The Dragon Star (Realms of Shadow and Grace: Volume 1)

by G. L. Breedon

  “Onna Djen.” Dju-Tesha repeated the customary conclusion of all Kam-Djen prayers.

  She breathed deeply of the stale air and dabbed her kerchief at the corners of her eyes. Her brother’s words had moved her unexpectedly. She missed her father with renewed pain — scab pulled free to bleed before the skin could fully heal. Her father had doted on her in ways that infuriated her mother, but left his daughter seeing him as the only one who truly understood her nature. When her mother had pressed for marriage to some lesser tahn to shore up the family power, her father demurred and postponed. When her mother had complained a tahneff of her standing should not roam the palace library alone at night, her father ensured the porters and servants did not disturb her studies. When court tongues wagged and mocked her looks and bookish behavior, her father complimented her publicly and requested her presence in public gatherings and occasionally, even at council meetings.

  With her father’s passing, these things had changed. Her elder brother had largely ignored her, as he had done for most of his adult life. She made herself as unappealing as possible to the suitors her mother arranged for her, and managed to convince Fan-Mutig that none of them could help the family enough to warrant a union. She noted the irony of that long sought matchmaking, as the man she hoped to marry would solidify the family’s power in ways her past suitors could not possibly achieve. If only he would muster the courage he displayed on the field of battle in approaching her brother for her hand.

  “Thank you for coming with me.” Tin-Tsu’s voice brought Dju-Tesha’s mind back from thoughts of the past and the future and into the present.

  “Thank you for asking me to accompany you.” Dju-Tesha ran her hand along the inscribed stone lid of her father’s crypt, her fingers passing slowly over the words.

  “He forged the vessel of state in his image — powerful, compassionate, wise, and faithful.”

  “I did not bring you down here merely to pray with me.” Tin-Tsu turned to Dju-Tesha.

  “No?” Dju-Tesha tilted her head back to see her brother’s eyes in the flickering light of the lantern. Why did he ask for her company if not to share the burden of grief?

  “I wished to have a few moments alone with you where we would not likely be overheard,” Tin-Tsu said.

  “You fear spies?” Dju-Tesha frowned. What could he wish to say that required such secrecy?

  “Not spies so much as meddling.” Tin-Tsu smiled reassuringly. “There are many voices on the council, and mine is not as easily heard as I had hoped. I have ordered the militias attacking the heretics to cease. Officially, they have. However, I have received unofficial reports that the militias still roam the countryside. Our scouts send intelligences that the Tanshen army is massing near the border again. When I ordered a diplomatic envoy to approach the Tanshen, he mysteriously disappeared. I feel that speaking my mind does not equate with my will being enacted.”

  “What would you say here that you could not speak elsewhere?” Dju-Tesha asked.

  “I would request your service.” Tin-Tsu stood a little straighter as he spoke. “I know Father sometimes asked you to be present at council meetings. I heard Mother mention it disparagingly in passing. And I have watched you these last months. You are not the girl I left behind. You are a woman of sharp wit and great learning. And in our conversations, you have provided a rare ability to look at circumstances from various positions. You would make an invaluable councilor.”

  “You wish me to join the high council?” Dju-Tesha coughed from the idea as much as the dust in the air. The notion both intrigued and repulsed her. As a member of the council, she might wield the power to see her view enacted, but to sit at that table required the sort of cunning and plotting that she so detested about the palace. She would need to become like the people she most despised.

  “Not at first. Possibly not at all.” Tin-Tsu did not seem to notice the sigh that escaped Dju-Tesha’s lips. “What I seek from you is an alternate view. What in the temple we called the shadow advocate, one who argued the opposite of established theology to help hone the debate skills of the priests in training. Only by hearing the heretical position, the shadow opinion, fully explored, can one completely defend one’s beliefs.”

  “And you wish me to be your shadow advocate in secret?” Dju-Tesha’s mind became luminous with the idea — a flame blazing as it illuminated multiple possibilities, casting bright light into long, dark tunnels of stately problems.

  “I need someone I can trust to advise me. To present me with options I will not hear from my council. You are family. Our blood has ruled this dominion for centuries, blood that flows through your veins as easily as my own. I need your advice, but it must remain hidden from sight. A woman to council is rare enough, but your reputation of solitude among books would likely bring ridicule rather than respect. I see what Father saw in you, but I fear others will only do so when circumstances force them to.”

  Dju-Tesha stared at her dust-caked slippers, considering the possibilities and problems her brother’s request might create in her life. It meant a chance to put her learning to use and provided an excuse to extend that scholarship in fields of study she had long ignored. It presented many likely complications and potential triumphs. It also offered an opportunity she had not dared to hope for.

  “I agree to your proposal.” Dju-Tesha looked back up to her brother, a smile bending his lips.

  “That is good.” Tin-Tsu sighed. “I was not certain how you might respond.”

  “I agree, but I must ask for something in return.” Dju-Tesha held her breath, gathering the courage to speak aloud the words held silent so long in her head and heart.

  She could not much longer conceal the child growing in her womb. Fortunately, it had always been her habit to bathe alone rather than with the help of servants. Her shyness was finally of aid. She ordered her maids to bring sweets to her room each night, which she hid and discarded later, to explain her expanding stomach. She had passed off the infrequent bouts of morning illness as poor digestion of spicy food. All these clever deceptions could only hold back the secret developing in her belly for so long.

  “If I can offer anything, you need but request it.” Tin-Tsu inclined his head, a serious expression on his face.

  Dju-Tesha released her breath, her voice firm, almost commanding as she spoke, staring into her brother’s eyes, eyes so much like her own, reflecting hopes and desires long held close and never uttered.

  “You must give your assent when Tigan Rhog-Kan asks for my hand in marriage.”

  To continue reading the Throne story arena follow this link.

  To continue reading Dju-Tesha’s storyline follow this link.

  THE WITNESS

  HASHEL

  A FOREST of bodies crushed around, reeking of sweat and fear and smoke and seldom-washed clothes. Hashel tried to push through, but the density of limbs repelled his attempts to get closer to the front of the square near the temple.

  “Burn ’em!”

  “Heretic filth!”

  “Heretics!”

  “Chase ’em down!”

  Hashel turned and pushed back through the crowd. He knew he couldn’t force his way forward. He needed to move around the edge of the square and get to the front. He saw the priest, still shouting, although he couldn’t make out the words of the sermon. The townspeople yelled back at the priest.

  “Enough preachin’!”

  “More burnin’!”

  “That way!”

  “Run her down!”

  “Hide here.”

  Hashel made it to the side of the street, rushing along houses and shops. He came to the corner and turned, running toward the lane where the temple stood. As he ran, he tried to ignore the voices of the crowd and the voices from the past.

  “Got to be more of ’em.”

  “Should round ’em all up.”

  “Over here. I got one here.”

  “Don’t kill her yet. We can have some fun first.”


  Hashel ran, not knowing what to do. He ran because he had to. He could not let them die. Not like this. Not again. He saw a wagon full of hay not far ahead. The horse hitched to it stamped the ground, nervous from the crowd. He passed a house with the door swung open. The owner must have left quickly to join the mob. He noticed a fire nearly burned to ember in the hearth, a black pot steaming where it hung from an iron arm over the coals. He skidded to a stop, an idea forming in his mind.

  “Kill ’em!”

  “Kill ’em!”

  “The True God punishes the wicked!”

  “Come here, ya wicked girl. Lemme show ya how we punish heretics.”

  Hashel darted into the house, grabbed a thin branch from a pile of wood near the hearth, and thrust it into the coals, blowing on them until they glowed red, the bark of the stick in his hand catching light. He pulled the branch from the fire and held it up like a torch, the flames crackling in the air. He turned and ran for the door, stopping to hold the torch beneath the corner of the sun-faded blanket on the bed by the window. The hungry flames jumped to the bed, devouring the new fuel.

  “Finally.”

  “Hold her down.”

  “Thought he’d never give the word to light ’em up.”

  “Please, no!”

  “Got things to do.”

  “It’ll all be over soon, girl. All over for good.”

  Hashel dashed from the house, flames licking the windowsill, and ran to the wagon. He dragged the flame of the branch across the top of the hay. No one noticed. All eyes held fixed on the temple. The dry hay caught light in an instant. By the time Hashel slapped the backside of the horse, fire and smoke curled upward in a roar. He threw the flaming branch through an open window of an empty house and ran again around the crowd toward the temple. Behind him, he heard brays of fear and people shouting as the panicked horse pulled the fiery wagon into the crowd.

  “Fire!”

  “Look what I got! Found a boy.”

  “Heretic treachery!”

  “Kill ’im like the others.”

  “Stop that horse. It’ll set the town on fire.”

  “Is that yer sister, boy? Ya wanna watch?”

  With the crowd’s attention turned to the new flames behind it, Hashel sneaked around the front of the temple, unseen. He paused a moment. The priest held a torch from the brazier in his hand, ready to light the pyre. He seemed uncertain whether to proceed. The crowd surged toward the platform, driven forward from the rear by frightened villagers trying to escape the flames of the wagon. One man thrashed about screaming, his arm afire.

  Hashel concentrated on the pyre. A lone guard still stood on the narrow scaffold plank beside the bound heretics. The other guards tried to hold the crowd from crushing the priest and overrunning the pyre. Hashel pulled the small dagger from the belt at his waist. The dagger he had pulled from a dead man.

  “Dark Sight fire!”

  “I’ll take the boy.”

  “Hold back!”

  “Hold still, boy.”

  “Heretics come to burn the town!”

  “I’m gonna show ya what yer sister’s gettin’.”

  Hashel crept forward, crouching and moving as fast as possible. He knelt under the planks of the scaffold, behind the guard. He pushed his arm up past the pile of tree branches forming the pyre beneath the scaffold and slid the blade of the dagger between two of the boards. Grunting with the effort, he jammed the blade upward, through the thin leather of the soldier’s boot and into the man’s foot.

  The soldier yelped and yanked his leg into the air, falling backward off the scaffold, his head striking the ground with a thud. Hashel didn’t wait to see if the guard recovered. He scrambled up the back of the scaffold and set the blade of his dagger to the ropes binding the hands of the heretic girl.

  “Thank you! Thank you!”

  “Please stop!”

  “Please save us!”

  “We’ll stop soon enough, an’ so will yuz.”

  “Hurry, boy.”

  “Leave him alone!”

  Hashel sliced through the bonds holding the girl and turned to her mother, digging the blade of the dagger into the ropes. She sobbed as she looked at him, tears coursing down her face. He cut through the rope and made to do the same for her husband.

  “Look! Look! There’s a boy cuttin’ ’em free.”

  “Hold still or I’ll cut yer throat.”

  “They’s gettin’ away.”

  “Stop yer screamin’ or I’ll stop it fer ya.”

  “Stop the boy.”

  “No! Leave him alone!”

  Hands grabbed at Hashel’s shoulder and pulled him around, tossing him from the rickety scaffold to the ground. He hit hard, landing on his back, the dagger falling from his hand to clatter across the stone of the temple patio. The priest jumped down, towering above him, his face contorted in anger.

  “Heretic vermin!” The priest reached down and grabbed him by the neck, pulling him to his feet. The priest’s fingers clamped around his throat, squeezing tight. Hashel fought back as best he could, kicking at the priest’s legs, trying to land a blow to the groin, pulling at the fingers crushing his airway.

  “There’s other’s helpin’ ’em.”

  “That weren’t so bad, were it now, boy?”

  “Where’d they get to?”

  “Where’s my damn blade? Tuss it. A rock ta the head’ll do.”

  “Take yer hands off her!”

  “No! Leave him alone!”

  “The Goddess answers our prayers.”

  “Hope ya said yer prayers ta yer false bitch god.”

  Hashel’s arms grew weak as a familiar blackness settled over his vision and his legs buckled beneath him. Darkness draped his eyes, the sounds around him fading into the distance, fainter and fainter, his own thoughts slowing as…

  A face suddenly loomed before him as pain stung his cheek. He knew the face. Had seen it before. Where? At a table? The younger man who had been speaking with a friend at the inn.

  “Get up, boy.” The man pulled Hashel to his feet. “They’s seen ya. They’ll be after ya now.”

  Hashel’s eyes darted from place to place, taking in a madness of motion around him. The five heretics were gone. Flames burned over the empty pyre, townspeople falling back from its heat. He saw the wife and husband and daughter being led down a street by a group of other villagers. The priest lay still on the ground, a charred log from the pyre near his head.

  “Run now.” The young man from the inn pushed Hashel gently.

  He needed no further encouragement. He turned and fled, slowing only slightly as he spied his dagger and stooped to scoop it up before stretching his legs as far and as fast as they would go. He ran from the town square, seeing not the packed earth of winding streets in daylight but the flattened grass beside a darkened road at night, not the straw-roofed houses with pigs and chickens behind wooden fences, but tents and wagons with livestock squealing beneath the light of the twin moons. He did not remember the faces of the husband and wife and daughter fleeing the fanatic mob.

  He saw instead the face of a man stabbed through the heart, eyes open, staring at the sister moons one last time. He saw a woman, struggling to reach the man, crawling over the lifeless bodies of men and women. He saw an ax appear in the woman’s skull, her eyes going wide as air escaped her lungs for the final time in a desperate sigh. He saw a girl of fifteen pinned to the ground by three men tearing her clothes and violating her as they laughed. He saw a man holding him down and pulling at his breeches as he screamed. He saw the man swinging a rock to the side of his head. He saw a field of dead bodies as sunlight broke upon the land and he staggered to his feet. He saw his sister with her neck slit so deep her head and body no longer seemed part of the same thing. He saw his mother dead, a gaping wound in her head. He saw his father, eyes open, staring up into nothing forever. He saw a dagger protruding from a dead man’s chest. He saw his hands pulling the dagger free. He saw a road, mist ri
sing in the heat of the dawning sun. He saw himself walking along the road away from death and life and all he had ever known. He saw…

  Ondromead caught him in strong hands, holding him upright as he gasped for breath. They stood on the road out of town. He had no idea how far he had run. No recollection of leaving the town. He only remembered what he had tried so hard to never remember. He sobbed as he buried those memories again, digging a deeper hole, piling it with dirt, pushing massive stones atop the mound.

  “You are safe now.” Ondromead placed Hashel’s face in his hands.

  Hashel nodded.

  “I have never been so frightened for as long as I remember anything.” Ondromead looked back down the road toward the town. He seemed worried. “I felt fear in that town. Seeing what you did. Seeing what nearly happened to you. I don’t know what it means that you were able to do that. That frightened me as well.”

  Hashel wiped the tears from his eyes with his sleeve and blew his nose into his hand, smearing the snot on his trouser leg. He looked back at the town. Several columns of black smoke rose skyward. He heard the shouts of townspeople, but he made no sense of them. Anger and fear at a distance. Best kept at a distance.

  He started walking, away from the town, away from the family of three who had driven him to act when action seemed impossible. Away from the memories of who and what he had been. He walked toward the future. A future life more unpredictable than the one he had lived. A future of new places and new people with each new morning. A future with an old man writing in an endless book. A future as far away from his past and his memories as possible.

  They traveled all day, Ondromead walking at his side in silence, until they made camp alone by a small lake at sunset, watching the stars slowly fill the night sky until sleep came and erased the events of the day, replacing them with dreams of a ruined temple in a far off realm.