SHATTER
The Children of Man
Book One
Elizabeth C. Mock
SMASHWORDS EDITION
*****
Shatter: The Children Of Man: Book One
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2010 by Elizabeth C. Mock
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form.
Cover design: Elizabeth Mock and Adam Thomas http://www.adamthomasphotography.com/
Cover photograph: Elizabeth Mock
ISBN: 1451598777 (paperback)
ISBN 13: 2940011052712 (ebook)
Second Edition: July 2010
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
*****
To Michelle Witmer Nelson,
because this all started in a basement in Richmond eating bad fast food while discussing psychics and philosophy. Without you this never would have seen the light of day, meldnossier.
*****
Prologue
Near the top of the embankment, Mireya paused and pushed her sweaty mane of curly brown hair back from her brow. If she had hoped to restrain it, she failed as it returned to its bushy cloud around her face. With her weight rocking forward onto the granite outcropping, she leaned into her thigh, recouping the energy stolen by the last few yards of the climb. One handed, she unbuttoned the high collar of her blue dress and pulled the damp, clinging fabric away from her neck. The breeze flowing up from the surface of the bay below cooled her overheated caramel skin. She shivered. Determined, she tilted her head back and pinched her eyes shut to summon the motivation to summit the hill.
Despite the burning in her thighs, Mireya convinced herself to keep moving. It was close now. She could see the tips of the yellow flowers peeking over the rise where one of her favorite patches of klamath weed carpeted the hillside. Mireya cursed again for letting her stockpile run low just when Camille needed the tea the most.
After a few agonizing minutes, she reached her destination. When she plopped to the ground, the thump was audible and so was her breathing as she sucked in the air with greedy gulps. Her gaze skimmed across the ridge until it settled on the sturdy back of a raven-haired man waiting on a boulder that overlooked the water. She narrowed her eyes in annoyance. Thumb and index finger between her lips, she whistled like a shrieking bird shattering the stillness that surrounded him. It got his attention. At his approach, she thrust her hand above her head palm up. With her fingers, she waved for him to give her something. The late morning light glinted off the well-oiled metal as the man pulled out a dagger from his wrist guard.
“Thanks, Dathien,” she said with an absent, sweet smile, her irritation evaporating as swiftly as it had come. Knife in hand, she bobbed it at him with mock menace. “No fair running ahead and leaving me behind though.” Tilting her head up, she widened her eyes exaggerating her imagined peril. “I could have died alone and out of breath. I must be getting flabby in my old age.”
Dropping to a crouch, Dathien draped an arm across a knee as he examined her. He lifted her chin, moved her face side to side, up and down. Seeming satisfied, he leaned forward and kissed her full lips.
“I won't abandon you to the clutches of death again, love.” Though he wore a sober expression, his deep blue eyes glittered. “I better stick close. You might keel over any second at your advanced age.”
Scrunching her nose, her pale blue eyes fought between indignation and amusement. The amusement won, but it did nothing to stop her from jabbing him in the ribs in retribution.
“You weren’t supposed to agree with me!” Mireya pouted, sticking out her lower lip. “I’m only nineteen. If anyone’s ancient here, it’s you, ser.”
With her tool in hand, she crawled over to the yellow brush. As she swept away the dirt and debris around their roots, Dathien stretched to his full imposing height and wandered back to the cliff. Beneath it, rocks filled the bay, choking the water and out to the vanishing horizon, they also blocked the tide. The waves crested and crashed in a constant, unpredictable rhythm. Though the pounding abuse of the water had eroded these obstacles over the years, it had failed to mask the odd uniformity of the rows and intersections the stones formed. Even after several millennia of erosion, the watery streets still divided the destroyed buildings of the submerged city.
Saddened by the skeletal decomposition of the city poking through the waves, Dathien looked back to Mireya who had grasped a handful of stems together. Pulling the weeds taut, she made her cut with a surprising proficiency. With a quick tug, she wrapped a string around the ends, bundling the starred flowers. Her hands spattered with dirt, she wiped them across the gathered ruffles that flanked the dress’ glass buttons without a single thought for the preservation of the cornflower blue fabric. Feeling clean enough in her own estimation, she held her hand out to Dathien. He steadied her as she rose with her herbs. Intertwined, their hands were a weaving of contrasts, hers dark and smooth like sepia-stained satin, his callused and ruddy like a redwood’s bark.
Waving the herbs like a baton, she considered their flowers. “It will take about three weeks for these to dry properly. Here’s hoping that my stash lasts that long. Given what happened yesterday, I don’t want to see how bad Camille could get without it.”
Tickling her dark, but freckled face, Mireya tugged her wild hair behind an ear. In the process, she managed to smear pollen from the klamath weeds on her cheek. Dathien chuckled and wiped off the yellow smudge with his thumb.
Annoyed at her unmanageable locks, she blew air into her cheeks, but she couldn't help giggling at herself. As they began the descent home, the air around them seemed to charge, raising the small hairs on the backs of their necks. Before they could even tense in response, Mireya's hand slid out of Dathien's and she crumpled to the ground as if someone had cut the strings that held her bones together. Not a breath had passed before she rose again with her back rigid but her head lifeless. Penetrating yet unfocused, her eyes crackled and swirled with blue smoke. Chin resting against her chest, one voice rose from within her, a seamless harmony of bass and soprano, alto and tenor. It seemed to move through her.
“Seven shall come to undo what was done.
From shadow revealed, three destinies sealed.
Daughter of night shall succumb to dark sight.
He who walks time out of fire must climb.
Son of the earth shall steal from its birth.
Speaker of truth, guide you must be, trust in that which only you see.
Keeper of truth, watch and protect, never dismiss all you suspect.
Twin branches extend, a choice here resolved,
Either shall end betrayed or absolved.
From death shall be life; a world formed anew.”
The blue light veiling her eyes cascaded out and enveloped her body. Her hair flowed back in a wind that seemed to touch her alone. Her head snapped up. Her eyes locked on the sky.
“A promise was made; redemption pursue.”
The light flared once in a sudden flash, as it seemed to recede into her eyes, but her hands still glimmered, shining like cobalt. Blood trickled from between her knuckles as she lowered her
head and unclenched her fists. The pressure around them dissipated in a blast of cold air off the bay, which brought the return of the crashing waves and chattering gulls. Mireya stood staring at the backs of her hands, tattoos glowing like sapphire embers sinking back into her skin until only faint lines remained.
She flexed her fingers, wincing at the lacerations. Strong, but deliberate hands turned her wrists so that Dathien could examine the cuts. A soft glow of red light flowed from his hand and the pink lines of newly healed flesh replaced the scratches on her palms. Only the smears of blood bore witness to her injury.
On the ground, the broken bundle of yellow, star-shaped herbs lay scattered. They had been crushed by her fall.
Mireya huffed at the loss. Short lived, her frustration transformed into excitement as her cheek dimpled with a grin. “It's time to leave.”
*****
Chapter One
One Year Later
With a hissing sigh of released steam, the River Rat pulled into the bustling Davenford dockyards. Flakes of rust scraped the woman's palms as she leaned over the high rail of the steamboat to gauge the wharf's layout along the river. A canvas rancher’s hat sat low on her brow and a mud-spattered brown overcoat, clearly made for someone taller and broader, reached past her knees.
After the craft bumped against the pier, swaying with the passing current, the captain approached her, but stopped short and lounged against the rail. “This is as far as we go. You’ll have to find other passage if you want to keep heading north toward the border.”
Though a stocky man, the captain stood half a head taller than the woman. He tried to position himself to get a better look at her under the hat, but she used her shorter stature to her advantage and rarely looked up enough for him to get a clear view. Peeking out from under its brim, her snub nose had a crooked hump along its bridge that only came from a break that had healed wrong. What he could see revealed her rounded cheeks and chin, but the constant tension in her jaw removed any appearance of softness that those curves should have created. Despite his obstructed view, one thing was clear. She had changed.
“You sure you want to be heading for the border? Nabos ain’t no place for a lady.”
“Rest assured, Aaron.” The woman smirked. “That isn’t a concern.”
Aaron folded his muscled arms across his chest straining the knit of his thick gray sweater. “I still don’t think your father’d be too happy with me, Faela, may he rest in the Light.”
“I haven’t been my father’s problem since I was four,” Faela responded trying to keep her tone light, “and twenty-two years later, I have managed to travel all over the world in the service of my Order without dying or getting kidnapped by slavers. Now tell me, who would dare attack a healer from the Tereskan temple? Don’t worry yourself over me. We don’t want you to mar that rugged face with wrinkles, yeah?”
“I just don’t trust them Virds,” Aaron said spitting over the rail superstitiously. “If they’d kill lawmen like the Daniyelans, ain’t no one safe.”
“That was almost nineteen years ago, Aaron,” Faela said readjusting her pack’s buckles strapped across her chest and waist. “It’s been ten years since the war ended.”
“But I heard from other river runners that things ain’t been the same up north in Nabos since the war. The land ain’t right and people get mighty desperate when their younglings are hungry. It’s why I stick to the Taronpian and Mergorian river ways. Ain’t no profit if you’re dead. Something’s brewing up there. Mark my words, miss. If I can’t convince you to go back to Kilrood or go home to Finalaran, you promise me you’ll watch yourself, yeah?”
“I promise, Aaron. You just keep this old girl running.” Faela turned and hugged the captain around the neck shocking him by the uncharacteristic display of affection. He squeezed her once before letting go. “And remember, if anyone asks–”
“You were heading west for Kitrinostow,” he repeated. “I know where my loyalty lies, Faela. Your father was always fair with us.”
She hopped off the weather-bleached deck of the steamboat onto the narrow plank that bowed as she bounced down its short length. Reaching its end, she looked up at the sun’s position before jumping onto the water-slick pier. The wide brim of her hat shaded her deep-set silver eyes from the worst of its piercing mid-morning brightness. She turned and waved at Aaron, who just shook his head muttering to himself as he strode toward the helm.
Faela shoved her hands into the pockets of her overcoat as she headed down the pier to find a boat sailing up the Bramm River. Though she had dismissed Aaron’s concerns, she had heard more than stories about the current state of Nabos since leaving Kilrood and none of it comforted her. But right now her biggest concern was finding a boat willing to risk sailing upriver and she had the sinking feeling that this search was going to cost her time. Something she could little afford.
As she stood on the major thoroughfare of the Dalibor wharf, Faela craned her neck looking for any signs that pointed the way to the Bramm’s docks. Penning in the horizon, the Siprian and the Higini mountain ranges flanked Davenford, a town few would call large. This town, however, sat on a jut of land that split the Bramm into the major waterways of the Yaniv and the Dalibor Rivers. This made it a natural crossroads between the bordering nations of Nabos, Mergoria and Taronpia. This made it invaluable to the movement of trade and thus to the Merchant Houses.
It was late enough in the morning that most of the Merchant Houses' vessels operating out of Davenford had already left, but recent arrivals from Finalaran and other Taronpian towns along the Dalibor still unloaded their cargo. A whip cracked in the air nearby as a drover prodded the oxen pulling his cart to start moving. The squeak of its wheels grated against her ears as the wagon laden with crates swayed into motion. It rolled up the hill at a slow, but steady pace toward the rows of storehouses kept by competing Merchant Houses.
She tipped the brim of her hat down when her gaze settled on the sprawling storage district that blocked her view of the town and she decided to continue following the bank of the river. Hopefully it would lead her to the northern docks. She picked her way past kids mending nets, sailors sauntering as they enjoyed their brief leave, and men lifting and hauling cargo, while voices shouted from shore to boat and across the wharf to one another. After the relative calm of the water and the chugging engines on the River Rat, the dissonant clamor made her shoulders pinch together.
Before several minutes had past, Faela found the sounds of industry fading behind her. Most dockyards, especially river dockyards, tended to follow the same basic layout and finding her way to the Bramm’s wharf proved easier than she had suspected. Only a handful of vessels were scattered across its long pier, a few older wherries and one steamer. Built to handle four or fives times the number of vessels that used it now, the pier looked like the leftover bones of a carrion’s scavenging. Unhooking the brass buttons of her coat with one hand, her other drifted to the knife sheathed in her belt. Her fingers brushed its smooth, ivory hilt and settled there as she examined her options.
The steamer appeared empty and the smell of rotten fish rolling off it forced her to hold back her gag reflex by willpower alone. She wasn’t desperate enough to try her chances on that boat — at least not yet. The closest wherry’s sails were furled as though docked for an extended stay, so she continued down the boardwalk. A young man lounged on the roof of the long cabin that ran the length of a wherry’s deck clearly asleep. Faela grinned.
As she got closer to the wherry, she saw scrawled on its side Light’s Lady in worn gold lettering. She hoped the name would prove a good omen. Leaning against its prow, she said, “Oi! Aboard the Light’s Lady, you awake, mate?”
He opened one eye and glared openly at her. “I am now, darkness take you,” the man growled and coughed to clear his lungs. “What’s so important that you got to shout at people minding their own business?”
“You heading up the Bramm’s today?” she asked with a wide gr
in, which was all he could see of Faela’s face due to the long shadows cast by her hat.
The man barked with laughter. “Not today, not tomorrow, not any time soon, my fine wench. I like my skin to stay on my back and my money in my purse, thank you.”
Faela kept her smile from faltering. “Then why’re you docked at the Bramm’s, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I do mind, but it’s cheap and people don’t bother me none,” he said stringing out the last phrase pointedly.
“You know if any of these boats are planning on heading that way?” Faela allowed some of her impatience to bleed through.
“There are a couple nutters who still make the run. Try Roderick, that’s his girl down there, the Sun Winger. He’s right mad, that one. But you flash him enough coin, or something else,” the sailor’s knowing laugh was harsh and gritty like sand, “and he’ll take you.”
“Thanks. Wind be with your lady,” she said in way of a farewell as she sauntered toward the weathered, rust-brown wherry the sailor had pointed to. The paint that declared it the Sun Winger had chipped so it looked more like the Sui Winge now. Its sails drooped unfurled from its mast at the prow of the boat, but fell slack. Either this Roderick was preparing to leave very soon or his sloppiness would give any sailor she’d ever met an apoplexy. She silently hoped for the former.
Knowing better than to board an unknown boat, she projected so her voice would carry and yelled, “Any aboard the Sun Winger? I’m looking for Roderick.”
Shatter (The Children of Man) Page 1
