by A. F. Dery
Broken Mirrors
Book One of the Broken Mirrors Duology
A. F. Dery
Copyright © 2015 by A. F. Dery. 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.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN-10:0986258156
ISBN-13:978-0-9862581-5-2
Front Cover design by SelfPubBookCovers.com/FrinaArt
To Josh
My rock, who gives me wings.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
Doom can come in many forms, Kesara knew, but a tea tray was not the one she’d expected for herself.
Both the tray in question, laden down with the tea things and what appeared to be a veritable mountain of scones, and her feet felt like they were made of lead as she shuffled up the many shallow stone steps that spiraled up to the Dread Lord’s tower, hugging the walls. There could have been a hundred or more for all she knew: she’d never counted them, had never even gone all the way to the top before. The muscles in her legs already ached in protest and she was not halfway up yet. The air in the stairwell was so cold and damp as she ascended that she could barely see through the cloud of steam that rose from scones on the tray, but she dared not set it down on the narrow steps or slow her pace. Dawdling while delivering the Dread Lord’s tea was simply not an option.
Kesara tried to look ahead to the top of the stairs, but it was nowhere in sight. Like the rest of the sprawling Keep, all was weather-beaten stone, as gray and bleak as the sky stretching over it. Milky light filtered in through the slit shaped breaks in the walls that she supposed were meant to be windows. It was overcast more days than not in Eladria, the sun forbearing to smile on the mountainous little country. Rocks and mines, dirt and rain. Why the hell did I come here? Kesara wondered for the thousandth time.
The answer promptly flashed through her mind, the brief but vivid image of the cloister she’d fled from, along with a remembered echo of screams that had long since died with the throats that had issued them.
Yes, she thought, trudging up the endless stair, there are worse things than this. Worse places. This high up, in the tower occupied only by His Lordship, there was none of the ornament that could be seen in the other parts of the Keep, if it could rightly be called ornamentation to begin with. Weapons, mostly, polished to a brilliant sheen and always kept sharp enough to be used fresh off the wall if need be, along with some tasteful, if very old, tapestries. She had often wondered since coming here what that said about Eladria’s present ruler. If the decor he chose for the Keep reflected him, he too would be both sharp and very old.
Never before had Kesara actually seen the Dread Lord of Eladria, as he was properly titled. She was not even certain what one had to do to earn the appellation “Dread.” She knew he was a warlord, knew the Eladrian army was considered to be without equal, much like the extensive mines that kept them in coin. She also knew he fought alongside his own troops and that military service was compulsory here for all men. Yet many of those soldiers remained even past the time of their obligatory service of their own volition, some only for part of each year, others continually until age or battle forced an end to it. She couldn’t comprehend the devotion these men displayed to their lord, speaking of him as they did in the hushed tones usually reserved for deities.
But perhaps the most compelling and relevant thing she knew about him as a lowly servant in his Keep is that he was known for Having Moods. There were only certain servants permitted to attend him in his private chambers and she, a refugee from Ytar, was certainly not one of those. No, she usually scrubbed stone floors and cleaned out hearths and laid fires, often in rooms no one ever saw. Only Eladrians occupied the positions of any real value, but she was frankly not any better suited to any of those, and had it not been for the recent ague that had managed to invade not only Eladria but also her Keep, she never would have been hired at all.
But times were desperate when it came to reliable domestic management in the Keep, it would seem, and even without references, she had been entrusted with her scrub brushes and, a couple of months after that, her very own bit of flint to use in laying the fires. It had been solemnly presented to her by Cook with all the pomp and significance of a young soldier’s first sharpened blade. “Use it well, with our trust,” the stout woman had intoned gravely, staring down intently into Kesara’s eyes as if seeking one last opportunity to ferret any warning of evil tidings from the younger woman’s soul.
“Uh, thank you, madame,” Kesara had said slowly. “I appreciate this...opportunity..to prove my worth with this...uh...piece of flint.” At Cook’s continued expectant stare, she’d added nervously, “this very FINE piece of flint.”
Indeed, thought Kesara wryly, that blessed day when I am allowed to polish the cutlery will no doubt be hailed with a toast of ale and the attendance of the entire staff. If I live long enough to see that day, anyhow.
She swallowed hard as she finally stepped up onto an oval-shaped landing. Before her stood an immense and ornate door that looked to be carved from solid oak with a pair of fully armed and armored soldiers standing before it. Like all natives of Eladria, they were as big and sturdily built as oxen. Between the two of them, the door appeared only as a slim line of dark wood. The guards did not even look directly at her, but at the space right above her head. Kesara sighed, all too accustomed to the slight of eyes that could never seem to find her. She only came to the shoulders of most of the women, never mind the men.
She renewed her grip on the tea tray and tried to slow her breathing, hastened as it was by both her sudden surge of anxiety and the long trudge up the stairs. She was uncertain of what to expect now that she was finally here. She knew Cook had ordered her to take up this tea tray to get rid of her. She had been hired out of desperation only, but Eladrians as a rule were too lawfully minded to have kicked her out when the other servants recovered sufficiently to resume work. No, they had waited until there was a valid reason for her dismissal, and when after eight long months none was forthcoming, they’d manufactured one. If she displeased the Dread Lord- which her very appearance there guaranteed- she would be dismissed if she survived the experience, and if she refused to go out of self preservation, she’d be dismissed for her disobedience. It was a solution so elegant in its simplicity that Kesara would have admired it under other circumstances- such as circumstances that did not involve her as the subject.
There was no point delaying the inevitable any longer. If the tea managed to cool, she was done for no matter what.
“I’ve come with Milord’s tea,” Kesara murmured humbly, dropping her eyes from the soldiers’ expressionless faces.
The one to her right gave her a long, appraising look. “You’re not his usual servant of a morning,” the man commented in a low voice.
“No, sir,” she said. If she hadn’t feared something dropping off the tray, she would have shrugged.
“How am I to know Cook meant for you to come?” Kesara’s eyes flicked back up the soldier, half-expecting a belligerent grin, b
ut instead seeing his mouth set in a grim line. Bloody Eladrian paranoia, she thought, barely suppressing the urge to roll her eyes.
“Are you suggesting I could spirit away Cook’s tea tray with my skull intact, sir?” she tried to keep her voice humble, but somehow her tone managed to convey her true sentiments of the soldier’s intelligence anyhow. He narrowed his eyes and she braced herself for trouble.
“Where the bloody hell is my tea?” It was a deep, rumbling voice, resembling more than slightly the roar of an irate bear, sufficiently loud to cut through the thick wood of the door and the heavy stone of the tower walls. It made the back of Kesara’s neck prickle. She bit her lip, feeling her cheeks cooling faster than the tea as the blood drained from her face.
Without another word, the soldier who had addressed her smirked his vindication and opened the door with a great shove and a mocking half-bow. As quickly as she’d paled, she now flushed , but she dared not delay any longer. She strode quickly inside the tower, pressing the edge of the tray firmly against her chest to still its traitorous rattling in her hands.
And came to a dead stop just as quickly as the soldier pulled the door closed behind her and darkness closed in around her like a shroud. It wasn’t the same darkness as the overcast morning outside, it was pitch blackness. If there were windows, and she was sure there must be, they must have been heavily curtained indeed, for not a single sliver of daylight managed to pierce the room’s interior, and there were no lights, not so much as a single candle lit.
Kesara blinked rapidly as her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, trying desperately to make out what was around her. This is insane, she thought. Why would anybody in their right mind be sitting around in a pitch black room waiting for their tea?
She realized then that he may not even be in the same room. The tower was undoubtedly large enough to be comprised of several of them. This thought made his lung capacity seem all the more impressive, for she heard him so clearly outside the closed door. But surely, if he were in here, he would say something?
“M-my lord?” she said tentatively into the darkness. After a few agonizingly long and silent moments, she tried again, as loudly as she dared: “My lord?” She winced as it managed to come out as a squeak.
Kesara heard a door creak open and a small shift in her vision up ahead told her that there were indeed multiple rooms.
“In here,” the same low voice she’d heard before hissed impatiently, sounding strained but a good deal quieter.
Kesara felt torn. On the one hand, she was sorely tempted to point out that she couldn’t see. Perhaps he’d allow her to light a candle or something. On the other hand, where would she even find one in the dark? And she certainly didn’t want him to start yelling again.
Deciding inaction was the greatest of all the perceived evils, she started to move cautiously towards where she thought she’d heard the creaking door. After three or four rather shuffling steps and grazing her hip on what felt like a table edge, it struck her with the suddenness of a lightning bolt.
Pain, and yet, not pain. It was the honey-thick heaviness, the tension, the pressure of pain without the actual hurt, and it slapped uncomfortably against her senses, demanding her full attention. She could tell by its persistence and strength that it was not negligible, as most people would judge these things.
Kesara’s own scale was a little different. It took a lot to unhinge her.
Still it seemed to gnaw at her hungrily, begging for her to draw near it, to touch it.
No. I will not.
She shoved back the sensation without another thought and continued to inch forward, striking her shin on something and almost spilling the tray when her elbow whacked something else, until somewhere about three-quarters of the way to where the creaking had come from, the tray was abruptly snatched from her hands. She let out a little cry of surprise and stumbled back a step, thrown momentarily off balance, but quickly regained her footing.
“Scones?” the voice groaned. She could not help but notice that it sounded as if his voice was coming from where she imagined the ceiling to be. How tall was this man? Suddenly she heard something breaking somewhere over to her left and she cringed, ducking her head out of self-protective reflex even though by that time anything aimed at her head would have already met its mark. Then she heard a sudden rush of pounding steps immediately followed by the unmistakable sound of retching.
Kesara frowned. She had thought the scones smelled delicious, and there had certainly been a lot of them. Now relieved of her burden, she was free to flee, but unsure if she was supposed to. The retching continued from somewhere ahead of her and she wondered whether she ought to call for help.
She moved hesitantly towards the sounds, and all doubt left her about the origin of the pain she had sensed. It was him. She was sure of it now. The sensation felt like a tangible force now as she edged towards him. It snaked out to her with greedy fingers, making it harder and harder to breathe. She reached out a hand carefully to make sure she was not about to run into anything and her fingertips grazed what suspiciously felt like the metal hinge of a door.
Impulsively, she fumbled around for a handle and, finding one, pulled it open with both hands, allowing a small shaft of wan gray light into the room. She blinked against it furiously and saw the back of a great giant hulk of a man on the floor before her, bent over something. Hopefully a basin, she thought. After all, if she was the only servant around, she might well be drafted into clean up duty. She shuddered a little at the thought.
The man, no doubt the Dread Lord himself, did not react to the light but continued to be noisily sick. Kesara’s long experience in sickrooms inured her from the unpleasantness and, concern overriding her instinct for self preservation, she hastened to his side. The ague had come and gone by now, but was it possible he had contracted it somehow, or was this the result of the pain, or did he just really not like scones?
She could see he was trembling and dripping sweat in a spreading stain that darkened the gray tunic covering his back. Long, lank strands of dark red hair fell around his face. She held it back with steady hands and he jerked at the contact but, otherwise occupied, forbore to react further. He felt hot, but she knew that did not necessarily mean much in the throes of vomiting. When he’d finally stilled, she drew one hand away, and again on impulse, lifted the edge of her apron and gently dried his face, though he still kept it turned away from her, panting for breath.
Then he did look up, and her stomach plummeted straight to her knees as red-rimmed brown eyes locked hers. The anguish in them was palpable and made her wince in sympathy.
Then she noticed the rest of his face and felt her own eyes widen. The Dread Lord of Eladria was...deformed. She wasn’t sure how else to describe it. The man was clearly huge even in comparison with his Eladrian kin, and of course, his head and face were sized accordingly, but his mouth, dear gods, his mouth. It was long, misshapen gash across the bottom half of his face with thin, bloodless lips that barely stretched closed over the large sharp teeth, the massive jaw. A long, thin scar, pale as moonlight, slashed through one corner of that mouth from just under his cheekbone down to his chin. Never in her life had she seen such a face. His nose looked otherwise normal, if many times previously broken, and his eyes- her gaze returned to his and she wondered if he had not blinked the whole time she was staring at the rest of his face. She felt the heat flood her cheeks as she realized the rudeness of her scrutiny.
She opened her mouth to stammer something, anything out that might make those anguished brown eyes blink, at least- after the liberties she’d taken and now the offensive way she’d looked at him, something inside her twisted sickeningly at the thought of her stare adding to all the others he had surely endured in his life- but to her shock, a large, hot hand came up and gripped her outstretched one where it had dropped from his hair in her shock, and he lowered his disfigured face to it, closing his wet eyes and pressing them against her calloused palm.
K
esara blinked, her mouth still open. She closed it. She stared at the back of his head, the pale skin of his neck through his unwashed hair. The temptation suddenly presenting itself was almost more than she could bear. Her palm burned where he touched it, not with his feverishness, but with the awareness of his torment in such tantalizingly close reach.
Just once, she thought, won’t hurt. Just this once.
But of course, that was a lie. It would hurt. It had to hurt or she wouldn’t have done it properly. But pain, what was that to her? She didn’t enjoy it, certainly, but she could bear it better than this man could. Better than any man could, or woman for that matter. This was the Dread Lord of Eladria, the only ruler she’d ever heard of who fought alongside his own men. That had to mean something. There are worse things, she thought, than hurrying along one’s doom for a good cause. But was this really a good cause? How much did she really know about him? This was her life and her safety diminished for a headache.
But he has such a big head, she thought helplessly. He started to lift that head and before she could talk herself out of it, her other hand darted forward and laid against it, and she opened her senses to the thick, cold sensation of his pain and threw open the gate in her mind.
The pain knifed through her skull instantly, pleased to be released into so receptive a vessel, feeling like a dull, hot blade driven through her eyes and out the back of her head. Bright spots blossomed in her vision, momentarily drowning out what little she could see in the pale light of the opened door, hiding the massive man still kneeling next to her. Her own stomach lurched once, briefly, then settled.
She drew a deep breath, blinking away the spots and steeling herself inwardly against the pain that now stabbed in her own head. It was probably the most painful headache she’d ever taken from another, she had to admit, but it was well within her abilities. It had taken but a bare moment to recover herself, and even now Lord Eladria’s head snapped up, knocking her hand away, and he stared at her, those brown eyes now wide with obvious shock.
