved looking at the stars. It was as if they called to her every night. The sun's golden glow stretched over the eastern hills and illuminated the village of Arreau. The bells of the Eglise Saint-Exupere tolled out the sixth hour just as the water of the rivers, Aure and Louron, burned red.
The bells, always too loud here in the parish house, jarred Starla out of her reverie. Tying up the ribbons of her white apron, Starla smoothed it over the full skirt of her brown dress. Moving over to the small mirror, she made sure that her stays were laced up tight and that her cream shirt was neat and tucked in securely. Then, moving to her wash stand, she began combing out her waist-length, golden hair, letting her thoughts drift again. Today was the day.
A tap at the window reclaimed her attention as she slid the last pin to her bun at the nape of her neck.
“Aimee,” she said, opening the window to let her pet sparrowhawk into the room, “a good early hunt I see.”
Aimee gave a short, shrill call in acknowledgement before settling down to her field mouse breakfast.
Slipping on her soft leather boots, Starla left her room to fetch her own breakfast. Halfway down the winding stairs, the sound of voices and bustle met her ears. The usual peace of the parish was disturbed by the excitement of today. In such a small town, weddings were rare.
The Father of the parish was just settling back into his chair at the head of the kitchen table. Although in his sixties and a refugee from Spain, Padre Joaquin Pedrosa carried an air of unbreakable authority. Already in his priest's cassock, his receding white hair gleamed in the sunlight as he turned to look out of the door again, where men bustled back and forth, unloading carts.
“Padre,” Starla curtsied as he looked back into the room, “Good morning.”
“Buenos dias, my dear. I was worried you'd be late. There is much to do before the wedding.”
His native Spanish still tinged his words, although he was fluent in French, English and learning Arabic at the moment.
Starla smiled as he switched language. Father Joe had raised her since her parents died when she was four. He had always insisted a broad education was a must for any young woman. Under his guidance, she had learned French, English and Spanish, as well as Mathematics, Science and star mapping. His love for astronomy and teaching women equally with men had been the main reasons he had had to flee Spain. He had even taught her biology, though the human biology lesson had been taught red-faced and spluttering.
“I cannot believe the day is upon us already,” Starla replied in English, earning an approving smile.
“Good morning, Madame Mia, Monsieur Guy,” she added with a curtsy, switching back to French as the other two members of her “family” entered the kitchen.
“Good morning, petite etoile,” they answered in unison, their strong voices matching their ample figures.
Their pet name for her, “little star”, had been given when she first came to live here at the parish. In honour of her red-golden hair, Mia had said. The couple had acted as caretakers of the parish house, chapel and grounds for thirty years. Starla was an adopted daughter to them, a girl to balance their five sons. Mia waddled around the table, placing a bowl of steaming porridge on each of the four settings. Contrary to the hustle and bustle outside, eating took place in silence today, each person no doubt going over what they had to do before the wedding. Starla appreciated the snippets of birdsong that filtered through the bedlam going on in the stable yard.
Starla's own thoughts drifted between her friend's wedding today and her own twenty-first birthday, three weeks away. She wondered if her aunt would actually come this year, or if she would have yet another excuse. Her eyes drifted to Father Joe, his brow furrowed in thought. She knew he was worried about her prospects. She had no dowry and was getting on in years, as the village women never relented from reminding her. She wished she could abate his fears, but marriage wasn't something she could imagine, not to anyone here.
Breakfast ended unceremoniously, each member simply rising and trotting off to their respective tasks. Starla and Mia started on the dishes. They worked in companionable silence in the perfect synchronization they had developed over the years.
“Starla?”
“Oui, Mia?” Starla turned from placing the last cleaned bowl back in the oak cupboard.
“Padre asked me to tell you to meet him in his office. He has some things that need doing before you go to the Monges',” she said, brushing her greying, brown hair from her eyes.
Nodding, Starla tied her cream headscarf over her red-gold hair, left the parish house and crossed through the graveyard to the eastern door of the chapel.
“Padre, what can I help you with today?” Starla asked, shutting the office door behind her, dimming the noise of wedding preparations coming from the nave.
Father Joe jumped in his seat, knocking a silver bracelet from his desk.
“I didn't hear you come in,”
he muttered, blushing as he retrieved the bracelet.
“Sorry, Father. I should have knocked,” Starla said, dutifully ignoring the bracelet. Whatever it was, it was no business of hers.
“No, no. The door was open. I was merely lost in thought. Here.”
He handed her a sheaf of parchment bearing a neatly written list in his precisely formed letters. The list contained several collections to be made down in the village. She was to collect them and return.
“You are sure you do not wish me to stay and help with the decorators?” Starla asked.
“Oui, oui. Madame Salso is coming herself,” he said, then continued in a rush as Starla opened her mouth to insist. “I believe she has, er, requested that Sophie be here too.”
His tone made it clear that the request was more of a command.
“Therefore, I think our young bride will need you more than ever.”
Although Spanish-born like himself, Father Joe had no great love for the enormously wealthy Salso family. Right now, Starla didn't either.
“Madame Monge should be with … I can't believe—” Starla spluttered, unable to complete a single sentence, before reigning herself in. Madame Salso had a reputation for demanding the absurd, but demanding that the mother of the bride be at the church instead of with the bride was unbelievable. No point in arguing the matter, though. Father Joe was right, Elise would need Starla far more than he would this morning.
Father Joe hid an amused smile by clearing his throat. “I suggest you get started. Guy should have the cart ready for you two by now.”
Starla turned back from the door, eyeing him suspiciously. “Guy is also coming?”
“Of course, ma chere. You'll need help with the chairs. Now, we both have work to do,” he said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.
