Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light
Page 1
Praise for The Fire and the Light:
Book One of The Souls of Aredyrah Series
“The Fire and the Light is a spellbinder, a book to treasure, a novel of rare power and originality, brimming with, yes, fire and light. Its fascinating multi-layered plot examines, in mythological terms, a societal system webbed in isolationism and superstition. Sensitive and richly textured, the lives of its vividly-realized characters achieve compelling dimension as they struggle to break free of the prejudices and lies that have distorted their existence…Here’s a classic in the making.”
~William F. Nolan, award-winning author of the Logan’s Run series
“The Fire and the Light is a fast-paced and intriguing story that wears its message of tolerance and compassion lightly.”
~Kate Constable, author of the Chanters of Tremaris series
“…fast-paced, interesting, and fun for readers of all ages.”
~Leslie Halpern, author of Dreams on Film
“A poignant epic fable, highly recommended for all ages.”
~Midwest Book Review
“Akers creates a wonderfully developed world that you are swept into, with a plot that immediately demands your attention. Her characters are richly developed, their personalities and emotions clearly depicted… [the dialogue] makes you believe in the characters and leaves the impression that you are right in the story with them…This is a must read for fantasy lovers of all ages.”
~Gregg J. Haugland, Allbook Reviews
“The Fire and the Light is a beguiling novel, with compelling characters and a plot that will keep you turning the pages to the end and then asking for more.”
~E. Rose Sabin, award winning author of A School for Sorcery
“A fantastic young adult fantasy! Highly recommended!"
~USABookNews.com
Awards & Recognitions for The Fire and the Light
Eric Hoffer Awards 2007
1st Place Winner, Young Adult Fiction
Allbook Reviews 2007
Winner: Editor’s Choice Award, Young Adult Fiction
Florida Book Awards 2006
Bronze Medal Winner, Young Adult Literature
New York Book Awards 2007
1st Runner Up, Teenage Literature
Writers Digest International Self-Published Book Awards 2007
Honorable Mention, Middle-School/YA Literature
ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Awards 2006
Honorable Mention, Young Adult Fiction
National Indie Excellence 2007 Book Awards
Finalist, Young Adult Fiction
National Indie Excellence 2007 Book Awards
Finalist, Fantasy and Science Fiction
USABookNews, Best Books 2006
Finalist, Young Adult Fiction and Literature,
The Fire and the Light is on the Florida Department of Education’s 2008
Just Read Families Recommended Summer Reading List
The Fire and the Light
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2006, 2010, 2011 by Tracy A. Akers
All rights reserved under United States, International and
Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Smashwords Edition
License Notes
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system -except for brief quotes used in reviews- without the written permission of the author.
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 or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Ruadora Publishing
P.O. Box 3212
Zephyrhills, FL 33539
ruadorapublishing@msn.com
Cover Art: Annah Hutchings; copyright © Tracy A. Akers
Book One of The Souls of Aredyrah Series
The Fire and the Light
by
Tracy A. Akers
Table of Contents
Map of Aredyrah
Chapter 1: Dayn
Chapter 2: Ruairi
Chapter 3: The Dread of It
Chapter 4: Dark Talk
Chapter 5: Peace Offering
Chapter 6: Summer Fires
Chapter 7: Revelations
Chapter 8: Flight of Fantasy
Chapter 9: No Turning Back
Chapter 10: Faces in the Dark
Chapter 11: Captured
Chapter 12: March to the Gates
Chapter 13: Out of Control
Chapter 14: A Very Big Problem
Chapter 15: The Plan in Play
Chapter 16: Culture Shock
Chapter 17: Princes and Warriors
Chapter 18: The Other Side of the Bars
Chapter 19: The Hearing
Chapter 20: As Good As Nowhere
Chapter 21: Blurred Perceptions
Chapter 22: Difficult Lessons
Chapter 23: Promises to Keep
Chapter 24: The Quick and the Dead
Chapter 25: The Fire and the Light
Preview of Book Two: The Search for the Unnamed One
Glossary
About the Author
MAP of AREDYRAH
Return to Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Dayn
Dayn barreled down the rain-drenched street, mud caking his boots and splashing his trousers. Shouts rose and fell as pedestrians scrambled from his path. Eyes darted in his direction as warding charms were traced into the air. But Dayn spared them little notice. Even whispers of “demon spawn” would give him no pause.
He leapt across the boardwalk and swung around the nearest corner. He slid to a halt when he realized his mistake. The alley was a labyrinth of dark corners and teetering debris. Rats scampered in the shadows, screeching their alarm. Dayn glanced over his shoulder and gulped down the spit that had lodged in his throat. He had already met the pack once today and had no desire to meet it again. As bad as running from his enemies was, being caught by them was worse.
He worked his way in, stepping through garbage that shifted beneath his feet. There were maggoty bits of carcass mixed with roach infested produce, and bloated scraps of bread floating on green slimy puddles. Strange, he thought, how food could be discarded so easily, especially when clans such as his barely scraped a living from the rockier terrains. But there was no time to dwell on social ills, not when there were ills of his own to dwell on.
He quickened his pace, realizing he was losing precious time, but a noise from the rear stopped him in his tracks. He spun around, expecting to find danger fast approaching. But he saw no sign of clenched fists or sneering faces, only a tabby hissing from atop a pile of debris. Looking back on life will do you no good, boy, his father’s voice sounded in his head. Best keep your eyes ahead of you. “Easy for you to say, Father,” Dayn murmured. “You never had a pack swarming over you.” But he followed his father’s instruction; he knew better than to dispute the man. He moved his feet toward the opposite end of the alley, but it was hard to ignore the scurry of activity that accompanied his every step.
It seemed an eternity before Dayn reached the end of the passage, but when he did he felt no relief. The pack was probably just biding its time, waiting for him on the other side. He pressed his back against the wall and risked a peek around the corner. No one of consequence could be seen, just a few late-afternoon shoppers who had braved the day’s earlier rains. Dayn drew a steadying breath and eased himself around, then made a su
dden attempt down the boardwalk.
The pounding of his boots shouted his every step, but Dayn soon leapt off the walk and dodged into the smithy. He halted just inside the double-doors. His eyes swept over the room. The usually busy shop seemed strangely deserted. There were no customers. Even the blacksmith was nowhere in sight. Dayn glanced at the street behind him, then stepped from the gray light of the portal. Inside the smithy or not, safety was never assured.
A jumble of barrels caught Dayn's eye, and he quickly sidestepped between them. With arms raised high, he navigated a narrow path to the far side of the room. He shrank into the darkness of the corner where he watched and waited. But nothing shadowed the doorway. Dayn closed his eyes and released a sigh. The pack was gone—for now.
“Sheireadan’s gang after ye again, boy?” the smith asked from across the room.
The sooty forgeman was now standing before the furnace, holding a blade grasped in a pair of long tongs. By his bland expression, it was clear the old man was not surprised by Dayn’s sudden and dramatic entrance. He had, after all, been hiding him in times of trouble for the past several years, ever since Dayn’s differences had made him a target for the local bullies.
The smith raised an eyebrow. “Got ye good this time, did ‘e?” But he did not wait for a response and instead turned, tongs in hand, to the anvil at his back.
Dayn lifted a hand to his swelling eye, then looked at his fingertips and grinned. “Not so bad, Jorge. See . . . hardly any blood.”
Jorge paused and glared in Dayn’s direction. “When are ye gonna take a stand against those troublemakers? Yer fifteen now and certainly bigger’n they are.”
Dayn looked down at his gangly limbs and frowned. Yes, he was bigger than the other boys, by several inches or more, but that wasn’t the only difference between them. There were other things, all of which resulted in his being labeled an outcast. And being an outcast was miserable indeed.
He flicked a shock of white-blonde hair out of his face. A pail of water sat atop a nearby bench, and he worked his way to it. Scowling down at his watery reflection, Dayn winced and fingered his tender eye. “I told you a hundred times, Jorge, I do try to fight, but I’m not very good at it. Besides, I’m always outnumbered.” He dipped his hands into the water and splashed it onto his face.
Dayn wiped his wet hands down the front of his wool tunic, one of the few parts of him not splattered with mud, and limped over to a stool near the warmth of the furnace. He plopped down, his long legs sprawled on either side of it, and watched Jorge hammer the blade.
The smith shook his head. “Maybe ye just need some trainin’.”
“I don’t want any training. You know I don’t like to fight. Besides . . .”
Jorge slammed the hammer and tongs down across the anvil. He stormed over and inspected the battered, half-closed eye. “Humpf,” he said, grabbing Dayn’s jaw in his grimy hand. “And this is what ye get fer it!”
Dayn jerked his face from Jorge’s grasp and rubbed his now filthy jaw. “I’m sorry, Jorge,” he mumbled.
“Don’t say yer sorry to me, boy. It’s yer skin, not mine.” Jorge turned away and beat on the blade once more. “So what were ye doin’ this time—breathin’?”
“No, talking to Falyn.” Dayn’s one fully opened eye twinkled, the blueness of it brightening at the thought of the girl.
“Sheireadan’s sister? God, so ye are brave after all. Well, I hope it was worth the lickin’ ye took.”
“She talked to me today, Jorge. And she actually laughed at something I said.”
“Laughed with ye or at ye?”
“With me, Jorge, and she smiled, you know, like she really liked me or something.” Dayn rested his chin on his fist and stared across the room. “Do you think she really could like me? I mean, I know I’m not like the others, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t like me, does it?” He studied Jorge’s face, hoping for a positive reply, but the man remained silent.
“Jorge? That doesn’t mean she couldn’t like me . . . does it?”
“Course not.” Jorge plunged the red-hot blade into a vat of water. A rush of steam coiled from it with a loud hiss. “It’s gettin’ late, Dayn,” he said, glancing toward the door. “Best be gettin’ yerself home now. Ye got a long walk back. Don’t wanna be caught out near the woods after dark. Demons do their huntin’ then, ye know.”
Dayn jumped from the stool, knocking it to the floor. It would take at least two hours to get to his family’s farm, and it would be dark well before that. He raced out of the smithy, hurriedly waving good-bye. There was no time for courtesies.
Dayn paused in the darkening street, glancing from side to side, worried that Sheireadan’s pack might have decided to linger about. But he saw no sign of it and continued on, his shoulders hunched against the chill. He slanted his eyes toward the timber buildings looming on either side of him. They would have appeared deserted had it not been for the slivers of light glowering like cat eyes through the shutters. He turned his attention back to the muddy ruts at his feet, but he could not shake the fear of what lurked in the woods between here and home.
As Dayn followed the road toward the gate leading from the city, he could not help but notice the fortress surrounding Kiradyn was more like a huge sloping bank than a wall. Though he had seen it hundreds of times, it never failed to leave him curious. No one could recall why the thing had been built in the first place—it was there long before the demons pushed their way from the fiery bowels of the earth. Since there were no other human inhabitants on the island of Aredyrah, it was assumed the wall was meant to keep out the beasts of the forest. Regardless of its original purpose, the residents of the city were grateful to have it. One could never tell when the demons might decide to make Kiradyn their own.
Dayn drew closer to the gate, but he kept his eyes cautiously averted. He always worried the gatekeeper would stop him, but the old man never did, at least not since Dayn’s father had put a stop to the harassment. He recalled an incident when he was little, something about ‘keeping the demon out’, but that had been long ago. He could not help but feel the familiar nausea, however, as the gatekeeper’s mutterings followed him out.
Dayn hurried on, working to keep his focus on the ruts ahead of him instead of the encroaching darkness around him. But he soon found his eyes drawn to the mountain range that rose like jagged teeth to the south. He cringed at the sight of it. The mountains were beautiful, with their pastel colors of blue, green, and pink, but their beauty was deceiving, for that was where the demons lived. He had heard the fantastic stories his whole life, how long ago some people had tried to cross over them and were devoured by the evil creatures. That was why no one went there now.
Dayn’s foggy breath quickened. Darkness was upon him, and it was getting colder. His clothes were still damp from his earlier altercation, and he doubted even his long-sleeved tunic would keep him warm in the rapidly dropping temperatures. Nights in the high altitudes of Kirador could be strikingly cold, even during the warmest of months. It was easy to be tricked into complacency by a tepid afternoon. He shivered. In his haste to deliver a bottle of his mother’s remedy to a family in town, he had rushed out of the house without his coat. He clutched the collar of his tunic close to his neck, cursing his own stupidity.
The path stretched unevenly up and down the hillsides still wet from the afternoon showers, but the clouds had moved on to the south, leaving a bright full moon to light the path home. As Dayn’s eyes darted between the cloudless night sky and the creeping shadows of the forest, he began to whistle nervously. But he stopped mid-tune when he realized it might invite unwanted attention. “Don’t be such a baby,” he whispered. “You’ve been this way a hundred times.” But he had never been this way after dark, at least not without his father.
Dayn glanced toward the trees. They creaked and groaned, and for a moment seemed to stretch their skeletal arms toward him. He shot his attention back to the path, determined to stay focused on what was
real—a slippery trail that would tumble him into the mud if he didn’t watch his footing. But keeping his eyes on the ground would not help him if a demon decided to make a meal out of him. Dayn’s mind raced. What would his parents think if he didn’t return home? Would they search a long time for his body? Or would they content themselves with the fact that they had borne a stupid son who couldn’t even run an errand without getting himself killed. Guilt gnawed at his already churning insides. He hated the thought of causing his parents any more grief. He was such a disappointment to them already.
It occurred to him that Falyn might cry for him, and he felt almost hopeful at the thought of it. He could see the girl in his mind: her dark hair piled up under her mourning shawl, her almond-shaped eyes filled with tears, her trembling hands clutched to her heart as she proclaimed her undying love for him. For one foolish moment the thought of being attacked by demons seemed desirable. But a sudden snap of a twig brought Dayn’s fantasies to a halt. He froze, his eyes darting toward the woods. No sound could be heard, only the drumming of his heart and the breeze whispering through the trees. He released a sigh and continued on.
He had not gone far when another noise caught his attention, but this time it did not sound like a snapping twig. It was something else, strange, like the clacking of sticks against one another. He paused and listened, wrapping his arms around himself in an effort to stop the feel of icy fingers racing down his spine. The tapping stopped, and he became conscious of a strange and heavy silence.