EMILY ENGLISH
Uniting the Heavens
Book One
Copyright © 2016 by Emily P. English
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Uniting the Heavens is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2016; third print, 2019
978-0-9979300-1-6
English Scribbles (Publisher)
8116 Arlington Blvd., #318
Falls Church, VA 22042
www.englishscribbles.com
Edited by Scott Alexander Jones, www.scottalexanderjones.com
Cover design by Terri Edillon
Cover illustration by Marisa Erven, www.marisaerven.com
For Mark. That’s what you get for believing in me: my undying love and a silly book dedication.
For Teresa and Sofia. Because I write at night, in secret, so I don’t have to miss the waking moments with you. Also, I’m a ninja, and that’s just when we do things.
For Mom and Dad. It’s about time, right? Thanks for getting me here. Your patience over the years may actually qualify you for sainthood.
For Ruby and Ryan. Because sibs. And a pony called Apashoopia.
Messages
ONE
Aren had a talent for attracting chaos. It’s not the kind of talent you want when you’re a man of twenty years old—give or take a year—but you learn to live with it, just like you learn to live with voices screaming in your head at inconvenient times. So, when the two flailing figures came hurtling along the riverbank towards him, Aren only sighed as he set down his book and willow fishing pole. Swatting a bug that had landed on his tan skin, he addressed the black swan that had been preening itself in the river shallows a few feet away. “This is not how I wanted to start my holiday.”
The swan paid Aren no mind as he checked for the blade he usually kept strapped to the outside of his right boot. When his hand brushed against nothing but leather, he cursed under his breath in several dead languages as he reached for his pack. Rifling through it, he found blankets, water, a whistle flute, and the little girl’s beat-up shoes—but where was his knife?
He glanced up at the men, who were closing the distance. They were yelling, waving, stumbling like drunkards kicked out of a tavern. Aren pushed the longer strands of his chestnut-brown hair away from his green eyes. One of the men looked to be carrying a large stick. It was a fishing pole—no, a broken oar. Aren squinted against the late-summer sun sparkling in the river like a shower of broken glass.
“That’s a staff!” Aren said, dropping his pack and scrambling into the tall grasses to find his blade. The swan honked, startled by his sudden movement and the approaching disturbance. It spread its wings, black feathers drifting in its wake as it took off towards Tiede Wood. Aren watched it for a moment, his mind racing. Even the bird knew better than to stick around and take its chances against a mage wielding a staff. Aren had never seen a real mage in action before, but he’d read enough about the magic-wielders to know how deadly they could be. According to the histories, a single mage with a staff could destroy an entire army with a simple spell. “Damn it!” Aren said, trying to quiet the voices fighting for attention in his head. “Why’d it have to be magic?”
TWO
Aren pinched the bridge of his nose with his left hand, determined to get a handle on the situation. If he could stifle the voices in his head just a little, maybe he could be the calm, rational House Apprentice he pretended to be on a daily basis. He took a deep breath and let it go, focusing on the approaching men, allowing his mind to take in and map out all the variables.
Two strangers with no gear, aside from a single staff, heading deeper into Tiede territory with only hours left before nightfall—they were either stupid or dangerous or both. The River Taethe was no good as an escape route. The water moved too quickly this close to the falls, and crossing the bridge to head south would take him out of Tiede territory, where the land would be unfamiliar. Heading west, away from the strangers and towards the falls, was not an option either unless he preferred to face a thousand-foot drop into the sea. To his north was Tiede Wood—that ominous, massive collection of dark, knotted trees that served as the defensive border southeast of the city. There was no way in hell he was going in there.
Aren stood up, his shadow lengthening, slipping onto the glittering water. There was nothing to do but face whatever was coming. He knew he could hold his own in a fight—but against magic?
A gleam in the water lapping against the fishing pole caught his eye, and Aren let out a guffaw before he could catch himself. He had forgotten that he had buried his blade there in anticipation of gutting a fish for dinner. He pulled it out of the soft, wet soil, welcoming the familiar fit of the hilt in his hand.
“Now, we have a chance,” Aren said. “A slug’s chance in the middle of a beach come high tide, but a chance just the same.” He waited for the men to approach, one beginning to drop further behind the other.
Aren could hear the ragged breathing now, the clumsy crashing of boots flattening the tall grasses and snapping the rigid river flora. Strange smells began to pierce the familiar scent of water, soil, and tree: the thick scent of sweat, the sharp tang of fear, the metallic punch of blood. To stay focused, Aren counted in the Ancient language, slow and rhythmic, the timing like a form of self-hypnosis. He shifted into a defensive stance, his blade held out in warning.
The first stranger cried out while coming to a halt a few feet away, his hands gripping the staff, pointing it as if to attack. His waxy, gray face was bruised to a deep purple. Strings of black hair snaked across his triangle nose, and blood filled the gaps between his teeth. He breathed through his mouth, gasping and choking.
Aren didn’t move, keeping his eye on the staff. “I’m just fishing. I don’t want to fight you. I’m no god-worshipper.” Even though it was true, part of him felt a little guilty for saying it with such conviction. “Regardless,” he added, “it’s a silly reason to want to kill someone.”
The stranger blinked the sweat away from his eyes as he indicated Aren’s knife with his chin. The man’s lips moved a little, but no words came out. He swallowed, then erupted into a coughing fit that turned into dry heaves. When the man regained control of himself, he managed to rasp, “Are you mage?”
Aren almost laughed. “You’re the one with the staff.”
Ignoring Aren’s comment, the waxy man spit out a gob of blood. “Then what are you doing here on Tiede lands? You don’t look Tiedan.” He studied Aren for a moment, taking inventory of the dark trousers rolled up just below the knees, the linen shirt, and the thin, goose-down vest.
“I’m adopted,” Aren said with all the hostility he could muster. Nothing irritated him more than when people pointed out how different he was. Compared to a true Tiede-born, he was way too tall, his eyes too light, and his skin too golden. He looked like he came from a House of Light as opposed to one of Night. “You’re not Tiedan either, though I couldn’t even begin to guess where a stick man of your smoke-like coloring is from.”
The second intruder finally arrived, stumbling and collapsing between them. Aren sheathed his knife, the threat of being attacked by a mage forgotten. He rushed to the crumpled body, straining to turn him over and lift his head so he could breathe. Aren knew this man; he was a fisherman from Tiede, but his leathery skin was torn to s
hreds from head to torso, blood pouring out from his wounds. Shards of a red, glasslike substance littered the fisherman’s face, and veins of black spread from each nick like a disease. Aren could just make out the sign of the water goddess—waves and a crescent moon—tattooed below an exposed and broken collarbone.
Aren glared at the waxy gray man. “What have you done to Henrik?” Aren asked, indicating the fisherman.
The stranger let out a relieved cry as tears fell from his eyes. “Thank the gods! You’re really not a mage!” The gray man fell to his knees, weeping. “Henrik said he thought you might be fishing here—that you’d help.”
Aren reached for the canteen near his pack, then dribbled water onto the fisherman’s lips. The liquid ran pink, and Henrik winced as it ate through his open flesh. Aren felt the panic of helplessness fill his chest, failing to think of any way to save his life. “Henrik, who did this?”
The fisherman’s expression didn’t change, but Aren could see where muscles would have contorted the face into a theater of pain had they been able to. Henrik’s voice was thin, making his words sound like a mere suggestion. “Tiede is going to fall.”
THREE
Tiede is going to fall. The words made Aren’s chest tighten, and they burned through his lungs.
“Tiede will only fall if I don’t warn the House,” the gray man explained, as if Henrik’s statement were a child’s exaggeration. Aren glared at the man, waiting for an explanation. Crumpling under Aren’s gaze, the stranger said, “I’m a messenger for the House of Rose. Everyone’s frightened because news has come of mages rising in the east. I was on my way to Tiede when I ran into Henrik. I lost my horse because—”
“Horses bred outside of these lands don’t care for Tiede’s atmosphere,” Aren finished for him. “Everyone in Cordelacht knows about the Old Magic that leaks from Tiede Wood.”
“I made the rest of the way on foot,” the gray man pushed on, “and met Henrik as the Laithe Inlet came into view. I just had to catch the next ferry into Tiede Harbor, but he told me the Harbor was closed, that he was turned away and was going to wait in one of the nearby towns until it opened again.” Aren frowned at the news, but before he could ask about it, the man explained, “The Harbor’s been closed off because of a string of grisly murders in the city. No one’s allowed into or out of Tiede, except through the southern gates.”
Aren squeezed his eyes shut to contend with his headache. Then, opening his eyes, he said, “Are you even aware of how far that is?”
“Through those trees—”
“Those aren’t just trees. That’s Tiede Wood,” Aren said. He would have stood up and walked away if he weren’t cradling a dying head. “No one gets to Tiede by going through the Wood.”
The stranger patted at his chest, and Aren heard the crinkle of parchment. “But I need to get this message to the House. If we stay here any longer, the mage will find us. He knows about the message, and he doesn’t want it to reach Tiede. Henrik saved me when the mage attacked us. We fought, managed to take away his staff, and ran.” His gray face lengthened and looked as if it might melt. “Henrik knows. We have to get this message to the House. Tiede needs to know about the mages.”
“Henrik is going to die, and you’re in no condition to make a run for the House,” Aren argued, pointing his chin at the man’s bloodied face. “You’ll only make it as far as the cliff’s edge before night falls. There’s no cover on the road. On one side, you have a thousand-foot drop into the Parthe Sea; on the other, you have the cursed Wood. You only take that road if you’re not traveling alone and you know what you’re doing. It takes days to get to Tiede’s southern gates.”
Aren was disturbed by the determination in Henrik’s voice when he managed to speak again. “Don’t let…” Aren and the messenger both opened their mouths to argue, but Henrik continued. “Magic…” Henrik’s eyes lifted towards the messenger’s gray face. “Run…”
“I can’t leave you here,” Aren said.
“He won’t make it, but we can throw the mage off your trail,” the messenger said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone. “I’ll head south. If I make it to the House of Kaishar, I can ask them to send assistance to Tiede.” He coughed, choking on blood, then said, “Or maybe the mage will follow my trail and—”
“No,” Henrik wheezed.
Aren pursed his lips as he contemplated Tiede Wood. Standing sentinel at random points along the perimeter, the white-barked ghostwood moaned and creaked as the northern winds rushed past. The dead, crunchy leaves on the forest floor were rustling as something trampled them, running through the Wood’s liquid darkness and approaching its edge. A small shadow was barely visible, scurrying just inside the tree line, and a little girl’s laughter shimmered like chimes in their ears.
“What was that?” the messenger asked, getting to his feet, ready to run. A violent shiver passed through him.
“Faeries, gnomes, walking mushrooms—any of those,” Aren replied. “Phoenix, chima-kun, and those gelatinous blobby things—you know what I’m talking about.”
The look on the messenger’s face said that he had no idea what Aren was talking about. Aren ignored him, then took one last look at Henrik’s bleeding eyes. Aren sniffled, holding down a cry of frustration, then set the fisherman’s head on the river’s edge. “I’d say the prayer for your water goddess, friend, but I don’t remember it.” Aren’s words felt rough in his throat, and he turned away to mash his belongings into his pack. He couldn’t look at Henrik anymore. The guilt of having to leave him was too heavy a burden.
The messenger pulled the parchment from his inner pocket and handed it to Aren, who shoved it inside his vest, causing the man to wince. “The seal of Rose…” the man whined. Aren grabbed the staff from the man’s other hand. “Hey, wait—”
“I don’t need this to get back in the mage’s hands,” Aren said through clenched teeth, gripping the gnarled wood, challenging the messenger to argue. “Pray to whatever gods you worship that I make it because if the House of Tiede really is in trouble, all of Cordelacht is doomed.”
There was a disturbance from the east, in the direction Henrik and the messenger had come from. Aren could see the tall grasses shaking as something disrupted their peaceful swaying along the river. Aren and the messenger exchanged a look, and Aren knew that the messenger wasn’t going anywhere. The gray man’s bottom lip quivered, and Aren turned away, taking off towards the Wood before he could change his mind.
FOUR
As Aren traveled quick and low through the grasses, he heard the struggles and the screams of the two men. By the time he reached the protective shadows of Tiede Wood, they had died. He would be next if he didn’t keep running. It was a long way to Tiede’s southern gates, and the bloody piece of parchment in his pocket was feeling heavier with each step.
Aren ran alongside the tree line, waiting for the little girl to show herself. She exploded out of the haunted Wood’s depths and tackled Aren, causing him to drop the staff. When the stars in his vision began to fade and the partial curses stopped trying to slip through his clenched teeth, Aren scooped the girl up by the waist, snatched the staff with his left hand, and continued to run. She was a doll, hanging from his arm without resistance, giggling a little when he tripped over a hidden root that almost sent them crashing to the ground again.
Once he was certain they were clear of the river’s sight, Aren slowed down. Now that they were safe, he set the child down on her feet and put his weight on the staff, taking a moment to catch his breath. The girl clasped her hands behind her back and shifted from one bare foot to the other, her violet eyes wide and full of questions. Aren’s arms prickled with goosebumps, which he blamed on the wind.
“Well, Selina?” he asked, poking at her shoulder and receiving a giggle in response. “Where have you been? Do you know I had to convince someone that you were a faerie playing in the Wood?”
The little girl looked up at him. She was petite, e
ven for a child her age—which Aren had estimated at about five or six years. The top of her head came just to his hips, and she was thin without looking bony. Her face was round and serene, framed by soft black hair. Her creamy skin flushed pink with exertion, and her violet eyes danced with happiness and mischief, the latter of which made Aren raise an eyebrow as he waited for an answer.
“It was the gnomes.” She laughed. “They were tricking with me again! I promise I wasn’t making trouble! We were just having fun and making jokes.”
Aren put a hand over her mouth as he glanced over his shoulder. “Not so loud.”
“Why are you covered in blood?” Selina asked once she had pushed Aren’s hand away from her face. “Are you okay? It’s not your headaches again, is it?”
Aren held a finger to his mouth to quiet her, then whispered, “There’s a mage after me. A fisherman and a messenger from Rose died trying to deliver a letter for Lord Tiede, and now I have it.” Selina’s eyes, already too large for her face, widened. “We need to go before he picks up my trail.”
“You’re going to go into the Wood?” she asked.
“Not if I can help it.” Aren grimaced. “I’ve passed the age of reason, remember? We’ll start following the tree line around towards the west. If the mage finds us…well, we’ll do whatever we have to do.”
Crisp, dead leaves shuffled in the gloom of the Wood, and Aren’s body shivered. He pulled Selina close to him and held the stolen staff out with one hand. A red beak with a white stripe across the tip emerged from the darkness as a black swan waddled towards them making high, gurgling whistle noises. Aren cursed the bird under his breath, but Selina looked to where the bird’s attention was focused, to where a shadow folded into a glare of light moved towards them.
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