by J. A. Comley
Contents
Legends of Trianon
Acknowledgements
Map of Aurelia
Prologue: Broken Worlds
1 Protector
2 Blood and Ashes
3 After the Fire
4 A Hard Truth
5 An Invitation
6 The Great Expanse
7 The Lightless Tree
8 A New Life
9 The Business of Peace
10 Blade of Peace
Glossary
Notable Members of the Unseen Hand
Please Review
Other books by J.A. Comley
Coming July 2020
About the Author
Legends of Trianon
Valana– Book 1
The Lightless Tree
J. A. Comley
Copyright © 2020 by J. A. Comley
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any references to historical events, customs, or real places are used fictitiously.
Acknowledgements
Writing is a long and sometimes frustrating journey. A massive thank you to the following people who made it that little bit easier.
My friends and family, for all your support and encouragement along the way.
My beta readers, Olivia and Katherine, for helping iron out all the tiny details.
My husband, and editor, for not only getting my book ready to publish, but also keeping the kids busy so I could write it in the first place.
My cover artist, Eugene Chugunov (Wickard on 99 Designs), for bringing my characters and world to life so perfectly.
My readers, for joining me on this adventure.
THANK YOU
Laws of Strength
There is strength in unity — a stronger tribe must come to the aid of a weaker, if asked, that all remain strong.
There is strength in diligence — all must fulfil their chosen roles without complaint.
There is strength in leadership — all must obey the statutes of their tribe’s chosen ruler.
There is strength in law — the Conclave alone bears the burden of judgements.
There is strength in submission — Nightstalkers must be Bound until they are deemed worthy to serve.
There is strength in service — a Protector must serve their tribe, unfailing and unyielding in the face of adversity.
~ Felantha, Mother of the Tribes
Prologue
Broken Worlds
Year 0
Aurelia
This was the end of the world. The scent of blood, fire and ash filled the air. Screams rent the silence and the ground itself heaved in agony. In the distance, Elder Mountain exploded, spewing its fiery heart across the fertile plains below. Flaming rocks hurtled into the ground outside the village and ash choked the air. For a moment, Okano stood frozen, looking in horror. He was the Protector of the Hitori, but swords were no use against the volcano's wrath. Nearby, a child screamed, spurring him back into action. Scooping up the sobbing girl, Okano turned to his uncle, Urok, Chief of the Hitori.
“We must flee!” he bellowed over another resounding explosion.
The old Chief met his nephew's gaze steadily, then nodded. The world was ending and fleeing would probably do no good but Aurelians would never simply stand still and embrace death. They were a warrior people, and would always fight, no matter how impossible the odds.
“Gather the people. We'll head south, to the Thousand Eyes Caves.”
“The lava will be flowing that way.”
“Yes, but it will not make it past the Depthless Gorge. We must reach it first.”
Okano nodded as a rough tremor rocked the ground under his feet. He could only hope the Frelok Tribe would give them shelter if they could escape the deadly flow of the mountain's heart.
Cosmaltia
“Maelstrom!” the watchman in the nest shouted.
Captain Jorah looked over the rails and wondered again what they had done to anger the Demilain. This storm had appeared out of a clear sky. A cursed wind bucked their ship, changing direction every few seconds, shredding the sails. They wouldn't be able to outpace the suction of the maelstrom for long.
He grabbed his spy glass and aimed it east, to the small deserted island they were planning on passing by. As he watched, a great wave swallowed the land, drowning it in one fell swoop. He neither felt the spy glass fall from his hand nor heard it clattering against the deck.
He glanced once at his terrified crew and then did the only thing he felt he had left. He began the Final Ritual, a preparation to enter the Demilain of Death's embrace, in a voice louder than the storm.
His chant was taken up by other members as they, too, chose the oblivion offered by the constant repetition, letting the chant still their minds even as the ship bucked and swayed, being dragged down by the maelstrom.
“From Ezira we were born and to Kyron we return. Magic to magic, awaiting once more the rebirth,” they chanted together, their voices lost in the tearing winds. Wood splintered, men cried out and the ship was swallowed by the ocean, the light of day replaced by the crushing black of the deep.
Galatia
High Lord Jari swung his staff, his purple eyes narrowed in concentration, white robes billowing around him.
“Get them out!” he ordered, his magic flowing from him and holding the wall suspended in mid-air.
Three of his Makhi, too exhausted to use their magic, rushed in and grabbed the citizens who had been moments from death.
With a sigh, Jari let the wall crash down. He was much stronger than the other Makhi, yet even he could not win battle against nature itself. Half of the Red City was already under water, the rest swiftly being brought down by earthquakes and then claimed by the ever-encroaching waves that towered above Sunset Ridge.
He felt magic enter his mind and accepted the mental communication. Through his magical bond to the Makhi of his Order, he heard yet another report of a Makhi gone down, their magic strained to the point where it rendered the user unconscious in order to prevent harm or death.
“Everyone out! We make for the Blue City in the North!” he yelled, his commanding voice, aided by magic, slicing through the howling winds and giving all Galatians a rally point and an objective.
As he cast a spell, checking for any stragglers or trapped citizens, another tremor rocked the land. He steadied himself on a chunk of the outer wall and his heart broke. A faint flicker of fading life tickled his senses. A familiar life, one he loved dearly.
It can not be.
He went against his own command and raced back into the city, his magic straining to hold back falling buildings and the gathering pressure of the sea as it swept in.
“Jari, no!”
He looked back and saw Makhi Redkin, an old friend and someone who read the pain in his eyes without need for words.
“Your children are safe. Your people need you, Jari.”
Jari allowed himself to be pulled away from his futile task, but could not stop himself from sending out one more burst of magic, his need to confirm his loss too sharp to ignore. This time there was no response to his spell.
There had been many in the City, but none were left alive. His own wife, Edala, was now among them. One of many who had lost had lost their lives in the catastrophe.
He and Redkin rejoined the others and he pushed his hurt dee
p down as his three children, two fully grown, came to meet him. He had to be strong for them. Beyond them, he could feel the fear exuding from the remaining citizenry. His Makhi weaved between them, white robes dirty and torn, offering Healing and support. He had to be strong for them, too. He would have to mourn later.
Redkin squeezed his shoulder, having shared the painful thoughts, then straightened.
“Shall we proceed, High Lord?”
Jari looked past Redkin to where King Eldos stood, his face blank with horror.
“Yes. We head north,” Jari declared, unable to keep all the pain out of his voice. He pushed it away. He was High Lord. He had to lead until Eldos was ready.
Setting his mind on the long journey ahead, he hoped that the Blue Mountains would indeed offer the shelter Queen Astria had promised. The Blue City was their final hope.
He glanced back once more. Only two of the Palace spires still stood, poking forlornly out of the waters that had claimed the rest of the city and those who had not managed to escape it.
Goodbye, Edala. I love you.
Aurelia
Ezira had never felt pain before. She did not know how mortals dealt with it. The explosions began in her mind, then raced along her spine, crashing through her body like waves made of teeth and claws. Her vision blurred with it and sound seemed distorted. She heard Kyron's voice, but his words were unintelligible. Then he was gone. She couldn't sense him any more and the pain of that loss hurt far deeper than the other.
She did not know how long she lay there with the dust of Aurelia's Great Expanse swirling in eddies around her. Yet she distantly felt the planets spin, revolve around their sun.
Enough. She opened her mauve eyes, the small ring of turquoise around the diamond pupil contracting.
As she stood, her body recoiled, the magic that made up her being retreating from the dark, metal tree that now stood in what had been an empty stretch of land. Its branches were long, drooping down towards the ground. Mirrors that gave no reflection dangled from them like leaves. The tree seemed to echo the deep sadness torturing her soul, the tinkling glass offering a mournful tune in the breeze.
All around it, the ground was rippled in concentric waves of tortured earth, pin-pointing the explosion of power that had created the strange tree she beheld and forever marked this soil.
She pressed her golden palm to her head, fingers brushing against the black circlet and sky-blue stone that marked her as a Demilain Creator. Her pointed teeth bit her lip as another explosion reverberated through her body. This time, she noticed how the ground heaved in tandem.
Focusing on her connection to Trianon, she bit back a scream of despair. Her worlds were dying, the fragile balance of life and death, broken.
One hand clutched her wounded heart, the other, her pounding head. Her muscles spasmed, causing the swirling markings all along the right side of her body to ripple.
“I did this. My actions here today have killed millions.” She shook her head, blood-red braids swinging against her, their tips just touching the ground.
She wandered away from the tree in despair, her golden feet leaving a trail of glowing plants in their wake. A whole year she had lain there where she had confronted her other half. It would have been a long time of torture for the mortals. For her it had felt a mere moment. Her despair deepened. When the worlds died, so would she, so would Kyron. Embracing her magic briefly, she transported herself home, to the Dome of Stars, hidden from the dying worlds in her care by a shroud of newly forming and slowly dying stars.
No. The further she got from the tree, the more her magic sang. No!
Ezira's eyes shut as she spread her magic out from her. She was the Demilain Creator of this system. Every life here had been guided by her hand. They wouldn't die like this. She would find a way to restore the balance she and Kyron had broken. The planets responded to her call, their own life force weakened by the split of the Demilain, by the year left to suffer the fallout alone.
Yes. I can still save us.
Exerting her will, Ezira began to create beings from the elements, one for each. She drew the necessary energy, as much as she could, equally from the planets, enough for two from each world.
She chose to make them unique in form, something between the Demilain and the mortals.
Once she had formed her creatures and given them life, she summoned them to the Dome of Stars. There, the Sacrileons would remain to learn to control their elements so that balance could be restored to the worlds.
Trianon would not die today.
1
Protector
Aurelia, 186 years after the Breaking
A chasm split the ground with a resounding crack that reached Mukori even where he stood, far from the stretch of low land where bodies heaved and fell. Elder Mount belched another cloud of fire into the ash-filled sky, a slash of red against the grey. He felt the others around him shift nervously as they looked away from the mountain and back to the deadly dance unfolding some distance from their outcrop. The moon still shone, brightly illuminating the scene in an unforgiving light, but Mukori knew that if something didn't change soon, this dance would fade into the darkness of day. Regardless, he and his followers would not be preparing for sleep this moonset.
Although he was too far away to see the people on the plains below, he knew well enough who was down there, where metal flashed in the moonlight.
There would be the giant, strong warriors of the Hitori, the blue feathers in their hair flying in the wind as they wielded their heavy weapons; the stubborn warriors of the Dralog, their red spears flashing and stabbing as they darted around the edges of the battle; the Torik warriors, their orange bandanas stained with blood, short-swords singing; the Jensolir, usually the most peaceful of the Tribes, their teeth bared as they fought with scythes and sickles, green tipped fingers gripping hard; and lastly, the Kazori, agile warriors with quick reflexes and keen minds, would be everywhere, realising their error in their choice of allies and knowing death approached.
His ears lay flat on his head as his mind filled in what his eyes could not see. Five Tribes, once peaceful neighbours, now at war. Brother betrayed by brother and Aurelia's sands stained with the blood of its people. He knew it was like this everywhere. On Cosmaltia, civil war was barely being held at bay. Their lush gardens and meadows were burning as their own fire mountains erupted, entire islands rendered uninhabitable, their silver seas swallowing ships and smaller islands alike. Harvests were being laid waste by fierce storms. Soon, not even the tight control of Ritual and Tradition would stop the people's fear from overwhelming the lands.
Galatia's Great Ocean had risen in revolt, too, and the Red City was now drowned and lost to the deep. Earthquakes of such violence had sheered off entire sections of the east coast, casting whole towns into the churning waters. If not for their quick-witted and magically powerful High Lord, Galatia's southern population would not have survived. Yet, thanks to Jari, most of them had. Now holed up in the Blue City, sheltered by the mountains and fed by the fertile Light Meadows and Makhi, they were better off than any other of Trianon's planets, united by the recent marriage of their two royal houses. Mukori felt his nails bite into his palms as he clenched his fists. They hoarded all their abundance, just as they had always hoarded their magical knowledge. With no formal alliance binding the planets, Galatia had not offered aid. The raids and minor attacks from desperate foreigners had caused them to post guards at their Gateway. All interplanetary travellers were treated as potential criminals and questioned by Makhi.
Breathing deeply, Mukori unclenched his fists and let his pale ears stand erect. The worlds were in chaos. The Demilain had failed in their care of Trianon. Instead of protecting its inhabitants, they had broken the worlds and driven the people mad. The Demilain of Death had fled, and the Creator would not leave her Dome, nor would she receive emissaries. She had stated that her newly made and untrained Sacrileons would restore the balance between the elements and altho
ugh the disasters were losing frequency, the chaos was still eating the land faster than they could fix it.
And so it is up to me. I will be the Protector of Trianon. I will restore order.
Filled with a renewed sense of purpose, Mukori turned back to the fighting, scanning the distant figures with the help of a spy-glass, trying to see if the one he had come all this way to find was somewhere among the weaving warriors.
***
Valana paced in a tight circle around the Ever-Spring, her ears twitching atop her head in agitation. The source of clean water bubbled up from underground, spilling across the dry ground. Its soft noise was at odds with the rolling booms that echoed across the land, with the sounds of steel clashing against steel and the faint scent of blood. Valana's silver eyes swiftly noted the huddle of babies, children and elders, all those who could not fight. She knew they could hear and smell none of the things that disturbed her. Her Nightstalker powers gave her a much greater range to her senses, and it was slowly driving her mad.
Her heart clenched again as she thought of her blood-sister, fighting on the stretch of empty land that had once marked the borders between the Kazori and Hitori tribes. This was ridiculous. How could her chief have gone to war without her only remaining trained and Unbound Nightstalker.
She snarled in frustration and caught the worried glance her young blood-niece threw at her. Karicha was only eleven, but the black ring surrounding the bright ochre of her eyes marked her out as a Nightstalker, herself. The girl smiled tentatively, an attempt to calm her blood-aunt.
