by Diana Tyler
Published by Diana Tyler 2018
Copyright © 2018 Diana Tyler
www.dianaandersontyler.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission from the publisher.
Book cover design and e-book formatting services by BookCoverCafe.com
First edition 2018
CONTENTS
MOONBOW Prologue
1: Iris
2: Carya
3: Ambush
4: Hunter
5: Runaway
6: Limén
7: Messenger
8: Amber
9: Centaur
10: Oasis
11: Ēlektór
12: Prometheus
13: Oath
14: Gryphon
15: Killer
16: Intervention
17: Renegade
18: Executioner
19: Emerald
20: Apollo
21: Escape
22: Revelation
23: Therismos
24: Indigo
25: Testimony
26: Invasion
27: Treachery
28: Violet
Glossary
AGE OF THE ASHERS 1: Voyage
2: Scylla
3: Chloe
4: Fantásmata
5: Stranger
6: Orpheus
7: Mission
8: Education
9: Coronation
10: Intimation
11: Metamorphosis
12: Strategem
13: Psychro
14: Seeds
15: Trapped
16: Warning
17: Asher
18: Doma
19: Jasper
20: Thyra
21: Hades
22: Vessels
23: Identity
24: Epiphany
25: Asphodel
26: Nightmare
27: Oracle
28: Phobia
29: Lethe
30: Nicholas
31: Punishment
32: Traveller
33: Sacrifice
34: Escape
35: Smoke
36: Genesis
WAR OF THE ASHERS 1: Hermes
2: Attack
3: Truth
4: Traitor
5: Portal
6: Escape
7: Allies
8: Punishment
9: Kinship
10: Orphans
11: Warning
12: Leto
13: Hesperides
14: Premonitions
15: Medusa
16: Enemies
17: Prophecy
18: Cave One
19: Aison
20: Discord
21: Mercenary
22: Blood
23: Ultimatum
24: Cursed
25: Hermogenes
26: Answers
27: Lycaea
28: Prodigy
29: Paradox
30: Poison
31: Pawns
32: Mnemosyne
33: Chione
34: Reflection
35: Immortal
36: Freedom
37: Orpheus
38: Ambrosia
39: Admission
40: Kratíras
41: Mission
42: Corinna
43: Prisoners
44: Memories
45: Dýnami
FATE OF THE ASHERS 1: Eione
2: Mount Pelion
3: Mount Aetna
4: Aftermath
5: Recall
6: Consequences
7: Cyclopes
8: Plan B
9: Hector
10: Destiny
11: Ares
12: Missing
13: Olympus
14: Left
15: Zeus
16: Honor
17: Athena
18: Intentions
19: Coercion
20: Direction
21: Proof
22: Ambush
23: Nereus
24: Retribution
25: Metanoia
26: Valor
27: Nightmare
28: Oath
29: Tartarus
30: Hecatonchires
31: Moonbow
32: Wrath
33: Heaven
34: Rebels
35: Cronus
36: Ruse
37: Ashers
38: Invincible
39: Jasper
40: Hellas
41: Awakening
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Discover more from Diana
This book is dedicated to the two greatest men in my life: my ever-loving, ever-patient, ever-encouraging, ever-kind husband Ben who persistently requested that I write more pages for him to read, and to my ever-wise, ever-imaginative, ever-fascinating, ever-heroic, ever-inspiring father Mitchell who, even in Heaven, whispers to me, “pray always, and no matter what, keep smiling.”
PROLOGUE
I grew up in a family that embraced religion; they respected and revered it above anything else. My mother and father were devout followers of Duna, the preeminent and only Eusebian god, and taught my brother Jasper and me about the prophecies, prophecies that had been handed down to our people for thousands of years. Prophecies that promised us freedom from the Alphas, and peace that would be unbreakable. My parents yearned for the day when the Promised One would appear and defeat Python, signaling a new beginning.
My father had been at the Temple the day Phos was dedicated as a baby, long before Jasper or I was ever born. He told my mother he’d seen Duna’s son. He knew without question that this baby would grow up to be the savior of us all.
My father never lived to find out that Phos died a martyr, not a savior. A criminal, not a king.
My mother was on her death bed when Jasper brought her the news that Phos had been killed in the Great Sea, and using every bit of strength she had left, she whispered, “It’s as Duna said it would be. It isn’t over…it isn’t over…”
Like my mother’s body, my faith died slowly. It weakened little by little after she died, until one day, our most sacred holy day, I refused to go to the temple. Why worship a god who had taken my parents from me and allowed his followers to be subjugated by a people that treated us like swine? Our god must despise us, not love us. But what had we done to offend him? And though I loved my brother, I never pretended to pay any attention to his sermons and prayers when he too became a believer in Phos. His faith was his way of coping. Without it, he had no hope.
There’s only been one thing that has given me hope – the legend of the doma.
The doma is a gift – or some might say a power – that was given to my family ages ago, when the Moonbow first appeared. My ancestor, Asher, was one of the first Eusebian Oracles, and one of the last to whom Duna spoke directly. At least, that’s what we’re brought up to believe.
The legend goes that Asher was woken one night by a cold wind and a thunderous voice from heaven. That voice, the voice of Duna, called him up to the headlands above the Great Sea. Endless bolts of lightning ripped through the sky, and the rain was so sharp and the wind so fierce that Asher feared for his life. He ducked into a grove of olive trees and waited. After a few minutes, he listened as the wind faded to a whisper and the rain softened to a gentle shower. He carefully stepped out beneath the open sky and saw the full moon hanging valiantly and the storm c
louds dissolving to nothingness in the stars.
“Asher…” called the voice. Then he turned from the moon and watched in awe as the fingertips of Duna began to paint the arches of the first Moonbow, one by one, onto the smoky black palette of sky.
Duna instructed Asher to write down what was happening, but Asher lamented:
“But, my King! I have not a stylus, nor a tablet to do what you say!”
Asher’s heart was heavy with longing. He so desperately desired to describe what he saw that he tore his garments and he sunk both hands into the soft wet earth. Feeling something materializing in his right hand, he pulled it out and was astonished to see a stylus wedged between his fingers. By the light of the Moonbow, he marveled as a mound of mud beside him transformed itself into a coarse loaf of tablet clay.
It was the first doma. And with it, he recorded the prophecy of the Moonbow, that it would no longer be seen again until his son, Phos, had defeated Python in the Great Sea, winning victory and freedom for all of us. Duna told him that from that day forward, the line of Asher would carry the colors of the Moonbow in their gifts.
For Asher, the tablet he pulled from the earth turned from ochre to bright red, symbolizing the first arch of the Moonbow. Asher could make tablets from any part of nature he wished, be it grass, or sand, snow, or salt. And with them, he obediently recorded what Duna told him to for the rest of his days. Much of what he wrote are the prophecies and parables that have been repeated to me since the day I was born.
Not everyone in my family is an Asher, as those with a doma are called. Duna revealed that only one child per household would manifest a power the year they became an adult, which in Eusebian culture, is age eighteen.
My grandmother’s gift represented the fifth arch of the Moonbow. With it, she could produce enough water to fill seven pots using only a single drop of liquid. Her doma supplied enough water for her family and neighbors during the drought, back when my mother was still a baby. None of her children, not my mother, nor her two younger brothers, received a doma. It was believed that the gift belonged to their baby sister, my aunt Corinna, who disappeared while she was still a girl. Most believe she was kidnapped by a Pythonian, but no one ever knew for sure. Eusebians are commanded by the Oracles to keep the Ashers’ identities concealed from the Alphas lest someone try to take advantage of the doma, or destroy it, but I’m sure there have been mistakes…perhaps accidental, perhaps blatant.
Jasper didn’t receive a doma, and he was twenty-one when he died. I turned eighteen eleven months ago, and still I am waiting to see if Duna has remembered me and kept his promise. If he has, maybe then I can avenge my brother by killing my master…his murderer. And after that, maybe I can have my life back. Time will tell. Either way, my master’s days are numbered, a fact that motivates me to wake up and serve him each morning, far more than does the fear of encountering his ruthless whip.
CHAPTER ONE
IRIS
The pyres seem peaceful on the water, rocking gently in a cradle of cobalt waves. If I were a foreigner walking far off, I would think fishermen were merely casting their nets on a temperate evening. But I know better. The Sea of Enochos is not a place for catching fish, but for burning men alive.
Strapped to floating piles of wood are my brother and four others, all helpless, yet each one perfectly still in their final moments of life. Those gathered around me on the pebbled shore shiver as the clouds collide and sink slowly like shrouds around the condemned. But I do not shiver, because instead of cold air on my skin, I feel sharp arrows of heat shooting through my veins. Anger and hatred boil deep inside my heart and bubble up as sweat on my brow and lip. All I can do to restrain myself from shouting out in my brother’s defense is clench my fists so hard that my nails bite into my skin.
A small vessel appears like a phantom before the pyres. The cloaked executioner upon it stands tall and lifts something into the air with his right hand. He ignites it for us all to see…the torch. Its orange flame, boldly illuminating the place of death with each haunting flicker, sends a chill down my spine. I shiver like the rest.
The executioner wields the hungry torch and strikes the first pyre with a harsh unfeeling grunt. Within seconds, the wooden heap is engulfed in a torrent of flames. The crowd begins to murmur until abruptly silenced by the horrific din of wailing as the next three pyres catch fire.
My brother’s is the last. I cannot see his face, only his silhouette etched into a cloudless patch of sapphire sky as the executioner’s torch draws near to him.
I kneel down and scoop up a handful of pebbles from the water’s edge and cup them tenderly in my hands. My brother and I collected thousands of these stones together as children, never tiring of their smooth round shape and splendid hues. Most of all, we had treasured the ones made of jasper, the blood-red rock for which he was named.
Jasper…
Furiously, I throw the pebbles into the sea and cry out as I return my gaze to the shadowy pyre. The torch reaches out to it, and so do I.
I fling my body into the frigid water and begin swimming toward him, but not with the desire to save him. No, I want to join him, to bind myself beside him and perish with the pebbles beneath me.
The last thing I remember is the feeling of ice in my blood.
I jump to consciousness, coughing uncontrollably as if ridding my lungs of the bone-chilling salt water that was flooding my nightmare. I snatch the jasper pebble from under my straw mat and hold it tight to my chest.
“Get up!” rasps a voice.
I look up to see Niobe, my master’s favorite slave, swaying over me wearing a dead burgundy fox around her shoulders.
“Acheron requests you,” she says. The strong smell of wine on her breath wafts toward me.
“It’s not morning yet. Can’t you see?” I say, pointing to the darkness filling the small window of my chamber. “His needs are yours to see to now.”
Niobe’s smile fades. Proudly lifting her chin, she spins around unsteadily, revealing the leather cords of Acheron’s favorite whip falling from her fists. She turns her head to look at me. “Don’t make it worse for yourself, Iris,” she whispers. “The punishment will be over quickly if you don’t fight it this time.”
“Wait!” I shout, pulling my cloak around me as I rise to my feet. “What wrong have I done?” I demand.
Niobe steps forward into the doorway. “You haven’t done anything. It’s what our people have done. I’m sorry.” She leaves me in silence, and I know I have no choice but to follow.
Overcome by a sudden rush of weakness, I lie back onto my mat and close my eyes, savoring just a few moments more of painlessness, and yet pining for the flames of the pyre...
I’ve been whipped and beaten countless times since Acheron dragged me out of Enochos’s grasp three years ago and made me his slave. I swore to myself that I would never forgive him for my brother’s death, or from stealing death from me. Perhaps it is shameful, but I am not ashamed to admit that I have imagined taking my own life, with noose and with knife. But I have never attempted suicide. Though my brother and parents are dead, I know that killing myself would break their hearts. Life, my father taught, was a gift. We didn’t choose when or how to begin it, so neither should we choose when and how to end it.
Acheron reclines on a wooden couch adorned with bits of gold, tortoise shell, and ivory. He lifts his head from the lilac feather-stuffed pillow supporting it and plucks a slice of pork from a silver stand nearby. Dropping the morsel onto his tongue, he casually waves for me to come closer.
The stone floor beneath me is covered with small pieces of glass, some winter-gray, others emerald-green. It forms a mosaic ribbon which weaves its way from the cypress door to the marble terrace overlooking the River Styx flowing just beyond the open wall.
The Styx, legend tells, is the boundary between this world and Abussos where the spirits of the dead wait to be reborn. It is forbidden to swim or sail the river because the waters, the Alphas say, bring a fat
al curse to any mortal trespasser. Jasper told me he slipped and fell into it while hunting a stag along the dew-drenched riverbank one morning and was nearly drowned by a creature he couldn’t see.
“I called out to Duna, and then it released me,” he swore.
I thought perhaps Jasper’s imagination had gotten the better of him, but now, as I gaze at the flawless river I walk upon, I wonder if the Styx truly did seal my brother’s fate so long ago…
“You don’t want to die a miserable death like your poor brother, do you girl?” Acheron asks, picking a cluster of crimson grapes from a platter Niobe offers him.
Only once in three years has my master spoken my name. He asked for it the morning after he kidnapped me from the execution as Niobe pushed spoonfuls of lentil soup between my lips.
“Iris,” I replied.
“Iris,” Acheron repeated with a wry smile. “Esteemed goddess of the rainbow! Messenger between us lowly mortals and the omnipotent deities that dictate the trifling affairs of men,” he said, bowing with mock adoration. “How marvelous it is to make your acquaintance.” He reached down, took my hand, and kissed it softly.
“Niobe, I must commend you. You’ve done a fine job nursing our honorable guest back to health. Perhaps the gods will crown you Healing Goddess of Hypothermia, should Iris be so gracious as to utter your name on Olympus.”
“My family never believed in such fantasies,” I said.
“A true Eusebian…” Acheron said, drawing out the words with equal parts curiosity and disdain. “I’ve always wondered at a people who could so easily scoff at the ancient myths, the gods and their silly stories, and yet worship with unrivaled piety a creator who has left his followers to endure in servitude, completely powerless…”
Niobe placed a cup of wine in my hands and rose to face Acheron. “Duna did not abandon us,” she said dauntlessly. “Phos has come and suffered, and the Moonbow appeared, just as the Oracles said it would. We won’t be slaves forever.”
“Dearest Niobe,” Acheron whispered, stroking her cheek. “The moment I think you’ve discovered some sense you say such stupid things.”
He removed his hand from her face and then slapped it hard. “I would like breakfast now, my darling.” Niobe bowed her head meekly and rushed out of the room as Acheron turned his attention back to me.
