Travels: Castellum

By D.L. Summer

There has always been something considerably different about Layla Reese: her eyes are unnaturally colored and practically useless for sight, her hair has three atypically colorful shades blending into one natural one, and her adoptive parents seem as though she was the child they’d hoped they wouldn’t receive. Despite this, she has managed to find acceptance among her select group of friends. Layla’s seventeenth birthday, however, brings about an incredible explanation for everything, but it will require her to leave behind the life she has learned to live and travel to another one entirely – one where her real parents and significant responsibilities are awaiting her arrival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.L. Summer
• Release date: May 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9780615988801

D.L. Summer

The Author's Page of a confused college kidCalling myself a confused college kid is my obnoxious alliterative way of saying I went to college without any idea of what I truly wanted to do with my life. I started my college career majoring in architecture at The Ohio State University with the hopes of a bright future in designing colorful buildings. My first indication that I was in the wrong field was when my Architecture History professor asked the class who their favorite architect was. My answer was Dr. Seuss. The class laughed at my joke, but I was serious. The joke fell flat on my professor's ears when she mentioned that most of the buildings depicted in his stories were not physically possible (laws of physics and whatnot). Stubborn as I am, my silent response was that I would continue to dream up these kinds of buildings in my imagination as I trudged through the creation of real-life structures in my next classes. And so, in the midst of a mild Ohio winter, The Travels Series was born.One snowless February afternoon, I was cooped up in my dorm room. My colleagues were downstairs in the basement of Baker Hall, working tirelessly on their studio projects; I had slapped a few pieces of foam core together and decided it was structurally sound. My thoughts began to drift off in all kinds of directions and for whatever reason, I became intrigued by the expressively vivid colors of eyes, so I decided to create a world centered on the concept of eye color. The first story took approximately three months to complete. I was very focused and constantly engrossed in the story -- which reflected heavily on my grades. I have now completed the first two books in the trilogy and I am currently working on the third book.After several more months of confusion and deliberation on where it is I actually want to go to school (I transferred to the University of Arizona for an entire semester), I have officially decided to return to Ohio State this fall with a major in English! I can only hope my English professors are more receptive to my imaginative daydreaming.

Book preview

The Travels Series

Book One: Castellum

D.L. Summer

Acknowledgements

I would like to express my sincerest gratitude to Diane Clune of Keystone Editing Services, for her insight, encouragement, and professional knowledge in the editing world. Next, deserved thanks go to my uncle, Dr. Lee Johnson, and Professor Alexander Weinstein of Siena Heights University for contributing their invaluable foresight and perspective regarding the story. I would also like to thank Sheri Wahlstrom for her artwork, as well as Kaitlyn Raley and Kurt Bond for their incredible support; all three have truly helped to bring Layla’s worlds to life. Finally, I would like to extend the greatest thanks to my family, Carol, Allen, and Michael — without their unrelenting guidance this book would have never reached publication.

This book is dedicated in loving memory of Samuel Ellsworth of Devils Lake — forever a lake dog.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Preface

1 – Placitas, New Mexico

2 – Shadows and Whispers

3 – Amber Wishes

4 – Obvious Signs

5 – The Sword and the Feather

6 – The Bur Oak

7 – Castellum

8 – Fidelis

9 – Vinculum

10 – Creatures and Gems

11 – Training Trials

12 – Dagger

13 – Mutual Ground

14 – Into the Incendium

15 – Raelyn

16 – Secrets

17 – Gray Skies

18 – Back to New Mexico

19 - Praesagium

Preface

I rested my head against the cool, damp boulder and listened to the rush of the waterfall beside me. Allowing the sound to soothe me, I gently clutched the silver chain around my neck and felt for the jagged edge and pointed tip of the small silver sword that hung from the end. As I wrapped my fingers around the tiny handle and squeezed it, my mind felt blank. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to continue a thought. I felt numb.

In hindsight, all of the pieces of the past several months fell into place effortlessly, as if it had all been part of some sort of master plan. Lately, I felt like I was stumbling into some sort of abysmal tunnel, armed only with a box of matches to provide me with a source of light. Now that I had made it through to the other side, though, I could not decide whether or not I was relieved to escape from the darkness; because although being enveloped in complete darkness offered a sense of uneasiness, it also provided protection from any harm that rays of light on the other side might present.

1 – Placitas, New Mexico

Aren’t you hungry? a male voice asked from a distance.

I looked up at Miles seated across from me, staring from behind the newspaper, his eyes peering over wire-rimmed glasses.

I pushed my plate forward and reached behind my chair for my royal purple JanSport backpack. Swinging a black strap over one shoulder, I stood up and pushed the wooden chair in. Not today.

Miles raised an eyebrow as he turned another wrinkled page of the business section. You should really eat something, he mumbled from behind page six.

I picked up a piece of his toast, took a bite out of the corner, and tossed it back onto his plate. Ate something, I grinned as I slipped my iPhone into the front pouch of my backpack.

Miles sighed as he folded the business section back up and began shuffling through the rest of the pages that were strewn all over the table.

I paused and watched him rummage around for a few more seconds, grinning again. Looking for Dilbert?

Miles pursed his lips and outstretched his hand as I tossed the comics to him. I quickly turned on the heels of my worn, black Converse and headed for the front door. Have a good day at school, Layla! I heard him call after me.

Have a good day selling houses, Miles! I called back as I crossed the foyer and exited the house.

Miles was my father, of sorts. Technically, he and Pam adopted me when I was five or so. I was told that my mother had passed away a few years after I was born and my birth father disappeared after leaving me on the doorstep of Miles and Pamela Reese. It was never explained to me why my father suddenly decided to go AWOL or drop me on the doorstep of two strangers, but then again, I had never really asked.

I kicked a stray pebble slightly larger than the size of a golf ball back and forth between my favorite pair of black Converse as I made my weekday morning trek to school. I was a junior at Mesa View High School in the fairly affluent town of Placitas, New Mexico. Some called the town scenic and peaceful, but mostly I’d say it was dusty — there was sand everywhere you turned, even if it was creeping in between small patches of grass. Sometimes when it was especially windy, the cliché tumbleweed could be spotted bouncing across a lonely desert road.

Occasionally I wondered if this was my original hometown because the memories of my mother that I still held on so tightly to did not always match up with the New Mexico scenery. There were two memories in particular that I was truly sure of. One was of the homemade swing hanging from a branch of a large tree in our front — or maybe back — yard. I remembered my mother pushing me back and forth for seemingly hours on end, and when it was time to go inside, she’d push me so high until I had enough momentum to flip off the swing backwards. I landed on my feet every time, and my mother always threw her arms up in the air and cheered. The next one wasn’t quite as pleasant, but it’s also not nearly as vivid. For some reason, all I can seem to remember seeing are shadows; shadows passing quickly over my mother’s face and a daunting sense of urgency. I always felt my anxiety level rise at the thought of this image because in this particular memory, instead of joy, I remembered seeing fear in my mother’s eyes. Something that both memories had in common, though, was the silver feather carefully woven into my mother’s blonde hair. I was not sure exactly what it meant, especially since I really couldn’t connect it with anything else, but for some reason, I knew that it was important.

Hey, playing rock soccer by yourself is kinda lame, I heard a familiar voice say ahead of me.

I shifted my gaze from the light-gray pebble rolling across the sidewalk to the origin of the voice. It was my friend Jesse standing at the stop sign at our usual meeting spot. I hadn’t realized I was that close to it already. I shook my head to bring myself back to reality and kicked the pebble in his direction. You’re right. Rock soccer is more of a team sport, I said.

He grinned and dribbled the rock between his feet, then kicked it back to me as we continued walking. The closer we got to school, the more intense the game became. We went from gradual passes from a few inches away to faster ones that increased both in intensity and distance. By the time we reached the senior parking lot at the back end of Mesa View High, we were kicking the rock to each other from opposite sides of the street. We didn’t allow the presence of people or cars to slow us down, though, and we continued launching the rock back and forth across the parking lot in between each row of cars, clouds of dust billowing around our feet.

There were only four rows of cars, but this task was not exactly easy. Each row presented new obstacles for us to tackle as well as the opportunity to ruin someone’s morning by being pelted in the face by a rock. We had to strategize our kicks to be powerful enough to reach the other end of the lot but also low enough so that our makeshift soccer ball could skid across the surface of the blacktop while still managing to avoid interception by a pair of feet. We made it with a surprising level of ease across the back three rows, but upon reaching the very front row at the entrance to the school, Jesse’s kick sent the pebble upward into a curved path. As a result, our makeshift soccer ball whizzed several inches past my right ear and quickly ascended high enough and with enough accuracy to hit the old red bell that hung on the outside wall of the school. The force of the impact was enough to cause the bell to ring, signaling that school was starting.

Immediately, Jesse and I cupped our hands over our mouths in an effort to suppress our laughter while almost everyone else in the parking lot checked the time stamp on their phones and looked around in confusion. Jesse had accidentally caused the school’s bell to ring exactly five minutes too early, and before anyone could point a finger at one of us, we slipped through the back gate to the school and darted across the quad toward our first class, only to collapse into a fit of laughter the moment we entered the safety of a classroom.

I’m going to take a shot in the dark and assume that the two of you are somehow responsible for the early bell, our thirty-something-year-old psychology teacher, Mr. Winters, said in his thick British accent as he finished erasing the whiteboard from the day before.

We both scrambled up from the ugly blue carpeting and brushed ourselves off, still stifling giggles. Jesse ran his fingers through his thick, jet-black hair and smiled shyly. I uh — I sort of kicked a rock at one of the bells by mistake, he said.

Well, that must have been quite a powerful kick. We could tell Mr. Winters was trying not to be amused by keeping up the serious teacher façade, but I managed to catch him crack a smile.

The actual school bell rang just then, so I scooped up my backpack and tossed it over three rows of desks onto my assigned one, then climbed on top of the desk I stood next to. I proceeded to cautiously tiptoe across several of the desks, weaving a pattern toward my own.

What are you doing? Jesse watched me in confusion.

Avoiding the lava, I responded casually.

I turned just in time to watch the grin spread across Jesse’s face as he climbed on top of the first desk and followed my path.

Layla, I heard Mr. Winters sigh as a handful of students entered the room. Please stop that.

Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot that having fun wasn’t a customary practice in foreign countries, I teased as I made my way to my row and slipped down into my assigned seat. You’ve been in New Mexico how long now? Assimilate!

Mr. Winters shot me one of his all-too-frequent don’t push it looks out of the corner of his eye as he powered up the projector in the center of the room. I removed my black-rimmed glasses and wiped the lenses on my shirt, then adjusted them back on my face, pretending not to notice.

Mr. Winters turned to face the rest of the class and began his lecture. Today, we will be focusing on certain aspects of personality. He picked up a large stack of papers off his desk. This is a fun little personality quiz that I like to pass out in the springtime, just because I think that you’re all psychologically advanced enough to understand yourselves by now, he said sarcastically as he strolled down the aisles, keeping the stack of papers clutched to his chest and eyeing us all suspiciously. Most of the class was fully engaged in Mr. Winters’s digression; I was examining the condition of my cuticles.

Now, while you are all individuals, of course, there are some of you who choose some sort of outlet in order to make yourselves stand out from the crowd. For example, he said as he slammed the stack of papers down on my desk. Others around me were startled and jumped in their seats. I, however, remained stationary. I had fully expected this from him; every so often, he brought up this official diagnosis he had given me at the beginning of the school year on the second day of class. I looked up at him with a wide-eyed innocent expression through my glasses and waited patiently for him to continue. Oftentimes, when a person, particularly an adolescent, dyes their hair an unnatural color or two, it generally means that they are attention seekers.

The corners of my mouth curled slightly in reaction to Mr. Winters’s statement, but this kind of comment always caused a nervous pang to strike the bottommost pit of my stomach. Whenever someone questioned the colors in my hair, I lied and said that I had accidentally dipped the tips of my light-blonde hair into some deep, vividly violet hair dye when I was little. To cover it up, Pam had taken me to a hair stylist to re-dye the ends blonde again. The story went that my five-year-old self demanded the stylist to not only keep the bottom three inches the vivid violet, but to also blend in a bright, fiery red color with an even brighter orange. The result was my hair cascading beautifully from blonde to orange, then red, and finally purple. After that, I had grown so fond of it that I continually dyed it the same color scheme every once in a while for the past eleven years in order to maintain the brilliance of the colors.

This story was a complete fabrication, of course, and it really didn’t make much sense if you thought about it too much, especially if you took into account how much longer my hair had grown in the past several years and how the color remained completely unchanged and perfectly intact. Or if you questioned how or why I had the savvy as a five-year-old to have chosen multiple colors added to the purple in my hair instead of just cutting off the ends of it. Yet it was the exact story Miles and Pam had instructed me to tell everyone since I could remember.

When I was younger, I questioned why I needed to lie, but as I grew up, I began to question why I never actually needed to re-dye my hair. On one particularly brave occasion, I attempted to dye my hair in secret with one of those cheap kits from the grocery store so that I would finally have an entirely natural head of blonde hair. In all fairness, it wasn’t exactly top-of-the-line stuff. I’m pretty sure it was an off-brand, actually, and I didn’t even know there was a difference in the quality of hair-dying products. But even so, the coloring process didn’t affect my hair in the slightest. It didn’t even turn that awful orange color that can sometimes happen to brunettes who try to go blonde. The dye instead acted is if it was repelled by the colors in my hair; there was absolutely no visual absorption to speak of. After that experience, I was absolutely terrified to go to a salon and allow a professional to make an attempt. How would I explain the supposed bleaching agent running down my long hair, all while the vibrant colors at the ends appeared to be completely untouched?

I had only recently begun to suspect that this combination of wild colors was, in fact, what made up my natural hair color. But since the last thing any 16-year-old wants to be labeled as is strange, I kept this lingering suspicion to myself and allowed everyone else to assume that I had simply been expressing my inner creativity from a remarkably early age — or something along those lines, anyway.

I handled the current standoff situation with Mr. Winters in the same manner that I had on the previous occasions — by sticking out my tongue at him.

I’m sure there’s a hidden level of maturation in that response somewhere, Layla, he said with a wink as he left the stack of papers on my desk. My smile widened. Mr. Winters always pretended to be annoyed with me and made sure to give me grief for the sake of acting professional, but I knew he secretly enjoyed my actions of questionable maturity and childish responses every so often. It was probably especially refreshing for him since so many of the girls in my class were desperately trying to act or even look older for him. Maybe it was his intelligence or even his foreign accent, but Mr. Winters had been officially deemed by the female population at Mesa View High as attractive. Normally, there was a bit more passionately explicit detail involving his looks that came after that, but I usually just tuned out around that time.

I leaned back in my seat and passed back the stack of papers as I stared blankly at the one left in front of me. My eyes resting on an empty corner of the page, I reached for a strand of my hair and nervously wrapped it around my right index finger. I’m not sure exactly how long my eyes held this glassy gaze, but I was abruptly forced out of it by a crumpled-up piece of paper from the desk diagonally across from me.

Hey! Pay attention! Jesse whispered to me. I raised my eyebrows at him and saw the mischievous grin begin to plaster itself across his face.

2 – Shadows and Whispers

Do you think I dyed my hair too orange? I heard my best friend, Melody, say. Her voice sounded distant, though, and I was so deep in thought that my brain didn’t even process her words. That is, up until she slapped me and shouted, Layla!

Hey! I exclaimed angrily as I rubbed my arm.

Well, sorry, you just went all glassy-eyed on me again. Did you even hear what I said?

I tried to reconstruct her previous sentence in my head and remembered hearing an upward inflection at the end of it, so it must have been a question. I made a quick decision to force her to repeat herself without directly asking her to. Yes, I responded.

‘Yes’ what? Yes, you heard me, or yes, it’s too orange?

Oh, her hair. Duh. I shook my head. No, I meant yes, I heard you, but no, I don’t think it’s too orange. I actually really like it.

She flipped her shoulder-length, sunset-orange hair over to one side and nervously brushed through it with her fingers as she reexamined the color for approximately the hundredth time since we had left the school grounds a few minutes ago. Of course you would say that — your hair is four different colors. I’m worried about what Austin will think, though. He hasn’t seen me since I dyed it yesterday.

Austin was Melody’s boyfriend and one of my really good friends. I’d introduced them when school started in September, and they’d been almost inseparable ever since.

Do you really think he won’t like it? I mean, he’s always thought all of the colors in my hair were cool. Yours is still cool and slightly more acceptable in most social circles, I said, finally engaging myself in the conversation.

Melody threw her head back in laughter. You’re talking about Pam and Miles and their friends, aren’t you?

I’m talking about adults in general. Every time I’m introduced to anyone over the age of twenty-five, I get this look from them, I said as we approached the last crosswalk before Melody and I usually parted ways.

Like a look of disapproval? she asked.

I narrowed my eyes in thought, trying to picture and then analyze the looks I had received recently and throughout my life. Kind of, I guess. It’s more condescending, I think. I understand why they might not take me so seriously, though.

Well, I accept you, Melody said sweetly as she threw her arms around me from the side. I hugged her back tightly. She released her grip and looked off in the direction of my house. You should come and hang out at my house until Austin gets off work, she said in a more serious tone.

I smiled. Okay. She had asked me over because she knew I felt painfully distant from Pam and Miles a good majority of the time, especially around Pam, making it almost unbearably awkward whenever we were alone in the same house together. On most days, though, the awkwardness was welcomed, because whenever Pam and I weren’t occupying the same space in complete silence, we were usually arguing with each other.

Miles really tried to do the whole good father who gets along well enough with his teenage daughter thing — everyone could see that. But it didn’t always work, particularly whenever I needed some form of advice or comfort, so I usually just kept to myself with that sort of thing. If I ever needed somebody to banter back and forth and joke with like we were on an episode of Gilmore Girls, or somebody to watch insanely gory slasher horror movies with, though, he was absolutely my go-to guy. This left me little room for complaint with him, in all honesty. Pam, on the other hand, was probably a very loving person at one point in her life. However, being a high-powered lawyer at one of the largest firms in the state of New Mexico had taken its toll on her amiability toward other human beings, so now the flash of a friendly half-smile from her meant that she wasn’t going to rip your insides out and tear the rest of you to pieces that day. Most people would call her a bitch, but personally I felt she lacked the depth or the warmth for that term.

We made our way to Melody’s house, where her parents were the epitome of a married couple that had been taken out of the 1950s and placed into the present-day world. In other words, they were utterly horrified at the news of any marriage ending in divorce or scandal or even the thought of any woman working full-time