• Prologue
    ~



    The Stellar Jay of Rongsanarn strode down a cold, dark corridor, for Lady Dracona and Lord Rathnar would be expecting him. He moved quickly, his cloak sweeping behind him. Frosty vapor seeped between his lips. In the underground fortress, Evershadow, sunlight did not penetrate the dark. It was extremely cold. Despite the cold he moved faster, if he kept them waiting, he would surely be punished. The Avian pushed open two heavy oak doors. The hinges wailed as he did so. He entered a large room. Lady Dracona and Lord Rathnar called it the Throne Room; however that is not at all what it looked like. The floor and walls were completely covered in polished black tiles. An eerie green glow emanated from the strange flames in the central hearth and torch lined walls.
    The Avian approached two black throne-like chairs on the opposite side of the room. He knelt before Lord Rathnar and whispered, “My Lord,” He got to his feet and nodded towards Lady Dracona who received it with cold, unforgiving eyes.
    “So,” Rathnar began, “I assume you completed your task, or you would not have returned.”
    “Yes, my Lord.” replied the Avian.
    “Excellent.”
    Lady Dracona snorted in annoyance, eyeing Briant wearily. “So,” she hissed. “What did you find out?”
    The Avian gulped. He was not sure if the lady would be pleased with his answer. “Um- my La-Lady,” he sputtered. “I’m not-“
    “Spit it out Avian!” she cried impatiently, drumming her long, bony fingers on the arm of the chair. The green flames made her pale skin and black eyes look ghostly. The Avian had to be careful when Dracona had a temper; it could get dangerously out of hand. “My Lady, I discovered a prophecy.” He stared deep into her cold black eyes and was surprised to see a sort of disappointed greed.
    “What is this… prophecy?” she asked, her anxious voice hushed to a whisper.
    “I’m afraid I can’t recite it word for word my Lady. If -“He was cut short when Rathnar stood up.
    “It appears we were wrong about you.” boomed Rathnar. “Has my best Avian failed me?”
    The Stellar Jay was trembling, his hands knotting nervously, “No My Lord, absolutely not!” He was glad the hood of his cloak shadowed is face. His gray eyes were wide and frightened.
    “Don’t waste your voice, insufferable fool! What did the prophecy say?”
    The Avian was well aware that if he got them angry enough, he would never leave the room and if he did, he wouldn’t leave it alive. “You see, Milady, I do not wish to give you false information. So if you let me go back, I - “
    Lady Dracona snarled, “There will be no going back, Avian. Recite the prophecy for me now!”
    “But my Lady,” he protested “Certainly you do not want a half made up prophecy, do you?” He stared at her, pleading silently.
    “No, I do not want a false prophesy, Briant. But it is your job to remember it and it is a pity we have to kill you for lack of memory. We sent you on a very simple mission! Guards! Take him away.” She sat calmly, a mocking smile on her lips.
    The Avian cried out in desperation, his shrill voice reverberated in the tiled room. “No! No! I beg you! I will recite it! Please!”
    Lord Rathnar raised his hands for the guards to subside and the Jay fell in a sobbing heap of terror at his lord’s feet. “Now Avian,” said Lord Rathnar in calm, even voice, “Listen closely, because this is your last chance. It is my belief you will not tell us the prophecy because you refuse to or that you failed your assignment.” His voice was gentle, coaxing almost. “What is the prophecy, Briant?”
    Briant lifted his eyes, assumed a standing position, and collected some of his dignity. He drew a breath as if he were about to recite the prophecy, threw back the hood of his cloak and in one sharp movement turned into a stellar jay. He took flight in a whirl of feathers. One of the sentries standing guard nearby heaved the great oak doors shut, blocking then Avian’s only exit.
    “You’re a clever Avian,” said Rathnar. “That’s why I’ll have to kill you.” As if a cue, the guards began releasing a torrent of merciless arrows with their crossbows. Desperately, he flew as fast as he could in all directions trying to dodge them.
    “How does it feel, Avian,” he heard Dracona’s mocking voice ring out. “To be trapped with no other choice but death?”
    For the first time, he felt a flicker of true despair. He hesitated, hovering mid-flight for a split second, giving an arrow the chance to find the Avian’s heart. His body landed with a soft thud on the black tiles, his blood turning them a deep crimson. “Pity,” sighed Lady Dracona unsympathetically. “He was our best spy.” Their laughter echoed cruelly throughout the room.

    Chapter One
    ~Sharnshire~

    The sun gently spread its golden light over the valley. It crawled above the horizon and aroused the dawn chorus. The frost that had gathered on the blades of grass on the bitter night began to slowly melt into dew and the valley warmed. The mountain peaks glistened with a new snow, the first autumn snow. The rest of the valley remained in a summer trance, however.
    A small village known as Sharnshire nestled in the valley. It was dwarfed by the looming mountains. With the sun, woke Sharnshire. The first to wake was the blacksmith. His name was Luke of Aesternland and Sharnshire. He was born on the costal island Aesternland. Most feared him because he was intimidating. Luke was a man of a large, brawny build. His hands were callused from years of metal work. He was tall and had a stern, handsome face and coppery hair. His eyes were a kind, twinkling green and were quite offsetting to his otherwise frightening nature.
    Luke rose from his bed with a groan; his shoulders were extremely stiff from yesterday’s work. He stumbled to the water basin and splashed his grimy face with cool water. He pulled on breeches for he wore only a loin cloth to sleep. He kept his muscular chest bare. Then he tugged on boots and opened the door to his forge. The forge was bigger than his sleeping quarters. His occupation was more important than luxury. The fires were his life. Metal was his game.
    Then Luke arranged his tongs and walked from his forge to the barn. He fed his mule, Bertha. Then from the barn he went to the coal shack.
    Piles of coal were shoveled neatly in the shed to keep them dry. Some were kept intentionally wet. Coals were not his concern right now. Winter would soon be nigh them. He needed wood for his own hearth if he were to survive the mountain’s wrath. The blacksmith uncovered canvas wrapped wood and hauled several logs that needed splitting beside the stump.
    He began whistling O Thy Rosy Dawn as he raised his axe to hack the timber apart for fuel. Luke just whistled the second verse when an odd metallic sound wafted through the air. He stopped whistling and froze. The noise had stopped. Luke was certain he’d heard it. It was loud, too, if he could detect it over the splitting of wood. The blacksmith waited for five long, painful minuets. Suddenly, pheasants flew up in alarm, their frantic cries echoed in the quiet of morning.
    Luke scanned the hillside. The logical side of his brain knew it was just a stray horse or wild beast, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling it was something more. The metallic grinding was suddenly present. The clang drifted closer. His brow furrowed. He knew that sound. ’Tis the sound of armor, Luke realized, his frown deepened. Some nobles passing by would bring in a dented breastplate or helm occasionally. He squinted against the sun in the east.
    Two figures were advancing swiftly towards the forge. Luke had a feeling these people weren’t just passerby’s. They moved with too much purpose. The figures bore armor, though the sun did not glint off the metal plates. The armor was painted black. Luke knew the only reason to paint armor black was to conceal one’s presence. But why be so secretive? The armored figures were now only three hundred feet away. Luke tightened his grip on his axe nervously. Why were they here? They reached Luke and came to an abrupt halt. “You, sir, is this your forge?” one of the men demanded gruffly.
    “Yes,” Luke half growled. His gaze swept suspiciously over each man’s black helm. “You’d do well to state your business, gentlemen.”
    “We are looking for a man.”
    Luke raised an eyebrow. “A man?”
    “Indeed, it is very important we know where he is. This man is a murderer. He is also guilty of theft, treason to the high king, and possession of magical items. He is quite nondescript, I fear.”
    Luke snorted. “I’m afraid if you aren’t able to describe this convict, I cannot be of any help. Winter’s breath knows no mercy.” Luke jerked his chin to the stack of wood for emphasis.
    The two men exchanged quick glances through their black helms. Luke’s eyes wandered from the covered faces to the rest of their armor. Two swords rested at each man’s hip. Crossbows sat on each man’s back. At least ten daggers decorated the rest of their waist. The blacksmith noticed not an inch of their skin was revealed. They did not bear the symbol of the king. They must have noticed Luke’s wary glances because one man drew himself up and cleared his throat.
    “Sir, this is beyond a description. We need to search your quarters and forge in the name of the king. If you are indeed hiding this man, your consequence shall be death.”
    Luke frowned at that. It was the entirely wrong time for strange, armored men to storm his property! “If you will pardon my prying,” Luke said. “You claim to work for His Majesty yet you do not bear the mark of the king.”
    One of the armored men threw back his head and chuckled darkly. “Ah, my blacksmith, you are indeed prying! Have you no decency?” Then, without warning, the men drew both of their swords.

    * * *

    Brooke stared miserably down the well’s deep, black depths. Is this what life was, dark and seemingly empty? Even with the beautiful noon sun warming her shoulders, she was colder than she had ever been. Brooke sighed and bitterly lowered the bucket until an eerie splash signaled the bucket’s submergence. Her hands trembled as she pulled the bucket out of the well. Brooke lifted the bucket off the rope and placed it on the ground. She dipped a linen cloth into the water and trotted back to her little cottage.
    She numbly made her way to her mother’s chambers. Once in her mother’s room, Brooke quickly walked to Trianna’s side and placed the cool cloth gently on her sweaty forehead.
    Her mother’s eyes flung open. They remained rolled back into her skull and were bloodshot. “My child!” Trianna rasped, clutching Brooke’s sleeve.
    Brooke recoiled slightly. “Yes, Mother?” she whispered shakily. There was no answer. Her mother’s head fell slack and she was asleep again. Brooke turned her face away and blinked before her tears could overflow. Trianna’s face was pale and sickly. Her wrinkled, skin clung to her now very visible cheekbones.
    Brooke remembered that the illness started simple. Sometimes Trianna would have coughing fits and fall unconscious briefly. But then her condition worsened. It crept slowly into Brooke’s mother’s body then it began to carefully take its toll. As the week progressed, Trianna was so sick she could not even eat independently. Brooke was convinced that her mother would not live to see the upcoming winter.
    Brooke walked over to her father, Justin, who was sitting grimly by his wife’s side. His green eyes were clouded with pain. He only left occasionally, leaving Trianna in Brooke’s care.
    “Father, we have no other choice. I will go today.”
    He nodded solemnly, his voice barely audible. “So be it,”
    Brooke ran to her room and flung on a crude cloak. She raced out the door and sprinted from her house to Gwyneth, the town healer. Dust was kicked up in her wake. Brooke startled a bunch of chickens that were scratching the dirt on the road. They flew up in alarm, squabbling. She burst into the tiny hut that smelled strongly of pungent herbs and sickness. “Gwyneth?” Brooke called softly. “It’s Brooke. My mother is ill. . . ”
    Brooke peered around. Gwyneth was no where in sight. Then, the old healer suddenly burst in the back way.
    “Gwyneth!” Brooke exclaimed. Startled, the healer backed in to a pile of brass pots and kettles. There was a very large crash and her cracked voice filled the air with an array of curses. Brooke flinched. She didn’t know the healer spoke vulgar language so fluently. She ran over to Gwyneth and knelt by her side.
    “Curse Thead’s entire Realm!” The blind woman’s eyes were spinning wildly.
    “Gwyneth,” Brooke sighed. “It would do the village no good if you killed yourself.”
    “Bah!” Gwyneth spat by Brooke’s knees. She grumbled and pulled herself to her feet. “’Twas you that nearly killed me,” The gnarled woman fumbled through the air. When her hand rested on the back of a small chair, Gwyneth sighed and sat down. “What brings you here, Brooke? It better be good. I’m very busy today. If you have come asking for a love potion or prosperity charm, you’re wasting my time! ”
    Brooke blinked twice, slightly offended. What did Gwyneth take her for? “No, no, Gwyneth.” Brooke said through clenched teeth. “My mother is sick. Very sick. I fear her life is ebbing away. I came to you for a logical reason. ”
    She blinked slowly and raised a wrinkled hand. “Trianna has a fever, yes?”
    “Aye,”
    “I will see to her.” She shifted her foggy blind gaze to the direction of Brooke’s voice, her eyes focused on the ceiling. “What else is amiss?”
    “She has been sick for three weeks. It’s so . . . unnatural. I don’t understand. Shouldn’t my mother be dead by now? Shouldn’t she have at least worsened or healed? I. . .” Brooke trailed off, unable to continue.
    Gwyneth pressed her thin lips together, seemingly pleased with her new challenge. “I shall examine her, I don’t know if I’ll be able to do anything. You are right to be concerned, Brooke. Throughout my whole profession, never have I heard of such a thing.”
    Brooke just stared numbly. So this was serious. The healer’s face was creased with deep wrinkles as she thought. Brooke watched her, impatient. “Well don’t stand there gawking!” barked Gwyneth. “Make yourself useful! I will need lots of herbs, clean linen, hot water, and a kettle. Move!”
    Startled, Brooke walked over to the hearth. “Gwyneth, have you a flint stone?” Grumbling, the healer handed her a chunk of steel and the flint. Brooke knelt to start the blaze. She didn’t mind that her skirts where bunched beneath her knees. The dress was a simple peasant’s one. Her mother, if she was well, would not have approved. When the fire was hot enough she placed a small cauldron filled with water over the hearth.
    “What herbs d-
    “Oh for the sake of the Gods! I’ll do it!” Gwyneth walked towards her hanging herbs. She touched each leaf, gently feeling its texture and shape. Then she lifted every plant to her nose, concentrating deeply on each unique aroma. Gwyneth grabbed several herbs. She dumped the selected plants into the water. The blind woman then took down more healing plants and began to create a salve with other ingredients she collected.
    “Take the healing brew of the fire, Brooke.”
    “Are you sure a tea will work? Or help? I-”
    “Yes! Listen, if you want your mother to live, don’t question my healing techniques!”
    Brooke ducked her head. The grumpy old healer had an easily sparked temper. Sighing she rounded up the fresh linen and boiled some more hot water. She then placed the brew in the kettle. “Gwyneth. I’ve finished.”
    “Good,” the blind woman answered. “Gather up the linen and the water. I can carry the tea and salve. Lead the way to your home.”
    Obediently, Brooke picked up the contents and walked out of the hut. Keeping close, the healer followed Brooke. Gwyneth occasionally stopped and asked Brooke where she was. It took them fifteen minuets to finally reach the cottage when it took Brooke only five minuets on normal circumstances.
    Brooke led Gwyneth inside. “Take me to your mother,”
    “This way,” Brooke led her to Trianna’s bedchamber. When they entered the room, Brooke’s father glanced up. Relief washed over his pain-filled eyes.
    “Gwyneth!” Justin exclaimed. Brooke’s father rose. The healer ignored the man and walked briskly to Trianna. She lifted the water and placed it on at the foot of the bed. Then Gwyneth spun, her milky gaze searched wildly for Brooke.
    “Leave, Brooke. We don’t need more than three people here. You have done your share.”
    “But, she’s my mother!”
    “Go!”
    Reluctantly Brooke left the room and the door was slammed behind her. Brooke trembled with fury. It gave Gwyneth no right to make her leave! It was her mother. For a moment Brooke considered banging her fists on the door and screaming until they opened up. But that would be extremely juvenile. If Trianna’s life was slipping away, she wanted to spend the last minuets of it by her mother’s side.
    Brooke ran to her bedchamber to grab her longbow. She pulled it from the chest at the end of her bed. It was an elegant weapon; the bow was curved neatly and had an intricate engraving of a flower by the grip. Brooke ran her hand on the string. It was still oiled. Placing the bow on her bed, she slipped out of her dress and into breeches and a shirt. Brooke pulled a brush through her black curls and pulled it back with a leather string. She fetched her quiver from the trunk, swung it over her shoulder, and grabbed her bow. The girl tugged on her riding boots and set off to the stables.
    She tried to place her mother in the back of her mind. It didn’t work well. Every time the girl blinked, images of her mother would flash under her closed lids. She sighed mournfully as the cool summer breeze stirred the trees around the farm. The end of the season was drawing near and harvest time would come soon. The property was small, but was enough to make a living.
    Brooke then walked to the stables and flung the door open. The horses whinnied in alarm. “There now,” Brooke crooned. “It’s only me.”
    Brooke walked to Shade, her stallion. He stood there proudly, sleek and muscular. His coal black coat shimmered in the afternoon light that seeped through the stable door.
    Brooke grinned. Shade was given to her as colt. The man who gave him to her was an inn keeper. When she received him, every bone in his body jutted out from his dull coat. Brooke had nourished him back to health. He turned out to be a very fine stallion.
    She bridled him quickly and left his back bare. A saddle would not be necessary. Brooke mounted Shade and kicked him with a little more ferocity than she intended. He shrieked and settled the weight to his haunches. Then he leapt foreword and charged through the door of the stable at a full gallop. The stallion gnawed his bit and tossed his head. They were approaching the edge of the property, now. Here, on the west side, the land dipped neatly into a hill. They streamed down the side of the slope and Brooke whooped with sheer exhilaration. For a brief moment, she forgot anything was amiss in her life.
    Horse and rider galloped passed the outskirts of the village and into the forest. The grassland melted into the green flecks and shadows of shrubbery and trees. The winds were replaced with a gentle breeze. Birds lifted their voices to the afternoon sky. It was very serene in the Forest Lelgrind, that’s why Brooke had come. She needed the challenge the forest had presented her with, the concentration archery required, and the solitude.
    Brooke tethered Shade to a tree limb and the horse started to graze the grass around the trunk. Brooke watched the birds dance around the canopy of branches. She drew a shuddery breath and began to search for a good place to practice archery. She walked about the undergrowth, not really looking for any particular target. Brooke inhaled the sweet scent of decaying leaves and soil. It felt good to be out of Sharnshire, away from her mother, away from her hardships.
    When she found a good sized tree in the middle of a little clearing, she decided that she would wander no further. She walked towards the back of the meadow. Brooke selected an arrow from her quiver and fitted it to the string. Brooke drew her arm back until her right fist rested on her cheek. Then she lined her hand up with the tree. Brooke released.
    Time slowed.
    Her heart seemed to beat the precise moment the arrow embedded itself into the bark of the spruce. It was higher than she had aimed, but at least it hit the tree. She drew another arrow. Brooke fingered the duck fletching and grinned. This was a duck she had killed with this very bow last month. The duck was an accomplishment because ducks were hard to kill. If you killed them in the water, it usually sunk and killing it in the air took practice.
    The girl had nearly forgotten her mother’s condition now. Reaching into her quiver, she drew another arrow. Suddenly, an arrow that was not her own, slammed into the target. Startled, the girl glanced down at her bow. Her arrow was still there. She didn’t fire.
    Someone else did.
    Instinctively, she dodged for cover as two more arrows whizzed into the tree. Brooke crouched in the shrubs, barley breathing. She set down her bow near the tree so she could creep silently, but it was also in reach. Who was firing these arrows? A twig snapped by the tree far to the left of her. Resisting the urge to run, she crawled silently to a large birch and stood up against the tree. Brooke pressed herself against the cool bark on the right side of the birch, away from the sound of the fractured twig. She slid her dagger out of the sheath and waited.
    Brooke had no idea what or who was joining her for target practice. She didn’t know if it was friend or foe. She was scared. She didn’t like to admit it, but she was terrified. Her heart pounded so hard she could barley concentrate. Adrenaline seared Brooke’s veins and made her dizzy. The shrubbery around the clearing trembled. She normally would have assumed it was a bear. But bears could not shoot arrows. She decided to steal a glance around the tree. Two men crashed into the clearing. They wore black armor. None of their skin was revealed. Various weapons hung at their waists. They now wielded crossbows.
    Oh, Gods,
    “I think we scared him off,” one man said. A male! Brooke thought, amazed. They mistook me for a male! I guess they only saw the back of my head and my longbow…
    “I wish our lord would permit us to fly,” the other grumbled.
    Fly?
    “Nay, he’d never allow us. Forget about the boy, let us move. And hush, don’t speak so openly!” One armored man turned his head to scan the trees. His eyes seemed to flick directly on Brooke’s but he appeared not to have seen her. She gasped and straightened her spine. Brooke controlled her breathing so her chest barely moved, she willed herself to become invisible.
    His eyes swept over the undergrowth and the rest of the forest. Apparently satisfied, he turned his head away. Then the two mysterious men trampled back through Forest Lelgrind. When they disappeared from sight, she gasped but didn’t dare move. Brooke waited. She waited until her legs and feet went numb and trembled with exhaustion. She had no idea how long she had been standing there. Her heart still thrummed and her mind raced. She knew if they caught her, they would kill her. She could tell that that these men were hired to inflict harm. Finally, after an inward debate with herself, she moved from her hiding spot. And trotted quietly back to her stallion.