Shadows of the Realm (The Circle of Talia)

by Lister, Dionne

  Shadows of the Realm

  Dionne Lister

  Copyright © 2012 Dionne Lister

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by an information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author.

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia www.librariesaustralia.nla.gov

  ISBN: 978-0-9873078-0-4

  DEDICATION

  For Auntie Marcia and Nonna, it just hasn’t been the same without you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This journey started long ago, and I have to thank everyone who encouraged me back then. I never realised how much these things sound like a boring acceptance speech, but here goes. Debra, Auntie and Peter, thanks for reading the first dodgy copy. Thanks to all my friends who continue to encourage me, especially Michelle and Sol, and of course my awesome writer friends Amber, Justin, Dee, Craig, Jane, Trish, Damien and Susan (I hope I didn’t forget anyone) – you guys are there when the writing path gets lonely, as it is bound to do when everything you do is just you and your computer. A massive thank you to Ciara Ballintyne who helped me get my passive language under control. Of course, I wouldn’t have been able to do this without the patience and love of my three boys, David, Evan and Ben. Yay team!

  Prologue

  In a lonely brick farmhouse a child named Blayke slept under cosy blankets. He dreamt of splashing in warm summer puddles. His nostrils filled with the scents of grass and earth.

  He reached dirty fingers into a puddle at his feet and tried to grab a slimy frog. The touch of his fingers on the water sent the frog dashing away, chased by the black clouds racing across the surface of the water, mirroring the sky.

  Thunder boomed again and again. Thick clouds marched to its beat, effortlessly smothering the sun. Blayke’s fingers sank further into the darkening puddle until his fingers touched something rough and icy—too large to close his hand around. Blayke tried to let go of the object, but his hand was stuck. Adrenalin flooded his body. He tried to shake the object loose, but to no avail.

  Fat pellets of water erupted from the sky soaking him in seconds. He looked up, squinting his eyes against the pouring rain. He bit his lip against the urge to cry. Every instinct told him to run. Thunder closed around him; lightning struck meters from the quickly expanding puddle. Blayke leaned back, twisting his body in a vain attempt to break free. Sweat from his exertion mixed with the rain on his face.

  His palm peeled away from its anchor, leaving layers of skin behind. Blayke fell back, landing with a splash on the sodden earth. He stared at his bleeding hand; what had happened?

  The ground vibrated beneath him, the tremors matching the slow and powerful rhythm of the thunder. The puddle boiled, bubbles of mud bursting to the surface, contaminating the balmy air with stagnant wafts. Blayke scurried away from the deepening water on hands and knees. He scrambled to rise, but the jerking earth toppled him.

  He was now at the edge of the seething pool. He watched the water drain away into the ever-growing cracks forming around its edges—the unseen depths hungrily sucked the liquid, draining it as quickly as the sky could dump it there.

  The earth gave a final, violent tremor. An ebony creature surged forth amid the cacophony of trembling earth and breaking sky. It towered menacingly over small boy and tall trees alike.

  The giant creature’s bellowing screams assaulted Blayke. He huddled on the ground, gasping for breath. His bleeding hand throbbed, and the beating rain stung the back of his neck. Blayke scrunched his eyes tight and prayed to every god he had ever heard of to make everything disappear; the rain, the thunder, and the monster. Fear of impending death made him cry.

  Rain battered him, but the earth ceased shaking. The creature’s commanding voice replaced the primal screams that made the downpour seem a whisper. “I have come to take you. Look at me and behold your destiny.”

  Blayke lifted his head against all will and instinct, compelled by immense power within the voice. A colossal black dragon stood close, too close, dwarfing the small human as an ancient oak does an ant. The creature stared at Blayke with penetrating silver orbs.

  The boy’s eyes, once fixed on the nightmare, could not move. So this was it, his death was here, so soon. How could that be? Tears flowed again as he realized his short life had existed just to fill the belly of this dragon, a special dragon no doubt, but still a dragon. Blayke took comfort in the warmth of tears that mixed with the rain on his face, as the giant creature reached toward him with massive claws.

  It snatched Blayke, with one swift and powerful gesture, and thrust him into a mouth full of sword-sharp teeth.

  Blayke woke screaming, feeling as if he were choking on his own blood. Arcon ran to Blayke’s room, arms raised, ready to fell any intruder who would dare harm his boy. Relief at the absence of an attacker was short-lived as he tried to sooth his terrified nephew. Blayke sobbed in his arms as he described the nightmare in vivid detail. Arcon knew this was a prophetic dream, marked by the Dragon God no less.

  The dangerous and terrifying times foretold by the First Circle were nearing, and his nephew’s nightmare confirmed the worst. Arcon, one of the most powerful realmists ever to have lived, and member of The Circle, prayed they would be given more time to prepare; their lives, and all life on Talia, depended on it.

  Blayke eventually fell asleep and his uncle retired quietly to his study, where a hot cup of tea and mesmerizing flames in the hearth could not dilute his fears. The evil they had banished over a thousand years ago would return; it was already on its way.

  1

  Bronwyn stared over the precipice, grey eyes fixed on the black stone she had nudged over the edge with her foot. A cool breeze caressed her face, the scent of early spring tingling her nose. It was a long, long way down, and the stone she had sacrificed bounced off many larger rocks falling into nothingness, out of sight. She had thought it would be so easy to follow the stone off into oblivion, but now standing here, tensed to do just that, found it was not.

  As hard as she tried, she could not force her foot to take that one, final step into peace; all she could do was look down and wonder what it would be like to fall, fall, fall. She dragged all the recent anguish she had suffered to the forefront of her mind in an effort to strengthen her resolve and leaned further forward.

  Would she die on the way down, wind pushing against her face, speeding through the air while buffeted by the fear of knowing her immediate fate, or would she die at the bottom as she smashed headfirst into the rocks? Would there be time to feel the pain?

  This morning began the same as any other for the olive-skinned, young woman, until her Aunt Avruellen had changed everything. “Bronwyn, how would feel about seeing the world? I’ve decided we’re leaving tonight for a long journey.”

  “Leaving? What? Why do we have to go, and how long is long, exactly?”

  “I have a meeting of The Circle to attend, then we have somewhere else we have to go.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, when are we coming back?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Bronwyn felt tears forming. The first thing she thought of was her best friend. “I’m going to say goodbye to Corrille.”

  “I’m afraid not. You can’t say goodbye to anyone. No one must know we’re leaving. Now, no more questions; I’ve got work to do.” Avruellen had turned her back on Bronwyn and left the room. Bronwyn had understood that to mean they were never coming back, and as
for her aunt not knowing where they were going, that was unlikely—Avruellen had a purpose for everything she did; she wasn’t one of The Circle for nothing. Bronwyn had slammed the door on her way out.

  Now Bronwyn perched on the edge of safety, hating herself for not having the courage to jump off, hating her aunt for forcing her away from her friends and the only home she had ever known. The young woman sat for a while, arms folded across her chest, scowl wrinkling her forehead, until she acknowledged her aunt wouldn’t leave her behind. Since she was not going to kill herself today, Bronwyn knew she must yield to the fact that she was going to do what her aunt demanded. She stood, and accepting the depressing reality, commenced the walk home, albeit with slow steps.

  Bronwyn reached home and went straight to the kitchen, as she always did, to see what goodies awaited. Avruellen and her fox Flux sat at the kitchen table, a sight that had always made her smile; until today. Her aunt pointed toward a fragrant cup of tea and freshly baked biscuits. Bronwyn took her place at the table and stroked Flux’s soft, furry head.

  She lingered among the familiar aromas, committing all to memory. Flux nuzzled her hand as Bronwyn sipped her tea. “Do we really have to go tonight? Why not another night, maybe another week?” Her eyes pleaded with her aunt.

  Avruellen spoke with a firm voice. “You know better than to ask silly questions, dear. A lot of things in life would be different if I could change them, but I can’t. Now, I’ve told you as much as I’m going to and it’s not open for discussion. Make sure your bag is packed by sundown; we’re leaving immediately after dinner.” She rose, her own sorrow momentarily shadowing her face. “I’ve a lot to do before we leave, so I’d best get started.” Brisk footsteps emphasizing her point, she left the room.

  The ginger biscuits tasted so good, their crunchiness so satisfying that Bronwyn, despite her inner turmoil, couldn’t help but enjoy the second-to-last meal she would ever eat at this table. Bronwyn stood as she swallowed the last morsel. “Well, Flux, I suppose it’s time to pack up my whole life. Do you think it’s too late to change her mind?” Flux didn’t answer, just led the way to the door.

  Bronwyn regretted the desire to kill herself and knew she was being an ungrateful child. All the lessons her aunt had given her in the art of realmistry, the skills she had acquired over many years, were for what lay in the immediate future and not to be thrown away in an immature bout of self-pity. She anticipated her future with fear, feeling dismally unprepared. Bronwyn pushed her anxiety aside and, adopting her aunt’s brisk manner, quickly bundled necessities into a woven leather bag. Contemplating what lay ahead, Bronwyn felt she could confidently say today had been the worst day of her life. If the prophecies were right, it wasn’t going to improve any time soon.

  2

  Arcon and Blayke ploughed through deep virgin snow. They approached their cave within the white-covered mountains, leaning into a fierce northerly wind, their faces burning with the cold. Two freshly killed rabbits hung from Arcon’s pack. It may have taken them all day but at least they had found food this time. The unexpected blizzard had held them captive for days, and dried rations collected in early summer had provided their only sustenance. Starved for variety, Blayke could almost smell the rabbits roasting over their fire; saliva exploding within his mouth at the thought of tender rabbit shank. He was sure not even Arcon could ruin this meal with his dubious culinary skills.

  Arcon halted under an overhang. A smooth mantle of ice sheathed the section of rough stone in front of him. Removing one of his gloves, he traced a series of lines over the rock until he heard a familiar click, and the door opened slowly, silently inward. They rushed in, the rock closing behind them. Both men ran to the dwindling fire like two little boys: shoving, pushing, and jostling until both basked in an equal share of the heat.

  Arcon removed his other glove and threw both on a chair to dry. He was a wide-shouldered man of medium height, lean yet strong and many years older than his companion. His ageless, albeit weathered, face had seen almost two hundred years. Arcon’s clear, blue eyes held secrets he wished to forget.

  Blayke, his protégé, was a descendant of a relative. A loving boy, he had been given into the older man’s care at birth. Arcon had taught him a variety of survival skills including hunting and fighting, and a rudimentary knowledge of the spiritual craft of realmistry. Blayke had a lot to learn, but was as good as could be expected for his age and lack of experience.

  The two had been travelling Talia for three years. Before that they had spent time on Arcon's farm, which had provided the old man a good base. Even though he had crossed Talia numerous times over the years, he needed a place to come home to which was private and removed from the disapproving eyes of the general population.

  Arcon was a realmist, realmistry being the art of syphoning energy from the Second Realm through the realmist’s body and manipulating those forces, usually to heal, help, or hurt. Significant power was available for those few who had spent years learning and understanding the complex characteristics of those forces. There were two types of people on Talia: those who feared what realmists could do and disliked them, and those who understood and respected them. Unfortunately the majority were members of the first group.

  The past three months in the mountains had been invigorating for Arcon’s dark-haired companion, but now boredom and freezing weather had set in. The mountains were devoid of ale, girls, and fun of most sorts. Blayke had enjoyed it at first—the snow had been a wonder and, because of the altitude and time spent hunting, his body had developed to a point where his own muscled physique impressed him. Now the novelty had worn off and he had been having arguments with Arcon over the most trivial things.

  Night descended unwatched. The two men sat cross-legged on the floor of their windowless refuge in front of a renewed and cheery fire, each holding crisply barbecued rabbit. Blayke had noticed his uncle was eating the long-awaited rabbit mechanically, fragrant juices dripping down his chin to fall unnoticed on his lap. "What's wrong? You’re too quiet."

  Arcon started before meeting Blayke‘s eyes. "How would you feel about leaving this paradise tomorrow?"

  Blayke smiled. "I'll start packing!" His smile hurriedly retreated when he saw the expression on Arcon's face—he wasn't sure what it meant, but it didn't look promising.

  Arcon continued in a more sober tone. "Tonight I must communicate with The Circle. I need you to make sure no one is spying on us." The young man nodded; it was not a difficult task, and he’d done it before. He would have to use his mind to travel one of the ethereal corridors to the Second Realm, find the relevant symbol for The Circle's meeting point and monitor the outside for intruders. It was a dangerous, out-of-body experience. Knowledgeable realmists, with enormous control and practice, could leave part of their awareness within their body while the other part stretched out to the Second Realm. The essence of the inexperienced realmist wholly left the body, and only the unconscious mind kept the lungs breathing and heart beating. They were left vulnerable by the soul link that allowed them to communicate this way; they could be attacked physically—or otherwise. If a body died whilst the soul roamed, it would be doomed to an eternity of wandering the realms—unless the person had the knowledge to inhabit another body. Any attack to sever a person’s link with their body was frowned upon in realmist's circles and considered evil.

  The intensity in Arcon’s eyes left no doubt as to the importance of what he said. "Tonight is different from the other communications you've been involved in. As you know, The Circle meets twice a year. Tonight is the most important meeting in a long time. You may hear things that surprise or worry you, but at no time should you lose concentration. Now, more than ever, will the ones we oppose be straining to hear. If they learn even the smallest part of what we are planning…” he left it hanging, not wanting to finish by saying they would all be killed.

  Blayke was momentarily distracted as a terrifying image of his nightmare dragon flashed uninvited in his mind; his
body responding with a shiver. “You must concentrate as you never have before. The smallest mistake is not an option. If we reach the end of the meeting without any catastrophe you will have many questions, none of which I can answer, so you will have to put them aside. Do I have your promise on these things?"

  Arcon looked at and within Blayke. Blayke could feel the older man's mind probe and both knew when he answered, "Yes," that he meant it.

  The meeting wasn't until midnight so Blayke lay on the floor on his bedroll, making a pretense of resting, body still, but mind racing. Arcon stood, rubbing a thick-fingered hand into the small of his weary back before crossing the cave to open the stony slab of a door. He greeted the animal waiting in the silent winter, and his tone lightened. "Well, I haven't seen you for two days. Have you had good hunting?" The white owl, perched outside the door, blinked once.

  I was wondering when you would notice I was here, freezing I might add. You can be so inconsiderate sometimes! You’re lucky I didn’t just fly off and offer my services to someone else.

  Arcon leaned down and offered the bird his sleeved arm in conciliation. "If only. My mother warned me about bonding a self-important owl for my creatura, but did I listen?" The realmist sighed tragically then smiled and carried his ungrateful companion into the temporary warmth of the cave.

  3

  Zimapholous Accorterroza, or Zim as he was more commonly known, glided gracefully to the dragon city of Vellonia. He disregarded the many sheep and cattle grazing far beneath, his preoccupation with the impending meeting of The Circle dominating his thoughts.

  The city lay nestled in a protected valley that had sheer cliff faces on either side, soaring a thousand metres toward the sky. Imposing stone buildings stood proudly, like ancient trees, on the valley floor overlooking the river. The river divided the city down the middle and was the descendant of the mighty flows that had sculptured the valley thousands of years before.