Dragonwitch

  © 2013 by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6146-5

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Book design by Paul Higdon

  Cover illustration by William Graf

  Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency

  To Manda,

  for all those long walks,

  daydreams,

  and endless stories.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Legend of Two Brothers

  Part One: Chronicler

  1

  2

  3

  4

  Part 2: Heir

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  Part 3: Acolyte

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  Part 4: Goddess

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Part 5: King

  1

  2

  3

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books in the Series

  Coming Spring 2014 and Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Legend of Two Brothers

  LET ME TELL YOU A STORY.

  In the days when the Near World was new and mortal men were young and frightened, Death-in-Life crept among the shadows and whispered darkness into their fears. So they hid themselves in caves and never dared to look above to the lights shining in the vaults of the sky; they could not hear the Songs of the Spheres.

  The Lumil Eliasul, Giver of Songs, took pity on their helpless state. He sent his knights, the Brothers Ashiun. No one recalls their names before the Lumil Eliasul called them into his service. The elder he called Akilun, which is Wisdom; the younger, Etanun, which is Strength.

  With these names, each brother was given a great gift. Into Akilun’s hand, the Lumil Eliasul placed Asha, a lantern filled with the light of Hymlumé, the lady moon.

  “Take this lantern, and with it disperse the shadows so that my children may see the Greater Lights. And when they see, they will hear the Songs I have sung for them and which the sun and the moon sing still. Thus they will have hope of life beyond the dust of mortality.”

  So spoke the Giver of Songs. Then he turned to Etanun, and into his fist he pressed the hilt of Halisa, a sword forged in the fires of Lumé, the lordly sun.

  “With this sword,” said the Lumil Eliasul, “cut down the monsters that plague their fears. Drive out the fires of Death-in-Life and his brood with a fire more pure, more dreadful, more sure. Thus my children will know the truth of the life to which they have been called, and they will sing with Lumé and Hymlumé.”

  At the behest of their Master, the Brothers Ashiun carried their gifts across the Final Water into the Near World. Etanun drove out the Faerie beasts that crawled along the mortal ground, devouring as they went, and even Death-in-Life drew back into his own dark kingdom, fearing the fire of Halisa. Akilun shone his lantern into the darkest reaches of the mortal realm, and people far and wide gathered to its light, marveling at the things they saw and heard of that they had never before dreamed. Together, the two brothers built the Houses of old, great halls with doors on either end that opened to the east and west. Akilun filled these Houses with the light of Asha so that even when the brothers passed on to distant realms, the mortals of every nation could still hear the Songs of the sun and the moon.

  So Etanun and Akilun journeyed throughout the Near World, bringing truth and hope to the farthest countries, even to the distant isles across the wild sea. But Death-in-Life looked upon their work and gnashed his teeth. He hated the Songs of the Spheres almost as much as he hated their creator. When he had first seen the pitiable state of the mortals, he had thought to take them, to create a people after his own design who would serve and worship only him. But now, as the Houses stood tall and the mortals gathered to hear the Songs, Death-in-Life saw his nightmarish dreams begin to fade.

  So he turned to another, an immortal queen of the Faerie folk, and he spoke his lies to her. Brokenhearted and filled with jealous anger, she heeded his words. And so he created his firstborn.

  Hri Sora. The Flame at Night.

  She set upon the Great Houses and burned them, scattering the poor mortals back into darkness. Heroes of old rose up to face this dragon, but none could match her flame. One by one, kings, queens, and chieftains of the Near World watched their holy places burn, sacrifices offered by Hri Sora to her Dark Father.

  But Akilun and Etanun were not through with their work. Akilun shone Asha lantern, and mortals flocked to its light. And Etanun set out to slay Hri Sora. Armed with Halisa, he plunged into the darkest regions of the Near World. He found her at last on a cold mountain, and there he fought her. The fire of their battle melted the snow on the mountaintop, which ran like rivers down into the valleys below. Yet Hri Sora could not match the might of Halisa as wielded by the knight, and she fell beneath his blade.

  But alas, Death-in-Life’s firstborn could not be so easily destroyed.

  Akilun the Elder, bearing his lantern, found his brother exhausted upon the barren slopes of the mountain. Etanun was near death, but under Akilun’s gentle hand, he gradually stepped from the shadow back into the living world.

  “I have killed her!” said Etanun then.

  Akilun shook his head. “It is not so, brother. Hri Sora will return, I fear. You have only destroyed the first of her lives.”

  Etanun refused to hear his brother’s words. His heart burned with a fire of his own, the fire of vengeance unsatisfied. “Halisa cannot be cheated out of such a victory!” he declared. Akilun could only wait in silence for Etanun to know the truth.

  In time, the Great Houses were rebuilt. Kingdoms were established. Nations rose and fell and warred and made peace. But those mortals who heard and paid heed to the Sphere Songs prospered and gave thanks to the Song Giver. A hundred years spun across the face of the mortal realm.

  And Hri Sora returned, even as Akilun had known she would.

  In a rage of fire more terrible than before, she flamed into
the Near World. All the rebuilt Great Houses she tore to pieces and then set upon those she had not touched during her first life. One by one she destroyed them, and though Etanun, incensed, pursued her with all the passion of his soul, he could not overtake her trail of fire.

  At last there was but one House remaining in all the Near World. The people of that land knew of the destruction wrought by Hri Sora. Desperate, they did what no man had dared do in all the generations since the coming of the Brothers Ashiun. They shut the doors of the House, hiding the glow of Asha, damping the Songs of the Spheres. And their world plummeted into darkness.

  Although Hri Sora searched far and wide, she could not discover the final House of Lights.

  Thus thwarted in her goal, she flew to the wide green plain of Corrilond and set fire to its lushness, turning all from green to desert in moments. There at last Etanun found her, and there he fought her a second time. The fury of their battle was beyond all telling, and mortals fled from that land, not to return for generations. Once more Hri Sora’s flame could not withstand the fire of Halisa. Etanun plunged the blade into the depths of the furnace within her breast.

  For the second time, Hri Sora died and vanished from the Near World in a hurricane of ash.

  Again Akilun sought out his brother, only to find him on the brink of death. Again Akilun nursed him back to life. But Hri Sora’s claws had scored Etanun’s body with deep wounds filled with dragon poison. Though Akilun ministered to his brother with great skill, when at last Etanun opened his eyes, they shimmered with the heat of remnant venom.

  “I have killed her!” Etanun declared. “I have had my vengeance!”

  But Akilun responded with great sorrow. “She will return more powerful than before.”

  Etanun surged to his feet then, ready to kill in his anger. “Where is your lantern?” he cried. “Where is the hope you spread to mortals? Will you profane it with this dooming prophecy? Or is it that you cannot bear the glory of my might, the gift our Lord bestowed upon me, as compared to your own paltry glimmerings?”

  Akilun could not reason with his brother. They parted ways, Etanun declaring that he could no longer have dealings with Akilun, prophet of doom, who disgraced the light he bore. Etanun sheathed his sword, hiding its brilliance, and refused to fight as he once had. The bitterness of dragon poison filled his body; he lowered his gaze from the Spheres Above, and he stopped up his ears to the Songs in which he had once gloried.

  It was then that he began to hear the voice of Death-in-Life for himself.

  “You want power?” said that dreadful Father of dragons. “You want fire that cannot be quenched? Come to me. Receive my kiss.”

  Etanun plunged into the Netherworld, pursuing that voice and that false promise. “My Lord has betrayed me,” he said to himself as he went. “His gift, Halisa, has proven worthless. I will seek my own way now.” With these black thoughts, he progressed down and down, driven by poison as he pursued the Dark Water.

  But Akilun followed him.

  The elder brother, Asha in his hand, stepped into Death’s realm and chased Etanun down the long, dark Path. He caught him at last and pleaded with him to go no farther. “Turn your face away from this dire purpose!” he cried. “Turn back to the truth you know and humble yourself before your Lord.”

  “I will not be humiliated before all the worlds again!” Etanun cried, and he spat in Akilun’s face, declaring that he would meet Death and take his kiss without fear.

  So Akilun put his arms around his brother, clutching him fast. “I will not let you go another step.”

  Etanun struggled; Akilun held true. Etanun’s strength was double that of his older brother, but Akilun’s love was greater still. They wrestled in the darkness of Death’s realm, Etanun resisting, Akilun restraining. All the light of Asha shone in Etanun’s eyes, brighter and brighter, chasing away the phantoms of the Netherworld and their grim whispers. “Look at it!” Akilun cried, forcing his brother to face that shining purity. “Look at it and see the truth you once knew!”

  Etanun fought but the light filled him even so. The brightness and beauty of it washed Hri Sora’s poison from his veins, leaving him weak, trembling, but in the end . . . whole.

  His muscles relaxed. Breathing with difficulty, he collapsed. Akilun let go his hold and fell beside him.

  Generations had passed in the mortal world above as the brothers battled and then lay still. At last Etanun roused himself and turned to Akilun. “Brother, I have sinned,” he began, but the words vanished from his lips.

  Akilun was dead.

  His strength broken from his great struggle for his brother’s life, his spirit had flown across the Final Water to the Farthest Shore, where Hymlumé and Lumé sing before the throne of the Song Giver. But while his spirit flew free, his body lay in ruin beside Etanun.

  Etanun wept. He wept at his folly, at the conceit that had led him and Akilun to this place. Even as he wept, the light of Asha rested upon him.

  He dug a grave for Akilun on the Path to the Dark Water. He set a monument there, a stone carved with this legend:

  Beyond the Final Water falling,

  The Songs of Spheres recalling.

  Though you walk the Path to Death’s own throne,

  You will walk with me.

  He set Asha atop the stone and left it there, saying, “May you be a guiding light, a hope to those who find themselves drawn by Death-in-Life’s foul work.”

  Then he turned and marched into the deep places of the Netherworld, and fiends and phantoms fled at his footsteps. He found a place where the Final Waters flowed, spreading from the realms beyond into the Near World and into the Far. In that place he built a chamber. Above the flowing water, he set an uncut stone.

  “There rest, Halisa,” he said, placing his sword atop that stone. “May you sleep a hundred years and more until Hri Sora returns to work her evil fire. Wake only when I or my heir comes at last to claim you.”

  So Etanun left Halisa waiting in darkness. He himself journeyed from the Netherworld into the realms above, passing out of all legends and tales and histories. Until the time of Hri Sora’s return.

  Until the time of her final death.

  1

  HAVE YOU EVER WATCHED AN IMMORTAL DIE?

  You who have slain countless fey folk, tell me if you dare: Did you ever stand by and watch an immortal death? Did you see the blush of life fade to gray, the light of the spirit slowly wane? You have taken life, but have you seen it stolen from before your eyes?

  I have.

  Dawn in the North Country was beautiful, if chilly that spring, filled with birdsong and dew-shimmering flowers on the banks of River Hanna. The rising sun stretched out its rays to crown the high keep of Castle Gaheris. Tenant farmers, their tools over their bowed shoulders as they made their way to the fields, straightened momentarily, lifting their gazes to the sight. Their hearts swelled to see those austere stones glowing with morning glory, as though the sun itself bestowed a golden promise upon all who lived there.

  The castle was home to Earl Ferox, who some said should be king.

  The farmers smiled at this, their weathered faces cracking against the dawn chill, their breath wisping before their mouths. Honor though it was to be tenants of the most powerful earl in the North Country, how much greater would the honor be should they become tenants of the king himself?

  So the sun rose and the farmers trudged on to their fields, and the servants inside Gaheris stoked fires in cold hearths and prepared for an important day, the day the envoy from Aiven should arrive. A day some might even call fateful.

  And Alistair sat upright in his bed, screaming.

  He realized what he was doing quickly enough, stuffed his fleece into his mouth, and bit down hard. He knew the servants had heard him, though. He could hear them in the chamber beyond . . . or rather couldn’t hear them, for they had frozen in place, afraid to move. He heard instead their silence.

  He coughed out the fleece and, though his hear
t trembled and his limbs shook, forced himself to utter a great, noisy yawn. It would fool no one. But the servants took it as a signal, and he heard them resume their tasks, setting his fire and filling his basin with fresh well water.

  They knew better than to enter his private bedroom. He bolted it against them in any case.

  Alistair waited until he heard them leave. Only then did he slip out of bed, wrapping the fleece around his shoulders as he made his way to the window. He looked out upon his uncle’s lands: the fields, the hamlets, the groves, all of which he would inherit one day.

  But he couldn’t see them, nor the growing sunlight that bathed them.

  He saw only a pale silver glow shining upon a child’s face.

  “Dragons blast it!” Alistair cursed and shook his head.

  No more than an hour later, Alistair stumbled into Gaheris’s library, startling the castle chronicler, who was at his desk, copying out some ledger or history. The Chronicler looked up in some surprise at the young man’s entrance.

  “You are early, my lord.”

  Alistair shrugged. The library boasted only three windows, mere slits in the stone, all west and south facing and admitting none of the morning light. Thus the room was full of candles sitting in wooden, wax-filled bowls. Their glow cast Alistair’s face into ghoulish shadows, emphasizing the dark circles beneath his eyes.

  The Chronicler frowned with measured concern as Alistair took a seat at the long table in the center of the room. “Another restless night?”

  Alistair buried his face in his hands. Then he rubbed at the skin under his eyes, stretching his face into unnatural shapes, and ended by pulling at the roots of his hair. “You’re an intelligent, learned man, are you not, Chronicler?”

  “So some would say,” the Chronicler acceded.

  “Have you,” Alistair continued, still pulling at his hair and studying the grain of the wooden table before him with unprecedented concentration, “in all your readings, picked up a word or two concerning dreams?”

  The Chronicler set aside his quill and pumice stone, then folded his arms as he turned on his stool to more fully look upon the young lord. “What manner of dreams?”

  “Recurring,” said Alistair darkly. He stared at the table as though he should like to burn it with his gaze. The candlelight shone into the depths of his eyes, turning the pale blue irises to orange.