Heir to the Sun

by Jennifer Allis Provost

  Heir to the Sun

  Book One of the Chronicles of Parthalan

  By Jennifer Allis Provost

  Ebook Edition

  Copyright 2015 Jennifer Allis Provost

  http://authorjenniferallisprovost.com/

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Prologue

  From the beginning, there was the sky god, Olluhm, who ruled the land during the daylight hours and Cydia, goddess of the moon, who held sway over the night. Olluhm heard many tales of Cydia’s beauty, and while he desired to look upon her they were forever separate, for the sun may never share the sky with the moon.

  Once, during the moon’s dark time, Cydia grew bored in her celestial palace and left it to walk upon the land. She took the form of a doe and leapt across the green land she guarded. After a time, she became weary and curled up in the soft grass to rest; the goddess slept overmuch and was still earthbound when the sun rose.

  Thus Olluhm beheld Cydia for the first time, and as she was bathed in his golden light she reverted to her true form. Her beauty overcame Olluhm, so much so that he left his journey across the sky incomplete as he took the form of a stag and sought to know her.

  Cydia did return to her dance in the sky, and all the land watched her swell with Olluhm’s child. During the next dark time, she birthed a son called Solon, who followed his father’s fiery path from dawn to dusk. The birth of their son did not slake the lovers’ thirst for one another. Such was their passion that each joining resulted in a child, all with the long limbed, ethereal beauty of their parents and the pointed ears and large eyes of a deer.

  In time, there were enough of the gods’ children to form a separate people. Olluhm named them the fair folk for their beauty; in time, they were called the fae. With a mother’s love, Cydia gifted her children the land where she and Olluhm had roamed as doe and stag and called it Parthalan. Olluhm crafted the fae’s first home, Teg’urnan, as a replica of Cydia’s home in the sky. The sun god placed it upon the meadow where he first lay with Cydia to remind his mate, and his children, of his eternal love.

  Chapter One

  Hillel’s head bounced off the dirt floor as the guards tossed her into her cell like garbage. Her lip split and she tasted blood; she savored the taste, willing it to overpower the rank stench of her captors that clung to her skin. She lay still as death until the door clanged shut behind her.

  Once the guards had gone, Hillel rolled to her back and felt Torim draw her head onto her lap, her soft touch as she smoothed back her hair. Since they had no water Torim wiped Hillel’s bloody lip with her thumb; they weren’t due their next ration for some days yet. Hillel’s eyes fluttered open, and she gazed up at her dearest, only friend.

  “You must stop taking my place,” Torim whispered, lest the guards hear her and give them a beating. “You can’t endure this abuse alone. Next time, I will go.”

  Hillel smiled, flinching as she stretched her bruised lip. She didn’t know how she’d endure the constant torture without Torim, yet Hillel couldn’t say how she knew her. She often wondered if Torim was her sister, or perhaps her child. The rational, whole part of Hillel’s mind, the portion the demons hadn’t yet destroyed, remembered the sky, and the stars, and small flashes of her childhood. Yet, whenever she reached too far back in her memory she was confronted with the image of the mordeth dragging her away.

  “They almost killed you last time,” Hillel whispered. “I can’t let them take you again.”

  “And what good would come of them killing you?” Torim asked. She cradled Hillel against her chest and rocked her like a baby. “Remember, the Asherah will come for us.” Torim often told the story of Asherah, The Deliverer, who would someday come to free the fae from slavery and drive back the demons.

  “Yes,” Hillel murmured as she drifted from consciousness, “the Asherah will come for us, and we will all be free.”

  ###

  Hillel was asleep, curled up on her side in the filthy straw. Torim sat beside her, shielding her from the door, as she stared out the tiny window toward the stars. In the low light, Hillel looked almost peaceful, her white-blonde hair and pale skin glowing, but Torim knew better. Under Hillel’s meager shift she was torn and bloody. No matter how badly they brutalized her, Hillel never cried out, never gave their captors a glimpse of the agony they caused her; that was why they preferred Torim, for she was unable to muffle her screams. Torim wondered if Hillel’s pride would ultimately mean her death.

  Torim remembered the last time they’d made her scream and cry until her throat was raw. She had been chained face-down to the table. Usually only one demon set upon her, which was awful enough, however, on that day she had the misfortune of being favored by three. Once the victor had destroyed his opponents, he wasted no time in claiming his prize.

  When they had finally returned Torim to her cell she bled and bled, so much so that Hillel ripped out handfuls of her own hair to pack the wounds, and shouted until a guard brought them bandages. That was why they had no water now; each slave received a single pail of water at the dark moon, not a drop more, and Hillel had used both of their rations for Torim’s care. The moon would not be dark again for some days yet.

  Torim noted the positions of the stars and knew that a certain guard would soon make his rounds. The guards were male slaves, enthralled to their demonic overlords to handle the females, keep them fed and quiet, and dispose of their bodies once they were no longer useful. Most of the guards were long since numb from witnessing the females’ torture and the squealing, ruined babies they bore, but one was strong, and Torim considered him one of her few comforts.

  There was a scratching at the cell door, and Torim saw the guard waiting. She didn’t know his name, but that was just as well. Slaves never shared their names. He unbolted the cell door and opened it just wide enough to pass Torim a cup and a fabric-wrapped bundle.

  “Here,” he grunted. “That’s all the water I could get, and there’s a pot of salve under the bandages.” He looked past Torim at Hillel’s ravaged form. “I didn’t think she’d last this time.” He met Torim’s eyes, and added, “They’re starting to wonder why the two of you never get with child.”

  Torim knew exactly why. Whenever she or Hillel had the slightest fear that one of them was with child, they beat each other in the belly until they couldn’t stand. Torim and Hillel had made a pact long ago that they would sooner die than bear a demon’s whelp.

  “I suppose it’s our only fortune,” was all Torim said as she held the water and bundle in the crook of her elbow. “You shouldn’t risk so much. If they caught you, they’d kill you.”

  He snorted, and Torim saw a touch of arrogance in his brown eyes. “I have their rotation memorized, as well as the location of every entrance and exit. There is no way these vermin could catch me.”

  “If you have such knowledge, why not free yourself?” she asked.

  “The thrall,” he replied, and Torim asked nothing further. She had seen the magic handler many times, always
with a collar and chain about his neck, led about by the mordeth and enthralling the guards to neither act against the demons nor attempt escape. In many ways, the thrall was more of a torment than anything Torim need endure; while it kept the guards’ minds intact, it rendered their bodies captive to the mordeth, unable to help the women or themselves.

  “If I can break the thrall, we will be free,” he said fervently. “We will all be free.”

  “Do you think you can?” Torim asked. The guard began a reply, then he abruptly shut the cell door and left. Torim heard more of the demons approaching from further down the corridor. She held her breath and kept herself still, hoping the demons wouldn’t notice her.

  As soon as the footsteps faded, Torim returned to Hillel’s side and took a sip of water, grateful beyond measure for that small hint of coolness. Once Torim’s throat had gone from dry and cracked to merely parched, she propped up Hillel’s head and roused her.

  “Here,” Torim said. “Drink.”

  “Where did you get water?” Hillel asked.

  “The guard. He brought the water for you. And salve.” Hillel glanced in the cup, then pushed it toward Torim. “I’ve already had some. The rest is for you.” Hillel nodded and sipped the water as Torim unwrapped the bundle and set down the salve and bandages.

  “Where would he have gotten these?” Hillel traced the metalwork on the pot of salve, then she fingered the soft bandages. “These items are fit for a king. What do you know of him?”

  “Very little, other than he is kind and strong,” Torim admitted. “He told me he was a soldier before his capture. He claims to have the guards’ shifts memorized and knows every exit.” Torim dropped her gaze. “He mentioned that we may someday be free,” she murmured.

  “We will,” Hillel promised, “we will.”

  ###

  When the guard next made his rounds, he found Hillel waiting instead of Torim.

  “I wish to thank you,” Hillel whispered. “But I must know how you came by those items. Surely these demons have no desire to see us cared for.”

  “My brother is the one who keeps us in thrall,” he replied. “On occasion, he will relax the hold and allow me to act on my own.”

  “If he is your brother, why not relax the hold enough to let you escape?” Hillel asked.

  “I won’t let him,” he replied. “The mordeth has made it clear that if I escape, my brother will be killed. I cannot allow that.”

  “How does the thrall work?” Hillel pressed. “Why can you talk with us now, and bring us water when you shouldn’t?”

  “It keeps my body from disobeying the mordeth’s orders,” he explained. “I’ve never been ordered to not bring you bandages, so I may. I’ve also been ordered not to bring you your bucket of water until the next dark moon, but I was able to bring you that small cupful.”

  “Have you also been ordered not to send a message to Teg’urnan for aid?” Hillel asked.

  The guard’s eyes darkened. “I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?” Hillel demanded.

  “It is the king who ordered us here,” he replied. Torim gasped so loudly that the guard motioned for them to be silent. He quickly checked the corridor, only returning to their door once he was certain that her outburst went unheard.

  “What you say is treason,” Hillel whispered. “Our king would not let us be enslaved by this vermin. How can you claim such things?”

  “My brother says the king seeks to extend Parthalan’s borders,” the guard replied. “So he struck a deal with the mordeth-gall, Ehkron himself, to raise an army of demons loyal only to the king.” The guard fell silent for a moment, dark memories skating across his face. “First, the magic handlers were given over to the mordeths, then they put the legion under thrall, one contingent at a time. We were then ordered to capture women and bring them here.”

  In the space of a few heartbeats Hillel went from shocked to angry to despairing. No one was coming for them, not the legion, and not mythical warrior women. One emotion, curiosity, overrode the rest.

  “Did you bring me here?” Hillel asked.

  “No,” he replied. “I remember when you arrived, but I was not the one who brought you.”

  Hillel nodded. “Bring me a weapon.”

  “I cannot,” he protested.

  “You can, and you will,” she hissed. “Bring me anything heavy or sharp, anything that could break or bruise their hides. Bring them in pieces if you have to. Enlist the other guards to help you, and keep away from those who would stop us.” The guard protested again, but Hillel raised her voice to a dangerous level. “I want you to learn how many slaves have enough wits to leave with us and how many we will need to silence,” she ordered, then continued in a quieter tone: “For those that wish to help us, get them weapons as well.”

  “I am in thrall—”

  “Have you been ordered to not bring slaves sharp or heavy things?” Hillel demanded.

  “No.”

  “Then I say again, bring me a weapon!”

  Hillel stared at the guard until he nodded and withdrew. Torim dragged Hillel away from the door and to the far corner of their cell.

  “What are you doing?” Torim whispered. “If we’re caught with weapons, we’ll be killed!”

  “If they catch me with a weapon, they won’t live long enough to speak of it,” Hillel declared. She turned Torim’s face to hers and softened her words. “You heard what he said; this is the king’s doing. No one is coming for us, not even the Asherah. We can’t wait for rescue any longer. We need to rescue ourselves.”

  Hillel stared into Torim’s brown eyes, and despite the cold knot of terror that had formed in her belly, she knew she was right. If the king had engineered their enslavement, they would be used until they were dead. Escape was their only hope. Torim nodded, and laced her fingers with Hillel’s. “Then rescue each other we shall.”

  Chapter Two

  Caol’nir entered the Great Temple through the northern door, holding a small bundle close to his body. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior, and smiled when he saw her.

  Alluria was seated atop a bench in the rear of the central chamber, her face serene in quiet meditation. A single shaft of sunlight enveloped her, reflecting off her long chestnut hair. Although closed, Caol’nir knew Alluria’s eyes were a deep, stunning blue, so rich they made sapphires look like coals. As Alluria sat motionless in the morning light, she was more beautiful to him than any goddess.

  Not wanting to disturb her morning ritual, Caol’nir sat on the floor before the priestess, his thoughts racing as he watched her contemplate the gods. He was hopelessly infatuated with this kind, witty, impossibly beautiful, and utterly unattainable woman. When a priestess took her vows, she became Olluhm’s mate in the hopes he would visit her and beget a child. This meant that no priestess was to be touched by any man, for any reason, and the con’dehr protected the sisters’ virtue with their lives. Caol’nir was achingly aware that he couldn’t be with the one he loved, but still sought ways to be part of her life. While he pondered their situation, Alluria opened her eyes and smiled.

  “My most attentive guard,” Alluria said. “What brings you to temple so early?” He rose and offered his hand, as custom dictated he should, which Alluria waved away, also per custom. Caol’nir knew she wouldn’t accept his help, but remained ever hopeful.

  “I have the herbs you requested, my lady.” Caol’nir held out the bundle, bowing his head as he did so.

  “Such speed in your errands, warrior.” Alluria smiled.

  He returned her smile with a wide grin of his own, then quickly tried to regain his composure. Caol’nir knew he must look like a fool, always staring and grinning at her.

  As Alluria accepted the bundle her fingers lightly brushed his. She let her hand linger upon Caol’nir’s for the barest moment, the smile now gone from her face and replaced by…longing? He shook his head, for Alluria would not feel any sort of emotion toward him, surely not longin
g. If she wanted anything, it was a better supply of herbs, not to touch him in any way. Caol’nir realized she was thanking him and again bowed his head.

  “I’m here to serve,” he replied, then turned to exit the temple.

  “Warrior?” Alluria called after him.

  “Yes, my lady?” He turned back to the priestess, assuming that she must need something else for her work within the temple.

  “If you care to, you may kiss me farewell. My hand!” she added, then she straightened her back as she extended a graceful arm toward him. “You may kiss my hand farewell.”

  Caol’nir bowed low, his thick braid of sandy hair falling over his shoulder as he pressed Alluria’s fingers to his lips; he noticed that she smelled of wildflowers. “Farewell, my lady.”

  ###

  The priestess watched Caol’nir walk away, admiring his tall form and broad shoulders as she held her hand against her breast. It was a dangerous game Alluria was playing, inviting one of the con’dehr to not only touch her, but kiss her. While it was perfectly acceptable for a man to show respect to a priestess by kissing her hand, it was not acceptable for a priestess to invite such contact.

  But Caol’nir was so kind to her, and she knew that he would never hurt her or breathe a word of this little indiscretion. As he’d grasped her hand and had looked up at her with his pale green eyes, Alluria had felt as if she were falling into his soul. She knew he loved her, it was written all over his face; little did he know that she loved him as well. Soon after her arrival in Teg’urnan Alluria met the hotheaded young warrior, and it wasn’t long before she looked forward to Caol’nir’s morning visits to temple. In time, their awkward greetings had become a genuine friendship.

  I am a priestess; friends are forbidden, she thought bitterly. Caol’nir was also quite young, and Alluria suspected that a good deal of his infatuation was due to his youth. Yet she could not deny the way she felt when he was near, the way her heart pounded when she caught his eye and he smiled. Alluria sighed, and returned to her cell. Of one thing she was certain: if she had known there was a man like Caol’nir in the world, she would not have taken her vows.