The Desert (Song of Dawn Trilogy Book 1)

by Liv Daniels

  The Desert

  by Liv Daniels

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright© 2017 by Mustelidae Media

  All rights reserved.

  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

  Prologue

  So this was what a monster raid was like. If you were fortunate enough to survive the first few minutes, you didn't feel some sharp sense of shock or horror. You didn't feel angry at the unknown force that had sent such destruction upon you. You simply felt alone.

  Under the cruel moonless sky, the young boy sat on the edge of a dusty street and cried. It was a very dangerous thing to be doing, but the boy was heedless of the beasts that were all around him, ravaging everything in sight. He didn't care if he was captured, or trampled. What did it matter now? His home had been destroyed, his parents taken, and his perfect seven-year-old world had been shattered. There was nothing he could do but cry.

  The boy chanced to look up, and through tear-blurred eyes he saw a tall cloaked shape emerge from amidst the swirling smoke and dust. Evil creatures lurked in its wake, but they did not touch it. It moved toward him with purpose. The boy was suddenly afraid, but he remained where he was, transfixed by his fear.

  The thing was of human form, or at least was like one in appearance. All the boy noticed was its eyes. They were piercing and dark and made him want to look away.

  "Do not be afraid of me," said a voice that seemed to come from the figure. "I am here to help you." The boy said nothing, eying the stranger cautiously as he wiped away a tear with his sleeve. The voice continued.

  There was no one nearby to hear what that voice said. No one to warn the boy against it. So he listened.

  “Come with me. Come to the Desert.”

  Chapter 1

  10 Years Later

  As a child she would often stand on a hill amidst the trees, stretch her arms out, and pretend she could fly, free on the wind. All the world seemed small before her when she did that, and she felt as if she could see the trees sweeping away underneath her and opening up to some distant land. Of such was her childhood—dreams, stories. And she was happy.

  Perhaps some might have thought her an odd child, if there had been anyone to see her. But there was no one except the old woman—Grandmother. They lived in a hut-like dwelling in the woods, alone. Their life was simple; a small garden plot provided for them, and in the fall Grandmother would set out traps for small animals. Sometimes a man would come and bring them things like sugar and paper and rope, but he never stayed long and whence he came the girl did not know. She always looked forward to his coming because he also brought books. She loved the books, spending hours amidst their pages. She had never been formally taught, but her grandmother counted her smarter than most children of her own age. There were books on almost anything that she wanted to know about, and she abandoned herself to them all. But she always saved the stories for last. She had had so many adventures within the pages of a book that she never felt lacking of stimulation in her own world. Her life was interwoven with the stories, and she was content.

  That was how it had been. Now she stood on the hill where she had so often come as a child, and wondered why she could not fly. Why pretending had always been enough, but no longer was. It was exactly six months before her eighteenth birthday, a mild day in early spring. The soft music of leaves rustling in the breeze, the ripe green of the new grass, the endless expanse of trees before her washed in the golden light of the setting sun—all of this should have made her happy. It was the most glorious evening she had seen since those faraway summer days last year. But tonight there was a weight in her. It had been present for some time now. She felt powerless to stop it. She had begun to wonder about things which she had never considered, and had spent hours mulling over thoughts deeper than any she had known before. Above all she could not shake off the feeling that something was impending. She felt like one who sits at some perilous brink, and watches, and waits. Perhaps it was simply that she was going to turn eighteen in a few months. Maybe everyone underwent some inner transformation before they came of age. She did not know.

  And now, as that inexplicable brink seemed to draw ever closer, she felt she could take no more fruitless introspection on the matter. Perhaps it was time to speak to Grandmother. She sighed and turned to go back home. Dinner would be waiting, she knew. Halfway down the hill she turned again and looked once more at the sunset, still visible beyond the tall branches of the conifers, trying to soak it in as she once did.

  Not too far away, Grandmother stood in the doorway of their small hut, waiting for the girl to return. She worried about the girl now when she went off into the woods alone, more than ever before. Grandmother had noticed a change in her recently. Of course she had always been a quiet girl—that was her nature. But now she seemed turned always inward, and she spoke little at all. She was pensive, sad, and her eyes which had so often shone with the brightness of an open flower now more closely resembled the reflection of a waning moon in a dark lake.

  The lithe form of the girl appeared, flitting amongst the tree-trunks and ferns that were washed with the last light of day. Grandmother relaxed and turned her watchful eyes away before the girl saw her in the doorway. She went inside, sat down at the wooden table, and began to eat.

  When the girl came in, she sat down and spooned herself a small portion of soup, but did not touch it. "Are we hiding?" she said after a hesitant pause.

  Grandmother looked up calmly from her dinner, almost letting her spoon slide into the depths of her soup bowl. "Hiding? What would we hide from?"

  "From the World."

  Grandmother complacently lifted the spoon to her mouth. She was relieved to hear the girl speak. That was her way—to keep silent until she had thoroughly considered the matter on which she wished to speak. Given that the girl had been silent for nearly a month now, Grandmother knew that a carefully planned interrogation on the matter was now before her. "You know so little of the World, child. It is not a place to be taken lightly."

  "Then are we always going to hide from it?"

  "You don't know what is out there. Things that see a flower only as an opportunity to destroy something that they can never be like." Grandmother paused but was clearly not finished, and the girl almost regretted bringing the subject up. This was not the kind of answer she had asked the question for. "You are not so very young anymore. Perhaps there are some things you should know now."

  The girl perked up immediately. "Yes?"

  Grandmother cleared her own place, leaving the girl’s untouched bowl of soup. The girl watched every slow movemen
t anxiously. A slightly red sweet-scented liquid was boiling in a pot on the stove, and Grandmother calmly poured two mugs of it, extending one toward the girl. It was a kind of tea that they often had after dinner, made from a plant called idleweed that grew plentifully in the forest. Idleweed worked as a kind of sedative, and in large doses it could be dangerous—send you to sleep for days, or worse. But small amounts like in the tea were harmless, and only produced a calming effect. Today, however, the girl did not want to be calmed. She pushed her mug away.

  Finally, Grandmother sat down again and began to speak. "There is a difference between hiding and protecting someone else. I once lived in a great city among many other people. But in those days a great darkness came over the World. No one knew its source. Everyone was afraid, and all that had been whole was fragmented. Such is the state of the World. It has been broken, and now it waits—waits for that great tension to come to an end, as someday it must. The World cannot always lie in suspension between that which is good and that which is evil. I fear that time is not so far away. Ere long even you may have to confront that unnamed force that holds us all in its grip. But let it wait. Here you are safe, and one that has so long been untainted by lies and deceit may have the more strength to withstand the storm.”

  The girl looked at the ground as she listened to Grandmother speak. Now she sighed and looked up into Grandmother's eyes. There was memory there, she knew, but too often it was hidden from her. She had learned long ago not to ask where she herself had come from, or who her parents were. She was surprised that tonight Grandmother had revealed so much. But it did not satisfy her.

  "But what kind of darkness is it?" She asked after a prolonged silence. "Why doesn't it come here? And why does everyone fear it?"

  Grandmother sighed. "I don't know everything, child."

  The girl would not be abated. "Surely you aren't the only one who can see it? Is everyone else under its sway?"

  "There were some who resisted it," Grandmother said. She looked past the girl, as if seeing some distant memory before her eyes. "They held great renown, and inspired hope in the hearts of all who were still good. But for nothing. Now they are gone." The girl looked again into Grandmother's eyes, searching. Thoughts rippled under the surface of her own eyes, but she could put no words to them.

  “Eat, child,” said Grandmother.

  Chapter 2

  Summer came, and the fresh greens of spring faded. The girl did not speak to Grandmother again about the World, although she wondered greatly at the things that Grandmother had alluded to. She listened to Grandmother’s words again and again in thought, but soon she could squeeze no more meaning out of them. Someday I will find out, she told herself, and this resolution eased her mind. Indeed, before too long she began to think less of such things.

  New books came. Though she normally shied away from numbers, this time she immediately picked up a trigonometry book and engrossed herself in it. It was an ancient form of math, little practiced in those times, but then she had always been drawn to the unusual. For weeks she lived and breathed it, and allowed herself to think of very little else. Her life became a trigonometry problem. Every sound was some combination of sine waves, every shape and figure a conglomerate of triangles. All of these things could ultimately be described using a unit circle, a small circle with a radius of 1. It all came down to that circle. Life was simpler that way.

  Her eighteenth birthday drew nearer. She looked forward to that day with mixed feelings of anticipation and apprehension. Life could not always be the same; this she could feel. She looked to her eighteenth birthday as a turning point. It seemed that something must happen then. What she had not the faintest idea. But she could not shake off the feeling. And what if it didn’t? What if life went on after that day exactly the same as it had before? There was, after all, no reason why anything should change. It was both her greatest hope and her greatest fear.

  A change did come, but it was not, in fact, on her birthday. It came unexpectedly, three days before she was to turn eighteen. Grandmother fell sick. At first the girl did not worry; this had happened to both of them from time to time, and had never been serious. But as time went on, Grandmother worsened, and the girl grew nervous. She spent the next week in its entirety with Grandmother in her room. Grandmother fell into delirium, and though the girl spoke to her she did not seem to understand. The girl’s eighteenth birthday came and went, unnoticed. In her efforts to care for Grandmother, any thoughts of it had left her mind entirely.

  On the seventh day since falling sick, Grandmother’s breathing became less labored and she awoke suddenly from her delirium. The girl rushed to her side.

  “I am dying, child,” Grandmother said weakly.

  “No, you are not. You will get better.”

  “Don’t argue with me. Listen. When I am gone you must leave. There is nothing for you here anymore. You know where Estlebey is?”

  “I’ve seen maps.” The girl’s voice was quieter and weaker than Grandmother’s.

  “Good. Go there and ask for Katherine Holpe. She was a friend of mine once. She will help you. Don’t cry, child. Do I look troubled?” The girl shook her head tearfully. “Come closer. There. It’s alright. You will be great, child. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I can’t hide you from the lies and evil anymore. Be strong when they come.”

  “Thank you, Grandmother.” The girl threw her arms around her.

  Grandmother chuckled, though weakly, and the girl managed to smile. “Do you remember the name?”

  “Estlebey. Katherine Holpe.”

  “Good.” Her voice suddenly became raspy. “Now will you go out into the garden and get me some strawberries?”

  The girl nodded silently and flew out of the small house to the garden. She picked the strawberries mindlessly, numbly. There was a chill in the air, and the trees cast long shadows over the place where she had made her home for her entire life. She finished, and took the strawberries inside. But when she called to Grandmother, there was no answer.

  She buried Grandmother outside, alone, in the shadows and fading light. Then she went inside, but she didn’t sleep. She was afraid. “Be strong,” Grandmother had said, but she didn’t feel that it was in her.

  Chapter 3

  The next day dawned. It seemed strange that everything should be the same. The sun still rose, time still went on, birds still chirped, even she herself was unchanged. It would be easy to go on a walk in the forest and pretend that nothing was different. But it was.

  She got ready to leave immediately. She found an old leather bag and filled it with the remainder of the food left in the pantry. Then she sat down wearily at the table where she and Grandmother had so often eaten together, unwilling to start. It seemed that there must be something to do, something to say. To so suddenly and unceremoniously leave forever seemed wrong. But there was nothing left for her to do.

  Her eyes were drawn to her wooden bookshelf in the corner, where all of her books were kept. A moment later she found herself there. She ran her hand along the well-worn spines of the books. Each one brought to her mind some image or memory. She knew that she had to leave them, but above anything else this tore at her.

  Her hand came upon a blue-bound book with faded golden lettering and its spine tearing off at one end. She used to love that one. It was an old epic about a hero who did great things, and was always wise and kind and did everything that a hero should, and was everything that anyone ever wanted to be. She didn’t think that anyone believed in that kind of heroism anymore, but it had always enchanted her. She took the book out and tucked it into her bag. That one, at least, she would take. Someday I will come back for the rest, she told herself.

  Her hand still clasping the cover of the book inside her bag, she went outside. She looked at the little hut for some time, as if she had never seen it before. Then she went off into the forest.

  She had spent much time in the forest, but she had never in fact been very far from home. She had be
en content to explore the area surrounding her home in great depth. Every tree, rock and hill in the area was well known to her, and with each season they changed and she could discover them all over again. After about four hours, however, her surroundings became altogether unfamiliar. The trees opened up and revealed a deep dell that she had never seen, populated with little red flowers. A small creek ran through its center, tripping over stones on its way. A wash of light rain was let loose from the sky, though it was only patched with clouds and the sun still shone unhindered. The raindrops looked like tiny crystals in the sunlight. The beginnings of a smile disturbed the corner of her lips. She sat down in the dell’s soft green grass to eat a small bit of bread from her store. For a moment she was able to forget that she was utterly alone with an uncertain future.

  Though she would have been happy to tarry at the dell for a long time, she got up and resumed her trek as soon as she had finished the morsel of bread. She knew that Estlebey lay to the north, so she kept in that direction. Beyond that, however, she did not know what to expect. The map that she had seen was full of blank spaces, areas that either had not been explored or that the maker of the map had deemed unworthy of mention. That was not unusual; complete maps were a rarity in these days. But that meant an entirely different thing when one was only sitting at home looking at the maps. In that situation, it was easy to fill in the blank spaces with whatever she wanted—majestic kingdoms, raging seas, mysterious jungles. But she knew that before long she would discover what was actually there, and she couldn’t imagine it away anymore. The largest of these spaces, she remembered, was just beyond the forest. It couldn’t be too far away now.

  It was before her quite suddenly. The trees gave way (unnaturally, she thought) and beyond them was a great flat expanse. Her first impression of it was that it was not something at all, but a lack of anything thereof. Perhaps the blank space on the map had been accurate after all. Nothing living dared to go beyond the forest. It seemed as if the forest had once been running toward this empty land, but had suddenly halted at its borders, forbidden to pass. She stood now on the very brink of this place, at the meeting place of her own world and one completely foreign to her.