Zygradon: Zygradon Chronicles Book 1

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Chapter One

Star-metal fell from the winter sky the night a boy was born in the Stronghold of the Queen of Snows.

Le'esha, Queen of Snows, stood on the highest cliff looking out over the ice-flecked Northern Sea. Behind her lay her domain, the Stronghold of the Rey'kil, a race born with magic in their blood. Before her, a vision of the future.

She smiled despite her mourning and weariness, when her assistant, Theana came to her in mixed joy and confusion to bring her the news of the boy's birth. As the white mist of a Seeing faded from her green eyes, Le'esha felt the pain and struggle of the centuries to come. Still, she smiled because a child had been born, new life amidst the pain and loss. Hope had been granted, a possible path and light leading to peace, despite the war between the barbarian Encindi of the southern continent, and the allied forces of the Rey'kil and Noveni.

M'reena has birthed a boy. Theana had to force her voice above the howl of the wind that threatened another bitter storm.

Yes, I know. A child of portent. Star-metal has fallen out of season. On Moerta, rather than over the sea.

We will have more Noveni invading Lygroes, then, the girl sighed, and shrugged in resignation.

The Encindi have lost more of their land in the latest winter quakes and floods, so they shall try even harder to take Lygroes from us when spring comes.

Lady, how can you smile? The boy is obviously a portent of disaster. What good is it to destroy the Encindi barbarians if the Noveni and Rey'kil are wiped from the World as well?

No. Not nearly so grim. Le'esha smiled and pulled her hood back, baring her white hair and pale skin to the winter storm's blast.

Nearly a century of serving as visionary to her people and leading them in partnership with the Rey'kil's High Scholar on the Isle of Wynystrys had turned her hair as white as the light from the stars. The power that flowed through her had purified her, like fire purified silver.

We are the Rey'kil, gifted with power in our blood, made by the Estall to protect the Noveni from the Encindi. This boy born tonight will find answers and teach strong minds and put weapons in strong hands. He will guard a king and guide a queen and win an untouchable heart. I have seen a bowl, which shall guard life and tie all the Threads of the World together, and a sword which shall guard the bowl. He will be tied to both, by blood and spirit and power. He will find the long-sought way to heal Moerta from the poison of star-metal.

But M'reena weeps as she nurses her son, Theana said, pouting just a little.

She does well to weep. Illis has died tonight. His soul reached to her as he crossed over to the Estall's Bliss. The shock of losing him brought on her labor weeks early.

Illis? Theana gasped and staggered a little, as Le'esha had staggered when she felt the death of one of her favorite warriors. How? How could anyone kill him? He carries more magic than ten Renunciates serving Wynystrys or the Stronghold.

Le'esha closed her eyes against fresh tears. She knew that in some small way, she had contributed to Illis' death and M'reena's sorrow and loss.

Word came from High Scholar Breylon and Graddon of Whispering Vale. Their visions matched mine. I spoke of it to all my warriors. Before we could devise a plan or even gauge the danger, Illis demanded the mission. He declared it was his right to travel to Flintan and seek the truth within the Nameless One's fortress. She sighed, took a deep breath and turned to face the stormy Northern Sea again. We saw a boy, born this winter, who shall hold the power to save the World. And we saw a boy, born this winter, who shall walk in a trail of blood and reach to destroy the World. Graddon saw the trail of blood flow from Flintan and end here, at a cradle that dripped blood.

M'reena's boy? Theana shuddered.

The Nameless One tries to breed himself an heir among the Encindi women. A son to use the power of the Threads and reclaim the lost shape-shifting magic of the Encindi. Blood magic has destroyed his ability to see and feel the Threads, so he seeks a son to hold that magic in thrall for him.

What does that have to do with M'reena's boy?

M'reena's mother was raped by Encindi. M'reena is a half-blood, strong in magic. Turning to blood magic destroys more than the ability to see and feel the Threads that give us our power. Decades of using blood magic could have made him impotent. If he is unable to breed his own child, and if he knows of M'reena's ancestry, the Nameless One might try to take her son to raise as his own.

Illis went to protect his wife and son. Theana nodded. The Estall bless him. A sob escaped her and she wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders against a fresh gust of howling wind, as if the very elements roared in mourning for the bravest of the Queen of Snow's warriors. The Estall comfort M'reena and their son.

He went to see if the rumors are true, and the Nameless One has a son, Le'esha added. And I, Estall forgive me, told him of the vision that led him to his death.

* * * *

M'reena smiled proudly when the Queen of Snows came to see her and her son. Her voice was strong and sweet, despite her tears, and she sang lullabies to the newborn until she fell asleep. Then she died in her sleep. Le'esha found her the next morning with the baby cradled in her arms, tears on her cheeks and a faint smile on her lips.

Le'esha named the boy Mrillis, to honor both his parents who gave their lives in the service of the Estall and Lygroes and all the World.

She was not surprised when, the moment the storm calmed from its roaring and the sea no longer tossed with ice and foam, Graddon of Whispering Vale appeared at the Mist Gates of the Stronghold. The reclusive seer of the Rey'kil needed no testing to enter the Stronghold. If he wished, he could have passed through the barrier of the Lake of Ice and appeared in Le'esha's inner chambers without anyone realizing he was there. To honor the Queen of Snows, he waited until she came to meet him. Together, they walked in silence through the Mist Gates, up the long, winding stairs through the stone tunnels of the Stronghold, until they came to the nursery.

They stood for nearly an hour in silence, watching the newborn boy sleep.

Which one is he? she whispered, when the boy's wet-nurse had fallen asleep, and only the soft sighing of their breaths stirred in the tapestry-hung room.

At this moment of time, he could be both, and he could be neither, the bald seer said in a voice as rocky as his features. Graddon gently brushed a dark curl off the baby's forehead with one calloused finger. Many paths lie before him, and the trail of blood tangles with his trail many times. I cannot see if he walks it or he tries to cleanse it. If he tries to topple the one whose feet are covered in blood or tries to keep that other one from falling. He sighed, but hope gleamed in his pale green eyes as he turned to meet her gaze.

What do you see, then, to bring you here?

I see the bowl and sword, as you did. He will be part of their making, and he will be part of their guarding and their losing and their hiding. They will be so much a part of his blood and soul that his death could destroy them--and their destruction could kill him. His life lies in our hands. We are the ones who will put him on the path he will walk. If he is the Child of Blood, then all history will condemn us as much as him for the choices we make.

Some among the Noveni would tell us to kill the babe now, and avert that future, she whispered.

And that is why we tell them so few of our visions, yes? He chuckled, immediately hushing when the sound of his voice made baby and wet-nurse sigh in their sleep.

If he is the Child of Life, then he must live to battle the Child of Blood and Death.

Indeed. Graddon lightly ran his fingertips down the length of the boy's body and sparks of color danced between flesh and blankets. He caught a plump little fist between two fingers. I had thought to teach him to work metal and wood and clay, when he is older, but these are not the hands to form the bowl, which must come first. Strange. He nodded, put the tiny fist down, and turned to her. The hands I seek have yet to be formed. He holds the hands that weave the bowl from power and air and liquid metal. Guard him, sister of my soul. I will come to teach him and any others who wish to learn. You will not see me until that time comes.

Chapter Two

Mrillis grew quickly, as dark, strong and clever as his father had been; as wise, thoughtful and slim as his mother. The Queen of Snows' ladies walked the knife's edge of spoiling him, exclaiming over his every accomplishment as if no child had ever grown up in the Stronghold. Certainly no child was ever so swift and skillful in learning to feel the first stirrings of the imbrose, the foundation of all magic talent. This ability to sense and manipulate the imbrose was the special gift and duty of the Rey'kil, given to them by the Estall when the three races first came to the World.

Le'esha kept the boy busy learning and growing, tempering the blade that he would someday become, her plan to keep him too busy to grow vain or consider the constant flow of attention as his due. She talked to him often of his parents, their youth and training and deep love. She told him, when she thought he was old enough to understand, how they had died together, sacrificed in the battle to defeat the Encindi and the Nameless One, the rebel Rey'kil enchanter who violated the laws of the Estall and used blood magic to try to control the World. She taught him to honor his parents, to see them as heroes, and to see himself as a guardian of the small and weak and orphaned.

She had proof that he took her teaching to heart when one of her ladies, Neeria, was murdered during a courier run between the Warhawk and Wynystrys, leaving behind her daughter, Ceera. Mrillis took the silver-haired toddler, two years his junior, as his special charge. Ceera's father still lived, but Candon rarely saw his daughter. A warrior with little imbrose, he spent his days as spy and courier for the Warhawk.

Mrillis, at barely five years of age, made the little girl his student, teaching her everything Le'esha taught him about the history of the World and the duties of the Rey'kil. No one laughed at him, though a few did smile and shake their heads in amusement at his seriousness.

For the first seven years of his life, Mrillis never left the Stronghold of the Queen of Snows. He knew every step of every tunnel and passageway, every ledge. He loved to venture through the underground passages to the settlement in the sheltering maze of canyons beyond the Stronghold, where the husbands of the Queen's ladies lived; warriors, messengers, craftsmen and hunters. These men came often into the Stronghold and were uncles and surrogate fathers to the boy. They taught him to value the greater strength that lay in service and protecting the weak and defenseless.

He never went past the Lake of Ice, which filled the center canyon, and through which the river passed on its way from the Northern Sea to the heart of Lygroes. Fable said the Queen of Snows purified the salty water, making it sweet, a healing tonic for the Rey'kil and the increasing number of Noveni in Lygroes.

Noveni had no imbrose. As more star-metal fell from the skies on Moerta in the spring, poisoning everything for leagues around it, more Noveni fled to Rey'kil land for safety.

Fable was partially right. The first Queen of Snows had seen how ice filtered salt and other impurities. She turned the natural lake to ice and all her heirs maintained it as ice even in the hottest summers and deepest droughts.

The Lake of Ice was also the only portal through which outsiders could enter the Stronghold. Only by walking through the Mist Gates and answering the questions posed them could strangers gain admittance to the Stronghold. If anyone dared to penetrate the winding passageways of the canyons surrounding the Stronghold, they could climb the sheer cliff faces and explore caves in vain, until they died and their bones littered the ground. And often did. The unwelcome would never find the healers, scholars and holy Renunciates who lived there. Never see the massive rooms carved from the heart of the rock where the Queen of Snows, her ladies and their children lived and played.

Invaders would never see the sunshine that warmed and brightened the rooms as if they had no roofs. Never see the plants that grew year-round, for food, healing and sweetening the air. They would never see the crafting rooms where the ladies wove on looms that glistened as if coated with diamond dust. Never smell the healing potions the Queen's ladies created and sent throughout the land, freely given to anyone who asked.

* * * *

By the age of three, Mrillis had become Le'esha's shadow, following her from sewing room to brewing room to common room to her private office, where she met with envoys from the tribal chieftains and the Warhawk. When he made Ceera his special charge, the little girl learned to toddle along from the first day. Le'esha laughed when her ladies referred to the two as her 'ducklings'. She encouraged the children to listen and learn, and taught them to never be afraid to ask questions--and taught them discretion not to interrupt. The children had a corner of her office set aside for them, with cushions on the floor, hidden from visitors by a low shelf full of scrolls, urns and bowls of ingredients for healing potions.

Mrillis learned early that Noveni came more often to the Stronghold to seek the help of the Queen of Snows than Rey'kil did. They wanted advice for their chieftains and nobles, hoping the Queen of Snows could look into the future for them or find out the truth behind a disagreement. They asked for healing potions and healers trained in the Stronghold, and hired guards from the warriors trained to serve the Stronghold.

The boy noted who came on a regular basis, who smiled when they spoke to the Queen of Snows, and who did not. He paid attention to their tone of voice, the tension in their eyes, the stiffness of their stance more than their words.

Le'esha paid attention when first Mrillis and then Ceera showed marked dislike for particular visitors. Some, she banned from the Stronghold. She would meet with them on the shores of the Lake of Ice, accompanied by her warriors, but she would not allow them through the Mist Gates. Those who tried to penetrate the magic guarding the inner halls of the Stronghold wandered lost for hours. Sometimes days. If they refused to heed the warnings, they fell into tangles of magic that took them prisoner and delivered them outside the maze of canyons and passages guarding the Lake of Ice and the Stronghold. Some died, killed by the poison of their own evil hearts.

Few outside of Le'esha's trusted assistants realized she trained both children for special duties. Visitors and most of the Stronghold's inhabitants only saw them as her favorites. Some who didn't know the history of the children thought they were Le'esha's own blood.

Ceera, with her silver hair and eyes, could have been her daughter. Mrillis had a grace to his carriage that, with the shape of his face, led many to believe they were mother and son. Le'esha corrected no one and the children understood that she was as much their mother as their birth mothers had been.

In their turn, Mrillis and Ceera bound themselves to her service, with all the fierce adoration of their young hearts. When they had treats, they shared them with her. When she was tired or her head hurt or she had too much work, they tried to make visitors go away or locked the door of her office so no one could disturb her.

One fall day when Mrillis was six, some Noveni visitors and their careless words opened to him a wider view of the World. He and Ceera had spent the morning in their sheltered corner of Le'esha's office. Though the sky was black and churned with clouds and lightning and the sea heaved like a mad beast, sunshine and sweet air reigned indoors. It was washing day, and those children who didn't work were expected to stay out of trouble and amuse themselves quietly.

The two children retreated to their corner of Le'esha's office with scrolls for him to read, beads and a tiny loom for her to play with, and enough provisions to last them through the day. Biscuits and jam, dried apple slices and a pitcher of cider. Le'esha had shared their cider late in the morning and then had left them alone while she tended to an emergency in the public healing rooms. The children fell asleep, lulled by warmth and quiet and full bellies.

Mrillis woke to the sound of unfamiliar voices. He got up on his knees and peered out between the sealed jars and boxes of powders, salves and dried herbs sitting on the shelves.

Three men stood by the open door of Le'esha's office. She was nowhere in sight. The strangers were Noveni, with their tangled, golden-brown curls and brown eyes. They didn't wear cloaks, so someone at the gates had taken their wet clothes. No one could enter the Stronghold without passing the gatekeeper's tests, so Mrillis wasn't worried. Someone had brought the three men to Le'esha's office, rather than making them wait in the welcoming hall. Either that, or the three had chosen to be rude and wander around, going where they hadn't been invited. Mrillis didn't like the way the men scowled and looked around the room.

The one with the crest of a leaping, blue battlecat on his overtunic gestured at the shelving. She has enough medicine in this room alone to tend half the villages on Moerta for a year. It just isn't right.

What isn't right? The man who had stood with his back to Mrillis, studying a tapestry on the far wall, turned around.

He wore a closely trimmed beard in dark gold and his skin was the color of freshly forged bronze. He wore the wings-spread crest of the Warhawk across the chest of his overtunic. He couldn't be the Warhawk, high king of the Noveni; Mrillis knew Afron Warhawk was a man in his late thirties, and this man was perhaps in his early twenties.

The Queen of Snows willingly shares all the Rey'kil healing powers and knowledge with our people. All we have to do is ask. How many healers has she sent to the sufferers on Moerta this year alone? he continued. He walked across the room and settled down in one of the low-backed chairs hung with thick woolen blankets, which sat in front of Le'esha's worktable.

We shouldn't have to ask, the first growled. "The Rey'kil owe the Noveni. We shed our blood daily to fight off the warriors of the Nameless One--a rebel Rey'kil. He's their problem, not ours. Why should we fight for Lygroes?"

Perhaps because the Noveni are refugees in Lygroes, and defending Rey'kil land keeps us safe as well? the third man asked in a lazy drawl. He sat down and put his still-wet boots up on the edge of Le'esha's table.

Mrillis nearly darted out from behind the shelves, to knock the intruder's feet back to the floor. The prickle of discomfort up his spine, which warned him when Le'esha's visitors were dangerous, warned him now to keep silent. He glanced at Ceera, asleep with her thumb in her mouth. He knew his first duty was to protect the little girl.

Eavesdropping wasn't nice, and Le'esha frowned on it, but he sensed it would be worse to step out now and face these intruders. If they were angry enough, they might thrash him. What would they do to Ceera if she woke up and started crying or attacked them for hitting him?

How much longer would Le'esha be gone from her office? When would she come back, stop their rude talk, and send the strangers on their way again?

And just why are the Noveni refugees? Because our land is poisoned, a little more every year. What poisons us? the first man snarled.

Star-metal, the Warhawk's man said. He sounded bored and made a face at the third man, turning his head so the first couldn't see him. Mrillis liked this man, whoever he was.

Exactly. Star-metal falls on Lygroes just as much as it does on Moerta, but why aren't Rey'kil crops blighted? Why don't Rey'kil cattle fall sick? Why don't their women miscarry and their children die young? Why aren't their springs poisoned and the wild animals running mad?

The Estall loves the Rey'kil better than the Noveni? the third man said. He slouched in his chair and closed his eyes, to all appearances ready to fall asleep.

Mrillis grinned, admiring his attitude toward the angry man. That still didn't excuse his feet on Le'esha's table.

The Rey'kil have magic. That's how they keep their land clean and their homes and farms and people healthy. Why don't they use their magic to help Moerta? He stomped over to the Warhawk's man and glared down at him, hands jammed into his fists. Why doesn't the Warhawk demand answers? I know he must have the same thoughts, the same questions. Why don't the Rey'kil suffer the poison of the star-metal, when it falls on their land as much as it does on Moerta?

My royal brother has asked. The Warhawk's man stood, with his gloved hands clasped behind his back. Mrillis imagined his knuckles turned white from the effort not to strike the other man. He has asked without anger, with respect for our allies who have made room for us. Our allies who have given up fertile farms and rich mines to our use, who have shared their knowledge, their skills, their magic with us. The wisest minds of my brother's court study with the leaders of the Rey'kil, seeking that very answer, and they have not found it yet.

"They won't find it because the Rey'kil can't be trusted. They pretend to be our friends, but they're killing us off slowly. Star-metal isn't poison--until the Rey'kil change it with their magic. They want this entire world to themselves."

That would be a little hard to manage, with the Encindi chewing on their borders and the Nameless One using his blood magic to counter everything they do, the third man said.

How do we know there really is a Nameless One? What is the difference between their so-called clean magic and his blood magic?

The difference between life and death, Le'esha said.

All three men turned as one, the third leaping to his feet, and they bowed to her. She paused in the doorway, studying the three intruders, before coming into the room. She walked past the shelves and glanced briefly through the gaps between the jars before sitting at her table.

High Scholar Breylon and I have a proposal for you to take back to the Warhawk and his Council. She tipped her head to one side and waited until, one after another, the three men sat. "We will send scholars and enchanters from the Stronghold and from Wynystrys to settle in Moerta. They will study the places where star-metal lands and discern the difference between the star-metal that falls on Moerta and what falls on Lygroes.

It could be that the difference is not in the star-metal, but in the land itself. Something in our soil might act as amethyst in a cup of wine, to nullify the poison. When we know what that difference is, we will try to duplicate it in Moerta and give your land back to you.

That is most generous, Lady, the Warhawk's brother said, standing to give her a deep, respectful bow.

For the next hour, Le'esha conferred with the Warhawk's brother, Lyon, over the details of the plan. Mrillis watched the first man, who stayed silent, and considered his accusations.

When Ceera woke up, Mrillis turned most of his attention to entertaining the little girl and keeping her quiet. Besides, the talk of numbers and provisions and arrangements for sailing from Wynystrys to Moerta bored him. He had one question,